Ballard and McCall 4

by Neil Hunter

  ‘You know him?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘Name of Trinity. He ran with a hard bunch. Did a little trading with Yanno back there.’

  ‘This bunch you mention? They a problem?’

  ‘Only if they decide they don’t like you,’ Turkey said.

  ‘Who runs ’em?’

  ‘A feller you don’t want to get mad at you. Name of Horn—Nathan Horn.’

  ~*~

  ‘Any sign?’ Nathan Horn asked.

  The half-breed Kiowa scout, Snakekiller, simply shook his head. He never used words if a physical gesture could provide the answer. The breed’s name came from his skill at killing rattlers with his bare hands. A devious character with few saving graces, he answered only to Horn. With his message delivered Snakekiller crossed to where his horse stood waiting. He took the reins and led the gray across to where the other horses were tethered.

  Nathan Horn heard the soft laugh close by and glanced across at Rachel Colter.

  ‘Plan not working, Mister Horn?’

  ‘Time yet,’ he said.

  ‘Keep telling yourself that and even you might start to believe it.’

  The sting in her tone was enough to make him stiffen with frustration. He almost went for her, then checked himself because he knew that was exactly what she wanted. His losing control would simply prove her point about his frustration and Horn couldn’t allow that to happen in front of his men. He had been picking up the subdued grumbling from them already. He had been hoping Ben Colter would have taken up the challenge and come after his wife sooner. Horn still believed he would but Colter was taking his sweet time.

  ‘You should know Ben,’ Rachel said quietly. ‘He isn’t going to play your game the way you expect. When he does show up it will be when you least expect it.’ She paused. ‘All the years you’ve known him and you still can’t figure him out.’

  She leaned back against the tree she was sitting beneath, her hands bound in front of her. Though her chestnut colored hair was loose and tousled, her face dust-streaked and her clothes disheveled, Rachel Colter was still a beautiful woman. Her poise was little affected by her position and her ability to maintain her composure threw Horn.

  ‘He’ll come and try to free you. When he does I’ll take him. And he’ll do what I want to save you.’

  ‘You think it’ll save you?’

  This time Horn strode across to confront her. He was tall, with a solid, yet lean, build. Yet even as he towered over her Rachel simply held his gaze. Not a flicker of fear showed in her hazel flecked eyes.

  ‘I have no intention of hurting you, Rachel. You’re only here to bring Ben.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be grateful? Of course, why not? You’ve only burned my house to the ground and murdered Chey. So nothing to get upset about there.’

  Her words, delivered in that firm tone he knew so well, made Horn back off mentally and he stared at her in silence.

  ‘Damnit, Nathan, there’s no way back from this.’

  She raised echoes of the past. The time when she told him she had made her choice and was going to marry Ben Colter. Then she had used the same tone. Deliberate. Final. Telling him there was no way back from the moment. Then his world had turned dark on him because he knew it was over between them. Whatever future he had hoped for was wiped away by those few words. Delivered as she stood facing him, eyes fixed on his face as she had given him the answer he had despaired of ever hearing.

  ‘You can’t … ’ he had heard himself say. ‘Not Ben Colter … he’s … not …’

  ‘What, Nathan? Not good enough for me, or not the man you are? Is that the best you can do?’

  It was the expression in her eyes that hurt most. He had known his reaction had been wrong in the way he had shown his contempt at her choice.

  ‘Come the day I’ll show you who’s best. And you’ll regret what you just said.’

  ‘Tell me, Nathan, is this the day you told me about? The one where you prove to me you are the best? If you think this is the way then I feel sorry for you. All you’ve done is prove to me I made the right choice when I picked Ben.’

  He took a step closer, color rising in his cheeks, and for a fleeting moment Rachel wondered if she had taken that one step too many. She saw his big hands form into fists at his sides, knuckle turning white as he clenched them in barely checked rage.

  She refused to look away. Daring him to hit her, yet at the same time fearful he might lose control and strike her.

  Horn heard boot steps coming up behind him. He turned, clamping down on the rising anger. The lean figure, wide-brimmed hat tipped back from his stubbled face, gave Rachel a wry smile as he approached.

