Blaze! Night Riders

by Michael Newton

  "I doubt they've all been paid to ride around with hoods on, killing people," Kate replied.

  "I hope not," he agreed. "But by the time we know for sure, we'll be in too deep for a change of heart."

  "Just fight on through, then," she suggested.

  "One thing more to think about, Darlin'."

  "What's that, J.D.?"

  "We go in shooting, there's no way of telling who the raiders are, from others who are innocent."

  She thought about that for a moment, sitting easy in her saddle, then replied, "The more I think about it, I have doubts that any of them rank as innocent."

  "How's that?"

  "They all work for the same man. Even those who don't partake of lynching and the like still watch the others come and go. They must know what their pals are up to when they ride out on a mission, even if they put their flour sacks on later, when they're down the road a couple miles. Yankton's not big enough for news like that to pass unnoticed. Anybody who can add up two and two knows what's been going on, and if they stay with Fields, they either share his disregard for law, or else they're willing to accommodate it for a paycheck."

  "So, all guilty then, the way you see it?"

  Kate shrugged. Told him, "I won't shoot anyone who isn't trying to shoot me. How's that?"

  "Seems fair enough, although we will be trespassing. If Fields is hooked up with the sheriff, he can make us look like murderers with no excuse."

  "Not likely, if they win," Kate said. "And if we do, they'll be a little short on witnesses."

  "One thing I love about you, Kate."

  "Just one?"

  He let that slide, finished his thought. "You never do a thing halfway."

  "Hell, what would be the fun in that, J.D.?"

  Ten minutes later, as a gliding bank of clouds covered the moon, they got their first glimpse of the Circle F proper. There was a mansion for the boss, of course; three bunkhouses suggesting forty cowhands, more or less; two barns, assorted smaller buildings scattered here and there, plus two corrals where horses circled aimlessly or stood and munched at troughs of feed.

  "There's money here," Kate said, unnecessarily.

  "Enough to buy a couple wagonloads of politicians, I expect," J.D. agreed.

  "You having second thoughts?"

  "I'm on to third or fourth thoughts, now."

  "Still time for us to turn around and leave."

  He sighed, then said, "And see that look of disappointment on your face, each time you look at me? No, thanks."

  "J.D.—"

  "Come on," he cut her off. "We're burning moonlight. And we ought to leave the horses here."

  Chapter 12

  Sandy Rice was lounging in the sheriff's office, killing time and waiting on his boss, when the arrival of a wagon on the street out front distracted him from daydreaming. Rice lowered his boots from the sheriff's desktop, sat up taller in Kersey's rolling chair, and grimaced as he saw trouble unloading from the wagon.

  He counted ten black faces, recognized them all except the children, and judged their expressions as ranging from angry to frightened. He liked frightened best, but would deal with whatever they wanted as quickly as possible, sending them on down the road before Sheriff Kersey arrived to horn in.

  That made Rice check his pocket watch and note that time was running short, between his night shift and the sheriff's turn on days.

  The visitors barged in without a knock or by-your-leave, an older man without a wife or children leading them. Of course, it was the county sheriff's office, open to the public, but it still put Rice's teeth on edge to see them coming in as if they owned the goddamned place.

  "Help you?" he asked, sitting back down behind the heavy desk.

  "I doubt it," said their point man, grumbling like. "We're here to see the sheriff."

  "Well, he ain't in yet, people. Likely having breakfast right about now, getting ready for his day."

  "He eat at home?" their leader asked.

  "Excuse me, son?"

  "I ain't your son," the old man said. "And I believe you heard my question, Deputy."

  "I heard it plain enough, all right," Rice said, back on his feet now. "Trouble is, you don't come in here askin' where the sheriff eats his meals or any other thing about his private life. Your mama should've taught you better."

  "I must've missed that part, since she was hung when I was barely three years old," their mouthpiece growled at him. "And it's more killin' that we come here to prevent."

  "Who's gettin' killed?" Rice asked, unable to resist a snotty little smile.

