Lookout Hill (9781101606735)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  EVIL WALKS LIKE A MAN.

  Sam looked around the house’s interior one more time before following the long marks in the dirt. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the body of the dead Mexican lying sprawled in a dried puddle of dark blood, a machete only inches from his outstretched hand.

  “It’s only the start,” he said, preparing himself.

  Walking on, he saw the body of yet another man, this one lying ten yards away, also in a dried pool of blood. His head was missing. A few yards ahead, in the rear of the rock yard, he saw the table standing upended in the dirt, a naked, bullet-riddled body tied to it.

  Hodding Siebert…, he concluded, seeing the grizzly handiwork of a monster.

  LOOKOUT HILL

  Ralph Cotton

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978-1-101-60673-5

  Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  For Mary Lynn…of course

  Table of Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 2

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part 3

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Valley of the Gun

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  The Mexican Hill Country, Old Mexico

  Arizona Territory Ranger Samuel Burrack rode up a long, slanted hillside above miles of smelting furnaces and mining encampments. When he’d reached a point where he could breathe without the acid odor of melted copper burning his nostrils, he stopped and pulled his bandanna down from the bridge of his nose.

  Clean Mexican air…, he told himself, inhaling deeply, letting his lungs take their fill. Beneath him he felt the stallion chuff and blow and lift its muzzle to a cool passing breeze.

  “You too, pard?” he said quietly, patting the big Appaloosa’s withers with a gloved hand. He nudged the stallion forward, his right hand holding his Winchester rifle across his lap.

  Fifty yards up the trail, he found the tracks he had lost earlier when he’d started crossing a hard rock ledge. Now that the ledge had given way to softer dirt and gravel, he saw the hoofprints of the two horses he’d been tracking all the way from the foot of the Sierra Madres. For the last three days, he reminded himself. Wanting a closer look, he stopped the stallion and stepped down from the saddle, rifle in hand.

  Yep, it’s them all right, he told himself, looking closer at the sets of prints. He had seen early on where a faulty nail head had broken off one of the shoes, leaving a shallow gap imprinted in the dirt. Soon that gap had filled with packed dirt. But crossing the rock ledge, the impacted dirt from the shoe must have broken loose. Now that the two horses had left the stone surface, he knew the empty nail hole would fill with dirt again. But that was all right, he thought; he was back on their trail.

  He had come to know the hooves of these two horses. At a walk, one of them veered a little to the left over a short distance of twenty or so feet—the sign of a lazy hand on its reins. The other horse, the one with the broken nail head in its shoe, had a splayed right front hoof. With every step this animal took, the hoofprint turned a slight bit outward—hardly noticeable except to the sharpened tracker’s eye.

  Sam stood up from the prints and looked all around. He was not the gifted tracker that he would have liked to be, but he was still learning. Learning, with his fingers in the dirt. The only way to learn, as his captain would say. And his captain was right, he told himself, walking along, reins in hand, leading the stallion along the narrow trail.

  Tracking required close attention to detail. Some men worked hard at learning it. Others didn’t. Some men pinned on a badge thinking being gun-handy was all it took to be a good Ranger. But even though he’d only been a Ranger for a little over two years, he’d already seen that men who didn’t learn sound tracking skills soon left the trail in defeat, or worse. Some of them left in a plank box.

  He’d not only learned the particulars about these two horses, how they moved and what identifying marks they left behind—he’d also put more than just a little thought into the two men riding them. One was a quick-to-kill Missouri madman named Hodding “Hot Aces” Siebert. The folded wanted posters inside the flap of his bib-front shirt told the Ranger that Hodding Siebert had been outrunning the law for over three years. Siebert knew that getting caught left nothing of his future but a hard drop at the end of a hangman’s rope.

  Sam knew that with such a grim reckoning awaiting him, Hot Aces Siebert played out his life hard and fast. He took what he wanted when he wanted it, and heaven help the man who tried to stop him. But Siebert wasn’t the first killer the Ranger had hunted down, nor did Sam have any intention of allowing him to be the last. So, while Siebert’s murderous regard for the rest of the world gave Sam no cause for alarm, it did hold his attention.

  Sam knew that in Siebert’s three years o
f freedom from Yuma Penitentiary, the man and his various cohorts had robbed some nine banks, three trains and a dozen or more payrolls. At each robbery he’d left at least one dead man lying in his wake. In addition to the killings while in pursuit of his trade, Siebert was known for senseless indiscriminant killings all along the border country—an unpredictable lunatic with a gun. Especially when riding alone, left to his own devices, Sam told himself. Maybe riding with a partner would help keep him in check. He hoped so.

