The Good, The Bad and The Ghostly ((Paranromal Western Romance))

by Keta Diablo

  "Sure you want to do that, friend?" Burke asked quietly, pointing the Colt at the outlaw's heart.

  "Aw, hell."

  "How about you all stand up and toss aside your shooting irons?" Ted's voice called from the darkness.

  "What the....?" The gang leader sat up and looked around. The third man jumped up and grabbed for his weapon.

  A bullet, fired from the darkness beyond the firelight, relieved him of the six-gun. "Sonuvabitch!" He dropped to the ground, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest.

  George Thames and Amos trussed up the gang while the others searched for the stolen money. There hadn't been time yet to divide it up, and they found it in the leader's saddlebag.

  "How about we get some light on the situation so we can see who we're dealing with," Amos tossed a log on the fire. It caught quickly. Soon, the fresh flames lit up the faces of the nearby men.

  "Damn." The leader glared at Burke. "You're the bastard what stopped us from robbing the stagecoach a few weeks back."

  "That's right. You're not the one I shot in the leg, though. Which one of you has a sore thigh?"

  "Me, you three-legged whore-dog."

  As Burke expected, the man who couldn’t crook his leg spoke up.

  The thief attempted to lunge at him, missed and fell forward onto his face. "I'll get you for that. Still can't walk without limping. Now I got a broken nose." He wiped blood from his chin.

  "That's what you get for trying to rob stages."

  "Damn you! You got my leg to bleeding again."

  George kicked at him. "You're lucky we don't hang you here and now."

  "Hang us! For robbing a lousy bank?"

  "Calm down," Ted ordered. "You'll get a fair trial."

  At dawn, they rode back to town, prisoners in tow. Ted had wanted posters on two of them, the leader, known as Big Tom, and the injured gang member, Arizona Joe. The townsfolk gave the posse a heroes' welcome. Burke and the others were herded into the Galloping Goose for free drinks.

  The next thing Burke knew, Lucy had herself pressed against him and he had a glass of whiskey in each hand. He tossed one back and set the other on the bar. Grinning down at the girl, he said, "Never been made so welcome anywhere in my life."

  "Told ya you was a hero that first day," she answered and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Laughing, he looked up. Clori stood outside the saloon peering inside. Their eyes met and clung for a long, tense moment.

  Then she whirled and disappeared.

  Burke's heart sank. He charged after her.

  Chapter Ten

  Outside, Burke looked up and down the boardwalk and caught a glimpse of her black, ruffled dress sweeping around the corner onto Maple Street. Feeling sick about the wrong idea that undoubtedly formed in her head about him and Lucy, he took off running to catch up, Spook alongside.

  Behind him, gunfire erupted. He ducked, expecting to feel a bullet drill into his hide. He whirled and reached for his Colt.

  Spook crawled up beside him and whined.

  The source of the shooting proved easy to spot. Arizona Joe and Big Tom were making a break for it. While Tom fired at the jail and kept an eye on the townsfolk, Arizona untied two horses from the hitching post, Burke’s Dusty and Ted’s gelding. The outlaws’ mounts had been taken to the livery. Helping themselves to someone else’s horses took less time than finding their own.

  Ted had trained the horses well, though, and they didn’t like any other man trying to ride them. They reared and danced in place, refusing to cooperate.

  Burke settled behind a watering trough while he analyzed the scene. Where was Ted? In that jail being fired upon? He hadn’t come into the saloon with them.

  Then he spied the marshal, racing up the street and firing lead at the two gang members.

  Burke darted closer and ducked behind a pickle barrel outside the mercantile, with Spook staying close as a tick.

  Big Tom swiveled and prepared to fire at Ted. Burke’s bullet found him before he managed to pull the trigger. The lead bandit grabbed his shoulder. Blood flowed between his fingers and down his arm, but he managed to fire back, first at Burke, then Ted.

  Arizona Joe gave up trying to control the horses. He let them go and fired at Burke.

  The bullet whizzed over Burke's head. He ducked lower and got another shot off from around the side of the briny-smelling barrel.

  Joe cried out and fell to the ground.

