by Abe Dancer
Jack looked into the darkness of the home yard. He knew that if Cayne was already out there he might not make it back to the open doorway. With each step he took he tensed for the big bullet. In the doorway, with his back exposed to light from the flickering lanterns, he was the perfect target, if only for the shortest moment.
No, he told himself. He doesn’t want to finish me like this . . . long range. He wants to be close . . . probably got something to say. Then he made it inside, kicking the door shut, cursing with relief.
The interior of the house was in darkness. The only light in the study belonged to the red tip of Ramon’s cigarillo.
‘I’m not stopping smoking for anyone,’ he’d said. ‘Nadie. If anyone gets hit, it’ll be me.’
‘Talking of getting hit, if your man out there pokes out as much as his nose, he’ll end up like a goddamn riddle,’ Kettle said.
‘That’s good stuff. Remember, no matter what happens, to stay where you are. That way we won’t kill each other.’ Jack closed the door on them, walked steadily along the hall to the kitchen.
‘Everything all right, Hec? Anything strange happened?’
‘Yes . . . that is, no,’ Bream replied from the darkness. Jack looked at the stove.
‘Keep the gate shut. It’ll be a fair old glow in this dark,’ he advised and went back to the front of the house.
He pulled up an armless chair and sat facing the windows, his battered rifle resting across his knees. He could see the falling rain glinting through the swaying beams of yellow light outside. A big moth struck the hot chimney glass of the nearest lantern, immediately fell from sight.
It’s the light. What I hoped would draw Cayne, Jack mused.
He had taken Connie’s lucky charm from his pocket, was squeezing it tight in the palm of his left hand when he heard the shattering of glass. A lantern exploded and the echo of a rifle shot rolled across the dark yard.
He rushed to a window, half-expecting to see the flash of gunfire. But the study door opened and Kettle and Ramon strode in.
‘That was one of the lanterns,’ Kettle said, worriedly and unnecessarily.
‘Did you see where the shot came from?’ Ramon asked.
‘No, and he can pick them off, one by one. Like a goddamn shooting gallery. Hec was right.’ Irate, Jack turned, looked around. ‘He’s trying to faze us. We’ve all got to stay calm.. Just stay where you are and keep still and you can shoot at anything that doesn’t.’
Another shot sounded and through the open study doorway they saw a second lantern black out.
‘Go on then,’ Jack snapped.
The next shot came from behind the house. Again glass shattered, but this time a bullet struck an inner wall. Jack cursed.
‘Hec,’ he called loudly. ‘Stay low and get out of the way of those windows. Make the son of a bitch come closer. He’s firing hopefully.’
The quiet then held for a few minutes.
‘Why don’t he shoot?’ Kettle called from the study. ‘I can’t stand this not knowing when or from where.’
‘Yeah, he knows that. Don’t do what he knows you’re going to do.’
‘So let’s go out there. Why wait for him?’
‘Because that’s exactly what he wants. Us, on his shooting ground. Stay put. Hang on to your nerve.’
There was a longer silence, then Ralph Kettle called out from the study:
‘Do you reckon he’s pulled out?’
‘No.’
‘Could he have run out of bullets?’
‘Not run out, no.’
‘I’m coming through,’ the rancher announced and his shadowy figure appeared in the low lamplight.
‘Keep away from the windows,’ Jack muttered. Kettle stopped moving.
‘If he’s still there, why doesn’t he start shooting? He knows where we are.’ He asked.
‘So far he’s made his shots count. With .50-calibre slugs he hasn’t got a whole arsenal with him. Calm down for Chris’sakes. It looks like he’s getting to you.’
Kettle lapsed into silence, then with a heavy sigh he turned and went back to his study.
Jack could hear Rico mumbling to himself. It sounded like he was echoing Kettle’s sentiments. He laughed sombrely. The night was Cayne’s chosen time. Come to think of it, darkness had been his life as a child . . . standing behind others . . . in their shadow, saying little.
‘Jack, it’s me,’ Hector Bream said.
‘What is it, Hec?’
‘You got matches left?’
