by Ralph Cotton
“Jesus, Ranger . . . ,” she said, as if suddenly understanding that he was not out to harm her if he could keep from it. “I do owe you something.” She looked around at the other cells and the three sleeping prisoners, as if she was prepared to offer herself to him somehow, right then and there.
“No, you don’t,” Sam said quickly. “I did it because I believe it. The self-defense I had some trouble seeing, but I managed, knowing the kind of men you ride with.”
“What about the jailbreak?” Kitty asked. “Am I going to learn to sew because of that?”
Sam knew what she meant. The women’s prison she’d go to trained its prisoners to become seamstresses. “I’m afraid so,” he said.
“How long?” she asked with a grim expression.
“I don’t know,” said Sam. “We’ll find out today when he holds court here.”
“All right,” said Kitty. “It looks like this beats what I could have gotten—hoisted up and hung from the boardwalk rafters.” She looked at Sam with stripes of black bar shadows falling across her in the grainy light. “Nothing has gone right for me since I met you, Territory Ranger Samuel Burrack.”
“I wish it wasn’t that way,” Sam offered.
Kitty shrugged it off. “Anyway, what about the key? Does the judge know anything?”
“There’s nothing to know,” Sam said. “Cadden had it. I took it back.” He gave her poker-faced stare.
“Don’t try bluffing me around, Ranger. I was here. Remember?” she whispered.
He stared at her.
“Don’t worry, I’m not saying anything,” Kitty said. “I don’t want to harm the girl. She got here the same way I did, on an orphan train.”
“You came west on the orphan train?” he asked.
“Yep,” Kitty said, “around the same time she did. It seems like a hundred years ago.” She raised the side of her hair and showed him a scar where once a brothel tattoo had been crudely removed. “I’m glad she made it.” She offered a tired smile.
Sam started to say something more, but before he could speak, a bullet sliced through the front window at an angle, ricocheted off the rifle rack and sped all the way back to the cells. It struck an iron bar with a loud ring, then bounced over and thumped into the wall.
“Get down!” Sam shouted as more shots slammed the front of the building, and the thunder of horses’ hooves and war cries resounded along the dirt street.
Chapter 24
Running in a crouch, the ranger reached the desk, where Longworth had ducked down and taken cover. The detective had one boot on and one boot off, having started to put them on while he waited for the coffee to boil. On the floor lay the coffeepot, a bullet through its center and a pool of hot coffee steaming around it. Sam reached around the desk and grabbed his rifle and Longworth’s from where they’d both leaned the firearms when he’d arrived.
Sam handed Longworth his rifle. “Are you hit?” he asked the shaken detective as the sound of hooves rumbled farther along the street, then came to halt and turned at the far end of town.
“I’m good. You?” said Longworth, excited. He reached up and grabbed his gun belt from atop the desk and swung it around his waist. “It sounds like Indians,” he said.
“I’m betting it’s Silva Ceran and his bunch,” said the ranger, his Colt out, cocked and ready. They heard the gunfire continue as the riders attempted to keep the street cleared of any townsmen who might offer resistance.
“They’re coming back,” said Longworth.
He and the ranger hurried to the front window and looked out through the shattered glass and up the street toward a billowing cloud of dust from the horses’ hooves, as the animals bunched up, making their turn. Seeing the rough-looking band of Indians, outlaws and Comanchero that would be boring down on them any second, Sam ran to the gun rack, jerked up a small wooden box of rifle ammunition and headed for the door.
“Hold this place down. I’ll get across the street and draw their fire,” he said over his shoulder.
“I’ve got it,” said Longworth.
As the ranger left, the detective hurriedly locked the door, shoved the oak desk over against it and ran back to the window as hooves began to rumble back down the street.
“I’m the one they’ve come for, Detective,” Kitty shouted from her cell. “Turn me loose while there’s still time.”
“She’s right—listen to her,” said Paco. “Silva ‘the Snake’ wants her free—and me too. The Snake will destroy this town if you do not let us go! Bloody Wolf and his warriors are riding with him!”
