Holding the lamp aloft, Lin went into the parlor and set the curtains on fire. Flames were climbing toward the ceiling, and tendrils of smoke were coiling in the air when he bent his steps back to the kitchen. Hunkering, he soon had tongues of red and orange licking at the towels.
“That should do it,” Lin said. He rose and started for the back door, but he had taken only a couple of steps when a battering ram slammed into him low in the back. The next moment he was on his stomach with a weight on his hips and a knee gouging him in the spine. He twisted, and a fist caught him on the jaw.
It was the servant in the white uniform who had answered the door the day Lin was pistol-whipped.
Lin heaved up off the floor and the man tumbled but came up on the balls of his feet with the swiftness of a cat. Lin pushed to his knees, saying, “I don’t want to hurt—” He got no further. A fist to his temple jarred him.
The man could hit.
Lin raised an arm to ward off another blow. He tried to stand, but a kick to his leg nearly upended him.
The manservant circled. He had curly black hair and dark eyes that glittered like coals. “I can’t let you,” he said.
“My fight is with Montfort,” Lin said.
“I am in his employ. He depends on me.”
“Let’s talk this out,” Lin suggested. “I am armed and you are not. What chance do you have?”
Lin barely jerked aside in time when the man’s foot flicked out. He threw a punch, but the other skipped lightly out of reach.
“You are slow, mister.”
“Rub salt in it, why don’t you?” Lin set himself, but he could not stop the servant from darting in close and landing two lightning jabs. Neither hurt all that much, but Lin had bigger concerns. At any moment punchers might come out of the bunkhouse, see the house on fire and spread the alarm. Lin would be up to his neck in outraged hands. “This is pointless.”
“Not if I stop you from burning down the house.”
“The parlor is already on fire.”
“You didn’t!” the servant bleated, aghast.
“Run for help if you want,” Lin said. It would give him a chance to escape out the back. “I will not try to stop you.”
The servant glanced at the towels. They were ablaze, and soon the flames would spread to the floor and the walls. “You have ruined my livelihood. Montfort will fire me over this.”
“Then he is not worth working for.” Lin figured the man would stop fighting and get out of there.
Instead, the servant darted to a drawer and wrenched it open so hard, a large knife and a spoon spilled out. The man did not stoop to pick up the knife. He reached into the drawer, and when he turned, he was holding a meat cleaver. “I will see you bleed.”
“Think again,” Lin said, and patted his Colt. “Take my advice, and fan the breeze.”
“If you are going to use it, you better use it now.”
“Be sensible.”
“How is this for sensible?” the servant asked, and attacked, swinging the meat cleaver as if he had gone berserk.
Chapter 29
The three manhunters were rooted in surprise long enough for Chancy to take a couple of steps to the right so he had a clear shot at Lute Bass. “Not so much as a twitch!”
The bartender had become a statue. The other customers were likewise frozen.
Lute Bass recovered his composure first to say, “Here I thought you were as weak as a kitten, boy.”
“You thought wrong,” Chancy said.
The bartender found his voice and bellowed, “Here, now! I will have no more tables upended or anyone shot!”
“Anyone who wants to be a Good Samaritan is welcome to try,” Chancy said, wagging the Colt.
No one did.
Rufus shifted in his chair. His Sharps was propped against his leg, and his hand was on the barrel. “Big talk, boy, but me and my pards do not impress easy.”
“You will have to prove yourself to us,” Mort said.
“Get rid of your six-shooters and the buffalo gun,” Chancy said. “Place them on the floor one at a time; then raise your arms.”
Lute Bass leaned on his elbows. “That is not going to happen, boy. We are calling your bluff. If you have sand, we have not seen much evidence of any.” He sat up. “It was a mistake coming here. You should have stole a horse and lit a shuck.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Or what?” Lute Bass laughed, then looked at his companions. “What do you say, gents? Should we show this simpleton that he has bitten off more than he can chew?”
