“Don’t try to blame that on me,” he said to Burroughs. “You’re the one who let him live. You could have killed him back at the train, or let me kill him, and all your men who died would still be alive.”
That was it. He had finally prodded Burroughs over the edge. Burroughs grabbed for his gun.
McCluskey was already moving. He threw himself forward and crashed into Burroughs. His left hand closed around the outlaw’s wrist and kept him from completing the draw. The impact of their collision drove Burroughs backward and suddenly both men were at the edge of the deck, toppling out of control into the river.
As they were falling, McCluskey heard some of the gang whooping with excitement. A fight always provoked that reaction in some men. They hit the water and went under, and silence closed in around them.
They continued grappling underwater. McCluskey hung on to Burroughs’ wrist to keep him from pulling the gun. He tried to get his other hand on Burroughs’ neck, but the outlaw fended him off, lifting a knee into McCluskey’s stomach. The blow wasn’t a particularly hard one, but it was enough to drive some of the air out of McCluskey’s lungs and make him desperate to get back to the surface.
The water churned around them as they battled. McCluskey balled his free hand into a fist and jabbed a punch to Burroughs’ face. The blow rocked Burroughs’ head back and made red streamers of blood leak from his nose.
Burroughs gave up on drawing his gun and wrenched his wrist free from McCluskey’s grip. He splayed that hand over McCluskey’s face to dig fingers into his eyes. McCluskey jerked away and landed a punch to Burroughs’ throat. Burroughs started to gag, opening his mouth so big bubbles of air escaped. He pulled away and kicked for the surface.
McCluskey went after him.
As soon as he broke into the open air, McCluskey heard the shouting from the boat. The whole gang was gathered on the side of the deck, watching the river. Delia stood in front of the men with an eager yet anxious look on her face. McCluskey knew she wanted to see him defeat Burroughs, but at the same time she was worried about him—and probably a little about herself, too. If Burroughs killed him, she would be left to the mercy of the gang. She couldn’t expect the same sort of treatment a decent woman would have received, even at the hands of the owlhoots.
McCluskey spotted Burroughs a few feet away and lunged at him. He got behind Burroughs, looped an arm around his neck, and forced him below the water. Burroughs kicked and flailed, but McCluskey hung on tightly, bearing down harder and harder on the gang leader’s throat, until the man went limp. With a savage exultation surging through him, McCluskey kicked toward the boat and found willing hands ready to reach down and pull him and Burroughs from the water.
McCluskey rolled onto his back, breathing hard from the exertion of the fight underwater. As soon as he could, he pushed himself up onto an elbow and looked over at Burroughs, who lay a few feet away. He figured the gang’s former leader was dead, and for a moment it looked that way, but McCluskey saw that Burroughs’ chest was rising and falling shallowly.
Delia dropped to her knees beside him and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly even though he was soaking wet. “Oh, Frank! I was so afraid that man would hurt you.”
“Not . . . a chance,” McCluskey rasped. He pushed Delia aside without being too rough and held up his arm toward Jurgenson. “Give a man a hand?”
Jurgenson grinned as he clasped McCluskey’s wrist and hauled him to his feet. He slapped McCluskey on the back. “You’re my sort of hombre, mister. That fight didn’t last long, but it was a hell of a fracas while it did.”
Several other men gathered around to offer their congratulations, as well.
McCluskey grinned as he accepted them. “If you boys will have me, I’d be proud to be one of you.”
“One of us, hell!” Jurgenson looked around at the others, got several nods of encouragement, and went on. “We want you to step in and be the boss, like you said.”
McCluskey nodded. “I think that’ll work out mighty fine for all of—”
“Look out!” one of the men yelled.
McCluskey’s head jerked around, and to his surprise, he saw that Burroughs had regained consciousness and managed to climb up off the deck.
Not only was he on his feet, he had clawed his gun out of its holster.
McCluskey had figured he’d be out longer than that and slapped at his waist, only to realize that his guns must have slipped out while he and Burroughs were fighting in the river.
The sharp crack of a shot sounded, but it didn’t come from Burroughs’ gun.
Burroughs grunted in pain and hunched over as his own weapon sagged toward the deck. He squeezed the trigger and the gun roared, but the bullet went harmlessly into the planks at his feet. He fell to his knees, then toppled over onto his side.
McCluskey’s grin came right back, wider than ever at the sight of Delia standing with a gun in her hand. She had plucked it from the holster of the outlaw standing next to her. A wisp of smoke curled from the revolver’s barrel.
McCluskey whooped with laughter and flung up a hand, pointing at Delia. “There’s the one who ought to be in charge of your gang, boys! There’s your gun-slinging outlaw queen. Right there!”
Delia shook her head and handed the gun back to the man she had taken it from. “I just did it to save you, Frank. That’s all I care about.”
McCluskey laughed and drew her into an embrace. He looked past her at Burroughs’ body lying crumpled on the deck. “Get rid of that.”
A couple outlaws bent down, grasped Burroughs by the shoulders and ankles, and heaved him into the river with a big splash.
The riverboat chugged on upstream, leaving him behind.
