Rakeheart

by Rusty Davis

  The man was gasping. A red-toothed grin. “Friend Badge. Smarter than ye look. When did ye know?”

  “For sure? Tonight. I knew none of them were smart enough, and Noonan was so contemptuous of them all that they could not have been his boss, and he was not clever enough to be the leader—he only acted the part. When Noonan was killed, I suspected. No. Sooner. You were a town drunk with the most sober eyes I ever saw. Wondered then. You kept leading me to Noonan. Then you fooled me. Fooled Rachel. Why? Why did you rescue me and not leave town? Why do this at all?”

  “If a gun had been to hand to shoot them all that night, I would have used it, Friend Badge. They failed to follow orders. Yon Wood is a hothead. The job I gave him was to intimidate you, rough you up, make it unpleasant to continue. Get ye to leave, ye fool! Gettin’ old and soft. I liked you, lad. Could see ye and Rachel . . . her children. My soft spot, that lady and that wee girl of hers. A dead sheriff meant the army, but he could only see you as the one man who would stand up to him.” Halloran coughed. It was bright red. Eyes met.

  “The money was so easy, Friend Badge.” Even dying, the thought made Halloran smile. “The smuggling paid; the army never knew what it lost, and the Indians never knew what they never got. Then the gold came. It was too big a hand to let ride. Rakeheart was perfect. Too far for them to see. Ah, the army, sitting on its brains all day. Perfect.”

  Kane looked down at the dying man. A game. The winner lived; the loser died. The game of the West.

  “Friend Badge! My share is in the bank in Denver. The rest gave it to Brewer, but I did na trust the man. I . . . I had to kill Wilkins . . . because I knew what he was. Foul. Cruel. That was personal. That night . . . I hated the killing, Friend Badge. Necessity. Libby told me once how they fought night after night by their barn, the man and sweet Rachel. Wilkins was getting to be a liability . . . going to ruin everything. I went to their ranch. Three times . . . perhaps I was afraid to kill him myself. Rachel would be close by him when they talked. Argued. Then that night, I had him. She was clear; he was in me sights. I pulled that trigger, Friend Badge. It was a good thing I was doing. I smiled at my own righteousness.”

  Halloran coughed blood. He gasped but was not done telling the tale.

  “Then little Libby’s gun went off . . . too late to explain. I know . . . I know I hit him, and the little girl must have missed. Never meant her . . . guilt. Rachel did not deserve that . . . Couldn’t tell. The only thing I regret. The rest . . .”

  “Just business,” Kane finished in a tone of disgust. Even dying, Halloran was stung.

  “The little girl . . . sad-eyed Libby . . . was real, Friend Badge. The wee lass. She was a sad, lost soul cast adrift out here. Never had . . . daughter. Wanted you . . . Take them and go. Could ye na ha taken the hint? Someplace that was cleaner . . . better. Too late now . . . fool.”

  “You do not deserve to have my daughter’s name in your mouth!” Rachel came into view, stared down at a man she had welcomed as a friend. Halloran’s eyes widened. He became agitated and moaned, blood fouling his words. “You kept your mouth shut to save your own skin and left Libby to believe for sure that she was guilty.”

  She turned away, the boots she wore for riding loud in the saloon’s silence.

  Kane bent to hear; Halloran grabbed his arm to pull him lower as he whispered.

  “Run. Ye fools. They’re coming! Run n—”

  Whatever else his lips were forming to say was choked off by a rush of blood and then lost forever as his head slumped to the floor.

  Kane, gun still in his left hand, turned to Conroy.

  “What did he mean?”

  Kane thought Conroy was going to faint or drop dead.

  “You can join them,” Kane snarled.

  “They sent Siegel to fetch the Riders.”

  “The preacher?”

  “Halloran had something on him. No idea what. Siegel didn’t want to go. Someone saw you ride in. They had been waiting because everyone knew you would be coming. We told everyone we knew to be on the lookout. We were supposed to get you to talk to stall until they showed up. He left a while ago; the Riders are already on their way, Kane. I don’t know how far you can get, but there’s about thirty men coming to get rid of you for good, son. We never wanted this. We wanted the money.”

