The Loner: Dead Man’s Gold

by J. A. Johnstone

  Chapter 24

  Over the past week, The Kid had been careful to make sure they stopped the wagon often and allowed the team to rest. Annabelle had assured him that she had followed the same policy before he joined forces with them.

  So the horses were in good shape, or at least as good a shape as they could be in, considering the heat and the poor graze and the distance they had covered.

  But the best wagon team in the world couldn’t outrun men on horseback for very long.

  The Kid knew that. That was why he hoped they could reach the old homestead at Aleman before their pursuers caught up with them. If they were caught out in the open, they wouldn’t have much chance of fighting off the attack.

  He angled the buckskin closer to the galloping horses and took off his hat. He used the Stetson to swat the nearest member of the team on the rump and yelled, “Hyaaah! Hyaaah!” All the horses surged ahead a little faster.

  The Kid twisted in the saddle to look back again. The dust cloud was visibly closer. He could make out dark specks at the base of it that were the riders whose mounts were kicking up all that dust.

  But when he glanced ahead again, he saw a green blur on the horizon in the distance. Annabelle had mentioned that there were trees growing at Aleman. That might be it, he thought. He hoped so, and hoped as well that some of the walls of that old homestead were still standing.

  Leaning forward in the saddle, he urged the buckskin on. His eyes were fixed on the clump of green, which grew steadily nearer. The Kid tried to keep his attention focused on that goal, but every minute or so, he couldn’t resist the impulse to glance back.

  Every time he did, the pursuit was closer.

  The wagon swayed wildly as Annabelle kept the team moving at top speed. The effect of every little bump or rut was magnified. A new worry began to gnaw at The Kid’s brain. If the wagon turned over, it was highly likely those water barrels lashed to its sides would burst open. That would be a catastrophe and would almost certainly doom them to a slow, lingering death by thirst.

  But allowing their pursuers to catch up to them might be just as dangerous, he thought. Fortunato might keep them alive for a while, but The Kid had a feeling that if the Italian count got his hands on what he wanted, he wouldn’t leave any witnesses behind to tell the story.

  It was a calculated risk either way. The Kid didn’t tell Annabelle to slow down. If Father Jardine knew any special prayers, he needed to be saying them. The horses pulling the wagon had about five minutes, maybe less, left in them at that speed.

  Within a minute, The Kid began to make out individual trees. They were cottonwoods, which usually indicated the presence of water. He could understand why that would-be rancher had thought this might be a good place for a homestead. If it had worked out, the hombre would have had hundreds of square miles to himself. Nobody else wanted the range out there—and, as it turned out, for good reason.

  He spotted some ruins among the trees and called to Annabelle, “There! Head for those walls! Find the best cover you can!”

  “What are you going to do?” she shouted back at them.

  The Kid pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot. “Try to discourage those varmints!”

  “You can’t just start shooting at them!” Father Jardine cried. “You don’t know that they mean us any harm!”

  The Kid was about to reply that he thought chasing them was indication enough that the riders weren’t their friends, but he didn’t have to say even that much. He heard the faint popping of gunfire over the pounding of the horses’ hooves.

  “They’re shooting at us, padre!” he shouted. “That’s plenty reason for me!”

  He hauled on the reins and wheeled the buckskin around in a wide circle as the wagon raced toward the ruins at Aleman. As the horse came to a stop under him, The Kid lifted the rifle to his shoulder and began cranking off rounds toward the onrushing horsebackers as fast as he could work the weapon’s lever. He wasn’t trying for accuracy, since the riders were still several hundred yards away, and he didn’t even care if he hit any of them—although a lucky shot or two that knocked a couple of them out of the saddle would be welcome. He was just trying to get their attention and maybe slow them down a mite.

  More shots came from the pursuers, but they fell short, kicking up dust about fifty yards in front of The Kid. He supposed his bullets were landing short of the attackers, too. He raised the barrel of his rifle several inches and fired again.