  ‘She still giving you grief?’ he asked.

  He was an amiable character, Joe Guthrie, a man who had ridden with Horn for a number of years and seemed to have an insight into the relationship between Horn and Rachel. Nothing seemed to upset him and he always managed to offer her a respectful attitude.

  ‘We were having a meaningful discussion about our positions,’ Rachel said. ‘Nathan can’t seem to grasp it does not exist any longer.’

  ‘Don’t mind him, ma’am, he can be a tad slow sometimes. Right enough, Nate?’

  Horn struggled to maintain his temper. He was aware Rachel had been deliberately trying to antagonize him. And she was succeeding. As he stared at her he could have sworn there was the faintest of smiles on her lips. He turned away to look at Guthrie.

  ‘You wanted me?’

  ‘Just to let you know that fresh brew of coffee you were asking about is ready. Unless you changed your mind.’

  Horn took a deep breath, spun on his heels and walked across the campsite in the direction of the cook fire.

  Guthrie caught Rachel’s eye. ‘Ma’am, don’t play your games too hard with him. He has a lot riding on this deal and it’s got him by the tail.’

  ‘We wouldn’t want to upset him, then, would we?’

  ‘Just remind yourself what he done to that Apache. Kind of suggests how serious he is.’

  Guthrie walked away, leaving Rachel to consider her position. She accepted it had been a difficult moment. Brought about by her own stubborn nature. It was something she had difficulty controlling at times. In her present situation she saw keeping her thoughts to herself and her lips tightly shut might work in her favor. That, she realized, was going to be difficult. For some people not so hard—but for Rachel Colter it would be a hard task.

  ~*~

  Dust spumed up from under the hoofs of the horses as Ballard and Tula dropped below the rim of the hollow. The shot that had sounded put a slug through the air between them. As they felt the ground slope beneath them they slid from their saddles and scrambled for cover in the thick brush growing in the hollow.

  Ballard heard the rattle of loose stones as their two horses carried on moving, more dust misting the air. He caught a quick glimpse of Tula sliding into cover yards away from where he crouched.

  The question in his thoughts was asking who the trio of riders was. Part of the bunch that had struck Colter’s place? Had the group split again? He pushed the query aside. Right now the who didn’t matter. What did matter was the fact he and Tula had been shot at. Whoever the three were they didn’t appear friendly.

  A rifle opened up. Someone crouching on the lip of the slope was firing down into the hollow. Not taking particular aim. Ballard heard the slugs snapping at the thicket, leaves and branches being shredded as they were hit. It seemed to Ballard the shots were coming from a single source. One rifle out of three. Maybe a distraction while the other two were moving in from opposite directions.

  ~*~

  It had been Parmalee’s idea to split apart. While Turkey laid down a barrage of shots, he and Sykes would take opposite positions and make their approach from left and right. It was no great strategy but it might at least give them an advantage.

  Parmalee kept in mind that one of the pair they were facing was an Apache. And not any Indian. Tula was known as a sk
illed fighter. Any Apache warrior was usually worth his salt. Tula had the edge on that. He had been avoiding capture for some long time. Parmalee took note of that. He might not have had a great deal of time for the Apache. To him they were a source of bounty, but he did understand that Tula was no amateur when it came to resistance.

  In the end it was the substantial monetary gain to be had if he and Sykes could haul in Tula’s corpse that pushed aside any other concerns. Which in Parmalee’s eyes meant everything. He accepted the risk.

  As he moved effortlessly through the thicket edging the lip of the hollow, Parmalee’s eyes and ears were attuned to every flicker of movement and sound. Stalking a man, Apache or not, was something Parmalee had been doing for a long time. The possibility of getting hurt, even killed, did nothing to deter him. A man lived and died. It was a fact no one could escape, or deny. Death was pre-determined. There was little point trying to avoid it. All a man could do was act in a manner that might extend his life. So taking care how he behaved could mean extending, or shortening, his span.

