by Lyle Brandt
“Where in hell is he?” Rafferty demanded of the hand who’d fetched him.
“Over by the barn, I think. Leastways, that what they said.”
“Who’s they?”
“Whoever seen him. Wanna come and look, Boss?”
“You go on,” said Rafferty. “I’ll circle round the back.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“Won’t be necessary. Just do like I told you.”
“Sure. Okay.”
Alone once more, Rafferty turned and started for the stable he’d had built at the same time the barn had been converted into a distillery. The only thought remaining to him now was saddling the fastest horse he had and getting back to town.
Slade wasn’t sure exactly where the first shot came from. He’d left his mare in the cornfield, proceeding on foot toward the barn with a quarter moon overhead screened by thin clouds. When he had almost reached the hulking structure, someone shouted from the shadows, “Hey! Somebody’s over there!”
The rifle shot came close behind that warning, launching Slade into a sprint that let him reach the barn before one shot became a crackle of incoming fire. He knelt and risked a low-down glance around the corner that concealed him, spotted half a dozen muzzle flashes in the dark all aimed in his direction, and retreated out of range.
Not what he’d had in mind at all, hoping to get a closer look around the place without sparking a fight. He hadn’t seen the still yet, much less got a line on Rafferty, and now the hunters stalking him made both prospects unlikely.
They had been expecting him, that much was clear. Or, rather, they had been expecting someone. In the dark, Slade knew no one had seen his face yet, or his badge. Even the lookout he’d left tied up in the cornfield had been taken by surprise, with no chance to identify his ambusher. Slade felt a sudden kind of freedom, knowing he could get away with damn near anything, as long as no one made him for a lawman.
He could even up the score for Tanner and Luke Naylor. He could lay waste to the moonshine ring without a second thought to following procedure. Who would ever know, besides himself?
But first, he had to stay alive. Survival, always, was the top priority.
Slade moved along the west wall of the barn, smelling the mash cooking inside, and found a side door with a simple latch but no padlock. He slipped inside, gunshots still peppering the corner where his enemies had seen him last, the shooters working up their nerve to rush him. Standing in the barn, the giant still in front of him, Slade saw its copper mass burnished by lamplight. Unattended at the moment, still it cooked around the clock, turning out liquid gold for Rafferty.
Poison for reservation dwellers. Death for lawmen who investigated.
Slade took the nearest of two lamps, left burning in the barn, and placed it near the metal drum set up to catch Rafferty’s ’shine as it came dripping from the coil. Retreating half a dozen paces then, he raised his shotgun, aimed, and fired.
Slade’s buckshot pellets smashed the lamp, punctured the drum of alcohol, and in a fraction of a second sent a fireball wafting toward the high-peaked ceiling of the barn. He was already at the exit when the drum of alcohol exploded, spraying liquid fire around the walls and floor, prompting more shouts from Rafferty’s collected gunmen in the yard outside.
Trying to save the barn and still should keep most of them busy while he ran through darkness toward the ranch house, seeking Rafferty. With any luck, the shooters might believe he was inside and frying, maybe even blame themselves for sparking the inferno with a careless shot.
Stick to the fire, he thought.
But if they followed him, they would regret it. Some unto their dying day.
Rafferty buckled the flank cinch on his saddle, gave the rig a tug, then hauled himself aboard the restless grullo stallion, reaching back to double-check his rifle in its scabbard. One more second to adjust the Colt revolver tucked beneath his belt, to stop its muzzle jabbing at his groin, and Rafferty was off, spurring the animal around behind his house and toward the road that would eventually take him back to Stateline.
His home had turned into a battleground, and he was glad to let his hired hands do the fighting. Why risk his life to stick around and watch it, when the men he paid to take risks for him were already on the job?
He’d covered thirty yards or so when an explosion rocked the property and made him rein in, looking back in the direction of his house and barn. It only took a second for the flames inside the barn to catch, their harsh light plainly visible around the large front door and through the loft’s wide-open loading bay. Outside the burning structure, men were running every which way in the yard, shouting to one another, pausing here and there to fire a shot at God knew what or whom.
Gripped by a sudden rush of panic, Rafferty faced back into the dark and snapped his grullo’s reins to get the stallion galloping along the access road and back to town. His mind was in chaotic turmoil, part of it intensely focused on escape, the rest reeling from shock of grim disaster ravaging his master plan. Wind in his face chilled Rafferty without refreshing him or cutting through the haze of dread that kept pace with his running animal.
All right, the still was gone, but he could always have a new one built. Same with the barn. The first priority was getting out from under federal scrutiny, wiping the slate and buying time to put his house in order, be prepared for when Judge Dennison dispatched another team of snoops to nose around.
And if he couldn’t manage that?
Then racing through the night to Stateline wouldn’t be the end of running, only the beginning. With a stack of murder warrants haunting him, there’d be no safe place left for Rafferty to hide. His hard work and the blood he’d shed would all have been for nothing. Wasted.
But he wouldn’t go without a fight. Whatever happened at the ranch, he still had Grady Sullivan and more men waiting for him back in town. A last chance to prevent the loss he’d suffered at the Rocking R tonight from overwhelming him.