“Bloody Wolf!” said Cadden Cullen. “Holy God, Detective! They’re telling you the truth! Turn us all loose! Save yourself. They’ll tear this town down around you.”
Longworth ignored the three. At the front window he rounded his rifle barrel inside the frame, knocking the remaining shards of glass from his line of fire.
Across the street, the ranger had taken cover at the edge of an alley. He looked toward the riders just as they’d made their turn and started back toward the sheriff’s office. “Bloody Wolf Quintos . . . ,” he said to himself, seeing the Indian at the center of the gathering riders.
He pulled his rifle butt to his shoulder to take aim, but as he did so, Little Tongue let out a terrible screeching sound and jumped his horse over in front of Quintos, blocking the ranger’s shot. Blocking, but not stopping; Sam pulled the trigger and cut the screeching short. Little Tongue flew from his horse and landed dead in the dirt.
Seeing his top scout go down, Quintos let out a war cry and charged forward, leading the riders along the dirt street. Sam levered a fresh round into his Winchester as Silva Ceran came into sight out of the swirling dust. The Snake, Sam said to himself. I knew you’d be here.
As Sam fired, a bullet grazed his shoulder. But his shot still found its target. Ceran flew from his saddle and rolled away on the ground. Sam saw him rise to his feet and hurry out of sight into an alley. “Trueblood! You son of a bitch!” Ceran bellowed, seeing Delbert Trueblood make a break for it, now that he knew Ceran was down and couldn’t stop him.
Firing erupted from doorways and second-floor windows, from townsmen who had spent the night in town. They were still armed from the night before and ready for a fight, especially with members of the gang associated with the prisoners who’d killed their beloved Dr. Ford and their detective chief.
The ranger took quick aim and fired; one of Quintos’ warriors flew from his saddle. Two more bullets from two other directions twisted the outlaw back and forth before he hit the ground. Sam saw the black horse doctor step out of a doorway in his faded green suit and his battered top hat. He raised his long shotgun and emptied both barrels into the former Reverend Alvin Prew as Prew tried to take aim at him with a big Remington revolver. The exminister’s head exploded in every direction in a spray of blood, brain and bone matter. The doctor dropped back out of sight to reload.
Seeing Prew’s frightened horse run in an aimless circle, Silva Ceran leaped forward from his cover, grabbed it, swung atop and rode off the street as the others charged forward in a thick cloud of dust. Uh-uh, Ceran. You’re not getting behind the cells, the ranger told himself, running back across the street, firing into the riders as he went.
From the broken window, Longworth shouted at Sam as he continued firing into the charging riders. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going after the Snake. He’s trying to circle back behind you. Keep watch on the back door.”
“Will do. Go get him,” Longworth shouted loudly, excited both by the gun battle and the fact that the town appeared to be winning.
As the ranger headed into the alleyway alongside the new buildings, he heard a loud war cry from the balcony out in front of the judge’s room overlooking the street. In a quick glance, he saw Judge Olin standing in his long, striped nightshirt, firing wildly with a long Colt Horse Pistol. Then he saw the judge hurry back inside just in time as the balcony boards began to pop, buckle and fall benea
th his weight.
At the corner of the wide alley running behind the new sheriff’s office, Sam stopped and raised his Colt from his holster. He took a quick peep around the edge of the clapboard building and checked the Colt while he waited, knowing this was where Ceran would be headed. From the cell window he heard Kitty calling out in a guarded tone of voice, “Silva, in here. I’m in here.”
“So am I, Snake. Come and get us,” Paco called out, not as quietly.
Sam waited, hearing the melee in the street continue to rage. But he noted that the war cries from the Indians, the outlaws and the Comancheros had diminished, replaced by the whooping and cursing of the townsmen taking control of the battle.
When Trueblood had ridden off of the street, he had no idea that Ceran would be riding right behind him. At the corner of the alley four blocks from the jail, he dropped from his saddle and looked at the bloody wound in his upper arm.