“Don’t!” Chancy said. He had not counted on this. He should shoot them now—shoot them where they sat before they could resort to their artillery. But once again he could not bring himself to do it. As a man killer he was downright pitiful. All that time he had spent strutting around with his pearl-handled Colt, it had never occurred to him that he might be one of those people who could shoot other people only in self-defense. He began to wish he had lit a shuck.
An unlikely ally reared his head in the form of the bartender. This time he was addressing Lute Bass. “I told you before, I do not want my place shot up. Take this outside.”
“Polish your glasses and leave us be,” Bass said.
But the bartender was not intimidated. “I have a scattergun under this bar, and I am not afraid to use it.”
“We will pay for any damage,” Lute Bass said, “and give you an extra fifty dollars, besides.”
The owner stepped back from the bar. “In that case, feel free. All I ask is that you try to spare my mirror. It takes forever to order a new one. I had to send clear to St. Louis the last time.”
“We cannot make any promises, but we will try.” Lute Bass grinned at Chancy and slowly unfurled from his chair. “Now, then, boy. With that out of the way, we can have our little affray.”
“Don’t you care that you might die?” Chancy asked, racking his brain for a way out of the predicament his stupidity had put him in.
“We all go sooner or later. Fretting over it gets us nowhere.”
Rufus nodded. “We are none of us masters of our fate. When our time comes, it comes, and there is nothing we can do.”
Mort gestured impatiently. “Enough of this jabber. Let’s bed this kid down and be done with him.”
“I do not die easy,” Chancy said with as much conviction as he could muster. “I will take all of you with me.”
“A regular badman, are you?” Lute Bass said, smirking.
All three laughed.
Chancy’s mouth went dry, but his palms were sweating. “I shot Pettigrew, or have you forgotten?”
“You winged him,” Lute Bass amended. “And you did not finish him off after. A real killer would have.”
They knew, damn them, Chancy realized. But he continued to bluff. “That does not prove anything.”
“Only that you are not a natural-born killer like me and my pards,” Lute Bass said. “You are a boy playing at being a man. You are soft and pretending to be hard.”
“I am sick of all this talk,” Mort growled. “Let’s do him and get back to our drinking.”
Chancy regretted coming so far into the room; they could easily drop him before he reached the hallway.
“Nothing more to say, boy?” Lute Bass asked.
“I thought you wanted me alive as bait for my brother.” Chancy clutched at a last straw.
Bass’ grin made him think of a rabid wolf. “We can stake you out dead. If we blindfold and gag the body, he will have no cause to suspect you are not breathing.”
“Until it is too late,” Rufus stressed.
Lute Bass slid his hands close to his Remingtons. “Ever wondered what it will be like? Dying, I mean?”
“No,” Chancy admitted. Dead was dead to him. He used to believe in heaven and hell, but then his pa died a senseless, horrible death, crushed to bits under that horse. It showed him that either there was no God, or the Almighty had a cruel sense of humor. �
�I don’t feel sorry for you one bit,” he said.
Lute Bass’ brow knit. “What is there to not feel sorry for?”
“When my brother comes after you, there is no place in Wyoming you can hide.”
“In the first place, if what Montfort told us is true, your brother might not be alive. In the second, I am not scared of him or any other mother’s son. Let him come after us. We are counting on it. And I welcome the challenge.”
“And if Lute doesn’t get him,” Rufus said, patting his Sharps, “I will put a bullet in his back from a thousand yards out.”
Mort smacked the top of the table. “Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk! Damn you girls, anyway.” His hand dipped and came up holding his revolver.
Chancy shot him. It happened so fast, he had no time to think. He saw the revolver rising. He pointed and fired. At the blast, Mort rocked in his chair and looked at his chest in amazement.
“Mort?” Rufus said.
“The kid has killed me!” Mort exclaimed. Blood trickled from a corner of his mouth, and he was racked by a violent fit of coughing that ended with him falling forward.