  "So far, a bunch of crackers out to Amos Hilliard's place. Don't know 'em, and we didn't check their faces underneath the hoods they wore. Came shootin' in the night and never made it home, so they ain't havin' breakfast, and the sheriff needs to know about it, quick!"

  "Hold on, now. You're tellin' me that you been killin' white men out to someone's ranch?"

  "Acting in self-defense," another of them—Amos Hilliard—chimed in from the small crowd's second rank. "They come in shooting, masked and all, just like the bunch tried hangin' me and my missus the day before yesterday."

  "Huh. So you say. And how many you reckon are dead?"

  "Counted four," said their spokesman, resuming control. "That's if none of the ones that rode off were hit bad and bleedin'."

  Four dead. White men. Rice couldn't get around the number, but he knew that Mr. Fields would have his men out hunting soon, intent on cleaning up the mess. The best thing Rice could do was stall for time, and—

  Just as he was thinking that, the door swung open and his boss walked in, ahead of time.

  * * *

  J.D. and Kate had darkness on their side as they approached the Circle F, with just enough moonlight to let them trail their fleeing enemies and keep their mounts from stumbling into gopher holes and such. By estimating mileage, J.D. knew they must be getting close. He half expected pickets to be posted, watching out for anything resembling a pursuit, but it appeared that Fields had let his guard down just enough for them to wriggle through.

  Or was he luring them into a trap?

  Reining in, he turned to Kate and whispered, "Maybe we should think about this thing a little more."

  "Cold feet?" Her white teeth flashed by moonlight.

  "My feet are fine," he said. "They'd like to have a living body stacked on top of them."

  "We made it this far, Hon."

  "And that's what's making me uneasy, Darlin'. If this Fields is sending shooters out to clear the land, getting their asses handed to them, I'd expect him to be watching out for trouble. Wouldn't you?"

  "He has a lot of land to watch, J.D. I doubt he's got an army holed up at his place. Let's go a little farther, anyway, and see what's what."

  "I hear you," he reluctantly agreed. "Okay, then. But I miss that hotel bed. Truth is, right now I miss the road."

  "And we'll get back to both," she told him, sounding confident. "As soon as we're done here."

  "Let's get it done then. Eyes and ears wide open, eh?"

  "The same as always," she assured him.

  Riding on, they soon smelled wood smoke on the wind and slowed their animals to walking pace, eased forward until they could see a house laid out in front of them with certain windows lighted from inside. Men moved around the yard, either a night shift or the whole crew agitated about something, no one turning in to sleep. Horses were circling in a couple of corrals out front, more hands working inside one of two barns by lantern light, and one guy traipsing toward a privy on his own.

  "The tracks lead here," Kate said.

  "No doubt," J.D. agreed. "Whether Fields sent the raiders out or not, they ran back here."

  "And should still be here."

  "With their hoods off, though. No way for us to recognize them, is there?"

  "First things, first, J.D. I want to get a closer look, maybe a listen while I'm at it. Find out what they're all stirred up about."

  "Means going in
on foot," he said. "Leaving the horses here."

  "That's fine with me."

  "And if we find out why they're agitated?"

  "It can only go two ways. Either Fields sent the mob out and they've come back home, or they swung by to drop their troubles on his doorstep, thinking he could help somehow."

  "And either way—"

  "He's guilty of involvement," Kate finished the sentence for him. "And that's good enough for me."

  * * *

  "What's going on here?" Jordan Kersey asked of no one in particular.

  "Sheriff," his deputy replied, before the freedmen had a chance to speak, "these people here come in sayin' they killed four white men overnight, at Amos Hilliard's place. Some story about self-defense, whatever."

  "That's exactly what it was!" spoke up an older man whom Kersey recognized as Moses Dyer. "Twelve of 'em rode up by night, masks coverin' their faces, and commenced to shootin' up the place. We fought 'em off awright, with help from them two bounty guns that rescued Amos and Calliope before. They rode off after what's left of the mob, headin' toward the Circle F."

  Kersey thought Sandy Rice was going to explode. His face turned cherry-red, his chest puffed out like he was getting ready for a footrace, and he started blustering. "Now, Boss, you know we can't believe a thing these niggers say! And it's the first I heard of any white folks helpin' 'em last night."

