Most of the men gathered here felt the same way, Quintero knew. They were hired killers, the lot of them, accustomed to risking their lives for wages. In fact, three members of the group had died in Santa Angelina, and another had succumbed to his wounds here in the canyon where they had camped while they tried to figure out what to do. Another man had ridden away, declaring that he wasn't going to throw his life away from a hundred and fifty bucks.
Henry Pollard had promised each of them three hundred dollars, plus whatever they could loot from the bank, for a few minutes' work. Ride in, shoot up the town—and the townspeople—and then burn the place. An easy job.
And in truth it had been. Some of the citizens of Santa Angelina had put up a fight, but most had been too busy trying to save their own lives. Once half the buildings were ablaze, the men had ridden away, ready to collect the second half of their pay.
That was when they realized Henry Pollard was no longer among them. They had turned and gazed back toward the thick column of black smoke rising into the sky and realized he was somewhere in that inferno, and the rest of their money was going up in smoke with him.
Of course, as it turned out that wasn't the case. Quintero, as the nominal leader of the group, had sent one of the men into what was left of Santa Angelina the next day. Meeker, so young and fresh-faced that no one would take him for a cold-blooded killer, had pretended to be a drifting cowpoke who'd come up on the tragic scene. He had hung around all day, helping clean up debris, and learned that the local deputy had captured Pollard and taken him north to Alpine, the county seat, to be locked up in the jail there.
More scouting, this time in Alpine, had confirmed that Pollard was indeed being held there. The trial had been set, and there was absolutely no doubt that within an hour of its conclusion, Pollard would be swinging at the end of a rope. The smartest thing to do would be to ride away and forget about the rest of the payoff they were supposed to collect.
The money they had taken from the bank had turned out to be disappointingly skimpy, though, especially divided up among all of them, and the same thought had occurred to Quintero and the other men: Pollard's brother had given him money to hide out, money that Pollard had used to hire men to help him carry out his twisted revenge.
How much more would the elder Pollard pay for his brother's rescue from the hangman?
It was too intriguing an idea to simply cast aside.
Robinson said, "Why don't we ride into town and see where things stand?"
Quintero grunted.
"I think the people will notice so many men riding in, especially men who look like we do."
Robinson looked like a killer, all right, a bucktoothed man with lank blond hair sticking out like straw from underneath a flat-crowned black hat. He said, "I ain't talkin' about the whole bunch. I figured you and me could go in and get the lay of the land. The rest of the fellas can wait for our signal. We'll let 'em know when it's time to hit the jail and grab Pollard. Then we sell him back to his brother and get ourselves a real payoff for a change."
Quintero thought it over. He hated to admit that Robinson was right about anything, but what the gringo said made sense. He turned and looked at the other men. Four of them were Mejicanos like him, the rest white. Bandits, rustlers, murderers, rapists. As sorry a bunch as any man could cast his lot with.
Yet cast his lot with them, Quintero had. He was no better than any of them and worse than some. The only difference was that his brain was not quite as dulled by debauchery as theirs, and from time to time the realization of just how evil he really was crept into his thoughts. He didn't like that and usually drowned it quickly with tequila.
"All right," he told Robinson. "Tell the others. We have watched wagons and riders coming into Alpine for days now. The town will be crowded. No one will pay attention to two more men."
"Now you're talkin'," Robinson said, exposing his prominent teeth in a grin. "All we need's a little bit of luck, and in a day or two we'll be rich men, amigo."
Quintero doubted that. True riches always eluded men such as them. Real wealth settled in the hands of men like Henry Pollard's brother. The rest of them got what was left. But that was what they deserved, Quintero supposed. Were they not the dregs of the world?
As long as they had enough for liquor and whores and ammunition, that was all they really needed.
Chapter 7
"What's wrong, dear?" George's mother asked as George's pa pushed his plate away and stood up. "You don't like the food?"
"The food's fine. I just don't have much of an appetite." George's pa looked at him and went on, "Boy, you come outside with me."
George felt a chill go all the way through him like a blue norther. His ma turned pale and asked her husband, "What do you want with George?"
"We got business, him and me."
"Any business you have, you can handle in here. It's dark outside."
George's pa ignored that and told George, "I'll be waitin' for you. Don't make me come back in and get you."
He stalked out of the cabin.
George sat there in the rough-hewn chair like he was stuck to it. The last thing he wanted to do was get up and follow his father outside. Yet he knew that he had to. If he didn't, it would just make things worse.
The chair legs scraped on the floor as he pushed it back.
"No!" his mother cried. She clutched his arm. "Don't go out there. I'll talk to him—"
"It won't do no good," George said. He stood up and gently pulled his arm out of his mother's grip. The sickness that was wasting her away had cost her most of her strength, so she couldn't hold him even though she was grown and he was ten years old.
"George..."
He forced his legs to move and walked out into the dogtrot between the two halves of the cabin. He shut the door behind him, hoping his ma wouldn't follow him. He knew what this was about, and he didn't want her to see it.
His pa was standing out in the moonlight, smoking. When George said, "I'm here," he dropped the quirly at his feet and ground it out with the toe of his right boot.
