by Ned Oaks
‘What the hell—’ Blayloch began, but Burton cut him off.
‘Don’t make any fast moves, Maynard,’ he said steadily. ‘I don’t want to shoot you, but rest assured I will if I have to.’ The expression on his face was grave.
Blayloch flicked his glance to Kirby, who had also drawn his pistol and trained it on the deputy.
‘Take your pistol and drop it,’ Burton said.
Blayloch’s voice trembled slightly as he asked, ‘What’s going on here, fellers?’
‘You know what’s going on,’ Burton said. ‘You’re the Phantom. You set up Emerson Dodge. He was a killer anyway, yes – but he wasn’t the Phantom.’
‘What’re you talking about?’ Blayloch asked. He was trying hard to seem casual, as if this were some sort of silly mistake they would all be laughing about soon.
‘You tied that diamond knot on the Ballards. I’d never seen that kind of knot anywhere in my life until we were investigating the Phantom. I asked Hank and he said the same thing. You must have forgotten that you’d used that knot on the rope in your ditty bag.’ Blayloch tried to respond but again Burton stopped him. ‘You better drop that pistol. I won’t say it again.’
Blayloch dragged his pistol from its holster and tossed it into the grass before him.
‘Put your hands up,’ Burton said.
Blayloch obeyed. His glibness had evaporated.
‘You slippery bastard,’ snarled Burton. ‘It was you all along. That was you outside my house that night. You done denying it?’
Blayloch realized the game was up; Burton could see it on the man’s face.
‘You know, you’re about the same size as Emerson Dodge. Blue eyes, too. It must have been pretty easy for you to set him up once I told you I had suspicions about him.’ He exhaled slowly through clenched teeth as he pondered the extent of Blayloch’s deception. ‘You know, I’ve been wondering how you planted the mask in Dodge’s cabin. And then I remembered – I pulled you into his kitchen out of the rain. You had that mask in your coat, didn’t you, Maynard? And I’m sure you told yourself that Emerson Dodge had it coming, because he was a killer anyway. But you’re a killer, too. You were the one who shot at me out at Deception Creek after the meeting at the church. You were going to kill me and Annie that night at my place, weren’t you?’
Still Blayloch said nothing. The totality of his exposure seemed to have robbed him of the power of speech.
Hank Kirby kept his pistol fixed on Blayloch.
‘Hard to believe, Maynard,’ he said simply. But believe it he did.
‘Raping women wasn’t good enough anymore?’ Burton asked.
Dark emotions assailed him as he watched the man whom he had helped, respected, and praised in both public and private. The face behind that mask had been Maynard Blayloch’s. Still Burton’s mind seemed to fight against this realization.
But Blayloch’s silence was deafening.
‘Hank, tie him up, will you?’ Burton asked. He had to attend to practical matters.
Kirby holstered his Colt and walked toward Blayloch, whose hands were still raised. Blayloch’s eyes stared off into the distance, as if he were disassociating himself from the events unfolding before him.
Kirby paused to kick Blayloch’s pistol further off into the grass. He pulled a length of rope from his pocket, then reached up and gripped Blayloch’s left wrist and began turning him around.
Blayloch let Kirby turn him part of the way, then struck with a swiftness that left the rancher unable to respond. He grabbed Kirby’s shirtfront with his left hand and pulled the man in close to him, swinging his right arm down at the same time. The derringer slipped from his sleeve into his right hand, and he fired both barrels into Kirby’s chest at point-blank range. Kirby made a grotesque wheezing sound, trying to draw a breath, and blood streamed from the side of his mouth as his eyes glazed over.
Kirby stood between Burton and Blayloch, obscuring the former’s view. By the time Burton realized what had happened, Blayloch had already pulled Kirby’s pistol out of its holster and was firing at Burton, who leapt behind Kirby’s horse, feeling an intense burning sensation in the back of his left thigh. Blayloch’s bullet had hit him in the leg.
He hit the ground hard, returning fire with three wild shots from between the startled mare’s legs, then rolled through some brush and down a small embankment. Blayloch’s bullets darted past him, but he scrambled toward the trees despite having had the wind knocked out of him. He gasped for air as he ran.
Blayloch raced around the dying campfire and fired toward the trees where Burton had disappeared. He stepped through the grass and picked up his own pistol, which Kirby had kicked aside. Pistol in hand, he started running in pursuit.
Two bullets blasted out from the forest, thumping into the ground just ahead of Blayloch’s feet. Blayloch crouched and hurled himself just inside the edge of the woods. Another bullet struck a tree above his head.
Blayloch lay still behind the tree. In the aftermath of the last shot he could hear the sound of branches snapping and rustling as Burton moved further into the forest somewhere to his right, a few dozen yards away.
Burton kept his legs in motion as long as he could and then, when the pain from the bullet wound in his thigh became too great, he collapsed on to the ground, not nearly as far from Blayloch as he would have liked.
His chest heaving, he rolled over on to his back and dragged himself a few yards further on his elbows before he could go no more. He lay on his back in the moist grass. He knew he had already fired all six of the shots in his Navy Colt, yet he still felt compelled to break open the gun and check the empty cylinder, just to make sure. It was empty, like he knew it would be. He tried to stand up again, but his leg seemed to be paralyzed and he fell back on to the ground.