Lute Bass and Rufus galvanized to life, Bass going for his Remingtons, Rufus snatching up his Sharps.
Chancy had begun backing toward the hallway. He snapped off another shot, not really aiming, and was as astounded as anyone at the result.
Rufus’ head snapped back. His mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out other than a sucking noise. Bit of broken teeth and blood came dribbling over his lower lip. He started to rise, but his legs gave way and he pitched from his chair to the floor.
The slug had gone in the front of Rufus’ mouth and blown out the rear of his skull.
Lute Bass appeared to be in shock. Both of his friends down, mere seconds apart.
Chancy whirled and ran. He was almost to the doorway when a revolver boomed and lead bit into the jamb. Another blast filled the saloon, but he was in the hall and racing madly for the kitchen. His shoulder throbbed, but he did not care. The important thing was to go on breathing.
Chancy did not look back until he was at the rear door. To his consternation, Lute Bass had not come after him. He hurtled out into the night and turned to the right. He had no place in mind to go to. He was running blind.
Chancy flew past three buildings. He rounded a corner and sagged against a wall, out of breath. He was shaking. Shamed by his behavior, he smacked his chest. He was not as fearless as he thought he was, and the revelation was disturbing.
The only good thing about the whole mess was that two of the bastards were dead. Chancy smiled. Maybe he was not completely worthless, after all.
Suddenly a revolver cracked and slivers peppered his cheek.
* * *
Lin threw himself back just as the cleaver flashed past his face, the razor edge missing his eyes by the width of a cat’s whiskers. Searing pain and heat flared up his legs, and he glanced down to discover he had stepped on the burning towels. He sprang clear, smoke rising from his pants, and for a moment forgot about the manservant. A reminder came in the form of a stinging sensation in his left hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lin saw the man raising the cleaver to split him down the middle. He skipped to one side and glanced at his hand. A sick feeling came over him, and the kitchen spun.
One of his fingers was gone. The little finger had been chopped off at the knuckle. There was surprisingly little pain, but he was bleeding, and bleeding badly. Shock tried to seize him, but he shook it off and jammed the stub against his side to staunch the flow.
The servant was coming at him again, weaving figure eights in the air with the meat cleaver. He was grinning at his feat. “That was only the beginning,” he said.
“Wrong,” Lin said. “You will whittle on me no more.” He drew his Colt and put a slug between the man’s eyes.
Those eyes widened for a heartbeat, and then the man in white folded, the cleaver clattering as it struck the wood floor.
Lin was worried the punchers over at the bunkhouse had heard the shot and would investigate. He had to ride the wind, but first he must stop the bleeding. He glanced about the kitchen for something he could use as a bandage, squandering time he could not spare.
A loud crackle gave Lin an idea. He turned to the flames. Gritting his teeth, he lowered his left hand and pressed the stub of his little finger to a burning towel. Intense pain coursed up his arm, but he held the stub there for a mental count of three, then jerked his hand out of the fire and backpedaled. Smoke was curling from his sleeve, and his hand felt as if it were on fire, but it was not burned. The stub, though, was black at the end, sealed as effectively as if he had used hot wax. The bleeding had stopped.
Lin wheeled to go and nearly stepped on the end of his finger. He tore his gaze away, and ran.
The cool night was invigorating. Lin climbed into the saddle and flicked the reins.
Shouts rose from the direction of the bunkhouse.
Bending low so he was not an easy target, Lin brought the buttermilk to a trot. No shots boomed, but he did not slow until a couple of minutes had gone by without sign of pursuit.
Lin held his left hand up to his face. Conflicting emotions tore at him. Part of him wanted to be sick. He told himself that it was only the end of the finger, and he could get by without it. That did not help much, but at least the contents of his stomach stayed where they should.
Sudden fatigue washed over him. He was sweating and sore and could use some rest, but he had Etta June and the children to think of.