  "Give it up, you jackasses," Ted shouted and darted toward Tom. "Drop your weapon if you don't want to join your friend in a grave on Boothill."

  Cursing, Joe threw down his gun.

  "On the ground. Now."

  The outlaw obeyed, lying face down, arms stretched in front of him. Burke hurried to pick up the outlaw’s six-shooter, while Ted pulled Tom’s hands behind his back and handcuffed him.

  "Good job, Burke." Ted jerked Tom to his feet. "Check Joe, make sure he's dead. If he isn't, send for the doc."

  Burke approached Joe cautiously, bent down, and felt for a pulse in the man's neck. Nothing. He stared at the dead outlaw.

  Burke had killed his first man.

  To see a life doused so quickly came as a shock. He tried to determine how he felt about it. Not good, for certain. But Joe had been trying to kill him. It was self-defense, and he couldn't find it in him to regret winning.

  The editor of the local news sheet ran up carrying a large, bulky camera.

  "What do you plan to do with that?" Burke asked him.

  "Take photographs of the dead outlaw for the paper and to send back East."

  Burke glared at the man. "Hell, no, you're not. What are we here, animals or men? No photographs. What a barbaric idea." He’d seen photos in books of outlaws with their bodies riddled with bullets and always thought them morbid and inhumane. He thought of how the families of those men would be affected by seeing such images and felt sorry for them. "Now, get out of here."

  The newspaperman scuttled away. Burke ordered some bystanders to take the corpse to the carpenter who built coffins for the town, and stalked into the marshal's office.

  Big Tom sat behind bars again, along with the third man whose injured leg had eliminated him from joining the escape attempt. Ted wiped blood from a wound on Amos's head.

  "What happened, Amos?" Burke asked.

  "That bastard there—" He pointed at the third outlaw "—pretended to be sick and ready to pass out. When I went to help him, he grabbed my gun and hit me with it. They was already outside by the time I come to."

  "He'll be all right." Ted dropped a bloody cloth into a basin of water and patted Amos on the shoulder. "Just a scratch. It's stopped bleeding."

  "Good." Burke hadn't forgotten Clori. "Listen, I need to go talk to Clori. She looked in the saloon and saw something I think she misunderstood."

  "Lucy?" Ted smiled. "I understand. Go on. She'll get over it once you explain."

  "Thanks." He ran out, jumped on Dusty, and rode for home.

  Minutes later, he flung open the front door and yelled, "Clori?"

  Nellie came from the parlor. "Why, Burke, is something wrong?"

  "I need to speak to Clori."

  Nellie frowned. "I'm sorry, but she isn't here. In fact, I've been looking for her. You don’t think she’d go into town alone, do you? I know she wanted some thread for a dress she's making."

  Burke stifled a curse and glanced toward the road. Clori was so damned independent. He had no problem imagining her taking off to town alone, in spite of everything. "Thanks, Nellie. I'll find her."

  But he didn't.

  Discouraged and worried, he returned to the house an hour later. An envelope lay on the porch by the door. He picked it up and saw his name on the front. Ripping it open, he read: Come to my place alone or Clori dies. Signed H.H.

  * * *

  Burke’s world spun. Dizziness assailed him. His legs threatened to give out under him. An image of him and Clori in their own little house, surrounded by kids, all beauti
ful images of their mother, flashed through his head.

  Too late? Had he missed out on the chance to have all that in his future—Clori’s love and the two of them having babies together?

  No, he couldn’t accept that. Wouldn’t accept it.

  As he galloped toward Halstead House, he did something he hadn't done in a long time; he prayed. Seriously prayed.

  Why hadn't Velda—Clori's mama—come to warn him of possible trouble? Had she felt so sure he would keep Clori safe that she had gone on to the other side?

  If Horace Halstead harmed one hair on Clori's head, Burke would shoot him dead, break every bone in the bastard's body, then shoot him again.

  He hoped Ted didn’t follow and interfere. He’d warned the marshal that Horace had threatened to kill Clori if Burke wasn’t alone.

  Hell, this was his fault. If he hadn't let himself be drawn into the saloon, if he'd made Lucy stay away from him, Clori would be home now, safe and sound.