The eerie stillness was broken by the voice of Maynard Blayloch.
‘Mr Burton, I know you can hear me,’ the killer called. Blayloch let his words sink in for a minute before continuing. ‘I want you to know a couple things. I never wanted it to come to this. I get these urges, you see. I’ve been getting them ever since I was a kid. I try to fight them. I swear I do. But they’re . . . stronger than I am.’
He was silent again for several seconds, and Burton could hear the sounds of movement in the forest. Unhurried, methodical movement.
‘I didn’t even want to get you involved,’ Blayloch went on. His voice sounded strange to Burton. Blayloch had to know that Burton was out of bullets, yet the man’s voice didn’t sound triumphant; more than anything else, it seemed sad. ‘The sheriff is the one who insisted. He’d read the articles in the newspaper about that case of yours from a couple years ago.’
The voice was closer now.
‘I meant to stop last year. I swear I did. You believe me, don’t you? I don’t blame you if you don’t. I don’t know why I went out there to your house that night. I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have done it. Sometimes I wish you hadn’t missed when you shot at me.’
Burton could see Blayloch now, coming through the trees toward him, his silhouette outlined by the moonlight. Burton cursed quietly at his own inability to stand. He looked around for a fallen tree limb or anything he could use to defend himself. There was nothing.
Blayloch was now ten feet away from Burton, who could see the outline of the pistol in the man’s right hand. Burton grunted and threw his gun at Blayloch, who deflected it with his forearm. His face grimaced with pain for a moment, and then he halted a few feet away.
They faced each other. Burton’s breathing was labored and his useless left leg throbbed with pain. At that moment, however, he was oblivious to his physical ailments. He was preparing for his own death. His mind turned to Annie, and then to his two sons who had died years before. . . .
Blayloch raised the gun and pointed it at Burton, who braced himself for the shot.
‘I didn’t want it to be like this,’ Blayloch said again, his voice softer this time.
Burton looked
down the barrel. Never had he been this defenseless, this close to oblivion. But the bullet didn’t come. Seconds passed, and yet Blayloch didn’t fire.
Burton’s eyes moved from the barrel and focused on Maynard Blayloch’s face. The blue eyes stared back. The gun trembled in his hand for a moment, still pointed directly at Burton. Then he pulled it back.
In one fluid motion, Blayloch lifted the pistol toward his own head. He brought up his other hand and gripped the handle with it, inserting the barrel into his mouth. Then he squeezed the trigger and the gun fired, blasting a stream of blood and brains out of the back of his head into the trees behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Limping slightly as he made his way up the cemetery hill, Ed Burton stopped in front of a grave with a small gray tombstone. On it was written: Henry Joseph Kirby, 1824-1880. Burton’s face was ashen as he looked down at the grave.
He had been unable to attend Kirby’s funeral, and it had taken nearly six weeks to recover from the gunshot wound to his leg. He had been forced to accept the fact that he would walk with a limp for the rest of his life. His innate determination helped speed up his recuperation. After getting back on his feet, it took another two weeks until he felt up to riding. The first place he had gone was the cemetery, to pay his respects to Hank Kirby.
He looked up and observed the heavy dark clouds that swirled above. Annie had been predicting a storm for three days now. It looked like her prediction was going to come true after all.
The wind blew some leaves across the grave and stirred the grass. Burton turned when he heard the sound of an approaching horse.
Deputy Matt Winstan was riding up the narrow trail past the cemetery fence to where Burton was standing. He nodded in greeting, and Burton smiled wanly.
‘Morning, Matt.’
Winstan dismounted. ‘Good morning, Mr Burton. I’m glad to see you’re up and about.’
‘Thanks. I’m pretty glad, too.’
‘I’ll bet,’ agreed Winstan. He looked down at the tombstone and his face became somber. ‘Damn shame,’ he said quietly. ‘Hank Kirby was a good man.’
‘Yes, he was.’
The men were quiet for a minute.
‘They buried Bob and Cindy Ballard up there,’ Winstan said finally, gesturing up the hill to a large tombstone underneath a maple tree.
Burton looked where Winstan had pointed. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. He felt a strong urge to be on his way.
‘So they assigned you out here as deputy?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Yeah, at least for the time being.’
Burton and Winstan turned and began walking down the hill toward the gate, Winstan leading his horse by the reins. On the far side of the rise was a withered old birch tree. Winstan pointed at it.
‘That’s where they buried Maynard,’ he said. ‘Beside Emerson Dodge.’
Burton said nothing. He had spotted the two unmarked graves as he rode into the cemetery. Without being told, he knew who was buried there.
Burton’s horse was tied to the cemetery gate. He reached up and unlooped the reins from the post.
‘Well, I got to head back to town,’ Winstan said. ‘I seen you as I was riding by and thought I’d say hello.’
‘Thanks, Matt,’ Burton said, managing a tight smile.
Winstan mounted and rode down the trail toward Oakridge. Burton’s horse snorted and he patted its neck, talking to it quietly. Even the horse wants to get out of here, he thought.
He turned back, his eyes sweeping over the cemetery one last time. Then he mounted and rode home.