A chance. But it would only work on one condition. Rafferty was sure of that, if nothing else.
Jack Slade would have to die.
The barn was burning fiercely now, its light revealing Flynn Rafferty’s gunmen as they tried to duck and hide, their giant shadows stretching out behind them. Slade crouched at the northwest corner of the ranch house, watching them run helter-skelter through the yard, firing at random when they spotted a suspected target. Any minute now, he thought they might start shooting one another, and he left them to it.
Rafferty was not among the shooters Slade had seen so far, which likely meant that he was still inside the house, letting his hirelings fight his battle for him. Rather than attempt to enter through the front door, bathed in firelight from the yard and likely covered from inside, Slade jogged around behind the rambling structure, looking for another entrance. He found a door that granted access to the kitchen, and was pleased to feel the knob turn in his hand.
Slade entered cautiously, closing the door softly behind him so it wouldn’t draw attention from the circling gunmen, standing open. He considered latching it, as well, then changed his mind as he envisioned being trapped inside, denied a swift retreat by something he had done himself. Moving as quietly as possible, trusting the racket from outside to cover any passing noise he made, he crossed the kitchen, cleared a spacious formal dining room, and pressed on through the house, seeking its owner.
Slade was ready with the twelve-gauge when he left the dining room and stepped into a hallway running north-south through the center of the house. In front of him, a slender man stood frozen in surprise. Chinese, maybe the cook, since he was clutching a meat cleaver in one hand.
“You’ll want to drop that,” Slade suggested and relaxed a little as the cleaver hit the floor, piercing one of the boards and standing upright, quivering from impact.
“No shoot, please!”
“I don’t plan on it. Where’s your boss?” Slade asked.
“Gone off on horse, good-bye!�
��
“And when was this?”
“Five minutes, maybe.”
“Going where?” asked Slade.
A shrug. “He don’t tell me.”
Stateline. It had to be, unless…
“If I find out you’re lying to me—”
“Not lying! Check all house, you want to see.”
The cook’s apparent indignation sold it. Slade retreated, covering him just in case he made a lunge to reach the cleaver, then ran back the way he’d come, through the dining room and kitchen, out into the night.
Rafferty’s men had given up on hunting him, it seemed. Slade saw a couple of them standing guard, the others trying futilely to fight the fire with buckets full of water, flinging them against a solid wall of flame that mocked their puny efforts with its roar. He left them to it, ran around the house to keep its bulk between him and the shooters, trusting luck at last to cover him when he was in the open, dashing for the cornfield.
And his luck was holding—anyway, enough to keep from being shot down in the yard. The other side of that was missing Rafferty at home and maybe losing him completely. If his guess was wrong, and Rafferty didn’t return to Stateline, Slade would guarantee his getaway by riding back to town. That was a long shot, though, logic dictating that the fugitive would try to salvage what he could from this night’s loss, maybe hole up at the Sunflower overnight, or at the very least retrieve cash for the road from his saloon.
Slade found his roan, ignored the moaning lookout he’d left trussed up in the corn nearby, and saddled up. Five minutes later he was on the road, nearing the gate that advertised the Rocking R. When he reached the county highway, Slade turned south toward Stateline, hoping that he hadn’t thrown away his last, best chance to overtake his quarry.
Grim-faced in the night, he galloped back toward town.
18
“So, is he coming after you or not?” asked Grady Sullivan.
“The hell should I know?” Rafferty snapped back at him. “I’m here. He’s there, or somewhere in between.”
Sullivan knew better than to insult his boss by calling him a yellow dog. Instead, he nodded understanding. Said, “You got a dozen men out there. Maybe they’ve finished him by now.”
“Maybe.” Rafferty drank the whiskey Sullivan had poured him. Not his first tonight, by any means, the way he’d smelled when he came barging in. “You didn’t see them mill around like goddamn chickens with their heads cut off.”
“Trying to save the barn and still, you said.”
“Too late! The place went up in nothing flat. They gave up hunting Slade the minute that they saw the fire.”
“If it was Slade,” said Sullivan.
Rafferty stopped his pacing, glared at him. “Who else?”
Sullivan shrugged. “Maybe the judge sent other deputies to help him out by now.”
“Why would he? Do you know something?”
“No, Boss. I—”
“Did he find someone to help him use the goddamn telegraph?”
“Not that I know of.”
Rafferty sneered, moving to pour himself another drink. “I wonder sometimes what you know,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that for my second in command, you seem to let things get away from you.”
“Your second in command? Since when?” asked Sullivan, feeling the rise of anger warm his cheeks.
“Well, who else is there?”
“Cap’n Gallagher, until you slit his throat. And Berringer.”
“A damn bookkeeper, counting redskins on the reservation. Christ, he wouldn’t know a pistol from a piss pot.”
“I can tell the difference,” said Sullivan. “But I can’t shoot what I can’t see.”
“He’ll be here,” Rafferty insisted. “If he makes it off the Rocking R alive, he’ll come for me.”
“And if he don’t? How long are we supposed to wait around?”