  Oh, Horace would likely have snagged her no matter what Burke did.

  Damn the timing of that jailbreak. If he'd not had that interruption, he'd have been with her. He might have foiled Horace's attempt.

  In his mind, he again saw the expression on Clori’s face when she spotted him with Lucy. The pain said she'd come to care for him a good deal. Burke felt the same way about her. Now, with her life in danger, he had to get her away before Horace hurt her. He would never forgive himself otherwise.

  How and when had he come to care so much about her?

  Didn't matter.

  The only thing that mattered was protecting her. How would he wrest her from Horace's clutches alive?

  * * *

  Clori's shoe caught on the crudely constructed porch as Horace shoved her into the house. She tried to catch herself but ended up sprawled on the floor.

  "What's the matter, you clumsy whore?" Horace slammed the door shut and kicked at her foot. "Can't even walk right?"

  The instant before the door closed, Clori caught a flash of silvery-gray outside. Silver? Hope thudded inside her heart. Had her beloved horse lived in spite of having her throat slashed?

  Just enough light existed to allow her to see Horace go to the table for the lamp. A minute later, a yellow glow filled the room. The house looked a mess. He had obviously been living there and not taking care of anything. Dirty dishes littered the table and sink. Grit from the unswept floor dug into her palms as she pushed to her feet.

  A moment before, she’d felt like she weighed a ton. But she rose from the floor with no effort at all, as if someone helped pull her to her knees.

  "Where do you think you're going?" Horace used his boot to shove her back down. "Stay there while I decide what to do with you while we wait for your new sweetheart to arrive."

  "He's not my sweetheart, Horace. I barely know him." The bruises on his face from his fight with Burke had faded to yellowish blue, and he favored his left leg. She wanted to ask how he liked being on the other end of a fist.

  "Don't lie to me." He drew back his arm to strike her, but the blow slowed at the last minute and had the impact of a slap. Why? Was he softening toward her? Had he decided he loved her after all?

  Don’t fool yourself, Clori. He hasn’t changed. Never will.

  "I'm not lying."

  "You've done nothing but lie to me since the day I married you." He slouched down in a chair, rubbed at his leg, and glared at her. "How did you avoid having my baby? Some whore's trick?"

  "No. I don't know any tricks." She'd wanted a baby so badly, hoping a child would make her marriage bearable. Now, she felt only gratitude she hadn't conceived. It was for the best. She would not want Horace's child. But it would be a waste of time to try to convince him of that. He'd believe what he wanted to believe.

  He snorted. "Ha! Didn't take you long to snare a new man once you thought you was rid of me."

  With fresh anger reddening his face and putting fire in his eyes, he jumped to his feet and winced. "Goddamn it, woman. You shot me. Me! Your husband." He jabbed his thumb at his chest. "How could you do that?"

  Clori bit her inner cheek to keep from spewing out her own fury. The man had to be insane. "You beat me near to death, Horace. Have you forgotten that? And not for the first time. But what put the gun in my hand and my finger on the trigger was you killing Silver."

  "That damned horse." He waved a dismissive hand.

  A faint sound came from outside, a horse whinny.

  Familiar. Like Silver’s.

  Was she hearing things that didn’t exist?

  "Always, the horse," he ranted. "You loved her more than you ever loved me."

  "That is not true. I worshiped you when we first married. You beat every ounce of affection out of me. You hit me and railed at me every night you came home with liquor on your breath. And that last night proved one too many."

  He looked at her a long time. "You truly think you're the one in the right here, don't you? You feel no guilt at all for shooting me and leaving me to die. If Arbuckle hadn't come along, I'd be out there in that grave, moldering away." He shook his head. "I can't believe you think you had the right to do that."

  She lifted herself onto a chair. "I can't believe you think you can knock me around, choke me, hit me, and kill my mare with impunity."

  For a moment, she thought he intended to strike her again. He picked up a frying pan, but instead of using it on her, he clanged it onto the stove. "I'm hungry. Rustle me up some grub."

  "What is there to fix?"

  "There's beef in the pantry wrapped in burlap."

