by Twilight
“Not all, missy. I ain’t a man to walk away from a honey pot I ain’t gotten my fill of. Some things a man cain’t walk away from, even fer money.”
Jessica jerked as the cold steel muzzle of his gun slid down her throat, then along the skin at the gaping edge of her wrapper, pausing at the deepest exposed curves of her breasts. Some part of her crawled into itself, leaving a spreading numbness in its wake. After all, what could this man do to her more vile than taking her life’s love from her? From a violation of her body, she could force herself to recover. From the loss of Rance, she might never.
Bartlett licked his lips. “Somethin’ tells me you’d do ‘bout anythin’ I wanted jest to keep yer little varmint here alive, missy. See how good he jest stands there, all quiet-like? ‘Cause I got this gun here on his mama. Nope, ain’t never met a woman or child what wouldn’t do my askin’ when I held my gun on ‘em.”
The cool tip of the gun slid beneath the edge of the wrapper, then flicked the cotton wide over the peak of her breast. Jessica closed her eyes, certain that she would retch, suddenly even more certain that she would risk death, rather than endure Black Bartlett’s vile touch upon her.
But salvation sometimes comes from unlikely sources.
“What the devil—?” It was Avram, springing to his feet from his wagon seat. “Get your filthy gun from my fiancée’s person, or I’ll have none of this scheme—”
“Siddown ‘fore I shoot ya,” Bartlett growled over his shoulder, before fixing Jessica with a deeply hungering glare that drifted to her wholly exposed breast. “Yep, I’m comin’ back, missy. I reckon I ain’t got the time now. But I’m comin’ back, an’ when I do, yer reverend’s gonna be worm feed, an’ I’ll have Rance Logan’s boots with me—after I watch him swing awhile from his hemp, ‘course. Ya better be waitin’ on me, missy.”
And then he released her, turning and mounting his horse in one swift motion that set his faded black duster billowing about him. With his gun resting upon his thigh, aimed directly at the wagon, Bartlett followed it from the yard, toward the barn and westward, out into open prairie. Toward Wichita.
The wagon hadn’t even reached the barn when Jessica sank to her knees, with Christian clutched in her arms. With trembling fingers, she freed him of his gag and bonds, then let loose with the great, wrenching sobs she’d barely kept contained, weeping uncontrollably, then filling her lungs with the child’s sweet scent. His fragile body curved into hers. His soft whimpers echoed like a mother’s most grievous nightmare, and she yearned to make his world whole and innocent, safe and warm and loving, once more. If only she could. If only she had the power. And then, in the midst of it all, she realized precisely what she had to do.
Smoothing the tears from his downy cheeks, she summoned a steady voice. “D-do you know how to harness Jack to the buckboard?”
Christian sniffed and wiped one grimy sleeve over his nose. “Logan taught me how, Mama.”
Fresh tears sprang into her eyes. “I know he did, Christian. Logan taught us both many, many things. Mama loves Logan, Christian...very much.”
Fragile arms wound about her neck as though he were offering comfort, solace, strength. “It’s all right, Mama. I love him, too.”
Wiping her fingers fiercely over her eyes, she gripped his narrow shoulders, feeling the delicacy of the bones beneath. He was so very young. “Harness Jack for me. I’m going to change. Quickly, now. We’ve little time. And then you have to show Mama where Logan keeps his guns.”
The narrow chest visibly puffed up. “He showed me, Mama. He let me touch them. He said I would never get hurt if I knew how to hold them like him, so he showed me how. Did he show you, too, Mama? Else I can’t let you hold them. Logan wouldn’t want you to. You might shoot a hole in the roof again.”
“I promise I’ll be especially careful, Christian.”
“Is Logan gonna come back, Mama? Promise me he will, Mama.”
She’d always stood by her word. Always.
“Yes, Christian. I promise he’s coming back. Now go...hurry!”
* * *
The gag tasted of smoke-choked saloons, bad whiskey and cheap women. A year’s worth of each, gone pungently stale, cutting into the sides of Rance’s mouth and tongue. But it was not the gag that occupied his attention at the moment. Nor was it the smell of his own flesh baking beneath the ruthless midday sun. Even the dull ache in his limbs, which had gradually given way to complete numbness and then again to excruciating pain, due to his hands-to-feet trussed position—no, this went ignored. It was the nail, the lone, rusted bit of nail that had worked itself loose in a wagon board, enough to jab him in the buttocks with every slight jostle of the wagon over deeply rutted road. This nail occupied him entirely, and had for the past hour.