  The adjustment was rewarded by the sight of one of the riders suddenly leaning far back in his saddle, then toppling off. The Kid knew his shot had scored a hit. It was ninety-nine percent luck, of course, but he would take it.

  The puffs of dust from the pursuers’ slugs hitting the ground were getting closer. The Kid whirled the buckskin and dug his boot heels into the horse’s flanks. The buckskin leaped into a gallop again as The Kid pounded after the wagon. Bullets fired by the riders continued to seek him, but he outran all of them.

  Dust swirled up from the wagon wheels as Annabelle sent the vehicle racing behind the walls of the old homestead. Those walls had crumbled in places, although they were largely intact. There was no roof on the building, nor any doors or windows in the openings. The Kid supposed the rancher hadn’t gotten that far in his construction project. The walls were made of adobe and appeared to be pretty thick. The Kid was glad to see that. A thick adobe wall would stop a bullet every time.

  By the time he rode around the old house, Annabelle and Father Jardine had climbed down from the wagon seat. The Kid swung out of the saddle while the buckskin was still skidding to a halt. He waved toward the ruins and called, “Get inside! Stay low!”

  Father Jardine hurried into the building, but Annabelle ran to the back of the wagon and reached over the tailgate. The Kid was about to yell at her again to get behind some cover, but then she brought her hand out of the wagon with a rifle in it. She obviously intended to do her part in mounting a defense, and considering the way she had fought when those Apaches attacked them, The Kid wasn’t surprised.

  “Find a window,” he told her as they both ducked through an empty door into the ruins. “We can hold them off from in here.”

  Father Jardine stood with his back against a wall between two windows. His eyes were closed and his lips were moving. The Kid hoped the priest could do enough praying for all three of them, because he figured he and Annabelle would be a mite busy shooting for a while.

  He knelt at one of the windows and poked the Winchester’s barrel over the sill. The riders were still charging toward the ruins.

  “Let ’em have it!” he told Annabelle.

  The whipcrack reports of rifle shots echoed from the old walls as The Kid and Annabelle both opened fire. The Kid’s Winchester clicked on an empty chamber after four rounds. He reached in his pocket, dug out a handful of fresh cartridges, and began thumbing them through the loading gate. He filled the magazine, then began firing again.

  The riders spread out and began to turn back. The Kid couldn’t tell if he and Annabelle had downed any more of them. It was hard to tell because of the dust, but he thought there were about half a dozen men out there. Those weren’t terrible odds, considering that he and his companions had a fairly strong defensive position.

  Then a potentially fatal weakness occurred to him, and he bit back a curse as he turned away from the window.

  “Kid, what is it?” Annabelle called.

  “I have to do something with the wagon and the team,” he said. “We can’t let those bastards get at them.”

  “The water!” Annabelle said in a voice choked with horror. “If they shot the water barrels—”

  The Kid didn’t hear the rest of it. He ran out the door on the other side of the ruins, where they had left the wagon and the team.

  There was another old building about fifty yards away that had crumbled even more. It must have been intended to be the barn, he thought, because the opening in the front of it was wide enough for two big do
ors. More importantly, it was wide enough for the wagon to fit through it.

  The Kid turned and called over his shoulder to Annabelle, “There’s an old barn over there! I’m going to put the wagon in it. Come on while we’ve got the chance!”

  The riders had pulled back to regroup and figure out what they were going to do next, but The Kid knew it wouldn’t be long before they attacked again. He grabbed the harness of one of the lead horses and tugged the animal toward the old, abandoned barn. The rest of the team followed.

  The Kid heard a couple of shots behind him as he led the horses toward the barn. Then Annabelle and Father Jardine ran out of the house and hurried after the wagon.

  “I gave them a couple shots to keep them thinking,” Annabelle said. “That might delay them a few more seconds.”

  “We can use all the seconds we can get,” The Kid agreed.

  They were about halfway to the barn when Father Jardine cried, “Here they come again!”