“Daylight. If there’s no sign of him by then, we’ll send one of the men out for a look around the place. How many do you have in town?”
“Still five,” said Sullivan. Thinking, Same as the last two times you asked.
“We need to get them spotted, watching out for Slade.”
“Already done. I told you that.”
“You did?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right.” The big man slugged his liquor down, then laid the glass aside. “We’ll hole up here and wait till someone spots him. If he makes it.”
“What about the warehouse?” Sullivan inquired.
“It’s safe enough for now. Six men should be enough to stop him,” Rafferty replied.
Meaning I’m in it, too, thought Sullivan. About damn time.
And said, “Six here, if he already got away from twelve.”
“Their hearts weren’t in it, Grady. If you could’ve seen them…”
“Headless chickens. Got it.”
“Show him to me dead, and there’s a thousand-dollar bonus in it for you.”
“It’ll be my pleasure, Boss.”
“And no mistakes this time.”
“I’ll see to it myself.” Thinking, The way I should’ve done, first thing.
“You’d better make the rounds and keep them sharp,” said Rafferty.
“Just thinkin’ that, myself.”
“Oh, what about the captain?” Rafferty inquired, as Sullivan was leaving.
“Got him tucked away, together with his soldier boys. After we finish up with Slade, I’ll take ’em out and set up somethin’ for the law to find.”
Rafferty nodded and turned back to the whiskey bottle. Sullivan was glad to get away from him and out into the night. Hoping Slade was alive, and that he’d turn up soon.
This time, he thought, we do it right.
• • •
Slade circled wide around Stateline to enter from the east. It cost him time, but there were hours yet till daylight, and he knew that any lookouts Rafferty had posted would expect him to be coming from the north or west. Making his way back into town unseen might not be half the battle, but it was a decent start.
It would have helped to know how many guns were waiting for him, but he’d never got a final tally on how many Rafferty employed. Whatever, they’d been whittled down by six before tonight, not counting bluecoats, and he’d left at least a dozen at the Rocking R, trying to keep the barn fire from expanding to consume the house and other outbuildings.
How many more were waiting for him now, he only needed to uncover one of them.
Flynn Rafferty.
And then what? Play the cards as they were dealt, and see what happened next.
There was no outcry and no shooting as he left his roan behind the Stateline Arms, untied and free to run away if anything went wrong. Not safe, exactly, but it was the best that he could do under the circumstances. Leaving her, he took both long guns with him—one for range, the other for its close-up stopping power.
Ready for the worst Stateline and Rafferty could throw at him.
The only foot traffic that Slade could see on Border Boulevard consisted of a few men passing in and out of each saloon, downrange. The Sunflower and Swagger Inn were making money, making noise, while the remainder of their neighbors slept, or tried to. Slade stood peering from an alleyway beside the barber’s shop, watching for any sign of lookouts on the street, but couldn’t spot them. Either they were hidden well, or Rafferty had posted them at vantage points where they could scan the road and prairie north of town.
Too late for that, since he was on the inside now and drawing closer to his quarry.
Rafferty would be inside the Sunflower, Slade reasoned. All he had to do was cross the street and work his way around behind the shops on Border Boulevard’s north side, find the saloon’s back door, and drop into surprise its owner. The Sunflower was a public place, no warrant needed for a visit to the premises, and if someone sprang an ambush on him, Slade would naturally have to a
ct in self-defense.
Of course, if Rafferty experienced an unexpected impulse to surrender and confess his crimes, Slade would be pleased to listen and arrest him. There’d already been enough blood spilled—too much, in fact—for one investigation.
Slade stepped from the alley, glanced both ways along the street once more, then started for the other side. An easy jog, nothing to draw attention from the drinkers down the street, but neither did he want to linger in the open any longer than required.
Halfway across, something buzzed past his face, an angry wasp’s sound, then he heard the sharp crack of a rifle shot from somewhere to his right. In the direction of the Sunflower Saloon. Instead of looking for the shooter, trying to return fire, Slade kicked into top speed, sprinting for the far side of the street. He made it as a second shot rang out and struck one of the posts holding an awning up in front of lawyer Coltrane’s office.
Then another alley swallowed Slade, and he was on his way.
Surrender, hell. The fight was on.
Grady Sullivan cursed his wasted shot and shook his Winchester, as if it were the rifle’s fault. In fact, he knew he’d been too hasty on the first one, jerked the trigger when he should’ve squeezed it gently, and the second had been close to hopeless once his target started sprinting through the shadows.
“Shit fire!”
Now he had to scramble like a madman, out of Rosy Harrow’s little room, located at the southeast corner of the second floor, and back downstairs to meet Slade if he tried to get inside the Sunflower. The echo of his rifle shots had spoiled the party going on downstairs, dried up the jangling piano music and Rosy’s off-key voice trying to sing along.
To hell with it. If Rafferty lost money getting rid of Slade, whose fault was that? Sullivan thought they should’ve killed both marshals on the same day they arrived in Stateline, but his boss had called for caution, prudence, all of it a goddamn waste of time. Now they were sunk unless he dealt with Slade immediately, and the boss was out God only knew how many thousands of his hard-earned dollars anyhow.
