Showdown

by Deborah Chester

  Gasping, Noel straightened and wiped the sweat from his face with an unsteady hand. After the rough, intense action, he felt disoriented for a moment and had to look around to regain his bearings.

  “Look out!” yelled a voice.

  Noel spun around in the direction of galloping hoofbeats coming his way. The flames roared to the sky, lighting up the world. The rider approaching him was hatless, and for a split second Noel saw his face clearly.

  He saw the lean face that was so similar to his own. The dark brows, the gray eyes, the mouth set in a grim line…Noel felt the shock of recognition and a growing dismay.

  “Leon!” he shouted.

  His duplicate had first been created in the anomaly caused by a malfunctioning time stream. Noel had hoped that when he left medieval Greece, he left Leon as well, but it seemed his twin had followed him here to this time and place.

  “Leon!” he shouted again.

  His duplicate did not slow the big horse. A girl in a long, pale dress lay limp across the front of his saddle. Leon raised a pistol and aimed it at Noel.

  Without conscious thought Noel raised his own weapon and squeezed the trigger.

  It clicked on an empty chamber.

  Defenseless, Noel’s blood ran cold. Leon had tried to kill him before. Now he had the perfect chance.

  Leon reined the horse to a halt, making it rear. He took deliberate, point-blank aim. His eyes were crazy with rage and hatred.

  Noel couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move.

  Then a rifle shot whined through the air, and Leon’s pistol went flying. Leon jerked his hand and swore in pain.

  “Adios, brother,” he sneered, shaking the blood from his injured fingers onto Noel. “We shall meet again. Next time I won’t miss.”

  Before Noel could respond, Leon wheeled his horse and lashed it on both shoulders with the long reins. The animal galloped into the darkness, and all was silent.

  The fire inside the adobe house was starting to die down. With a sudden roar, the bunkhouse collapsed, sending sparks and cinders gusting skyward. Noel flinched, but he didn’t see that even a bucket brigade between the dirt tank and the house could have any effect on the fire now.

  He started to go check on Cody, but before he’d taken more than a couple of steps in that direction, a gruff voice said, “Hold it right there! Stand in your tracks, and put your hands up.”

  The voice, disembodied, might have come from anywhere. Noel suspected it was from somewhere behind him, close to the house. If it went with the finger that had been firing the rifle, he wasn’t going to argue.

  He stood still and put up his hands.

  “Get rid of that hogleg.”

  Noel frowned. “What?”

  “The pistol! Drop it!”

  “It’s empty.”

  “Mister,” grated the voice in a tone that brooked no argument, “I ain’t gonna waste my bullets kicking up dust around your feet. If I have to shoot to convince you to do what I say, I’m gonna put a bullet in your hide, where it’ll do some good.”

  Noel dropped the pistol. His back itched, and he wondered exactly where the rifle sights were centered.

  “That’s better. Now you turn around nice and slow.”

  Noel complied.

  “You catch the reins of that horse over there and you lead him this way.”

  Noel had trouble catching the animal, which was inclined to shy from him each time he reached for the dangling reins. Speaking soothingly to it, he finally grabbed the reins. He patted its neck and led it back toward the burning house.

  “Stop there.”

  The old man came out of hiding, hobbling along on legs bent with rheumatism. He held a Winchester in his hands, and that long, deadly muzzle remained rock steady on Noel. The ruddy firelight gleamed off the man’s thick white hair, showing a seamed, weathered face marked by a white mustache and fierce, jutting brows.

  He glared at Noel, then watched his burning house for a moment, his throat working.

  “Damned Comancheros,” he muttered. “No call to burn an honest man out. I been here nigh on thirty years, trying to make a go of this place. Nana and Victorio went raiding through here, and they didn’t burn me out. Ain’t no one gonna burn me out.”

  He swung back to Noel.

  “Easy,” said Noel swiftly, unsure of the old fellow’s mood. “I’m a friend.”

  “The hell you say. All I see is a stranger without no pants on. Now you bring that horse over here to me, and you don’t make no sudden moves.”