  The Kid heard the shots but kept his attention focused on the job at hand, which was getting the wagon—and those precious water barrels—safely behind some thick walls.

  “Go ahead!” he called to his companions. “Get inside the barn!”

  “You go, Father,” Annabelle said. “I’ll hold them off.”

  She turned, lifted the rifle to her shoulder, and began firing again. The Kid didn’t hold the curse back this time as he looked over his shoulder and saw what she was doing. Standing out there in the open like that, she was a perfect target.

  For some reason, no shots came anywhere near her. The Kid expected slugs to kick up dust around her feet, but it didn’t happen. It was almost like the pursuers were deliberately trying not to shoot her.

  As soon as that thought went through his head, The Kid knew it was true. He knew, as well, that those gunmen worked for Count Eduardo Fortunato. The count wanted Annabelle alive, because she knew where to look for the Konigsberg Candlestick and the secret of the Twelve Pearls. The same probably held true for Father Jardine.

  He was the only one who was truly expendable, The Kid thought with a grim smile as he led the horses through the opening where the barn’s double doors should have been. He whistled for the buckskin to follow them into the barn.

  One wall was still mostly intact. The Kid led the team over to it. That would give the wagon the most protection possible in those ruins. He left it there and ran back to the entrance, where Father Jardine waited.

  “Go get under the wagon and stay there, Father,” The Kid said. “Unless you want to grab a gun and join the fight.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Then stay out of the way,” The Kid said. He didn’t mean to be rude about it, but he wasn’t going to waste any time trying to spare the priest’s feelings.

  He looked out and saw Annabelle backing toward the barn, still firing the rifle as she retreated. The riders dashed toward the old house where The Kid and his companions had first taken shelter. Annabelle tried to keep them from reaching the cover, but they galloped behind the ruins too fast for her to stop them.

  “Come on!” The Kid called. “Get in here, Doctor!”

  Annabelle turned and ran toward the barn entrance. At the same time, shots blasted from the corner of the house as some of the enemy threw lead at The Kid as he stood there. He ducked back as dust and chips of adobe flew into the air where the slugs smacked into the wall beside his head.

  Then Annabelle let out a sharp cry and fell, sprawling facedown on the ground ten yards short of the barn.

  Chapter 25

  “Son of a bitch!” Thomas Novak grated between clenched teeth. “You weren’t supposed to shoot the girl, Wesley!”

  The snake-eyed youngster turned his head and glanced at Novak. “I didn’t,” he said. “I was aiming at the hombre in the barn. Didn’t come anywhere close to the girl.”

  “Maybe one of the others winged her. I hope she’s not hurt too bad. That fella Fortunato won’t like it if she is.”

  “Wait a minute,” Wesley said as he and Novak crouched at one corner of the ruins. “She’s on her feet again.”

  Novak was glad to see that. He watched as Dr. Dare limped into the barn. He hated to let her get under cover like that, but there was no way they could stop her without shooting her, and Fortunato had made it clear that the redheaded young woman had to survive, along with the priest. That made the job a lot harder…but they would be getting well paid for it, Novak supposed.

  Bayne and Hobart had gone to the other end of the old building. Green was still coming up with the pack animals and the extra horses, and Donaldson was with him, nursing the wounded arm that had gotten ventilated while they were chasing their quarry.

  And somewhere back there were Count Fortunato and that prissy, smart-ass servant of his. Novak figured they would stay well out of the line of fire and show up after the fighting was over.

  The next couple of minutes proved him wrong. He heard hoofbeats and looked over his shoulder to see Fortunato approaching the ruins at a gallop, trailed by a wildly bouncing Arturo. The two men hauled back on their reins and brought their horses to a stop, Arturo shouting frantically, “Whoa! Whoa! ” as he did so.

  Fortunato dismounted and came over to the corner where Novak and Wesley waited. Arturo remained in the saddle, slumped forward over the horn as he clutched it and tried to catch his breath.

