by Tabor Evans
Rudy Crabtree’s face went scarlet. “Well, your dear friend rode into our peaceful little town few days back, mister.” His voice sounded like a dull saw going through hard wood. “Went and robbed the only hardware and implement dealership as we’ve got. Shot the owner deader’n Abe Lincoln, right in front of his poor shocked wife.”
“Musta had a reason fer such a killin’,” Skunk grumped.
“That ain’t the half of what he done,” Crabtree snapped back. “Just for what appeared the sheer hell of it, he trampled a child to death with that fire-breathin’, star-faced, black-as-the-depths-of-hell horse of his’n on the way outta town. Don’t know ’bout anyone else as might have an opinion on the subject, but I’d say you need to be a-pickin’ your friends with a bit more care.”
Hornbuckle looked sheepish. His chin dropped to his chest. For a second, he swayed like an aspen struck by lightning. His lips moved several times, but no words came out. Finally, he flopped back down behind the sheltering log, silently stared at the ground, and went to picking at the grass like a chastised child.
Longarm locked Marshal Court in a steely-eyed gaze and said, “You think a stick, or two, of dynamite could shake Calico Jack loose? Maybe persuade him to give himself up? You know, it’d be quite a catch if we could drop a loop over a murderous desperado like him.”
Another big smile cut across Court’s face from ear to ear. “That’s one of the reasons I ’uz on my way to town. Hoped to bring enough explosives back to blast ole Jack outta his hidey-hole. By God, if you’ve got some already, Marshal Long, and we can get close enough to do any damage at all, I’d give your plan a fifty-fifty chance of workin’.”
With the hand still hidden inside his coat, Longarm slipped the pistol back into its holster, then stood and brushed off his pants. “Well, Harley, I’ve got the dynamite. Let’s slip on down the river, see if we can’t blast ole Calico Jack out of Wild Horse Canyon. ’Bout time a party of irate citizens put a noose around his sorry neck. Be my distinct pleasure any day of the week to take part in that happy effort.”
Skunk Hornbuckle jumped to his feet. “This mean you gonna let me go, Long?”
Longarm glared at the thief as though he’d just seen a freak in a traveling carnival sporting two heads. “Have you lost what little mind you had a few minutes ago, Skunk? Put this fire out, then pack up our stuff and get your stinkin’ ass on a horse. We’re going to Wild Horse Canyon, you stupid son of a bitch.”
Rudy Crabtree burst into cackling laughter and couldn’t stop smiling while Hornbuckle took ten minutes to get everything gathered up. In pretty short order, the party of lawmen, with one varmint in tow, were headed south for an appointment with bloody fate.
Chapter 2
Five miles south, on a tortured path along the crystalline river, Longarm followed as Marshal Harley Court turned the posse west into the V-shaped opening of a tight gash in the earth. The ground beneath their animals’ feet gently sloped for about a hundred yards, then leveled out inside a narrow gorge flanked by steep walls of bloodred earth and sun-bleached boulders the size of a Concord coach. The floor of the craggy, rock-strewn gulch was center split by a sparkling, shallow creek that shimmered in the sparse sunlight filtering in from above.
“If a man didn’t know the exact location of Wild Horse Canyon, he might never know it existed,” Longarm muttered to himself as he gazed up and down the chasm’s rugged sixty-foot walls.
Stunted, leaf-heavy trees grew in dense profusion on either side of the close-feeling trail. Thick undergrowth added to Longarm’s growing sense of restricted movement. With a shrug, he tried to throw off the creeping, urgent desire for open space.
The party punched into the overgrowth for nigh half a mile, as nearly as Longarm could figure it. Then, all of a sudden, the chasm opened up to an unhampered breadth of almost 150 yards across. A mere sixty or so yards out of the tress and scrub, he could see a string of boulders resting at the base of a small hill, or mound, so perfectly formed it appeared man-made.
Atop the abbreviated rise, another hundred yards past the row of sheltering rocks, Longarm spotted the barely visible pole roof of a cabin. From his less-than-helpful vantage point, the rough, crudely erected abode appeared to stand flush against the back wall of the ravine.