With every small movement of his wrists behind his back, his legs were yanked into a thoroughly unnatural and exceedingly uncomfortable position. This was a torture Rance had heard of, but had never had the pleasure of experiencing. Yet he worked the thick hemp binding his wrists against that rogue nail, despite the painful tugging on his legs, despite the warmth of his blood slicking his wrists as the nail slipped time and again over the hemp and instead carved into his flesh.
He kept his eyes closed, as though he’d achieved the utterly impossible, given the circumstances, and somehow slept. He knew Black Jack rode in their dust. He knew his six-gun still rested on his thigh. He knew Bartlett could yank his rife from the saddle scabbard quicker than the flash of an eye and empty lead with deadly precision at a tall man’s hundred paces. He knew that Bartlett was planning to kill Halsey, no doubt just before they reached Spotz’s ranch, and that he’d force Rance to walk the rest of the way. He knew Bartlett would kill him, if adequately provoked, no matter the bounty money.
Even a thousand dollars would buy Black Jack Bartlett enough clean bandannas to last a lifetime.
He also knew Bartlett wasn’t in any great hurry to get to Wichita, perhaps because he wanted to decrease the chances for a weakened and cramped Rance Logan to attempt any sort of escape. Bartlett had chosen well a sparsely traveled course to Wichita, one with fewer watering holes and less prime grass for the horses. So when they happened within distance of water or good grazing, Bartlett ordered them to stop. Rance remained in the wagon bed, gagged and bound, denied but the few tastes of water Avram Halsey offered, solely to keep Rance alive and ensure Halsey his due share of the twenty-five hundred.
The smell of bacon frying and coffee stewing watered his mouth, despite the gag’s foul taste. At this pace, he figured they’d make Wichita by tomorrow afternoon.
If he guessed right, Halsey had less than twenty-four hours left to live.
And he, another long day of sun and no food and working a nail through layers of tightly hewn hemp. Another day to plan precisely what he was going to do.
He’d always been a man up to any gamble. He could only hope Bartlett wouldn’t get trigger-happy with Halsey before he could work his hands free. Though with Halsey stomping about, waving his arms and whining incessantly about the food and lack of sleeping accommodations, save for the softest tuft of grass he could find, Rance found himself wondering who would kill the good reverend first, Bartlett or Rance himself.
He resettled himself in the wagon bed and worked the hemp back and forth, again and again, in an endless rhythm. His only solace was the woman and child who needed him...almost as much as he needed them. And the plan taking steady formation in his mind.
* * *
Bartlett’s shout pierced the sun-bitten stillness of midday, yanking Rance from a fitful doze. He made not the slightest movement, his eyes remaining closed, as though he still slept. He heard the shuffling as Avram Halsey twisted about and yanked upon the reins. The wagon jerked to a stop that sent white-hot pain spiraling through Rance’s limbs.
“What the devil—?” Halsey huffed. “Surely we’re not stopping again, now that we’re this close to Wichita.”
The muffled thud of Bartlett’s
horse’s hooves stilled just beside the wagon bed. Spittle met with sun-parched prairie. Bartlett’s saddle creaked as he shifted. A gust of wind whipped through the grass. Rance’s gut clenched. “Git outa the wagon, Reverend,” Bartlett drawled. The click of a pistol cocking sang out over the wind. “Now.”
“Put that gun away, Bartlett,” Halsey mewled, scrambling from his seat. “There’s no need—”
“Yer right. There’s no need fer you no more, Reverend. Ya shoulda listened to Logan here. Thought he’d gone an’ tipped my hand, warnin’ ya like he did. But if yer stupid enough ta think that piece o’ womanflesh woulda wanted ya over me, er even Logan here, yer stupid enough ta think I’d o’ shared the bounty with ya.”
“Y-you double-crossed me!” Halsey shrieked.
“Yep.” The lone gunshot cracked through the air. The prairie emitted a dull thud as Halsey’s body slumped lifeless. Again Bartlett’s spittle met with the dust. His saddle creaked as he reholstered his six-gun.