  Kane only thought briefly of shooting the man. There was no time. He turned away after telling one of Rachel’s hands to get Jeffries patched, if anyone had the time or inclination.

  Conroy, however, was not done talking.

  “We wanted to end it, Kane. We wanted it to end.”

  “How’s that, Conroy?”

  “There was one more gold shipment next month—the last big one before the snows. We were going to take that one and get out of this. It was getting too risky. The army is sending more men out here next year to control the Indians. More patrols would mean that they might find out. Wood did not want to quit. We thought if we had a sheriff, the Riders might decide not to fight back, and they might move on. We never meant for all of this to happen.”

  “What about Kruger?”

  “Halloran thought he was hired by the Pinkertons. He was afraid of him. He had Wilkins so scared of the man that Wilkins was willing to kill him to join the group. I didn’t think he would do it, but he did. He was never the same man after. Starting hating us as much as he hated himself. Then the snow came, and everyone forgot. We wanted one more haul, and then we thought we could end it. All we wanted was this one last shipment, and that would have been the end of it.”

  Rachel and Kane exchanged glances.

  “Don’t look like that!” Conroy fumed. “How many men are there out here who have done what we did and worse, but no one knows because it happened back East? We all know men who broke the law back there but helped build communities out here. Wilkins was going to betray us; Halloran was sure of it. He sent letters to William Sherman all the time. We opened and read them. Nothing in them, but we could never be sure. The man could not be trusted.”

  He looked at Rachel.

  “Killing your husband was not something I knew about. We knew Wilkins was unreliable, but Halloran went off by himself. No idea why he let something personal influence his judgment. It created suspicion. That foreman knew enough to cause trouble. It kept getting worse when we wanted it to end! You must have been glad to be rid of him.”

  Kane put out a restraining arm. Her hand had drifted to the knife she wore at her waist.

  “You are not worth it!” she spat, walking to the doorway of the saloon.

  Kane soon followed her.

  “Are Libby and Jeremiah at home?”

  She nodded. “Five men with ’em. Best I had. I brought six men with me.”

  Kane nodded absently and looked out the doorway. The sun was taking its time in setting this day in a sunset that was filling the sky with an orange hue that looked tinged with blood. It might be dark by the time the Riders arrived, but darkness would not delay them.

  “We end it here.”

  Rachel had moved next to him, her left shoulder touching his bicep. She also looked to the west. “Got a plan?”

  “Kill ’em.”

  “Good. My arm would have been tired from spanking them all.”

  He looked at her. When you plan to shoot and die with someone, words don’t matter.

  She read his face. “Kids need me, Kane, so maybe come up with a plan we all live through. No coffee, otherwise.”

  “Nag, nag nag.” They were like that for a moment that seemed like it would never end. Then she let go with a deep sigh.

  “Squaw go round up boom sticks,” she deadpanned. She waved her arms wide. “Make big, big booms.”

  When she looked back to see his expression, Kane was looking back with a grin that spread the longer he looked as he slowly nodded to himself.

  “ ’Zackly.” He walked away. “Conroy, your place locked?”

  “Of course.”

  “Open it. We got shopping to do.�
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  Kane moved back to her. Hard hands clutched her shoulders.

  “Put the man of yours with the best eyes and the fastest horse on that east road. Might only be a few minutes, but it beats no warning at all. If there are any innocent people in this place, get them indoors. Don’t want anyone else gettin’ hurt like Janie, if she’s even still alive. Anyone wants to join the party, they can, but don’t want folks who can’t tell which end to shoot to get killed. Meet me at Conroy’s.”

  He was gone.

  The smooth white circle of the moon was clearing the jagged rocks to the east as Kane waited. Leading out of Rakeheart, the hard-packed road of dust gleamed white in the glow. Kane had watched as the moon inched its way over the hill, as it had before men disturbed its presence with their schemes and would long after men and dreams were dust. The plan was mostly patchwork. He had seen worse ones succeed and better ones fail. He could neither hear nor see the Riders, but he knew they had to be approaching. He gave the moon another look. His last one? Time would tell.