A bit over halfway between the cabin and the posse’s naturally occurring shelter, a single monolithic spire of granite jutted from the earth like a giant’s extended finger. At the base of the hill, safely behind the column of boulders, men and horses had gathered around a smoky fire near the largest of the massive stones.
The logistical problems caused by the terrain, along with the log shack’s virtually unassailable location, were glaringly obvious to even the most inexperienced man chaser, Longarm thought. He did a quick, reasoned assessment of the situation. He knew exactly what had to be done and, more importantly, how to go about doing it.
Marshal Court reined in his blood bay and stepped down as two men left their smoky fire and rushed up to him. A fat-gutted citizen wearing a derby hat, ratty fur coat, and run-down shoes yelped, “Jesus, Harley, this is the best you could do? Two men was all what could come out and help? Ain’t no improvement a’tall, far as I can see. Hell, we’re confronted with a man killer up yonder. Gonna need least more’n five men to pry him loose.”
Court slapped leather reins against his gloved palm, shifted from foot to foot, then motioned toward Longarm as the Denver lawman dismounted. “Yeah, well Mike, only one of ’em is here to actually help. But we got a good’un. And he brung some dynamite. Soon’s we blast Calico Jack outta his nest, we can all go home, and you can get back to slinging drinks and a-tryin’ to look down Sissy Lovelace’s dress all day at them big ole tits of hers.”
The second of Court’s posse men was a rail-thin, yellow-skinned, skull-faced creature that jerked and shook like he had a colony of scorpions in his pants. The man had the haggard appearance of someone who suffered from a debilitating bout of something a bit more than unpleasant. Longarm assessed it as a combination of several types of venereal disease, and the lingering effects of a bout with malaria.
Court waved Longarm to his side and said, “Marshal Long, this here is Mike Rader. Runs the Queen of Hearts Saloon in Hadleyville. Squirmy feller’s Stewart Potts. Stew’s a horse wrangler for our local blacksmith.”
Longarm tipped his hat. “Gents.”
Both men nodded back, but neither seemed inclined toward anything like an overtly friendly display. Rader had the look of a man on the verge of passing out, while Potts appeared ready for the next world. They’re scared, Longarm thought, so panic-struck they can barely function.
Rader grumped, “What about t’ other’un? The ugly son of a bitch.” He strolled a bit too close to Hornbuckle, shook his head, held his nose, and yelped, “Shit almighty, feller. Don’t you ever bathe? Stink like somethin’ dead. Smell like you just crawled outta a wolf’s den. Met up with a feller one time who had a wet goat under each arm what didn’t give off the stench you’re puttin’ out.”
“He’s my prisoner,” Longarm offered. “We were on our way back to the federal lockup in Denver when we met up with Marshal Court.”
Rader moved as far from Hornbuckle as he could get and still be part of the conversational circle. “Well, Jesus, even that don’t give him the right to stink like he’s been sleepin’ in a stock pen.”
Harley Court’s head swiveled around on his thin neck. He gazed into every shaded spot and sheltered corner of the canyon. “Where’s Gabe, boys?” he asked.
Potts scratched his scraggly, stubble-covered chin with a trembling hand, then glanced at the back of Rader’s head as though looking for guidance he didn’t get. “Well, see, Harley, it’s like this. Gabe done went and skipped out on us. Said he’d had enough of such nonsense. Ask me, he ain’t been the same since he almost got nailed the day we arrived. Headed back for town’s what he done. Didn’t you see him on your way back out here?”
“No.” Court shook his head.
“Most likely he didn’t want me to see him, Stew. But you know, to tell the God’s truth, I can understand his feelings. Man just got married a few weeks ago. Guess he figured he might go and get himself kilt out here, if’n this dance went the wrong way. Don’t really matter, I suppose. This party’s gonna end pretty quick when we blast ole Jack outta his hidey-hole.”
Longarm strode back to his mount, flipped up the flap on his saddle bag, and dragged out three thick sticks of scarlet-colored dynamite and a small metal box. The other men gathered around to watch. He squatted, laid the explosives on the ground in a neat row, then removed an equal number of detonators and a length of fuse from the tin container. Once he had everything properly prepared for deadly use, he stood and examined his work one last time.