“Hey, Logan. Git up. Yer walkin’ from here on out.”
Rance didn’t even flex his fingers or his now unbound wrists, hidden beneath his back. He barely breathed. His eyes remained closed, his mouth slack, parched, his lips cracked and raw. Every muscle he possessed had numbed sometime during the night.
The muzzle of Bartlett’s rifle jabbed into his ribs. “Git up, I said. Hey. No tricks, Logan, ya hear?” Again the poke of the rifle muzzle, this time shoving just beneath his chin.
“Git up, Logan, or I’ll blow a path through yer brain ol’ Spotz could drive a herd through.”
Rance remained limp, lifeless, even when the hammer of the rifle clicked into place. The muzzle burned under his chin. He could almost feel the quivering of Bartlett’s finger squeezing the trigger.
No...Bartlett wouldn’t kill him...not yet. At least he was gambling he wouldn’t. Then again, a man like Bartlett could find losing a game of faro more than enough reason to kill a man.
Time stood still. The sun shone. The wind blew. The smell of late summer on the prairie mingled with the smell of death already filling the air. And somehow Rance thought he could detect the smell of lemons on that breeze.
Bartlett growled a curse and rammed the butt of the rifle into Rance’s jaw. Pain spiraled through Rance’s head, forcing a groan from his lips. Still, he barely flinched, and he kept his eyes shut tight. He heard Bartlett’s saddle leather creak and his boots meet with the ground. The wagon bed swayed as Bartlett hoisted himself with another foul epithet that never had the opportunity to leave his tongue completely. Instead, all breath was driven from him and his rifle flew from his hand when Rance swung his bound legs upward with all the power he could muster. The blow caught Bartlett full in the ribs with a crushing force that threw him from the wagon to land flat on his back in a patch of burnt grass. In the instant that Bartlett lay stunned, the wind knocked from his lungs, Rance worked the last of the rope free from his ankles and yanked the gag from his mouth.
Just as Bartlett rolled to reach for his rifle lying just beyond his fingertips, Rance leapt from the wagon, atop Bartlett. As one, they rolled in the dust, hands clamped about each other’s throats, seeking to crush windpipes. Bracing one boot in the ground, Rance arched above Bartlett and drove a fist into his nose, sending blood spurting from his mouth and nostrils. Bartlett countered with a crushing blow to Rance’s exposed ribs, and another to one eye. Rance buckled, then rolled again, one fist twisted into Bartlett’s shirt, dragging Bartlett with him. Before Bartlett could counter, Rance plunged a fist up under Bartlett’s ribs and drove his knee with punishing force between Bartlett’s legs. With a groan of pure agony, Bartlett froze, then doubled over and sank to his knees, his hands clutched to his groin.
In the next instant, Rance shoved the rifle muzzle up under Bartlett’s stubbled chin and clicked the hammer into place. Bartlett froze.
Lifeless stare met lifeless stare. Rance’s index finger slipped over the trigger and gently squeezed. No witnesses. Just the wind and wide-open prairie. And God knew Bartlett had it coming, just for murdering those innocent farmers.
Rance gritted his teeth. “That was for all the widows you’ve made of farmers’ wives. And this is for what you dared to even think about doing to my woman.”
He lifted the rifle and, with one vicious swing of his leg, caught Bartlett under the chin with his boot, snapping his head back with a loud click. Bartlett flipped back into the dust, legs and arms sprawled, blood gushing from his face. He didn’t move, save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
Still, Rance bound his hands to a wagon wheel before he located a small shovel in Bartlett’s gear and began to dig a grave for Avram Halsey.
* * *
Late that afternoon, just as darkness began to shadow the streets, as some folks would come to tell the tale, Black Jack Bartlett rode smack down the middle of Wichita’s main street, right past Sheriff Earl Gage, dozing in front of the jail, straight to Judge Clarence McClain’s house at the end of the street. On the back of his black horse, trussed and gagged and twitching every now and then, lay Bartlett’s most recently bagged prey.