“I’ve had it,” Trueblood gasped, out of breath. He leaned back and bowed his head for a moment, the pain in his arm throbbing, his tightly stitched face showing no signs of improvement, no letup in pain. Hearing the fight in the street not going well for his side, he said, “I’m out of here,” and started to swing back up into his saddle.
“Not so fast, you coward son of a bitch!” Ceran said, sliding his horse to a halt at the edge of the building, seeing that Trueblood was about to run out on him. He held a Colt pointed at Trueblood from less then twelve feet away. “You’ve still got to settle up with me.”
Trueblood was tired and aching and right then couldn’t care less if he caught a bullet in the head. “What do you want from me, Silva?” he asked, no longer afraid of dying.
“What do I want? I want to see your face when I have Kitty out of jail and standing face-to-face with you. I want to hear what happened out there, with you and her and Weeks, after this ranger chased all of yas out of here.”
“You want to know, I’ll tell you,” said Trueblood, as the firing on the street still roared. “Kitty’s horse went down. She bargained with me and Weeks for a ride.”
“Bargained what?” Ceran asked, an even darker look coming over his face.
“What do you think?” Trueblood said boldly. “We bargained for some of that fine tail we’ve been watching you sniff along behind all these months.”
“Why you—” Ceran gripped the Colt tighter, taking aim.
“Go on, get it done,” said Trueblood, liking the feeling of no longer being afraid of what Ceran would do to him. It would be over fast, not like all the pain he had coursing through him. To hell with it, he thought. He gave a tight grin. “There’s not enough bullets made to kill every range bummer who screwed Kitty behind your back. She rolled over quicker than a trained circus dog.” He shook his head. “She’s the one offered it up for a horse ride.”
Ceran listened and gritted his teeth. On the street the battle raged. Quintos had led the men to the other end of town and turned them for another sweep. But the few still in their saddles had lost heart, seeing most of the numbers lying dead or dying on the dirt street.
“Funny thing is, I never even got any,” Trueblood said with a pitiful laugh. “My whole damn life, I hardly ever got any—not enough anyway—and never from a woman that looks as good as Kitty Dellaros.”
“That’s too damned bad, Delbert,” Ceran said, blood running from a bullet hole in his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet nailed Trueblood in the forehead and sent his head slamming back against the clapboard building with a solid thud and a wide splatter of blood and brain matter. The outlaw fell straight forward and landed facedown in the dirt. Smoke curled from the gaping exit hole in the back of his head.
Four blocks away, Sam singled out the gunshot from the rest of the fighting on the street. Standing ready, he eased forward for another peep, but stacks of crates and piles of debris behind the long row of buildings blocked his view. “Come on, Snake. Don’t start getting bashful on me now,” Sam said to himself under his breath.
From their cells, Kitty and Paco had also singled out the gunshot. “Silva!” Kitty cried out loudly, no longer caring who heard her, as long as she caught Ceran’s attention.
But Ceran did not hear her, nor did he care anymore about breaking her out of jail. To hell with her, he thought, examining the blood on his shirt, feeling the burn and the ache of the fresh gunshot in his upper shoulder. He stared down at the body of Delbert Trueblood lying facedown on the ground.
“This big tub of shit . . .” He let out a breath, then said, “You’re right, Delbert. She’s been screwing anything that can screw back.” He turned his horse away and rode off across the alley and onto a thin back trail leading out of town.
Sam saw Silva Ceran for only a second as Ceran rode across the alley and out of sight. But it was long enough for Sam to realize that the outlaw leader was getting out of Wild Wind while the getting was good. Sam was surprised to see that he wasn’t coming to break Kitty out of jail. But he didn’t have time to wonder why. He hurried to the rear door of the sheriff’s office, stood to the side and knocked hard.
“Longworth, it’s me, Sam. Open up,” he called out above the waning but still present gunfire.
“Ranger? I’m coming,” Longworth called out. Turning from the front window and running back to the rear door, he lifted the latch and swung the door open, rifle in hand, in case it was a trick.