Jack moved out of the line of the windows, turned his back and snapped a match alight. Bream leaned forward, grunted as his small cigar caught light.
‘If Ramon can I can – even if I don’t,’ he said with a thin smile.
‘You can smoke it back in the kitchen,’ Jack said.
‘I don’t think so, Jack. I’ve had enough of this waiting.’
‘Is this some sort of conspiracy, Hec? What are you saying?’
‘I’d rather go out there.’
‘Yeah, of course you would. On your own against Cayne?’
‘It’s better than waitin’ for him to come an’ get me . . . us.’
‘It’s a heroic thought, is what it is, Hec. Dumb, but heroic. How’s you dying going to make it easier for the rest of us? We’re all safer and best off by you being where you’re needed. Not face down in the mud.’
‘I could slip out the back way.’
‘It won’t help, goddamnit,’ Jack almost snapped back.
‘OK, I tried. Thanks for the light.’ Bream stepped away into the darkness of the hallway, returned frustrated to his kitchen.
Jack found himself holding his breath as he listened for any sound Bream might be making. But he couldn’t afford to get jumpy. He’d half-expected Cayne to have found a way into the kitchen while Bream had been away.
‘No one’s going out there tonight,’ he asserted as Kettle reappeared in the doorway.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ the rancher said. ‘Depending on what he loads that gun with, if he got close enough he could probably take out the corner posts of the house. Where’ll we be then, with half the roof falling in on us?’
‘Hell!’ Jack exclaimed, raising his eyes to the ceiling. He suddenly recalled Cayne’s escape from the hayloft of the burning livery. Tonight he could enter Kettle’s ranch house by coming in that way. With the sound of the drumming rain drowning out most other noise, it wasn’t impossible. So far the man had been coming and going wherever and whenever he pleased.
CHAPTER 20
The wind had picked up. It had pushed the rain, made a hissing sound against the walls of the house.
Rising from the chair, Jack felt cold, thought the study fire must have died down or gone out. He walked to the doorway, saw the figure of Ramon stretched out on the carpet.
‘He’s asleep,’ Kettle said from the desk. ‘Lucky old him.’
Yeah, not like us, Jack thought.
‘What’s up?’ Rico called from the cot.
‘Nothing. How’d you feel?’ Jack said quietly.
‘Weak as my boss’s whiskey. How much longer you playing blind man’s buff?’
‘It’s not a game, Rico. And we’re in no position to make the first move.’
‘Listen, gringo man, I was nearly dead yesterday and still my nerves are better than yours. He’s laughing at you, just as I am. Two gunshots and you’ve all turned to shaky men.’
‘Quiet, Rico,’ Kettle said. ‘Being nearly dead’s allowing your mouth to say tough things. What Jack says is right.’
Sitting by the fireplace, Ramon stirred. He got to his feet, looked down at the dying fire.
‘Why did you let me sleep, señor?’ he said.
‘Why not? Nothing’s happened.’ Kettle replied.
‘And nothing will,’ Rico muttered irritably.
Jack frowned and glanced at the window.
‘Oh no?’ he said, moving forward quickly. ‘Then what the hell’s this?’
; Beyond the beams of the hanging lanterns he could see that the bunkhouse was on fire, the flames driven low and flat by the vigorous wind. Immediately Ramon, Kettle and Hector Bream stepped in closer to the window. The yard was more visible under the spread of flame and Bream pointed.
‘Look. Over by the corral. It’s him,’ he rasped.
A horseman had emerged from the deep shadow, was riding slow and sure towards the house. Bream and Ramon raised their guns.
‘Quien? What’s going on?’ Rico yelled through the doorway.
‘Shut up,’ Jack shouted, reaching out to grab Bream’s rifle. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he added, staring intently at the figure on the horse. ‘That’s Walt Bishop. The horse has brought him back.’
The horse halted in the middle of the yard, as though Bishop had hauled rein.
How the hell did he do that? Jack thought, peering hard at what he could see of the man in the saddle. The clothes looked like Bishop’s, but the horse remained still, apparently under some sort of control. Looking along the barrel of his old musket, Ramon took aim.