No doubt about it, no matter how peculiar it seemed, it was Black Jack Bartlett tethering his horse to the hitching post in front of Judge McClain’s freshly painted white clapboard house. There was never any mistaking the long, faded black duster and wide-brimmed black hat pulled ominously low over his face, shadowing all but his darkly stubbled chin, which from a distance seemed to be sporting the evidence of a good brawl, swollen and bruised purple as it was. No one dared venture too close for a good look-see. Still, no other man in these parts threw so tall a shadow in the dust. Folks could only assume Bartlett had come to finally kill the judge, a man who’d made it plain he was after Black Jack and Cameron Spotz for murdering innocent farmers staking legal claims on land Spotz used for grazing. The judge had never proven this, of course. Never were there any witnesses to come forward and testify against a gun like Black Jack and a powerful cattleman like Spotz. Most folks wanted to see the sun rise the next day, so they just looked the other way and said little.
And, though they might not like it, most folks understood who exercised the most sway in Wichita.
Still, the judge, noble and true to his pursuit of justice and fairness for over thirty years now, had made it abundantly clear, particularly to Black Jack, that he would see him hang for his crimes, or die trying. Evidently Black Jack planned to keep the old judge to his word. After all, what other reason, save the no-good ones, would bring Black Jack Bartlett to the judge’s house, and at suppertime?
They all watched as Black Jack knocked once, then, without pausing, pushed open the door.
* * *
Judge Clarence McClain was enjoying his typical late-day dinner of bleeding roasted beef, boiled potatoes and green beans, all swimming in his wife’s overly salted gravy, a meal that had been known to mercilessly haunt him throughout the night and into the next day. His dyspepsia and the reason for it had been widely bandied about in Wichita ever since the judge came to town, ten years prior, and particularly the hour the judge insisted upon eating. Perhaps in some vain attempt to ease the onset of indigestion, he always allowed time for a brisk walk about town afterward.
Rance had often wondered why a man with such an impressive history of jailing some of the most dangerous outlaws known in the West would make his eating habits public knowledge, to the precise hour. Then again, Rance hadn’t known until the instant he stepped into the dimly lit dining room that Judge Clarence McClain ate with his derringer within fingertip reach upon his lace-draped dining table.
Still, McClain could well be the sort who thrived on taking risks. Rance certainly hoped so.
“Not another step, Bartlett,” McClain said with surprising calm, his ruddy jaws working furiously on his food, the derringer leveled at Rance. Beneath shaggy white brows, McClain’s keen dark eyes squinted with certain doubt, as though he didn’t quite believe what he saw standing before him in t
he shadows. “Drop all the hardware, Bartlett. Now.”
Rance was rather certain McClain wasn’t the sort to murder anyone, even Black Jack, particularly in his own dining room, with his snowy-haired wife frozen in the doorway, her mouth agape. Then again, McClain had nursed a desire for vengeance against Spotz and Black Jack for so long, with such a startling lack of success, Rance could well imagine the temptation to squeeze that trigger might prove too great even for a man like McClain.
On McClain’s thirst for justice Rance was laying his every hope. And on his ability to pull off his impersonation of Black Jack, however briefly. He’d purposely waited until dusk to move, and was grateful for the dining room’s shadowy lighting.
Slowly Rance unhooked his gunbelt, Black Jack’s gunbelt, with its matched ivory-handled six-guns, and tossed it to the floor at the judge’s feet. The judge, a small but thickly made man, levered himself over the edge of his chair to scoop up the gunbelt. Hefting the leather in one hand, McClain leaned back in his chair and studied Rance with keen eyes, as though seeking to penetrate the deeply shadowed features beneath the hat.
“How bad ya want Spotz, Judge?” Rance drawled in the gruff manner common to men like Bartlett. To his ear, the voices and their drawls had come to be indistinguishable over time. Perhaps to McClain’s ear, as well, though he doubted the judge and Bartlett had ever exchanged even pleasantries.
McClain’s belly rumbled with his derisive chuckle. “What the hell kind of fool do you think I am, Bartlett? You think I would allow you to help me in some way to nab the man you’ve killed for for the past three years? Let me tell you something, Bartlett—you’re not even useful to the shadow you throw.”
With a flick of his tongue, Rance shoved the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “You ain’t got no witnesses to prove anythin’. Never had. And no confessions, neither.”
McClain gave him a disbelieving grimace. “Your word isn’t worth a dime, Bartlett.”
