Brotherhood of Evil

by William W. Johnstone

  He turned around, wiggled his legs and body through the opening, hung by his hands for a second, and dropped to the ground.

  The landing was a little more of a jolt than his old bones needed. He straightened from the crouch he had wound up in, but no harm was done. He could tell he was fine as he moved silently away from the big barn.

  He paused as he reached the corral at the side of the building. A low whistle brought Horse to the fence. The big gray stallion stretched his head over the top rail and bumped Preacher’s shoulder with his nose. Preacher scratched the silky hide and whispered, “I’m gonna get you out of there. Just hang on a minute.”

  Since the gate was on the front of the corral, he would have to leave the shadows and risk being seen, but it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t leaving Big Rock without Horse. He would have to abandon his saddle and his other gear for the moment. With Wendell sleeping in the tack room, fetching the saddle without waking him would be a problem.

  Preacher had a feeling that if he explained what was going on to the young hostler, Wendell wouldn’t betray him to the outlaws, but it was just simpler without waking him. Besides, when Preacher was younger, he had ridden bareback many times.

  Horse followed him on the other side of the fence as he cat footed around to the front, causing a slight disturbance among the other animals in the corral. Preacher hoped they wouldn’t get too spooked, raise a big ruckus, and attract the attention of the gunmen on guard duty.

  He reached the gate. Horse was ready on the other side. Preacher lifted the latch and swung the gate open just enough for the stallion to get through. Some of the other horses started toward the gate, following the big gray. Preacher closed it quickly to keep any of them from getting out.

  “Good boy,” he whispered. “Come on.” He didn’t have any reins to lead the stallion, but he didn’t need any. Horse followed him without any more urging.

  Preacher circled the corral again and felt a little relieved when he reached the gloom of the alley once more. He knew he wasn’t out of danger yet, though. Horse couldn’t move without making any sound like he could. The guards might hear the clip-clop of the stallion’s hooves and come to investigate.

  He had to take that chance and headed unerringly toward the edge of town where the school was located. He hadn’t been lost in more than sixty years, no matter what the circumstances, and he wasn’t about to start.

  His route took him behind the sheriff’s office and jail. Monte Carson was locked up in there, Preacher recalled from his conversations with Loo and Wendell. He paused to wonder if it might be possible to take the guards by surprise and rescue the sheriff and the other prisoners. Having more fighting men on their side would help with the overwhelming odds.

  He shook his head, deciding it was too big a chance to take. He needed to rendezvous with Matt, and then the two of them could find Smoke and have a powwow. They would decide together what to do.

  He had just come to that conclusion when he heard something that made him stop in his tracks. A commotion broke out in front of the jail, and he heard the name Jensen.

  Maybe they were just talking about Smoke, Preacher told himself. The hombres who had taken over Big Rock certainly knew that Smoke’s ranch was nearby; that was the reason they had targeted the settlement, after all.

  A man asked loudly, “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Damn right I’m sure,” another man replied. “I saw him shoot a fella up in Cheyenne last year. This is Matt Jensen, all right.”

  Preacher bit back a curse. From the sound of it, Matt had gotten himself captured.

  Or worse.

  Preacher knew he had to find out. He leaned close to Horse’s ear and whispered, “Stay put,” then moved carefully and silently along the side of the building.

  “Somebody go fetch the major,” a man ordered. “He’ll need to decide what we do with Jensen.”

  That sounded like Matt was still alive. The old mountain man was grateful.

  Matt was a prisoner, though, which wasn’t good.

  “No need to fetch the major,” one of the outlaws said. “Here he comes now.”

  Preacher reached the end of the narrow passage between the jail and the neighboring building, staying back just far enough that the thick shadows concealed him. He could see a tall, spare man with a limp, striding along the street. Had to be the major the outlaws had been talking about—Major Pike, Preacher recalled.

  “What’s going on here?” Pike asked sharply as he came up to the knot of men in front of the jail.