  “Where are they?” Fortunato demanded.

  “In that old barn over yonder,” Novak replied as he inclined his head in that direction. “They were able to get the wagon in there before we could stop them.”

  “So they have plenty of water and supplies.”

  Novak shrugged.

  “This is a standoff, then,” Fortunato said, anger edging into his tone. “I had hoped that you could prevent them from reaching shelter.”

  “I hoped so, too,” Novak said. He kept a tight rein on his temper and told himself not to let the count’s arrogant attitude get under his skin. “But they saw us coming up behind them too soon. We just didn’t have time to catch them before they got here.”

  “What about Dr. Dare and the priest? Are they both all right?”

  Novak hesitated. If he told Fortunato that the woman might be wounded, the Italian would probably fly off the handle. Anyway, Dr. Dare had gotten up and hustled on into the old barn under her own power. She’d been limping, but other than that she’d appeared to be all right. If she was injured, chances were that it wasn’t too bad.

  “They’re fine as far as I know,” he said, then glanced at Wesley to make sure the young killer wouldn’t contradict him. Wesley was watching the barn, though, and didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the conversation between Novak and Fortunato.

  The count grunted. “Good. It’s possible they may have written down what I need to know, but we can’t depend on that. I need them alive.”

  “What about the other hombre?” Novak asked. “I know you said before that you were curious about him, but he wounded one of my men at long range. He may be too good with a gun. We may have to kill him to take him down.”

  “Do what must be done,” Fortunato said. “My ultimate goal is much more important than any curiosity I may have about that stranger.”

  Novak nodded. “All right. We’ll have to figure out a way to smoke them out of there. Right now, it’s a standoff, like you said, Count.”

  From horseback, Arturo said, “If I might…make a suggestion?” He was still a little breathless from the hard ride.

  Fortunato and Novak both turned to look at the servant in surprise.

  Arturo went on, “It appears that only Dr. Dare and the young man were firing at you and your men, Mr. Novak. I doubt if the priest’s moral code will allow him to use firearms.”

  “So?” Novak said.

  “That means they can only defend two sides of their shelter at once. It has four sides, does it not?”

  Novak frowned. “You mean we should split up and come at th
em from all four directions at once?”

  “It strikes me as a strategem that would have considerable chances for success. All you need to do is get one man into the barn so that he can kill the stranger, and then Dr. Dare and the priest will have no choice but to surrender.”

  Fortunato said, “You underestimate Dr. Dare, Arturo. As you said, she was using a gun, too.”

  “But surely she would be disheartened by her ally’s demise. If she has an advanced university degree in history, she must be intelligent enough to know that she stands no chance of defending herself and Father Jardine successfully without the help of their unknown friend.”

  Novak rubbed his lantern jaw in thought. “I don’t much like the idea of splitting up…”

  “A general dividing his forces to attack from more than one direction is a time-honored military tactic,” Arturo insisted. “I’ve read a number of books on military strategy.”

  Novak looked at Fortunato. “What do you think, Count?”

  “We have them outnumbered by four to one,” Fortunato said. “It seems foolish not to take advantage of that superiority.”

  “Four to one? I make it three to one, once Green and Donaldson get here.”

  Fortunato shook his head. “No, there will be eight of us if Arturo and I join in the attack.”

  “Wait just a moment, Excellency!” Arturo exclaimed. “I never said that I should take part, let alone yourself—”

  A wolfish grin spread across Fortunato’s face as he said, “No, you’re right, Arturo. Splitting our forces is indeed a good tactic. Now get that gun of yours out, because you’re going to get to see firsthand how it works.”

  The Kid’s heart had leaped into his throat when he saw Annabelle go down. Despite knowing that it was the wrong thing to do, his instincts were about to send him dashing into the open to help her, when she looked up and called to him, “I’m all right.”

  Then she scrambled to her feet and ran into the barn, although she was limping rather heavily and wincing as she hurried inside.