  Rakeheart might live. It might die. But after tonight, it would never be the same.

  All of Rachel’s men were waiting at the stable. Kane made sure they knew what to do and when to do it.

  Kane had wondered if the Riders would try to ride around the town, take it in reverse. He rejected that. This was not merely a scrap. They needed to regain control of a town that was slipping from their grasp. It had to be public.

  Conroy’s store supplied the spare rifles and ammunition. In fact, every gun Conroy had was gone along with everything else Kane thought would be necessary. Kane looked down Rakeheart’s street. At what the darkness held.

  “I got the right,” Chad had demanded. He was in Tillie Weatherspoon’s shop. Janie might have breathed better, or there was a rush of optimism. But she still never moved a muscle. Tillie had no illusion her windows would survive, or that anything else would. She had her shotgun and Chad.

  “One of them—one of them—gets this close, Sheriff, and I will blow him to Kingdom Come, and I don’t care if you arrest me. I have had enough of these Riders and cowards.” Kane wondered how brave a man would need to be to try.

  Pete Haliburton, sober now, and a few of the other townspeople took positions at the far end of town in the church. Kane had no illusions that his ragtag army would stand and fight or be effective when and if it did. They needed to slow the rush of the Riders when they hit. It didn’t matter if they won their fight. The Riders needed to think a big ambush was brewing and get off their horses.

  Rachel was waiting in Conroy’s shop. He had no idea if it was logic or not, but they were going to end this together. Rachel still had some shotgun slugs. She also took a rifle in case she ran out.

  “I might not hit anything, but I can scare them.”

  “You with a rifle scares me, too,” he replied.

  “A bit rusty on scalping, Kane, but I might get it right if I practice on you long enough.”

  Eyes met. Then hands. They waited.

  One horse, loud in the night. Drake Phillips was back.

  “They might be five minutes behind me, Kane. No more.”

  “Tell the rest. Shoot straight.”

  He walked down to the church, told the volunteers to stay down when they weren’t shooting, refrained from observing that the dead would not have far to go to be buried, and walked back to Conroy’s store.

  The store was set slightly apart from the rest of the block by an alley that ran along the right side of the building as it was seen from the street. Beyond the building there was a space of a few yards before Brewer’s bank.

  Rachel had everything ready.

  “Time.”

  She took the butt end of her shotgun and smashed out the windows in front of her.

  “Them depredations and them Indians,” Kane remarked. “Got to get me the army out here to deal with ’em proper.”

  “Do your own side, then, and quit whining,” she shot back. He did.

  The white of the moon was now shining straight down the street in front of them, leaving both sides in darkness. Most of Rakeheart was dark except for Noonan’s.

  Death was coming to Rakeheart. He was sure he could hear the Riders. He leaned as far as he could through the glassless window.

  Near.

  Near.

  Rakeheart exploded.

  Rachel’s cowboys would get one good chance, and they were making the most of it. Two volleys of fire were directed at the mass of men riding past. Kane had ordered them to wait until the front of the pack had passed.

  Guns opened from Tillie’s shop. There were now horses milling in the street. The Riders never got to Conroy’s.

  “Kane!”

  He leaped through the shards as Rachel bellowed at him.

  “Get back here.”

  He stood in the middle of the street, where the moonlight was so bright they could not help but see him. The Remington was emptied as he fired as fast as he could. One of the Riders saw him. A bullet thunked into the wood. Rachel’s voice kept calling until the gunfire grew too loud to hear her.

  Soon bullets were sailing into the shelves and displays, landing in the ceiling. They came closer as Kane ducked into the shadows.

  Rachel fired her shotgun into the moonglow-drenched street, where men could not have been better targets. Kane heard windows shatter and men yell. The shotgun blasts stopped them from charging the store, then they fell back to the shadows across the street.