Then he turned, a dark, massive shape, and said, "I stopped at Kincaid's store when I was comin' back through town this afternoon. Kincaid told me you and your ma were there this morning."
"That's right," George said. He had driven the wagon in, and he'd been proud of himself for doing it. They had needed supplies, and they didn't know when Pa would be back. They never knew how long he'd be gone when he was off Rangering. As it turned out, they could have waited, because he'd shown up late that afternoon.
"Kincaid told me something else. I reckon you know what I'm talking about. You want to tell me?"
Again, George knew it wouldn't do any good to be stubborn. He said, "I guess Mr. Kincaid told you I took a piece of candy without payin' for it."
"That's what he told me," Pa said softly.
Unexpected anger flared up inside George and took away some of the fear. He said, "Did he tell you I chopped wood and hauled water and loaded supplies and ever' other thing he could think of to pay him back? Did he tell you he made me work five hours to settle up for a penny piece of candy?"
"What it's worth don't matter. You stole. That's against the law."
Foolishly, George said, "You gonna arrest me? Write my name down in your Book o' Knaves?"
He didn't see the big open hand coming in time. It slammed against the side of his head and knocked him sprawling, half in and half out of the dogtrot. Pain hammered inside his skull as he lay there. He tried not to cry, but he couldn't keep from whimpering.
"I don't like to do this," his pa said, "but you done wrong and you got to be punished."
Fiery agony slashed across George's legs. He tried to squirm away, but his pa came after him, arm rising and falling as the quirt in his hand shredded George's trousers and the skin underneath. George screamed. He couldn't escape.
Light splashed across him as his ma threw the cabin door open and rushed out. She shouted her husband's name
and grabbed his arm as yet another blow fell. If she wasn't strong enough to hold George, she sure wasn't strong enough to stop Pa.
But he stopped anyway and backed off, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face set in stony lines.
"How could you?" she screeched at him. "How could you do that to your own son?"
"He stole," Pa said. "Everybody's somebody's son or pa or brother. It don't matter. You break the law, you got to pay the price."
* * *
Braddock woke up thrashing, as he often did. The bedding was wet with sweat and wadded up like a dog had been digging around in it. Braddock pushed himself up into a sitting position and waited there for his rapidly slugging heartbeat to settle down.
When the hammering of blood inside his skull had subsided somewhat, he drew in a deep breath and rubbed a hand over his face, which was beaded with oily perspiration. The room was hot, with the curtains drawn tightly over the single window to shut out the light, but that wasn't what had made Braddock sweat so much. Rather it was the memories lurking inside him, the ones he kept tamped down deep enough that they could escape only in dreams.
He said, "Shit," swung his legs out of bed, and stood up.
A table with a basin and pitcher of water sat against the wall. Braddock poured water into the basin, scooped some up in his hands, and splashed it over his face. The coolness made him feel a little better. He lifted the pitcher and drank straight from it. That helped, too, although his stomach felt a little sick for a moment when the water hit it.
When his legs were steadier, he crossed to the window and shoved the curtains back. The light outside had started to dim because it was late afternoon, almost evening. It was still bright enough to make Braddock wince. He muttered something that didn't make sense even to him and turned away from the window to pull his clothes on.
Ten minutes later he walked into the hotel dining room. The young woman who had waited on him earlier was still working. Once again she brought coffee to him without being asked.
"You're an angel in disguise," Braddock told her as he picked up the cup.
That brought a laugh from her. She said, "Hardly. You should ask my pa. To hear him tell it, I'm nearer to the Devil."
"Sometimes it's hard for those closest to us to see the truth."
"I suppose so. You want a bowl of chili, Ranger?"
"The hotter the better," Braddock said.
"The way our cook makes it, it'll scorch your insides."
"That's just what I need."
If the chili could burn away all those old memories, that would be even better, but Braddock knew not to expect that much.
Feeling almost human again after he'd eaten, Braddock went up to his room and got his Winchester, then left the hotel and headed toward the jail. The sun had set behind the jagged mountains to the west, and dusk was starting to gather over Alpine.
The town was still busy. Light and noise spilled from the buildings, especially the saloons. Anticipation hung in the air. It was almost a festive feeling, like a celebration was about to begin.
A celebration of death, Braddock thought, because that was what it would bring if most of the people in town tonight had their way.
But somewhere out there were others who wanted to forestall that death, and the chances were good that he would have to deal with both sides before the night was over.
Maybe he could improve those odds, he thought as he came to the Rainbow Saloon, which appeared to be one of the largest such establishments in town. It was certainly one of the noisiest, although the level of that racket dropped off sharply as Braddock pushed through the batwings and walked toward the bar carrying the rifle.
He felt the weight of every eye in the place as he came to a stop in front of the hardwood. He tucked the Winchester under his left arm and nodded pleasantly enough to the man behind the bar.
"Your beer," he said. "Is it cold?"
"Coldest you'll find around here," the sallow-faced bartender replied.
"All right, then," Braddock said. "I'll have one."
"Sure, Ranger." The man filled a mug with frothy liquid and set it in front of Braddock. "No charge."
"No, I pay my way," Braddock said. He slid a silver dollar across the bar. "Good enough?"