  “I don’t think you should ride after Leon alone,” said Noel in concern. “He’s dangerous—”

  “Shut up! You think I’m gonna sit here and hold my head while that varmint runs off with my granddaughter? I got to get her back.”

  “How are you going to chase them in the dark?” asked Noel.

  “Son, the more you stand here jawin’ the farther he’s getting away.” He jacked a fresh bullet into the chamber. “Now do what I say!”

  There was no arguing with the rifle. Noel led the horse closer and held its bridle while the old man took the reins. They looked at each other, close up and eye to eye. Furious and raw with grief, the man was in no condition to be tracking anyone, least of all Leon. Noel knew this was his chance to jump him, rifle or no rifle.

  He shifted his feet, and the old man flinched. The rifle roared at point-blank range, making the horse shy violently. Noel felt the bullet pluck his side, and adrenaline rushed to the top of his skull with such force it left him gasping and dizzy.

  He stumbled back, scared and furious. “You crazy old fool!” he shouted. “I wasn’t doing anything!”

  The old man hauled himself, wheezing, into the saddle and wheeled the horse around. “The hell you weren’t. I ought to put a bullet in you, same as your friends did to my family. My son and my grandson are both gone. But you ain’t beat me yet. I swear to God and the devil both, I ain’t beaten. Now, get out of my way.”

  He spurred the horse, and it leapt to a canter. Noel dodged to one side, and the big animal brushed past him. The shadows swallowed the old man, and a few minutes later the echo of hoofbeats faded away.

  “Crazy old coot!” shouted Noel after him. His voice echoed back from the hills surrounding the ranch.

  Swearing, Noel stuck his finger through the hole in the side of his tunic. It was a poor kind of gratitude he’d received for helping fight the outlaws. He hoped the old man’s horse stepped in a rabbit hole and threw him out there in the dark.

  No, he didn’t.

  Calming down a little, Noel wiped the soot and sweat from his face and figured that if he were in the old man’s shoes he might well be acting the same way.

  As for Leon being here…Noel frowned and swore again. He’d been convinced that Leon’s existence was a fluke, a momentary glitch that would be erased through the recall process of the time stream.

  Well, he’d been wrong. It looked like as long as Noel was trapped in this time loop, Leon was too.

  And already Leon was causing trouble, meddling with people’s lives, and doing his best to change history.

  Noel sighed. He was going to have to help straighten this out. He was going to have to take care of his twin once and for all. Maybe that was the way to break free of this trap.

  Chapter 3

  Cody was lying facedown in the dirt when Noel found him. Gently Noel rolled him over and checked his pulse. It beat strong against his fingers. Relieved, Noel gave him a shake.

  “Cody? Cody, wake up.”

  The boy didn’t stir. This was twice in one day that he’d been hit in the head. Noel figured he’d be out cold for a long while.

  Gathering the boy over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, Noel trudged back toward the barn. He’d already dragged the Comancheros into a tack room and dropped a bar across the door to lock them in. They were secured where they could cause no more trouble. Now all he had to do was get the boy bedded down in the barn, and find something to eat before he faded w
ith hunger.

  Soot and cinders were still raining down. A few sparks had caught in the yellow weeds growing in sparse clumps here and there. Tiny flames shot up swiftly, only to die almost at once as the weeds were consumed. The air stank of smoke.

  Coughing, Noel settled the boy on a lumpy bed of feed sacks and covered him with an unfolded saddle blanket that smelled of dust and dried horse sweat. The night air was growing chilly. Noel shivered and went back outside to scavenge.

  The boy had made references to his uncle Frank and a cook called Jose. Noel started looking for them. He found the cook—still wearing an apron—in the rear courtyard of the house. The man had fallen beside the well, a rifle and his medallion of Mary clutched in his hands.

  Noel closed the staring eyes, pocketed the medallion so it wouldn’t get lost, and took possession of the rifle.

  With the fire dying down, the night closed in. He heard coyotes howl in the distance. That primitive, eerie sound reached straight to Noel’s primordial instincts. Shivers went up his spine. He gripped the rifle more tightly.