  Kersey brushed past the freedmen packed into the center of his office, moved around his desk, and struck Rice with a stinging slap across his florid face. Sandy went right on sputtering, but Kersey plucked the badge off of his vest before he found the words that he was groping for and said, "You're fired. I won't pay any deputy shows disrespect for citizens of Yankton County, whether it's by word or deed."

  "F-f-fired?" It wasn't soaking in. "Whadda you mean?"

  "You bought your own gun," Kersey told him. "Take it with you now and get out of my sight. I owe you three days severance. You can collect it at the courthouse, from the county treasurer, come Friday morning."

  Rice stood with his slack jaw moving like a fish would, stranded out of water, while the print of Kersey's hand began to redden on his cheek. "We'll see about this!" he managed at last. "We'll see, awright!"

  "I can't wait," Kersey said. "But in the meantime, get your ass on down the road."

  When Sandy left, slamming the door behind him, Kersey faced his visitors. "I owe you an apology," he said. "For Sandy's mouth, and to the ladies, anyhow, for my response. Now, if you'll tell your story to me from the top, I'll see what I can do to help."

  * * *

  They left the horses loosely tethered in a stand of trees, roughly two hundred yards from the main action at the Circle F, and moseyed on by slow degrees through dappled darkness until they crouched beside the barn in shadow darker than the starlit sky above. It took a while, but no one spotted them, and there was still no sign of anybody turning in for sleep before J.D. and Kate had reached their vantage point.

  It was impossible to count the outside enemy precisely, and they had no clue at all as to how many were in the boss's house, but every man they saw was packing iron. Say thirty of them, to be on the safe side, and from where J.D. was hiding, he could not have said that it felt safe at all.

  Had they faced worse odds in their time together? Possibly, if he considered San Francisco, with its racist vigilantes and its Chinese hatchet men, or when rogue Indians had cornered them a time or two. Saving the President of the United States from Rebel kidnappers had been a short stroll in the park compared to what they were confronting now, and J.D. frankly wasn't sure they'd make it out alive this time.

  Still, Kate was by his side, a hellion in the heat of battle, and he'd treasured every moment that they'd spent together since their meeting. There were far worse ways to end a story, he supposed, than fighting evil by the side of someone whom you loved completely and without the slightest reservation.

  "J.D.!" her voice reached him. "Are you dreaming over there?"

  He smiled at that. "Just looking for our next move, Hon."

  "I'd say we need to meet the man in charge, if we have any chance of ending this and getting out alive."

  "Sounds right. How would you do it, starting from the fix we're in?"

  "I'd creep around the backside of the second barn," she said, "and come in from their blind side. Bound to be a backdoor on a place that size, maybe a couple, if we count the kitchen entrance."

  J.D. couldn't think of anything that made more sense. He nodded, saying, "Works for me. Lead on, Lover."

  "Don't start that sweet talk," she admonished him, "just 'cause we're passing by a hayloft."

  "Maybe later," J.D. answered, thinking, If we're still alive.

  Chapter 13

  Sandy Rice had barely taken time to saddle up before he galloped out of town, eastbound. His face still burned from Jordan Kersey's slap, and it would damn sure leave a bruise, but he was getting over it—not the internal rage, oh no, but pushing past the pain and wonderment at all he'd lost within the past half-hour, and the puzzling over what would now become of him without a badge to make his power felt by lesser human beings.

  He was unemployed, for God's sake, and he didn't have a clue who'd hire him now, once word had made the rounds of why he was dismissed. No decent severance, goddamn it, and Rice wasn't even sure how he would make his rent next month, much less proceed to earn a living from there on.

  To hell with that!

  First thing, he had to warn his other boss, the one who maybe still employed him, of the danger Sandy smelled descending on the Circle F. Two bounty guns aside, it seemed as if the darkies might have Sheriff Kersey on their side, despite the cash and influence that Ellis Fields had spread around Yankton over the years. If it was true his lynching mob had run amok—and who could doubt it now, if Kersey bought the tale—it would be difficult to make a jury sympathetic, if and when Fields came to trial.