  Preacher counted seven or eight of them, all heavily armed. Although he couldn’t make out what they were clustered around, other than a vague shape on the ground, he knew it had to be Matt. The thought made his heart slug heavily in his chest.

  “I’ve got a prisoner here,” one of them replied. “Helmond says it’s Matt Jensen.”

  Enough light came through the front windows of the sheriff’s office to reveal the frown that creased Pike’s forehead. “Matt Jensen is Smoke Jensen’s brother. Where did you find him, Bracken?”

  “Down at the schoolteacher’s house. Dixon and I saw him with her earlier. She claimed that he was her brother.”

  “Are you sure he’s not, Helmond?” Pike asked. “Maybe you’re mistaken.”

  “I’m as sure as I can be, Major,” the outlaw called Helmond declared. “Why, I was as close to him in Cheyenne as I am to you now. Once I saw him draw his gun, I wasn’t likely to forget him. He was fast as greased lightning.”

  Pike grunted. “His brother’s faster.”

  “Maybe so, but I reckon this fella could shade just about anybody except Smoke Jensen.”

  Pike continued to frown in thought for a long moment before he said, “Either he’s been hiding out somewhere all along—maybe with this schoolmarm you mentioned—or else he snuck into town recently. Either way, I don’t like it. How bad is he hurt?”

  “I think my bullet just creased him and knocked him out,” Bracken said. “I came in down there at the schoolteacher’s place—I was looking for Dixon—and found Jensen and Dixon on the floor and the teacher standing over Dixon with a gun in her hands.”

  “Is Dixon dead?”

  “No, sir. He’s got a goose egg on his head where she clouted him, but that’s all. I didn’t know that at the time, though. I remembered your orders about shooting anybody caught with a gun, so I threw down on the woman. Jensen jumped between me and her just as I fired. The bullet clipped him and put him down and out.”

  “What about the teacher?” Pike wanted to know.

  Bracken hesitated, then said, “Well, she yelped and dropped the gun when I shot Jensen. I could have gone ahead and gunned her down, but once I had a second to think about it, the idea of shooting an unarmed woman . . . well, it didn’t sit too good with me, Major.”

  “You had your orders,” Pike snapped.

  “Yes, sir, I know that. I’ll go get her right now if you want me to—”

  Pike silenced him with a wave of his hand. “No, never mind. Where did she get the gun?”

  Again Bracken hesitated then said, “It was Dixon’s. It fell out of his holster while he and Jensen were fighting.”

  “I see. And what was Dixon doing in the woman’s house?”

  When Bracken didn’t say anything right away, Pike made a disgusted sound. “Never mind. I told the citizens they wouldn’t be harmed if they cooperated. I can see that none of my orders are followed to the letter, are they?”

  “Major, I’m sorry—”

  Pike cut him off. “Tell Dixon I want to see him later. In the meantime, lock Matt Jensen up in there along with Sheriff Carson and the others. From everything I know about him, he’s a dangerous man. At least he won’t be running around loose anymore. That’s something to be thankful for anyway.”

  “You bet, Major. We’ll take care of it.” Bracken paused. “What about the teacher? Miss Morton, I think her name is.”

  “I’ll want to ask her some question
s. Bring her to the town hall tomorrow morning. In the meantime, put a guard on her house so she doesn’t try anything else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pike turned and limped away. Several of the outlaws bent down and took hold of Matt’s arms and legs. They lifted his unconscious form and carried him out of Preacher’s line of sight and into the jail.

  Preacher drew back deeper into the shadows and cursed bitterly to himself. Maybe what had happened hadn’t been Matt’s fault, but the young man’s misfortune had put Preacher in a hell of a spot.

  Since Matt wasn’t going to meet him, he could go ahead and slip out of Big Rock without waiting, head for Sugarloaf, and try to find Smoke.