  “Rush them, you cowards! They’re in the store!”

  Kane knew Wood’s voice.

  As Rachel kept shooting, he ran in the alley. The flame from his gun would give his location away.

  He hoped.

  He moved back deeper. Reloading in the dark with stiff fingers was a challenge, but it got done faster than he expected. Facing death does make a man hurry.

  He fired fast. They had to follow.

  They did. He holstered the guns and hugged the wall of the alley as he ran to the back of Conroy’s store. He made as much noise as he could running through the back door, which he left swinging open behind him.

  Heading into a dark place after a man who had a gun was enough to make anyone pause. The Riders were no different, until Wood started cursing at them to move.

  Kane had cleared a path that was barely visible in the dark. Rachel was firing intermittently. She had switched to the rifle. From the noise, Riders must be firing back from across the street. They had seen their comrades run down the alley and must have figured it was a matter of time.

  He moved the barrels. It would happen fast. He could see the trail of darkness. He hoped they could not.

  One breath. Now!

  He fired the gun from behind one barrel and moved as quietly as he could toward the window he had left open. Gunfire—six or eight guns—smashed the barrel as he fired enough extra shots to keep their attention. The foul liquid stung his eyes and face, but he wiped it and ducked down. More bullets hit the barrel. He was splashed as he crawled on all fours but did not dare stop.

  Now for the big risk. He heaved himself up to the window. He was sure something Rachel sewed shut popped open, but, if they lived after this, he would have all the tomorrows in the world to heal.

  Pull. Up. Air! Out.

  The bottle was there. The rag was wet. He lit the match. The rag flared. He knew they would soon see the light outside the window. He threw it as the flame caught, hearing the glass crash against something—or from the exclamation of pain, someone.

  “Fire!”

  The flaming kerosene caught the pools and drips Kane had spread across Conroy’s back room. Men well into the store had an irresolute moment as they debated whether to run out the way they came or face Rachel and the front door.

  It was their last moment.

  The kerosene hit the black powder Kane had left after he and Rachel pried apart as many bullets as they could to add to the sacks Conroy found for them.

  As Kane raced around to
the front of the store, the explosion deafened him. The force of the blast knocked him sideways, and he slammed into the brick of the bank, bouncing forward and falling until he caught himself to emerge from the space by the front of the store to see Rachel on the duckboards, prone.

  Too much powder, he told himself, as though there would be a next time.

  Flames were licking toward the front of the store. Gunfire erupted up the street. A wave of shooting came from the far side of Rakeheart’s main street.

  Ignoring it all, he ran for Rachel.

  “Ow!”

  He had grabbed her arm where, by the glow of the flames, he could see a patch of skin was burned away.

  “You sure you didn’t blow up and burn down Texas, Kane?”

  “Got to run, Rachel. Think we maybe used a mite too much.” She could be angry later. If they lived.

  “Men can never read recipes,” she grumped, giving him her good arm for him to pull.

  Kane turned to fire at the Riders across the street. After sending several shots blindly toward them, he realized they were not attacking but walking slowly in the glow of the moonlight, hands upraised. Four men, maybe six. Pete Haliburton was yelling something. Tillie Witherspoon was demanding he watch his language.

  Kane pulled Rachel’s uninjured arm before they, too, became victims. Together they moved as fast as two half-dead people could. They arrived, gasping, behind the bank, where Kane feared the Riders were regrouping.

  Other than the inferno that had been Conroy’s store, where small explosions took place as flames reached the ammunition Conroy would never sell, there was silence. The flames showed two charred bodies that made it out from the store. If any of the Riders who chased him into the building ever escaped alive and fled, there was no sign.

  Rachel looked her question. Kane shook his head. It could not be over.

  Kane and Rachel slowly walked back up Rakeheart’s moonlit main street in disbelief. Eight Riders were lying dead by Tillie Witherspoon’s shop. Seven lay by the stable. Seven others had surrendered. None rode away. The rest left the world of men in the flash and fury of the explosion.