“Looks good, Marshal Long,” Court offered. “But how’re we gonna get even one of ’em up there close enough to do any real damage? Cain’t throw ’em that far. Ain’t a blade of grass ’tween safety behind these rocks and the cabin’s front door, ’cept that one piece of granite yonder. A man could seek shelter there, I suppose. Get him a bit closer to the cabin ’thout getting killed graveyard dead. But he’d still be fifty yards away from our target.”
Longarm pointed toward the rim of the canyon wall. “Someone’s gonna have to make his way up above and drop ’em right down on ole Jack’s head, while those who remain down here set up a commotion to distract him.” He turned to Rudy Crabtree. “Think you can do that, Deputy? Think you could claw your way up to the top yonder and drop these blasters on the cabin’s roof?”
For a moment, Harley Court’s second in command looked somewhat flustered and confused, but he gathered himself up, shrugged, and said, “Suppose so, Marshal Long. Yeah, I think I could do ’er. Just one problem though.”
Longarm grinned. “And what might that be, Rudy?”
“Ain’t never handled no dynamite afore. Ain’t never even been close enough to touch a stick of the stuff, till this very minute.”
“Nothin’ to it,” Longarm said, in as gentle and reassuring a manner as he could muster. Then, he held one of the flame-colored sticks up in the boy’s face. “All you gotta do, Rudy, is put fire to the fuse, and then get it onto the roof of the cabin. Stuff ain’t nothin’ more’n a big firecracker. I’ve cut the fuses long enough to give you at least ten seconds to get rid of the charge once it’s lit. Only real problem you should have is finding your way up there to a likely spot on the canyon rim. Near as I can figure, you’ll probably have to go back out the entrance, then pick your way to the top afoot. Might well take most of the day.”
Crabtree’s gaze shifted from the dynamite in Longarm’s hand and slid along the canyon wall and up to the spot above Calico Jack’s bulletproof fortress. He nodded as though to himself, then scratched the back of his head. “Guess I’d best get started then, hadn’t I?”
Longarm laid the charged explosives on a rough-cut square of burlap from his saddlebag. He wrapped the cloth into a neat package, tied it with a piece of twine, then handed it to the deputy. “Just don’t drop ’em, Rudy,” he said. “Try not to accidentally bash ’em up against anything. Them detonators are sensitive and prone to explode if abused in any fashion whatsoever. You understand, son?”
Crabtree nodded, as though in a trance, took the rough parcel, gingerly slipped it into the saddlebag on his own animal, then climbed aboard. He grasped the reins between fingers that trembled and said, “Guess I’d best get goin’. I’ll fire a shot from the rim, wave my hat or somethin’, soon’s I get situated in a place where I think I can do the most damage. So you boys be on the lookout. Don’t want to surprise you by settin’ this stuff off ’fore you’re ready.”
Longarm slapped the boy on the leg. “Sounds good. Just be careful. This ugly hairball’s gonna work out just fine once you drop one of those big poppers on Calico Jack’s head.”
Longarm, Marshal Court, and his remaining posse, along with an increasingly antsy Skunk Hornbuckle, watched until Deputy Rudy Crabtree disappeared into the trees back up the overgrown trail toward the Purgatoire.
Court snatched off his hat and slapped his leg with it. He shrugged, stuffed the hat back on, then said, “Well, whatta we do now, Marshal Long?”
Longarm turned. He gazed around the campsite, along behind the line of sheltering boulders, up to the cabin and the canyon wall, then back to the campsite. “We spread out behind these rocks and, every once in a while, take a potshot at Jack’s log-and-mud sanctuary. Just to keep him on his toes. Make him think somethin’s about to happen. Want the man nervous and expectant.”
“Hell, we already been a-doin’ that all along,” Rader grumped, then levered a live round into the chamber of his Winchester.
“And he usually answers back with a well-aimed blast of his own,” Potts added. “Murderin’ son of a bitch ain’t took no stuff off’n us, so far, Marshal Long. He’s got the high ground and knows it. That’s for damned sure. Go and stick your head out from behind any of these rocks, and he’ll blow it off. Man’s a helluva good shot, if’n you ask me.”
“Any place where I can safely get a look?” Longarm asked.