  From the direction of the dirt tank an owl hooted softly from the cottonwood trees. Their leaves whispered in the night breeze. Beyond the barn and corrals, a pair of green eyes gleamed briefly in some trick of the firelight, then scuttled away.

  Noel paused, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, his eyes scanning the darkness. Overhead, a multitude of stars—unscreened by smog, clouds, or the haze of city lights—filled the sky with abundance. Constellations stood out clearly.

  A meteor shower zipped over the black horizon. One entered the atmosphere, and he saw the blaze of its trail for a few brief seconds before it passed from sight.

  Something moaned.

  He spun on his heel to crouch tensely, rifle aimed, ears straining. Seconds ticked by. His gaze scanned all directions, but he saw only shadows.

  After a few moments his thudding heartbeat slowed down. He forced himself to draw in a deep breath. Time to take it easy. He’d had a hard day. Exhaustion was playing tricks on him.

  The moan came again.

  He thought it was in the direction of the corrals. Empty and silent, now that the livestock had run off, the pens stood with moonlight glimmering off the tops of the fence posts.

  Noel approached them cautiously. Pausing to listen, he looked around.

  Nothing.

  “Is that Frank?” he said, feeling slightly foolish talking to thin air.

  He heard a choking, bubbling cough and a weak, “Help.”

  Noel cast caution aside. He hurried around the corrals to where the wagon stood. There, between the wagon and fence, lay a burly man wearing a plaid shirt and dark canvas pants.

  Noel stumbled over his legs and knelt beside him. “Are you Frank?” he asked. “Frank Trask?”

  The man made no reply. Noel could hear his labored breathing, the rasping bubble that in Noel’s experience indicated a lung injury. He rolled the man on his side and groped across a bloody chest.

  “Easy now,” he said, although his heart sank with dismay.

  In this era of primitive medical care, he didn’t think much could be done. “I’m here to help.” His own training in emergency first aid was of little use without supplies. “I’m a friend.”

  “Ambushed—”

  Violent coughing interrupted him. Noel pressed his shoulder.

  “Don’t talk. Save your breath. I’m going to carry you into the barn and see if I can stop the bleeding.”

  Frank Trask was a big man, bigger than Noel and much heavier. Noel grunted with the effort of lifting him, and for a moment as he gained his feet he thought the blood vessels in his temples would explode from the effort. Somehow he managed to stagger the short distance from the wagon to the barn.

  Inside, he sank to the ground, with Frank’s weight bearing him down. Shifting a sack of feed, he managed to prop the man up to help him breathe easier, and hurried off to fetch a torch.

  He pulled a piece of burning lumber from the ruined bunkhouse and nearly scorched his hand in the process. Hastening back, he looked around the interior of the barn for a safe place to stand the makeshift torch. The barn was made of weathered lumber, warped and well dried by the harsh sun. Only its corrugated tin roof had apparently saved it from the sparks flying outside. Inside, it held stacks of emptied burlap feed sacks, loose straw, salt blocks, and a rack of dried cow hides. Everything looked combustible.

  Noel finally spotted some lanterns hanging on hooks. He lit two of these, and put out the torch by plunging it in the water trough, where it hissed noisily and sent up a gust of steam. With light glowing through the barn, Noel set to work bandaging Frank Trask as best as he could. Rummaging through the trunks on the wagon provided him linen petticoats that he hacked into strips.

  Trask’s face was long and craggy, all sunburned angles in cheekbone and a big eagle nose. His mouth was a wide one, drawn now with pain. There was a gray, pallid cast to his skin beneath the tan that Noel didn’t like.

  Blood had soaked his entire chest. Blood was still frothing at the edges of the wound. It was close to the heart, definitely in the lung. Flecks of blood splattered Trask’s lips with every labored breath. Noel bandaged him tight, trying to put a stop to the bleeding, and gave him a few sips of water. Trask swallowed some of it, but although his eyelids twitched he never regained full consciousness.

  Noel covered him with another unfolded saddle blanket of Mexican wool, and sat down wearily to take stock of his two patients.