"Sure." The bartender made the coin disappear. "You've got more comin' if you want it."
Braddock picked up the mug and took a long swallow. The beer was cool, almost cold, and tasted good. He set it down and said, "Looks like you're doing a pretty brisk business."
"Lots of people in town these days," the bartender said.
"I expect they've come in for Henry Pollard's trial."
"Yeah," the bartender said, but Braddock heard the hollow insincerity in the man's voice. "That's why they're here."
Braddock took another swallow of the beer and said, "Better be. I'm here to see to it that things go off like they're supposed to. Legally and proper-like. Nothing else is going to happen while I'm in Alpine."
"Sure, Ranger," the bartender said. "Don't know why you'd expect otherwise. Folks around here are law-abiding. Most of them, anyway."
"I just want to make sure everybody understands." Braddock drank again, then left the half-full mug on the hardwood. "Anybody who tries to cause trouble will be dealt with by the full force of the law."
His voice was loud enough to carry in the hush that had fallen over the saloon.
The bartender didn't look happy that Braddock had come into his place to issue the veiled warning. His face was tight and angry as he said, "You've spoken your piece, Ranger. Anything else I can do for you?"
"Nope." Braddock turned and headed toward the entrance.
He hadn't gotten there when a man stepped out in front of him, blocking his path. The man was as tall as Braddock but burly in comparison to the Ranger's lean, pantherish build. He wore range clothes, including a black-and-white cowhide vest, and his face was flushed with both drink and resentment.
"You're in my way, friend," Braddock said with deceptive mildness.
"Now I've got somethin' to say," the man declared. "You come in here and act all high an' mighty 'cause you're a Ranger, but that badge on your shirt don't mean a damn thing to me. If you were a real lawman, you'd want Henry Pollard to swing at the end of a rope, and the sooner the better!"
Mutters of agreement came from all over the crowded saloon.
"There's no doubt in my mind that's where he's going to end up," Braddock said. "After he's been tried and convicted."
"That's a damn waste of time!" the cowboy said. "Anyway, the longer he sits there in jail, the more likely it is his blasted brother will try to bust him out! Amos Pollard's been runnin' rough-shod over this part of the country for twenty years. What makes you think he's gonna follow the law this time?"
This time there were a few cheers and whistles in response.
"Because I'm going to see to it," Braddock said when the hubbub had quieted down. "Now get out of my way, mister, so I can do my job, or you'll find yourself behind bars, too."
Something flickered in the cowboy's eyes, a wish that he hadn't pushed things quite this far, maybe.
But he had, and he was too proud to back down, so he exclaimed, "You go to hell!" and swung a fist at Braddock's head.
Chapter 8
The cowboy was just drunk enough for the booze to slow him down. Braddock had no trouble leaning out of the way of the roundhouse punch. As the cowboy lost his balance and stumbled a step closer, Braddock brought up the Winchester and laid the stock along his jaw, not with enough force to break bone but hard enough to put the hombre on the floor.
Braddock swung around and dropped the Winchester's barrel so that it pointed in the general direction of several angry-looking men sprang to their feet at the tables where they'd been sitting.
"Everybody just hold your horses," Braddock said, his voice ringing out clearly. "By all rights, I ought to arrest this man for trying to attack a peace officer." He nodded toward the cowboy who lay stunn
ed on the sawdust-littered floor. "I'm not going to. I understand why folks around here are upset. But the law will be upheld. Henry Pollard will go on trial as the law requires. And if anybody tries to interfere with that..." Braddock backed to the batwings. "It won't go as easy with them."
He stepped out into the gathering night, knowing that word of this encounter would spread swiftly through the town. Maybe it would make enough men think twice to blunt the rising tide of lynch fever. He wasn't going to count on it, though.
His long-legged strides carried him quickly toward the courthouse and jail. He was about a block away when muzzle flame gouted from the darkness across the street and he felt as much as heard the whipcrack of a bullet past his ear.
The shot took him by surprise. He knew plenty of people in Alpine probably resented his presence in town, but he hadn't thought any of them would go so far as to try to bushwhack him. As another shot blasted he dived off the boardwalk into the thick shadows behind a parked wagon. The second bullet thudded into the vehicle's sideboards.
Braddock had seen where the shots were coming from. He stood up and fired three fast shots over the wagon toward the alley where the ambusher lurked. It was too dark in there to see anything, but he figured if he sprayed some lead around, the would-be killer might abandon the attempt and flee.
Another bullet smacked into the wagon as he ducked, but this one came from a different direction. Braddock felt splinters sting his cheek as the slug struck close to his head. He twisted around and dropped back, landing on his butt. A handgun roared from the corner of the nearest building and sent another bullet shrieking just over his head.
"Hey!" a man yelled. Another gun went off. Braddock jerked his head to the right and saw a third man running across the street toward the second bushwhacker. The revolver in his hand belched flame.
Since someone had taken a hand on his side, Braddock rolled onto his belly and socketed the Winchester against his shoulder. From that position he fired underneath the wagon bed this time and sent three more rounds into the alley across the street.
Hangman's Knot (Outlaw Ranger Book 2) Page 4