  Real pieces of work, these two…. Sam shook his head a little, considering these men whose dark menacing life he’d committed himself to bringing to its bitter end.

  It was his job, he reminded himself.

  The second man was Texas outlaw and escaped convict Bobby Hugh Bellibar, another hard case with nothing to lose. Bellibar’s crimes over the past years were so numerous and diverse he was certain the courts must’ve had a hard time deciding whether to list his heinous offenses alphabetically or in the order of their perpetration.

  Sam stopped and looked out over a valley a few hundred feet below. A thin glittering river wound out of sight at the bottom of a steep hillside. He thought about the empty canteen he’d found along the trail three hours earlier. He’d known then that it wouldn’t be long before they gravitated toward whatever water lay nearest them. And there it was, he told himself, Winchester in hand, leading the stallion behind him.

  Twenty minutes later he came upon a lone horse standing to the side of the trail, its reins dangling loose to the dirt. The silvery gray dun stood dark with sweat and lathered in white foam. Upon seeing the Ranger, the animal shied away a few steps, favoring its right forehoof. The horse with the outturned hoof, he thought, not surprised that it would be the first horse to falter under the weight of its rider and the rigors of this steep, rocky trail.

  He let Black Pot’s reins drop from his hand, knowing the stallion would stay there. First checking for any sign of an ambush, Sam eased forward, his rifle hammer cocking under the pull of his thumb.

  “Easy, boy,” he murmured to the silver-gray dun, picking its reins up from the ground. He examined the animal’s right forehoof, lifting it up between his crouched knees for a closer look. The horse chuffed and grumbled a little as Sam pressed with his thumbs and worked the horse’s hoof around with his gloved hands.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you that a little rest and water won’t cure,” Sam said. “The water’s not far, but you’ll have to rest while you walk.” As he spoke he loosened the cinch and dropped the saddle from the dun’s back. “That’ll help some,” he added.

  The horse looked at him, grumbling and scraping its good hoof on the ground as if in protest. Sam rubbed a hand along its withers.

  “I know,” he said as if the animal understood him, “but it’s walk with us or spend the night here alone, feeding wolves.”

  The horse stared at him through caged eyes, but then it took a wary step closer and probed its frothy muzzle toward him.

  “That’s what I thought,” Sam said. He chuckled to himself, rubbed the horse’s muzzle and drew the tired animal over beside Black Pot. He stepped back up into his saddle. “Don’t worry,” he said to the sweaty dun. “We’ll take it nice and easy down to the water.”

  On the same trail, miles ahead of the Ranger, Hodding Siebert lay prone on the gravelly stream bank, his face and the upper half of his body submerged in the cool rushing water. Bobby Hugh Bellibar stood beside him, holding the roan’s reins loosely while the thirsty animal drank.

  “Here’s the hard truth of it, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said, his palms supporting him on the gravelly bank. “I’m not riding double the rest of the way to Copper Gully. Your horse gave out on you. We keep riding double, mine will do the same before we’re off these hilltops.”

  “I hear you, Aces,” Bobby replied.

  “This is nothing personal against you, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said, “but when riding stock gets in short supply, every man has to fend for himself.” He paused as if in reflection, then said, “If I had a dollar for every man I shot over a horse, or thought about shooting over a horse, I’d be rich as a pound cake.”

  “I understand,” Bellibar said acceptingly. “Me too.”

  “So, figure something out before we leave here,” Siebert said with resolve, and with that he lowered his face into the clear, cool water.

  Bellibar watched him drink.

  “I think I got it figured,” he said as Siebert finally pushed himself up from beneath the water.

  “Yeah, what’s that?” Siebert said, water running down from his wet hair, his clothes.

  “I’m taking your horse, Aces,” Bellibar said flatly.

  “You’re talking out of your head, Bobby Hugh.” Siebert gave a sharp grin and turned sidelong to where Bobby had stood watering the tired roan a moment earlier. But Bellibar wasn’t there, and neither was the roan.

  “Back here, Aces,” Bellibar said, behind him.

  “Right,” said Siebert, getting the gist of it. He rolled over onto his back, his wet hair hanging in dripping points down his forehead. “I expect you think you’ve caught me at a disadvantage,” he added, cocking his head slightly.

  “Yep, that’s how I make it,” Bellibar said, the horse’s reins in his left hand.