  On the other hand, he could try to rescue Matt and in the process release Monte Carson and the other prisoners, as he had considered a few moments earlier. He hadn’t thrown down on the men in the street because there were too many others close by. He might have been able to down six or seven of the varmints, but not the twenty or thirty that would come arunnin’ as soon as the shooting started.

  There were probably only a few guards in the jail. He might be able to get the drop on them. The place would be locked up tight, so he had to figure out a way in....

  As those thoughts raced through his brain, he realized that he had already decided to try to rescue Matt and the others. In the long run, the potential benefit from it outweighed the risks.

  Preacher slid along the side of the jail building, then moved along the back until he was underneath one of the barred windows. He listened intently, heard low-voiced talking from the men inside.

  A moment later, light glowed through the window. He knew somebody had carried a lantern into the cell block. Heavy footsteps sounded.

  Then a man ordered, “All of you men get back.”

  “How can we get back, the way you’ve got us crowded in here?” another man asked.

  Preacher recognized Monte Carson’s gruff tones.

  “Do what I tell you, or we’ll splatter buckshot all over that cell and make some room that way.”

  Men grumbled and cursed. Preacher supposed Carson and the other prisoners were moving back away from the cell door.

  Carson exclaimed, “Good Lord! Is that Matt Jensen?”

  “Yeah,” one of the outlaws gloated.

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, but he will be if that damn brother of his don’t cooperate with the doctor. Don’t any of you move. If you so much as twitch toward this door, you’ll get a load of buckshot in the face.”

  Preacher listened as the cell door clanged open, then a moment later slammed shut again. In between there was a dull sound like a sack of potatoes being dropped on the floor. That would be Matt being tossed into the cell, still unconscious.

  The light disappeared and a door closed.

  The door between the cell block and the sheriff’s office, Preacher thought.

  Quickly, he hunted along the alley until he found an old crate he could stand on. He placed it under the window, stepped up on it, and gripped the bars. “Monte!” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Monte Carson.”

  The men inside the cell had been talking together in quiet, angry tones. They abruptly fell silent at Preacher’s hail. He couldn’t make out any details in the darkened cell. The prisoners were just vague shapes.

  One of them moved closer to the window and the sheriff’s familiar voice asked, “Who’s that?”

  “You mean you don’t recognize these here dulcet tones o’ mine?”

  “Preacher!” Carson stepped up to the window and took hold of the bars, too. “Preacher, what are you doing here? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you, since Matt’s here, too.” Carson paused. “And Smoke? Is Smoke with you?”

  “Last I seen of him, he was headed to Sugarloaf to see what’s what out there. Me an’ Matt slipped into town to do some scoutin’. You got a heap o’ trouble here in Big Rock, Sheriff.”

  “I know,” Carson said grimly. “Maybe even too much for you fellas to handle.”

  Preacher wasn’t anywhere near ready to go along with that idea. “Can you tell how bad Matt’s hurt?”

  “From what I could see when they threw him in here, it looked like he has a bullet graze on his head. There was quite a bit of dried blood, but you know how head wounds are. They bleed like a stuck pig.”

  “If that slug just creased him, he’ll be all right. Boy’s got a hard head.” Preacher tugged on the bars. “I don’t reckon if I found a rope, ol’ Horse could pull these here bars outta the window, could he?”

  “I don’t think even a whole team of wild stallions could do it,” Carson said. “This is a stone wall, and they’re set solid. It’d take dynamite to blow them out, and if you set off a blast big enough to do that, it would probably kill every man in here at the same time.”

  “Well, then, seems to me the only way to get you boys out is to unlock the door.”

  A humorless laugh came from Carson. “How are you going to do that?”

  “How many guards out in the office?”

  “From what I’ve been able to tell, there are always at least three. Sometimes four.”

  “That ain’t too many. I got to get in there somehow . . . or get them out.” Preacher thought about it for a moment, then asked, “Reckon they got a fire goin’ in the stove? It’s sort of a chilly night.”