  And if he faced a murder charge, if twelve good men and true convicted him, he'd likely hang from Yankton's gallows before Christmastime.

  But Sandy Rice still thought there was a chance he could prevent all that. If he could only warn Fields, give the boss a chance to deal with the demented bounty hunters who had sided with the darkies and dispose of any other evidence he might have stashed around the Circle F, there was a chance he'd beat whatever case the sheriff tried to build against him. He could walk away from it, still rich and smelling like a bed of roses. Wouldn't he be grateful to the little man who made salvation possible when things looked bleak?

  Hell, yes!

  Rice wasn't simply riding like the Devil to protect himself from being dragged into the whole damned mess. He rode hell-bent for leather to ensure his golden future, free from worries about where his next meal and his next dollar were coming from. Rice rode into his future, and from this point there could be no wistful looking back.

  The trouble, as he recognized, was that he might not reach the Circle F in time. Oh, he'd get there ahead of Kersey, if the sheriff wasted time trying to raise a posse from among the townsmen, but from what Sandy had heard, the bounty killers—Kate and J.D. Blaze—were deadly in their own right, with a trail of bodies stretching out behind them, clear across the West and back again.

  Not that the two of them were superhuman. They could bleed, suffer, and die like anybody else. The problem was, how many others would they take down with them when they fell?

  Not me, Rice thought, but kept on galloping aboard his red dun stallion, straight into the jaws of Hell, with no exit that he could see beyond the flames.

  * * *

  It was pure dumb luck, J.D. decided, that a ranch hand stumbled onto them before they reached the kitchen door. In fact, the fellow had been coming through that door, with a big pan of wash water in hand, the suds long gone, and nearly doused them with it when he left the whole mess fly. That was around the same split-second when he spotted the intruders, man and woman, with their matching rifles pointed at his face.
r />   "Don't move!" Kate cautioned him. "Don't make a sound!"

  Dumb bastard dropped the empty washbowl, bashed his left foot in the process, but at least he didn't turn and bolt into the house, screaming. They didn't have to kill him.

  Yet.

  But J.D. guessed the guy had started thinking through his options in that same split-second, wondering if he could reach the six-gun on his hip or give a warning shout before they cut him down. Must have decided that he couldn't, since he raised his hands and asked them in a low-pitched voice, "The hell are you?"

  "We're Justice, here to see your boss man," Kate informed him. "Sorry if we're late."

  "Justice?" The ranch hand's slack and sallow features told J.D. he was confused. Sometimes, dear Kate was more poetic than she had to be and left the yokels wondering exactly what she'd meant to say.

  "Back up," J.D. commanded. "Ease that smoke pole from its holster, put it on the floor, and kick it out our way."

  The scared dishwasher did as he was told. His eyes were wild, rolling around the kitchen like a pair of dice thrown hard and long, but he was frightened for his life and rightly so, which kept him rooted in his tracks—at least, for now.

  "All right, now," J.D. spoke up, when they were all inside the kitchen and his wife had shut the door behind them. "Let's go meet your boss, shall we?"

  * * *

  As Jordan Kersey mounted up to ride, alone, he cursed the town of Yankton and the cowards who infested it. Kersey didn't keep his voice down, either, letting bloody-minded oaths echo from the façades on either side of Main Street as his minimal overo gelding galloped out of town and made tracks toward the Circle F.

  He'd known it likely was a waste of time, trying to raise a posse that would go against one of the richest men in Yankton County—or the whole Dakota Territory, for that matter. Anyone who tried to bring Fields down, and failed, would have a hard time living in the territory afterwards, unless he planned on risking hair and hide to pan for gold in the Black Hills.

  A hard road, any way you sliced it, and the sheriff's own brisk ride to ruin had begun.

  The townsmen all had good excuses, mind you: they had wives and children, shops or offices to run, with many of their businesses dependent on the Circle F to some degree. Few men cut off their noses just to spite their faces without thinking long and hard about it, and tonight, that kind of time was something Kersey absolutely did not have.