The thought gave Lin food for more pondering. Here he was, regarding them as if they were his own family when they were not. He had to keep reminding himself that he was just a hired hand. Although Etta June had shown an interest, he must not, as the old saw had it, count his chickens before they hatched.
Lin liked her, though. God, how he liked her. She was forthright and practical and had a good head on her shoulders. For some men that might not matter. All they would be interested in was her body. But Lin wanted a smart woman. He was not all that smart himself, and by marrying a woman with more brains than he had, he would make it through life making fewer mistakes.
Suddenly Lin stiffened.
Hooves drummed behind him—a lot of riders coming on fast. Bar M punchers were after him.
Lin was only partway across the grassy valley. He had no place to hide. But he did have a trick up his singed sleeve.
Quickly drawing rein, Lin swung down. “Easy, fella,” he said as he gripped the bridle. The pounding of the hooves was louder, but he still might have time. “Down,” he said, pressing on the buttermilk’s shoulder. He hoped the horse would remember. They had done it only a dozen times or so, a lark on Lin’s part after he heard about an outlaw who had trained his horse to do the feat.
With a low nicker, the palomino sank to the ground and rolled onto its side.
Lin eased down beside it and stroked its neck to keep it calm and quiet. “Keep still,” he said soothingly.
A knot of silhouettes acquired form and substance. Six or seven men and their mounts were a score of yards to the east of him.
Lin tensed. If one of them should glance his way and spot a dark bulk where there should not be one—Lin caught himself and held his breath, his right hand on the Colt.
Like a storm cloud pealing with thunder, the riders swept on by and rumbled to the north.
Lin waited until the pounding faded before he rose and tugged on the bridle to get the buttermilk to rise. Once again he stepped into the stirrups. To keep from blundering onto his pursuers, he rode west for about half a mile and then reined north again.
Lin shifted in the saddle. A small sun blazed where Seth Montfort’s house stood. It was fully engulfed and would burn to cinders.
Good, Lin thought; it was what Montfort deserved. But now he could add arson to his list of crimes. If the law ever caught up with him, he would wind up behind bars for twenty years. If he wasn’t sentenced to a strangulation jig f
or murder, that is.
Lin sighed. All he had ever wanted was to live a peaceful, law-abiding life, running his own ranch. He never intended to become a badman. Circumstances had turned him into one. He shook his head. Sometimes he was as dumb as a tree stump. How could he think of marrying Etta June with the shadow of the gallows hanging over him?
As if that were not enough, the range war was far from over. Seth Montfort and the rest of his paid assassins had to be dealt with. More blood would flow. More lives would be forfeit.
“Why me?” Lin asked the stars. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”
The stars did not answer.
Chapter 30
Chancy spun and crouched. At the end of the alley reared a tall figure wreathed in gun smoke. Chancy triggered an answering shot, and the figure leaped from sight.
Bass would expect him to run, but Chancy took the bit in his mouth and did the last thing Bass would guess: He charged toward the street. He was puzzled when Bass did not reappear. His puzzlement grew when he came to the end of the alley and the street was empty.
Lute Bass was nowhere to be seen.
Chancy wondered if he had hit him. He looked for blood, but there was not enough light. Much of the settlement was plunged in murk and shadow. Careful to keep his back to the front of the building, he sidled toward the saloon, replacing the spent cartridge as he went.
Mason might as well be a morgue. Not so much as a cat or dog stirred. A gust of wind raised small swirls of dust, and down the street a shutter swung and creaked.
Where are you? Chancy almost yelled. But it would be a mistake to let Bass know exactly where he was.
Something moved across the street. Instinct compelled him to dive flat, and it was well he did.
Three shots cracked; three slugs smacked into the wood above Chancy’s head. He replied and the night went quiet.
Chancy mopped at his brow. He did not like being hunted; he did not like it at all. He crawled to an old water barrel and rose on his knees. It was empty and the top was gone, but it was cover. He remembered Lin telling him to always reload as soon as he could, and he groped his belt for a cartridge.
Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail Page 21