“Easy,” Sam said, seeing Longworth’s rifle pointed at him. “Ceran is getting away. I’m going after him. Are you going to be all right here?”
“This bunch didn’t know what they were riding into, Ranger,” Longworth said. “The whole town is still stoked from last night. They’ve just about wiped these outlaws out. Yeah, I’m good here. Why’d Ceran leave without his woman?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “But he’s getting away.” He shot a glance toward the cells, where the prisoners stood staring, their hands wrapped around the bars. Kitty wore a bitter, hurt look on her face, but she tried to hide her feelings.
“He’ll be back for me, Ranger. You can count on it,” she said.
“He has forgotten about you, you pig,” Paco called out angrily. “He has forgotten about me too.”
Kitty turned and looked away, her arms folded across her chest.
Sam said under his breath to Longworth, “Watch yourself, in case this is a trick and he does come back for them.”
“Do you think he might?” Longworth asked.
“No,” said Sam. “He’s wounded. He’s running to save his skin. That’s why I’m getting after him right now.” He gave Longworth a questioning look.
“It’s my town, Ranger,” Longworth said. “These townsmen and I will take care of things here. Go get Silva Ceran.”
“I’m gone,” said Sam.
He ran from the sheriff’s office to the livery, where he had left Black Pot in a stall. The gunfire from the street had fallen off considerably, he decided as he bridled the stallion, threw a blanket and saddle up over the big animal’s back.
As he straightened up, looping and fastening the cinch, a noise from the direction of the side shed caught his attention. His Colt came up cocked and ready from its holster. He eased over to the door that opened from inside the barn into the side shed. As he reached for the door handle he heard another rustling noise from inside the shed.
With no warning, he threw open the door and aimed his Colt inside. But instead of seeing the face of one of the outlaws hiding there, he saw the wide-eyed face of Tommy Tinkens, the son of the restaurant owners.
“Don’t shoot me, Mr. Ranger!” the frightened boy managed to say, sticking his thin arms straight up in the air.
The ranger stopped and let out a breath. “Don’t worry, young man. I’m not going to shoot you. What are you doing here anyway?”
“I was in here when the shooting started,” said the excited child. “I come in here sometimes and play like I’m driving one of these. I was afraid to go to the restaurant, so I hid in her unde
rneath.” He pointed to the wagon Longworth had parked inside the side shed. “Was that the right thing to do?”
Sam holstered his big Colt. “Yes, that was the right thing to do.” He listened to the fighting on the street, which was settling down but still going on. “Maybe you should stay there awhile longer, until the gunfire is over.”
“All right, Mr. Ranger,” the boy said. “I like it down here anyway.” He backed away and ducked down under the freight wagon.
The ranger went back to Black Pot, led the stallion out the rear of the barn, stepped up into his saddle and rode away. Behind him he still heard gunfire, but the battle had lost its intensity.
On the street, Robert Samples, John Rader and Dean Shalen ventured out onto the street from the open door of the Belleza Grande and walked warily along the street, spreading out as they went. With his shirt bearing bloodstains and a bullet hole, Samples carried one arm in a sling that the black horse doctor had made for him.
“I’ve got this one,” he said, stepping over to where one of the renegades tried pushing himself up from the ground with both hands, a wide puddle of blood spreading beneath him.
With his free hand Samples reached down with his Colt toward the struggling renegade. The Colt bucked in his hand as the shot exploded and the renegade melted back to the bloody earth.
“Jesus, Bob,” said Dean Shalen with a sly grin, “the judge said take them prisoner if they’re still alive.” He bore a purple handprint on his jaw where Judge Olin had slapped him the night before.
“He was making a run for it,” Samples said, walking on as if nothing had happened.
“Can’t fault you for that,” said Rader with feigned sincerity.
“Hell, there’s two more making a run for it right now,” said Shalen, gesturing his Colt along the street at two more wounded men, one of them a renegade, the other Chug Doherty. The two were done for. Chug Doherty had managed to sit up, gripping his bloody chest with both hands. The renegade lay flat on his back and slashed aimlessly at the air above him with a knife.