  So he had raided the Thames's smoke house. No surprise. The thought of food caused her stomach to lurch. But, if she didn’t cook for him, and fast, he'd start in on her again, probably hit her. She found the meat, brought it and a can of beans to the table, then looked for the good knife. She could defend herself with it if need be.

  Horace already had the knife. "I'll cut the beef. Sure as hell wouldn't trust you with this blade."

  "Using it on you hadn't even occurred to me, Horace."

  "Liar!" His open hand swung around and smacked against her left ear.

  She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her ears rang, and her whole face hurt.

  While he cut off slabs of meat to fry, she opened the beans and dumped them in a kettle. A dirty kettle, but she didn't care about that; she didn't intend to eat. What did he plan to do with her? Surely, he didn't expect her to stay there with him as if nothing ever happened. She couldn't do it. Wouldn't do it.

  Done cutting the meat, he shoved the knife in his belt and sat down in the one comfortable chair they owned. Clori put a dab of lard in the pan and set it on the burner to heat up. He’d already had a fire going.

  She yearned to see out a window to watch for Burke. Horace would likely shoot him before Burke even dismounted. It wouldn't be a fair fight, for certain. Horace didn't know the meaning of the word fair.

  The lard began to sizzle so she slapped the steaks in the pan. Steam rose from the beans. Could she throw them at him? Startle him enough to allow her to grab the six-gun from his holster?

  "That horse of yours follows me everywhere I go, you know," Horace griped. "Even now."

  She stared at him. "You mean she's alive?"

  He laughed. "Course not. It's her ghost what follows me. I've tried to kill her for good but bullets go right through her, and she keeps coming. Dumb animal thinks she can still protect you. She'll find out. Ain't nothing and nobody gonna protect you now."

  Disappointment sank deep into her soul. She’d known Silver couldn't have lived, but wanted her old friend with her again so badly.

  "What's that?" Horace rose and limped to the front room window. "Just the wind." He paced from window to window, antsy now, eager for Burke to arrive.

  Somehow, Clori had to warn Burke. Had to keep Horace from killing him.

  The thought of Burke dying filled her with a surprising depth of pain. She hadn't thought herself capable of caring for a man
again. But Burke was so gentle, so kind. He'd won her heart.

  "You cooking that meat plumb to death, woman?" Horace went to the stove to peer into the pan. "What's taking so long?"

  "You can eat it now if you want."

  "Is it done?"

  "No."

  He grabbed her by the collar and dragged her against him. "Don't be getting smart with me, Clori. I've still got my extra belt in the bedroom, and I'm itching to use it on you."

  She stared him in the eye, wanting him to see that she wasn't afraid. She would never fear him again. "What are you waiting for?"

  His mouth drew back in a snarl, and he raised his fist, thought better of it and dropped his hand to his side. "Oh, I'll have the pleasure of using that belt on you. But I want lover boy to watch when I do. He should be here soon. When you're good and bloody, and your clothes are ripped to shreds, I'll let him watch me throw you on the bed and—"

  Her insides shriveled at his description of what he would do to her, but the fear she felt then held no comparison to her realization that he would never let Burke leave this house alive.

  No! She had to warn Burke. Stop Horace from harming him.

  Clori didn't allow herself to think, she just acted. She snatched up the hot pan full of sizzling meat, too angry to notice the pain as her palm burned, and slammed the heavy iron pan against the side of his head.

  Horace howled in agony. The stench of seared human flesh filled the room.

  She watched him roll around on the floor, a hand cradling his fire-red cheek, and felt nothing.

  "You bitch!" he yelled. "I'll kill you for this."

  "You'll try." She struck his sore leg with the pan and won a new screech from him. Mingled with his cries, she thought she heard another whinny above the ringing in her ears.

  When at last he rolled over with his back to her, she dropped the pan, lurched forward, and grabbed the six-gun from his holster.

  He faced her again, his face a mottled, distorted mask of fury and hate. "Think you're real clever, don't you?"

  Before she could anticipate his intentions, he leaped to his feet and clamped his hands around her neck. Spittle rained on her face as he cursed her and called her every vile name he thought of. His fingers squeezed tighter and tighter.