Court pointed to a spot behind a split boulder secluded behind several leaning cottonwoods. “Over there, Marshal. Don’t think he can see through the leaves. You get a pretty good view up the slope.”
Longarm snatched the army surplus binoculars off his saddle and started for the trees. As he passed Skunk Hornbuckle, he stopped and said, “Took them leg irons off and put you in handcuffs so you could ride a horse, Skunk. Now I’m gonna take these irons off your wrists so you can have coffee and take care of your twa-let, if necessary. But try to run on me and you know what’ll happen, don’t you?”
Hornbuckle rubbed his wrists, hung his head, then grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Long, I know. You’ll shoot the hell outta me. Make damned sure I’m pushin’ up bluebonnets ’fore the sun goes down. Don’t have to go a-worryin’ yerself none on my account. I ain’t a-goin’ nowheres.” The outlaw glanced at his confined surroundings, then said, “Country ’round these parts is so cramped and rough, I probably wouldn’t get a hundred feet ’fore you kilt me deader’n a drowned cat.”
Longarm heeled it for the trees. Over his shoulder he snapped, “Good thinkin’, Skunk. Mr. Rader, you and Mr. Potts find a nice spot. Throw a few shots up Jack’s way. Blue whizzer or two here and there’ll do just fine. No need to waste ammunition. Just want a get him stirred up a bit.”
A few minutes later, with Harley Court breathing down his neck, Longarm leaned against the base of a thick-trunked, low-limbed cottonwood and adjusted his view through the field glasses. The image finally came into focus and something odd popped up. “What’re those dark mounds scattered around the slope goin’ up the hill?”
Court let out an exasperated sigh. “Dead dogs. We counted three, maybe four. Could be more. Figured they either set up a racket when Calico Jack approached, or maybe he got tired of their barkin’ once he got inside and decided to put an end to it. No way to tell for certain.”
Longarm backed away from the tree and turned to face Court. “Dogs? Damn. Takes one sorry son of a bitch to shoot a defenseless dog, for no good reason. Killin’ three or four of ’em like that’s just downright, good for nothin’, low-life crazy. Damnation, I’d rather tie a double knot in a mountain lion’s tail than have to deal with a man who’s snapped a link in his trace chain. Calico Jack’s never been known as the most dependable boat on the river, but I really didn’t know him as crazy.”
“My sentiments exactly, Marshal Long. But the situation confronting us, at the moment, is what it is. Just gonna have to deal with it.”
For a second, Longarm’s brow knotted and a pained look flitted across his weathered face. A spark of realization lit his eyes like a Fourth of July whizbang. “Damn, Harley,” he said, “if there’s dead dogs up on the hill, near the cabin, that means there’s probably people. You think there’s any possibility that we might have other folks inside that hovel with
Calico Jack?”
Court peered up through the tree limbs, then toed the ground. “Well, we’re pretty sure there mighta been at least one other man in the cabin when Jack stormed in and took over the place.”
“You’re pretty sure? Is that anything like kinda definite? Do you have anything substantial to base that opinion on?”
Hadleyville’s marshal cast an eye-blinking glance at the patch of cloud-filled, crystal blue sky above them, then shook his head. “Not really. Look, Marshal Long, when we first got here, my man Gabe Coldwell, the one who hotfooted it back to Hadleyville, made it most of the way up the hill ’fore any shootin’ got cranked up good. He come nigh on gettin’ himself kilt, right then and there. Once we got back down here behind cover, he told me as how it appeared to him there mighta been a man’s body stretched out on the ground right outside the front door. That’d explain the biscuit eaters.”
Longarm kicked at a rock with the heel of his boot. “Well, yeah, maybe that’d explain the dogs,” he snapped. He ran a hand to the back of his neck. He twisted his head sideways till he could feel the bones pop. “Jeez, just had a horrible thought.”
“What? What’d you think, Marshal?”
“What if there’s a woman up there, Harley? Christ, just think of that. Shit, we can’t stop Rudy now. It’s too late. He’s gonna blow that place to powder ’fore the day’s out.”
Chapter 3
Marshal Harley Court wagged his head back and forth, then toed at some of the rocks on the ground. “Damn. Captives? Maybe a woman? Never even gave that likelihood a moment’s thought, Marshal Long.”