‘If he’s dead, this won’t hurt,’ he breathed as he pulled the trigger.
The heavy body jerked under the impact of the bullet, but didn’t fall. Giving a toss of its head, the horse reared up, stomped at the yard mud with its foreleg.
‘It should’ve bolted,’ Kettle hissed. ‘It’s being held in check.’
‘Not by Bishop it’s not,’ Ramon said. He reached for Bream’s rifle, issued a vivid Spanish curse as the horse broke into a trot toward them. Sighting fast, he squeezed off a shot, then another. But the body just shuddered in the saddle. They could all now see the face clearly in the light from the veranda lanterns.
‘It’s Walt all right,’ Kettle said.
‘Oye. Someone tell me what the hell’s going on,’ Rico yelled from the study.
‘Keep quiet, else we’ll send you to find out,’ Kettle shouted back. Jack’s gaze was concentrated on the approaching horseman.
‘He’s there,’ he said slowly and in awe. ‘He’s sitting behind Bishop.’
At that moment the horse leapt into a gallop as it neared the window.
Jack swung up his Winchester, but Cayne was already firing. The big bullet ripped through the open window, pulsed the air within inches of Jack’s forehead, making him swing around, cursing against the darkness as he fell.
‘Damn you to hell, Cayne!’
‘You OK, Jack?’
Jack’s vision cleared and he saw Kettle’s weathered face hovering above him. There was a dull throbbing pain in his head and the rancher’s face blurred again. He blinked some focus back, and in the match flame he saw the faces of Hector Bream and Ramon.
‘We thought he’d got you,’ Bream said.
‘He nearly did. How long have I been out?’ Jack asked.
‘Not long. About fifteen minutes.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘For a moment after he fired.’
Jack attempted to get up from the carpet. ‘What the hell’s got into me?’ he said.
Kettle leaned in closer. ‘At a guess son, I’d say a crazy jumble of nerves, confusion and fatigue.’
‘Better than death, I suppose. Do you know where he is now?’
‘After he’d galloped by he just vanished. Hasn’t been a sight or sound of him since.’
‘Goddamnit! You shouldn’t be here watching over me,’ Jack shouted, pushing up to his feet. ‘He could have got in anywhere. He could be here right now. Hec, lock that door.’
Bream gave a hollow laugh. ‘He couldn’t be anywhere in here. I’ll go check out the rooms.’ The cook moved away quickly and they heard him moving, looking, around.
‘No one here. I’m goin’ to the kitchen,’ he called out.
The man’s footsteps got quieter, then they heard the latch go on the kitchen door. Bream called out again, but they couldn’t make out what he said. Then there was another sound, as if the door was slamming shut.
‘What the hell’s that?’ Kettle gasped.
‘I don’t know,’ Jack grated.
The men froze at the sound of footsteps on the veranda. They levelled their guns, turning towards the light from the flickering lanterns.
A figure stood silhouetted against the window and Jack lowered his rifle.
‘It’s Hec,’ he said. Then he shouted, ‘Are you crazy? I almost blew your head off.’
Bream gave his nervous laugh, then pushed up the window to climb inside. He had just lifted his left leg across the sill when his body gave a mighty judder and arched backwards to the veranda. His foot twitched once, then went still.
The shot was deafening in the darkness, ringing in their ears. The men inside the house threw themselves away from the window, gasping with shock.
‘Get down,’ Jack yelled. ‘He’s somewhere to the left.’
They hit the floor a second before the window shattered and bullet after bullet hammered into the interior walls.
Then there was silence, complete utter silence.
‘Now we know he’s not anywhere inside. That was to keep us down,’ Jack said. ‘But it probably means he’s on the move.’ He stood beside the shattered window and its frame, looked out on the motionless features of Hector Bream. ‘He’s dead,’ he muttered. ‘He went out through the kitchen door. I can see it’s still open.’
‘I’ll go shut it,’ Ramon said.
Jack peered around the yard, considered the four dead and one wounded. Had the quest for a vengeance been taken over by the sheer visceral satisfaction of killing?
‘Well not by me it hasn’t,’ he said to no one in particular.
Rico ripped out some cuss words.