  ~*~

  Turkey had stopped firing. His strategy had allowed Parmalee and Sykes to move forward, searching for their upcoming targets. Parmalee had no idea what Turkey was doing now and didn’t concern himself. Rattigan’s former employee had served his purpose as far as Parmalee was concerned. What happened to him now didn’t concern the bounty man. If he survived the encounter with Ballard and Tula, Turkey was as good as finished anyhow. When the chance presented itself Turkey would end up dead. Parmalee and Sykes were partners. They didn’t need or want another partner.

  Low down in the undergrowth Parmalee listened. Straining to pick of any sound that didn’t belong. He stayed where he was, waiting for the briefest indication of someone’s presence. Parmalee had learned long ago how to hold himself immobile. Years of tracking men had taught patience. The ability to remaining still while he assessed the situation.

  ~*~

  Hoyt Sykes was flat out on the ground, sweat glistening on his face as he studied his surroundings. The only thing about him moving was his jaw, ceaselessly working the wad of tobacco in his mouth back and forth. Unlike his partner Sykes lacked the calm Parmalee was able to employ. He didn’t favor skulking around in the shadows. He would have preferred to be out in the open. He had fired the first shot as he and his partners had spotted Ballard and the Apache. In his haste Sykes’ shot had gone wide, fired as it was from the back of a moving horse. All it had achieved was to warn the pair their pursuers were close. That warning had pushed Ballard and Tula into taking cover in the thicket that grew along the base of the hollow. And it was because of that Sykes was being forced to crawl around in the dirt, trying to spot the opposition before they located him.

  The thing that worried Sykes most was the presence of the Apache. He admitted they were good at this kind of thing. Their skill lay in the ability they had to stalk a man until they were a few, unseen, feet from him. He knew that and he didn’t like it, not one little bit. Sykes knew enough about the Apache to respect them as frightening opponents. Fierce. Unrelenting and utterly ruthless. Sykes didn’t consider himself a coward—but he did value his own life—so suddenly finding himself where he was right now was doing very little to allow him to rest easy. That feeling was not going away until they settled with Tula and he lay dead at their feet. Or the reverse happened.

  Damnit, Hoyt, why in hell didn’t you make a better shot? A 44-40 slug in that Apache’s spine would have solved your problem. Easy to say now. But you didn’t do that, you dumb peckerwood. Ain’t no use whinin’ over it now, so quit that and go find the sonofabitch.

  Grasping his rifle he shifted position to ease the stiffness in his body. As he raised his upper body a few inches, the crown of his hat brushed the overhanging brush. It was a slight movement, barely disturbing the tendrils above his head.

  The crash of a shot startled Sykes. The slug ripped through the leaves, passing through Sykes’ hat, knocking it from his head and tearing a furrow in his scalp. He rolled aside, panic forcing him to move. It had been that close. Too close. Sykes slid into deeper cover, abandoning any pretense. He burrowed face down, reacting to the burn of pain running across his scalp. He felt warm blood running down from the wound, across the side of his head in a steady stream. It coursed down his cheek and dripped from his chin, soaking into his shirt and Sykes realized how near to death he had just come. He lay still, not daring to move, even though he was aware he had dropped his rifle when the shot hit him. He could see it out the corner of his eye. Just out of reach when he extended his arm. Sykes stared at the Winchester and decided he would leave it for the moment. Damned if he was going to risk another shot. He reached to his side and slid out his handgun, keeping it close. The pain increased, a deep ache swelling from the wound. A second shot drove a slug into the ground only inches away. The shooter was targeting him close now and Sykes figured if he kept up he was going to put a slug into him. More shots followed. Sykes wriggled deeper into the surrounding thicket as the slugs kicked up more spouts of dirt. He pushed his pistol out at arm’s length and triggered a couple of shots, then realized he was only making things worse for himself. The shooter already had a fix on his position and his shots were getting closer.

  This was getting crazy, Sykes decided.

  He and Parmalee and Turkey were supposed to be tracking Ballard and his Apache partner. Not this way around. It was wrong. The pairing of Sykes and Parmalee counted for something. There were few to match them when it came to hunting men for bounty. In truth there was only one man who Sykes would allow might be close. The one they called The Stalker. Bodie. Now there was a man Sykes could respect. Hard. Uncompromising. Never let a man get away. Had the knack of setting his trail and sticking to it come hell or high water. Son of a bitch couldn’t be bettered.