  He figured the boy would be all right. One side of Cody’s face was badly bruised and cut from being pistol-whipped.

  But Noel doubted Frank Trask would live to see the morning.

  As for the old man, riding out there in the darkness after Leon, who was crazy, mean, and lacking in conscience, well, his chances didn’t look too good either.

  With a sigh Noel touched the silver and turquoise cuff on his wrist.

  “LOC, activate,” he said.

  It hummed to life, circuits shimmering through the clear sides and casting a faint glow on Noel’s face.

  He said, “Data query: Frank Trask, Cody Trask, and Lisa-­Marie Trask. Execute.”

  “Working.” The LOC hummed a moment, then said, “No information.”

  “None?” said Noel in startlement. “Is there an anomaly? Has history been changed by me or by Leon?”

  “Scanning now. No information.”

  “Useless piece of junk,” muttered Noel. With difficulty he restrained his frustration. “Okay, cross reference Double T Ranch.”

  “Double T Ranch…founded 1857 by Thomas Trask. In 1895 ownership was deeded to Don Emilio Navarres when his wife inherited it.”

  “Wife!” said Noel, raising his brows. “Lisa-Marie?”

  “Affirmative. The ranch was added to the Navarres holdings, which encompassed an old Spanish land grant plus two hundred sections of other—”

  “Stop,” said Noel. “Who got the ranch after this Emilio?”

  “His son, Don Esteban Navarres, who sold the land on the American side of the border in 1942 to—”

  “Stop. Where does Cody come in? Why didn’t he inherit the ranch?”

  The LOC remained silent.

  Noel frowned, thinking back over the events of today. That flash flood…he’d found the boy floating unconscious in the water. Maybe he had been intended to die by drowning. If so, had Noel himself changed history?

  His mouth was suddenly very dry. He swallowed.

  “Check territory birth records,” he said. “Isn’t there a Cody Trask registered anywhere?”

  “Specific instructions are contrary.”

  “What?”

  “Specific instructions are contrary.”

  “How difficult is it to scan territory birth records?” Noel asked impatiently.

  “Birth records registered in New Mexico territory?” said the LOC.

  “Yes!”

  Across the barn, Frank stirred restlessly, and Noel lowered his voi
ce. “Yes. Territory records. Scan, Damnit.”

  “Scanning…no registration.”

  Noel leaned back and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Damn,” he said softly. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  He wandered outside to the trough and drank, too tired to worry about how dirty the water was. It tasted awful, like algae, but it helped fill his stomach.

  The slow, steady sound of hoofbeats alerted him. He listened a moment, then returned to the barn and picked up the rifle. He thought about extinguishing the lanterns, but decided doing so would only warn the approaching rider.

  Mindful of not letting himself be silhouetted against the light, Noel slipped out the back way and circled the side of the barn in the shadows. Pressing his shoulder to the rough boards, he held the rifle ready in his hands and waited.

  It was a lone rider. As he crested the ridge to the north, the starry moonlight shone across his bowed head and shoulders. It looked like the old man. Noel relaxed a fraction, but he hadn’t forgotten the bullet hole in his tunic. He kept himself hidden.

  Trask rode into the corral and dismounted with a stagger of weariness. He stripped the saddle and bridle off his mount and gave it a halfhearted slap on the rump. The animal shook itself and drifted to the far side of the corral.

  Holding his Winchester, Trask trudged to the barn. He paused at the open door, a clear target in the spill of yellow light. Then he went inside.

  Noel slipped to the corner of the barn, still hugging the shadows.

  From inside he heard a thump and a sorrowful “Frank! My God!”

  Peering inside, Noel saw the Winchester lying on the ground. The old man knelt beside his son, gripping his hand.

  Noel crept up behind Trask, making no sound until he kicked the Winchester. It went skidding across the straw. Noel pounced on it and scooped it up before the old man could struggle to his feet.

  “Stay where you are,” Noel said harshly. He felt slightly foolish, holding two rifles trained on an old, tear-streaked man, but the hatred burning in Trask’s eyes kept him cautious.