  “You make it wrong, Bobby Hugh,” said Siebert, the grin still there on his wet face. “Don’t you think I already thought of this before I said anything about the horse?” He gave a dark, confident chuckle. “That’s why I unloaded your Colt earlier while you were dozing against that big pine. You’re jackpotted, pard. Now I kill you and take your power.”

  Take his power…this crazy bastard.

  “You’re bluffing,” said Bellibar. “I heard that one before, tell a man his gun’s not loaded, then gun him down when he makes a move to check it.”

  “Already heard that one, huh?” Siebert sighed, shaking his head a little.

  “Yep,” said Bellibar, “it might even have been you who told it to me.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” said Siebert. He pushed himself up from the ground and stood with his feet spread shoulder-width apart. He wiped his left hand across his face, pushing his wet hair to the side. His right hand stayed poised near the tied-down holster on his hip. “Only this time it’s a fact, Bobby Hugh,” he added, in a stone serious tone of voice. “I’ve got your bullets in my pocket. Want to see them?”

  “Nope,” said Bellibar, his demeanor still confident, unwavering. “I believe you did it, you sneaking son of a bitch.”

  Siebert gave a short shrug. There was no sign of bluffing in his eyes.

  “Like I said, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said quietly, “times like this it’s every man for himself. You should have listened to me.”

  Bellibar could tell the older gunman was ready to make his play. He saw Siebert open and close his gun hand, getting ready.

  “I did listen to you, Aces,” he said. His expression softened a little. “That’s why I took your Remington from your holster while you sucked water.”

  “Nice try, Bobby Hugh,” said Siebert, “but I ain’t falling for it—” As he spoke his right hand slapped against his empty holster and stopped him short. His eyes suddenly took on a look of desperation.

  Now it was Bellibar’s turn to give a wide, confident grin. He reached behind his back, taking his time, and grabbed Siebert’s big Remington.

  “See?” He wagged the gun back and forth in his hand. Looking down at it, he cocked it toward Siebert’s chest and said, “I bet you didn’t unload it, did you?”

  “No, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert said in defeat, “damn it to hell, I didn’t unload it.” In a flash he thought about the small Colt Pocket pistol he carried behind his back, shoved down into his belt under his shirttail. But it was too late.

  Bellibar’s hand bucked, once, twice, three times as he recocked and fired the big Remington. Each shot knocked Siebert farther out into the rushing water. The third shot flung him out of his right boot and sent him splas
hing into the thrust of the water’s strong current. The freed boot spun three turns overhead, landing upright in the water and floating away.

  “Nice action,” Bellibar said. He smiled down at the smoking Remington, impressed, turning it back and forth in his hand.

  He stepped forward into the water and took aim toward Hodding Siebert’s bobbing head—Siebert thirty feet away and slipping farther downstream, blood trailing red, thinning in the water behind him.

  But before he could squeeze the trigger, a sound from the sloping hillside behind Bellibar drew his attention. He turned quickly, the Remington up, cocked and ready.

  “Who’s there?” he called out, certain he’d heard something or someone up there among the trees and rock ledges. He looked back and forth on the steep hillside, knowing another stretch of this same trail switched back above him.

  “Quién hay…?” he called out, repeating himself in his border Spanish.

  He waited, silent, his eyes searching every land-stuck boulder, every rocky cut-ledge, every tall, clinging pine. Nothing….

  Beside him, the roan had taken advantage of the young gunman’s cautious wait, drawing more water for itself. After another silent moment, Bellibar focused on the largest standing boulder. That’s where he would be if he were up there, he thought.

  “This man tried to kill me,” he called out, hearing his echo roll off along the hills. “Trató de matarme,” he repeated in his imperfect Spanish. Still nothing….

  “Self-defense. La defensa propia, eh…?” he called out, ready to level the Remington at the sight of anyone who appeared.

  What the hell…? Maybe he’d been mistaken, he thought, the ring of the big Remington still stuck inside his ears. Did it really matter? This was Mexico. Nobody cared if a couple of gringo outlaws threw down on each other.

  He let the hammer down on the Remington and stuck it behind his gun belt. Beside him, the roan raised its dripping muzzle.

  “Are you through?” he asked the horse in an impatient voice. Then he reached down, adjusted the horse’s cinch more firmly and stepped up into the saddle. He turned the roan toward the trail and looked up along the hillside one last time. Whoever’s up there, this is your lucky day, he thought—the day Bobby Hugh Bellibar didn’t kill you. He smiled to himself, tapped his boots to the roan’s sides and rode away.