  Damned if Sykes was going to let Bodie’s reputation put him off his own game.

  He swiped his sleeve over the blood trickling down his face. Then he made his try for his wayward rifle, squirming across the ground and reaching out for it. He closed his hand over the Winchester and dragged it close, jamming his handgun back into the holster as he gathered his knees under him and pushed to his feet.

  ‘Show your damn face…’ he yelled…

  And at that moment he heard someone scream. A loud, agonized sound that clutched at his very soul…

  ~*~

  …Turkey had heard the shots, close by, the echoing rattle filtering through the undergrowth. They came from somewhere ahead of him so he figured it was either Ballard or Tula doing the firing. He was pushing fresh cartridges into his own rifle so his concentration was focused on that. He had emptied his weapon while Parmalee and Sykes had moved to positon themselves. After he had loosed off his distraction shots silence had dropped and Turkey wanted to reload his weapon quickly.

  With his weapon reloaded Turkey remained still, searching the way ahead, eyes moving back and forth. He saw nothing. Heard only the returned shots. Then a protracted silence.

  It was the quiet that disturbed Turkey more than anything. It played with his mind. Made him wonder what was happening. And not knowing was worse than having someone in view with a ready gun. That Turkey could handle.

  He heard nothing, close or far. He saw nothing in the spread of undergrowth filling the area around him.

  And when he did catch a sense of movement it was near. In fact it was a shadow that slid over him and showed on the ground only inches in front of him. By the time Turkey realized its presence it was too late.

  The shadow became larger. Looming over him. And only then did he pick up a whisper of sound. The shadow became larger. Rising over him, dark against the ground.

  Turkey raised his head, eyes opening wide as he realized his mistake…

  He felt something strike him between his shoulders. Felt the penetration that came from the blade of a heavy knife blade sinking deeply into his flesh. For a few seconds he felt no pain, but then it flared. It shocked him. The pain so i
ntense that he screamed, the shriek loud, carrying. Turkey felt the knife blade being withdrawn, then stabbed into him again and again, the thick steel blade hacking into his body over and over. A hand clutched at his sleeve, dragging his shuddering body so he lay on his back, staring up into the grim face of…

  Tula.

  The Apache.

  For a moment they were eye to eye, the Apache’s face taut with the bitter rage driving him forward.

  ‘Now we will see who takes the scalp, Pinda Lickoyi.’

  Weakening with every second from the savage knife wounds spilling his blood on the ground beneath him, Turkey was helpless to stop Tula as he bent over, the bloody knife carving an incision that cleaved his forehead in a sweeping curve. The cut bled profusely, streaming down Turkey’s face, even as Tula caught a handful of Turkey’s long hair and wrenched his scalp clear of his skull. It came free with a wet sound.

  Tula held the dripping trophy where Turkey could see it.

  The final scream that burst from Turkey’s lips lasted as long as it took for Tula to deliver the final blow, the blade of his knife stabbing down into Turkey’s chest to reach and pierce his heart…

  ~*~

  … ‘Show your damn face’…

  The shrill screams trailed Sykes’ challenge as he swung his rifle in an arc, searching for the shooter.

  He saw a dark figure outlined against the greenery. Tall, moving forward, the long shape of a rifle snugged against his shoulder. For a scant second Sykes found himself staring fixedly at the black muzzle.

  The single shot came without warning. A .44-40 lead slug that impacted against Sykes’ forehead and buried itself in his skull, tearing its way into his brain. He dropped without a sound.

  ~*~

  Vic Parmalee slid through the brush, pushing aside the curling greenery, a warning voice telling him something had gone wrong. One minute they were closing in on Ballard and the Apache, Tula, and then things got shaky.

  His partner firing off rounds in a rush.

  The sudden, high-pitched screaming that had warned Parmalee. He leaned into the brush, eyes searching, ears straining to pick up any sound that might guide him.