CHAPTER 23
The sun helped dry Luke’s long underwear, so by the time Winslow, Stinson, and Bolden started back to the train, the garments were still damp but not unbearable. Luke pulled on his trousers, put on his socks, and stamped his feet down in his boots.
His hat was back at the train, lost somewhere in all the commotion of the holdup. He would have liked to retrieve it but couldn’t take the time to go back and search for it. He’d do without for the time being.
He had the two Colts and a Winchester that rode in a scabbard strapped to one of the horses. Those were the most important items he needed, anyway.
Winslow had complained some more about returning to the train instead of accompanying Luke on his pursuit of the outlaws, but in the end he had gone with Stinson and the wounded Bolden. The burly train engineer was tough, but not tough enough for a hazardous pursuit like Luke’s was likely to be.
The job needed a professional manhunter—and that’s what Luke Jensen was.
He took two horses—a leggy roan and a deep-chested bay. Both animals gave him the impression of having plenty of strength and stamina, which wasn’t surprising since they’d been owned by outlaws. A man on the dodge had to have a dependable mount capable of speed for a fast getaway and the ability to go all day whenever there was a posse in pursuit.
Derek Burroughs hadn’t named the settlement that he and his men were steaming up the river to and where more of his men would be waiting with the gang’s horses. Although he had been through that part of Wyoming, Luke didn’t remember a settlement in the area, so it had to be fairly new.
If he wanted to reach that town before the riverboat did, he needed to cross the river, find a way out of the mountains, and head north as fast as he could, keeping the peaks to his left. It would be a good race. The only reason he had a chance was because the river had to follow a twisting and turning course through the mountains and he could take a straight shot north once he was out on the flats again.
With that in mind, he kept an eye out for a good place to ford the stream as he rode the bay and led the roan along the grassy bank.
He had gone a couple miles when he caught sight of something up ahead, but it wasn’t a gravel bar that would make crossing the river easier. It was a body sprawled
at the edge of the stream, looking like a pile of discarded clothing.
Luke realized it was a man and urged his horse forward at a faster pace. He recognized the clothes.
When he got closer, he was sure of the man’s identity. He dismounted quickly and went to the man’s side, dropping to one knee. He grasped the man’s shoulders and rolled him onto his back.
Derek Burroughs’ face was haggard and washed out, with lines of pain carved into it. The river water had diluted the crimson stain on his shirt, but it was still visible and showed how much blood he had lost. The bullet holes in his vest and shirt were mute testimony that he’d been shot.
Luke felt certain Burroughs was dead, but the man’s eyes fluttered open. Breath rasped harsh and ragged in his throat. He had trouble focusing until his gaze settled on Luke, who lifted him and propped him against a knee.
“L-Luke . . . ?” Burroughs asked in a husky whisper, struggling to get the name out.
“That’s right, Derek,” Luke said. “Just take it easy. Don’t try to move around.”
“Don’t try to . . . tell me . . . I’m going to . . . be all right.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you that way. You know as well as I do that you’re gut shot.”
Somehow Burroughs managed to smile, although the expression could have been just a grimace of pain.
“Yeah, I’m . . . done for . . . Should’ve been dead . . . before now . . . but I hung on . . . managed to get out of the river . . . because I knew . . . you might be . . . coming along to find me. . . .”
“Who shot you, Derek? Was it during that fight back there?” Another possibility occurred to him. “Or was it McCluskey?”
“No, it was . . . that blonde . . . McCluskey’s woman. . . .”
“Delia?” That came as a bit of a surprise to Luke, although he knew it shouldn’t have, considering everything she had done since he’d known her.
“Y-yeah . . . her. And Luke . . .” Burroughs found the strength to lift a hand and clutch feebly at Luke’s arm. “If you go after them . . . you should know . . . McCluskey’s taken over . . . the gang. . . .”
Luke’s jaw tightened. That news didn’t change anything. He was going to have to face McCluskey and the rest of the outlaws anyway if he wanted to stop them from getting away with that gold. But he found it annoying that luck always seemed to break McCluskey’s way.
Maybe there was some truth to that hogwash McCluskey had been spouting about having a vision....
Luke pushed that thought out of his mind. He wasn’t going to waste time on something so ridiculous. “Don’t worry,” he told Burroughs. “I’ll settle up with both of them for you.”
“Be . . . careful.... After all this . . . I wouldn’t want you to . . . get hurt . . .” His eyes remained open, but a long sigh eased out of him and he seemed to shrink in on himself.
Over the past twenty years, during the war and since then, Luke had seen plenty of men die—too many men—and he knew that Burroughs was gone.
He eased his old friend’s head and shoulders back down on the ground, then closed Burroughs’ eyes rather than leave him staring sightlessly at the sky. He knew he had more to do. Burroughs had to be laid to rest.
Yet it would take precious time Luke didn’t have if he wanted to head off McCluskey and the other outlaws before they reached the settlement on the other side of the mountains, split up the gold, and scattered. He was sure that was what they had in mind, since it would make it more difficult to track them down. They could get together again later on to plan their next job.
With Frank McCluskey leading them.