‘He’s going to kill you all. It’s like the goddamn Alamo, with me left as old Jim Bowie.’
Kettle was trying not to listen. ‘Ramon’s taking his time,’ he said. ‘How long’s it take to check a goddamn door? You don’t think—?’ Jack grabbed the rancher’s shoulder.
‘I’ll go take a look. We know he can’t be far.’
‘It’s OK. I think I heard him.’
The men stood frozen, listening for a sound above the heavy soughing of the wind. Jack called the Mexican’s name.
‘Sí. I’m coming,’ came the reply. The door opened and Ramon entered the study. ‘Now it’s locked,’ he said.
‘What time is it?’ Rico asked.
‘About one,’ Jack answered dully.
‘First light’s sometime after five,’ Kettle said.
‘Do we leave Hec like that?’ Ramon wanted to know.
‘He’s not bothered,’ Rico said.
‘No me gusta,’ the old Mexican insisted. ‘We can’t leave him like a dog.’
‘We’re not, but there’s no choice,’ Jack muttered wearily. ‘We’ll bury him tomorrow.’
At half past three Jack shivered, shook himself more alert. He’d meant to stay sharp but events were catching up with him. The others were silent too, with fatigue or on edge with fear, and he couldn’t blame them. They probably thought they were going to die anyway. It made no difference if it happened in their sleep. For a couple of hours Jack had been pondering on little more than Cayne: the man’s reasons for such prolonged and shocking killing.
Was it all about a vindictive wish from a man on his deathbed? A tragedy to right an imaginary wrong? Had living really become that deranged?
These thoughts all started to put Jack’s own motives into question, to set his search for Annie’s killer into perspective. He was so deep in his mix of thoughts that he missed the beginning of the sound. He only became aware of it during a brief lull in the wind. It was a drawn-out, grating sound, the creak of wood slowly splintering apart, and it came from the rear of the house. Jack touched Kettle and Ramon on their shoulders.
‘I think he’s come back, and he’s trying to get in,’ he said when they stirred.
‘Yes. It sounds like in the kitchen,’ Ramon whispered after they’d listened for a moment. ‘He might be torching
the inside.’
‘I’ve thought of that,’ Jack said. ‘We’d put it out . . . probably him along with it. Besides, he’d have to find oil. If he’s tossed a torch in, we’d have heard. No, he’s back there waiting. I’ll give him something worth waiting for.’
‘Like what? What do you mean?’ Kettle asked.
‘Me. It’s about time I went for him. You two stay here, no matter what. Comprende?’
‘Yes, we understand, Jack. Remember, when you come back identify yourself. You’ve returned me my big fifty, remember.’
‘Yeah,’ Jack replied, smiling thinly. ‘And I’ll leave my trusty Winchester here as well. I want to be close enough to see his eyes.’ With that, he shut the door behind him, moved cautiously into the hallway.
He stopped at the door that led to the kitchen and flexed his shoulders and the fingers of his right hand. He prodded the door with the barrel of his Colt and stepped quietly forward; he stared blankly at the outer, open doorway.
It was the door that Bream was supposed to have closed. Jack was trying to figure out what had happened when there came the sound of a smashing of glass and the deafening boom of Kettle’s big rifle.
Jack backed away as another shot punched the air, then another and another. His hand wrenched the door open and he staggered back into the short hallway. The double doors of the study were wide open and Ramon’s body was stretched across the desk.
‘I got him . . . put a bullet in him,’ Kettle gasped from his position on the floor. ‘Mind you, he got me too, but I’ll live. You just make sure he don’t.’
Jack struck a match and lit the lamp above the stone mantelpiece. He looked around the room, saw that Rico’s face was set with a grimace. Blood oozed slowly from the whole of the upper part of his body, but his right hand was still clutched around the handle of a thin-bladed skinning knife.
‘He really did think he was at the Alamo,’ Jack mumbled.
‘Go get Cayne, son,’ the rancher repeated. ‘This ranch has had enough.’
Jack saw his quarry. The man was way ahead, cutting a trail that led from the oak-wooded grassland up into the Sierras.