  “I’m sure they do. They let us shiver back here, but I can’t see them putting up with being uncomfortable.”

  “All right. That’s what I needed to know. I got me an idea.”

  “Preacher . . . ?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful,” Carson said. “If you see that you can’t get us out of here, then leave and find Smoke. You know what has to be done. It’d be a mighty tall order for two men . . .”

  “You mean kill ever’ damn one of them hardcases? Don’t worry, Sheriff. We’ll get around to it.”

  Chapter 50

  Once again, Preacher patted Horse’s shoulder and told the stallion to stay where he was. Horse gave an impatient toss of his head. He was ready to be out of there, running free across the range again.

  “I know how you feel, old son,” Preacher told him. “Just hold on a mite longer.”

  He went back up the side of the building to where he could see the area in front of the jail. Gun-hung men drifted away and ambled up the street toward the saloons. Preacher heard the door close, and a moment later a bar thumped down in its brackets.

  Nobody was left inside except a few guards and the prisoners. It was time for Preacher to make his move.

  As he’d moved to the back of the jail, he had noticed a drainpipe on the building next door. It was what had given him an idea in the first place. Climbing it wouldn’t be easy, but it was his only chance. He gripped the pipe, muttered, “Up you go,” planted a foot against the wall, and heaved and levered himself up.

  I’m climbing this downspout like a dang go-rilla, he thought as he hauled himself upward. By the time he was able to reach up, grab the edge of the flat roof, and pull himself over it, he was winded and his heart was pounding. “Getting too old for this sort of thing,” he muttered.

  Of course, he had been saying that for nigh on to twenty years, and he was still at it, wasn’t he?

  Adventure kept a feller young. No two ways about it.

  He lay there for a few minutes and caught his breath, then climbed to his feet and studied the gap between the building and the jail. Approximately eight feet separated them—quite a leap for an old-timer. Preacher knew that if he didn’t make it, he was liable to break both legs when he fell—if not his damn fool neck.

  But it was the only course open to him, so he took off the derby and with a flick of his wrist sailed it across the open space onto the jail roof. Then he backed off to get some distance, took a deep breath, and broke into a run toward the edge.

  He’d been a pretty fast runner in his day. He’d had to be. More than once, his speed afoot was the only thing that ha
d saved his life. He wasn’t nearly as fleet-footed. His run was better than a shuffle, but not by much.

  The muscles in his legs were still powerful, though. He reached the edge of the roof, pushed off it, and sailed far out over the shadow-cloaked passage below. He stretched his arms as far as they would reach . . . and landed with his head, arms, and shoulders on the jail roof. His hands dug in as they tried to find purchase on the slate shingles. He slid backwards, but only an inch or so before he got a firm enough grip to support himself.

  From there it wasn’t difficult to swing a leg up, hook a foot over the edge, and pull himself onto the roof. He rolled over, grateful for the support underneath him.

  Yeah, way too old for this, he thought.

  He’d made it, so there was no point in worrying about it. He climbed to his feet and looked around until he found the hat he had thrown over a few minutes earlier.

  Walking as softly as possible, he carried the derby over to the round tin stovepipe sticking up from the roof. Sure enough, wood smoke drifted from it. The guards had a fire in the stove down below. It was exactly what Preacher needed.

  He muttered, “Sorry about your hat, Ike,” then tore the brim away from the derby, wadded up what was left, and forced it under the raised conical tin cover that shielded the top of the pipe from rain. He stuffed the mutilated hat into the pipe until it was completely blocked.

  It wouldn’t be long until the smoke from the stove began to back up into the sheriff’s office. Preacher moved to the front of the building and stretched out on the roof to watch what happened below.

  A minute or so went by before he began to hear angry voices through the roof and ceiling. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone of voice was obvious and so was the reason.

  After a moment, a man said loud enough for Preacher to understand, “Don’t do that, you idiot!” followed by coughing.

  One of the guards had opened the door on the stove and let even more smoke billow out into the office.