Despite all the mental arguments he could make, Luke knew he couldn’t ride off and leave Burroughs lying there out in the open for the scavengers. He picked up the outlaw’s body and carried it over near the trees, then went to work scooping out a shallow grave, using a knife he found in one of the saddlebags.
It was tiring, time-consuming work, and Luke was all too aware of every minute that went by. But he stayed at it and eventually completed the grim task. He scouted around, found some rocks, and piled them on top of the grave in the hope they would keep animals from digging in it. He would have liked to build a better cairn, but it was the best he could do.
With that done, he sleeved sweat off his face and paused next to the mounded earth long enough to say, “I wish things had worked out differently, Derek. I would have preferred that the time we spent together back in Rattlesnake Wells be my last memories of you, but we don’t get to make that choice very often, do we? I hope your soul finds peace, wherever you are.”
With that, he went back to the horses, swung up into the bay’s saddle, and once again took up his pursuit of McCluskey and his new gang of outlaws.
CHAPTER 24
Luke forded the river a short time later, crossing on one of the numerous gravel bars where the water was less than a foot deep. He searched for a trail that looked like it would take him through the mountains and wished that he knew the area better than he did.
Night fell while he was still trying to find his way. He paused to let the horses rest, trying not to think about the fact that he had nothing to eat. A fire and a pot of hot coffee would have meant even more to him. The day’s heat vanished quickly in the thin air, leaving the nights chilly year-round. He didn’t want to risk a fire being spotted in the darkness, however.
He wasn’t one to dwell on the things he didn’t have, so he put food and coffee out of his mind and gave thought to whether to push on or make camp for the night. The horses were tired, he was worn out, and traveling in the dark through unfamiliar country was fraught with danger.
But the smart thing was to move on and just be careful, he realized. The riverboat would have to stop for the night. Even with its shallow draft, there were too many obstacles in the river that could tear out its bottom or get it stuck to risk steaming ahead blindly. The man up in the pilothouse had to be able to see where they were going.
If Luke kept moving, he could make up some of the time he had lost while burying Derek Burroughs. Once he realized that, the decision was easy. There were risks involved—but what about his life didn’t have a lot of risks?
He switched to the roan and mounted up again.
Over the next few hours, with only starlight to guide him, he went up more than one blind trail and had to backtrack and try again. Weariness rode hard on him, clamping its weight to his back and shoulders, but he kept moving. That was the important thing, he told himself.
Once the moon rose, spreading its silvery illumination over the landscape, the going became somewhat easier. The rugged terrain still presented a challenge, but at least he didn’t have to worry as much about falling into an unseen ravine and breaking his neck.
He rode until the temperature dropped so far he was shivering and his breath fogged in front of his face. When he finally emerged from the mountains, long after midnight, his satisfaction at achieving that goal was tempered by knowing he was going to have a cold wind blowing in his face as he headed north.
He turned that direction anyway. The horses shied a little, but he forced them on. He lowered his head and hunched his shoulders in a futile attempt to ward off some of the chill.
The temperature wasn’t low enough that he was in any danger of freezing, but it was definitely uncomfortable for the next few hours. He pushed on for as long as he could.
When a faint gray tinge appeared in the eastern sky to herald the arrival of the false dawn, he stopped. He unsaddled the horses, rubbed them down, and tied them to some saplings. Walking around, he found enough dry, broken branches among the scrub brush to build a small fire and huddled close to it.
The mountains were between him and the outlaws, so he didn’t worry about the flickering orange glow being seen. When the warmth of the flames had seeped into his bones, he rolled up in a blanket he found among the gear on the bay.
Just as exhaustion claimed him, he hoped the dead outlaw hadn’t been infested with any vermin.
He pushed the blanket aside and climbed stiffly to his feet, stretching the kinks out of his back. It was hardly the first night he had spent sleeping on the cold, hard ground, but he was getting too old for such things, he thought. Maybe he ought to consider giving up his life as a manhunter.
That was never going to happen, he thought with a faint smile. McCluskey wasn’t the only one who could have visions. Luke long since had accepted the fact that manhunting was the only life he would ever know.
The fire had burned down to embers. He stirred them up and added branches until he had a small blaze going again. His belly gnawed at him, but there was nothing to be done about that. He had searched the saddlebags on both horses and hadn’t found anything to eat, not even a scrap of jerky.
When he had warmed up again, he saddled the horses and headed north, riding the roan. The riverboat would be chugging along the stream again, he thought as he glanced at the mountains he had left behind.
The golden light from the rising sun washed over the plains, making him feel a little better. The sun climbed steadily, and by mid-morning the temperature was rising, too. Once again, he wished he had his hat. Maybe he could buy one when he got to the settlement, he thought. He had a little money cached in one of his boots.
The first thing he was going to do was find a café and get himself a hot meal. His belly was starting to think that his throat had been cut, as the old saying went.
By the time the sun was overhead at noon, he had started to wonder if Burroughs had been mistaken about a settlement. That seemed unlikely, but Luke thought he should have reached it already.
A short time later, he spotted several columns of smoke rising a mile or so ahead and to the left of him. That smoke was coming from chimneys, he thought as he angled in that direction. Finally, he was close to his destination.
Bad Men Die Page 14
