Ride for Vengeance

by William W. Johnstone

  Matt quickly filled Sam in on Judge Clark’s edict about no guns in the courtroom other than theirs—and that old Greener, Matt supposed. Sam nodded and turned to Paxton. “You heard the rules, sir,” he said. “You and your men will have to turn in your guns before you can go inside.”

  “And put ourselves at the mercy of that renegade Colton and his pack of thieves?” Paxton shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Mr. Colton and his men gave up their guns,” Matt said. “This hearing’s gonna be nice and peaceful.”

  “I suppose you don’t have to attend,” Sam put in. “Your lawyer can represent you.”

  Paxton reached for the buckle of his gunbelt. “If Colton’s in there, I’m going to be in there!” he said. “Here. Here’s my damned gun.”

  “Esau,” his wife said in a warning tone. “You know the doctor said you don’t need to get all worked up. It’s bad for your heart.”

  Paxton snorted, but he didn’t say anything else as he took Julia’s arm to escort her into the town hall. The Pax riders followed the same course as the Double C men had, filing into the building and surrendering their guns as they did so.

  When everybody was inside, Matt and Sam left the baskets containing the weapons on the boardwalk in front of the town hall. Nobody would bother them. The blood brothers stepped through the open doors and saw that the hall was crowded. Colton’s bunch had congregated on the right side of the room, while Paxton and his family and riders had gone to the left. They had scooted their chairs away from each other so that an aisle that hadn’t been there earlier had been formed.

  At the front of the room, Judge Simon Clark sat behind a table on which lay the shotgun and a gavel, as well as a Bible, some blank sheets of paper, and an inkwell and pen. At one end of the table was an empty chair—for witnesses, Matt supposed.

  It was pretty noisy in the room as cowboys from both ranches talked among themselves. Clark let the hubbub continue for a while, then pulled a pocket watch from his vest and opened it.

  “The lawyers for both parties aren’t here yet, or I’d go ahead and get started,” he announced. “Keep the racket down. Court’s not in session yet, but I’ll still have some decorum in my courtroom.”

  Matt and Sam took up positions to either side of the doors and waited. A few minutes later, Colonel Hugh Addison, Colton’s lawyer, arrived. He was followed a few minutes after that by Everett Sloane, Paxton’s attorney. The room was already so crowded that there was no room for more spectators, but J. Emerson Heathcote slipped in, nodded to Matt and Sam, and stood along the back wall, pencil and pad in hand, ready to take notes for his newspaper story.

  The two lawyers conferred briefly with the judge, then went to chairs in the front of the room. They didn’t sit down, though, because Clark reached for his gavel and said, “All rise.” Everyone else got to their feet.

  In the rustle of people getting up, Matt looked over at Sam and said, “I sure as hell wish I knew where Seymour was.”

  Sam didn’t have time to reply before the gavel banged down and Judge Clark announced, “This court is now in session!”

  Chapter 16

  Rebecca told herself to ignore the pounding in her chest. This was one time she had to listen to her head and not her heart. Three thousand dollars was a fortune to her, and it could change her entire life.

  She put a smile on her face as she watched her visitor fidgeting. “Don’t be so nervous, Seymour,” she told him. “Believe it or not, you’re not doing anything wrong.”

  He pulled at the collar of his shirt. “I know,” he said. “I just hope that it won’t be long before those men leave Uncle Cornelius’s room. I’m anxious to talk to him, that’s all.”

  “Oh. I thought you were worried about being alone with me in my hotel room.”

  “Not at all,” he said unconvincingly. “We’re friends. Nothing wrong with friends being together. Right?”

  “That’s right,” Rebecca said. She wished that Seymour hadn’t mentioned that about them being friends. What she had to do was going to be difficult enough without thinking about such things.

  There was no point in delaying the inevitable. It was just going to get harder if she waited. She moved closer to him, still smiling, and asked, “What shall we do to pass the time?”

  He began to look even more flustered. “I, uh, I don’t really know . . . I suppose we could talk.”

  “It might be better if we didn’t,” Rebecca whispered. “Someone passing by in the hall might hear us.”

  Seymour shook his head in confusion. “So?”

  “Well . . . just because we know there’s nothing improper going on, that doesn’t mean everyone else would know, too.” She was very close to him now. She laid a hand on his chest and said, “Maybe we should do something else.”

  Seymour’s eyes widened. “Rebecca, I . . . I thought we had settled this,” he stammered. “There can’t be anything . . . anything romantic between us.”

  She shook her head as she looped her left arm around his neck. “I’m not talking about romance,” she said. “I’m just talking about a pleasurable way to pass the time.”

  He was starting to sound a little desperate as he said, “But I can’t—”

  “Of course you can,” Rebecca said. She forestalled any further conversation by pressing her lips to his.

  She thought for a second he was going to pull away or push her back a step. But for all his high-flown morals, he was human, after all, and male to boot, which meant that after stiffening for a second, he began to relax and enjoy what was going on.

  With her right hand, she slipped the knife from the pocket of her dress. The blade was long enough to reach his heart. All she had to do now was plunge it into his back with all her strength, between his ribs, and into the organ she could feel slugging against her as she molded her body to his. He would die without a sound, because she intended to keep her mouth pressed to his until he was finished.

  Then she could go across the hall and interrupt Standish’s meeting with his hired killers. She could just imagine the shocked look on his face when she informed him that she had done the work that three men had failed to do. Welch, McCracken, and Stover could earn their fee by disposing of Seymour’s body, since that was really out of Rebecca’s line.

  With the three-thousand-dollar bounty she would claim, she could leave Sweet Apple and never have to see Cornelius Standish again, never have to endure the touch of his hands on her body. All it would take to achieve that goal was one thrust of the knife. It probably wouldn’t even hurt Seymour very much, she told herself. He would be dead before he knew what was happening.

  So why couldn’t she do it?

  Three thousand . . . three thousand . . . three thousand . . . The refrain echoed in her brain. She lifted the knife until it was poised to strike.

  Someone rattled the doorknob.

  Rebecca jerked back and gasped as she broke the kiss with Seymour. She had turned the key in the lock without him noticing, and then slipped it into the same pocket where the knife was concealed. Now someone was trying to get into the room. Standish? Probably, but she couldn’t be sure about that. As a surprised and guilty-looking Seymour started to turn toward the door, Rebecca stepped back and hid the knife behind her.

  She gasped again as someone struck the door a heavy blow from the other side. “Good Lord!” Seymour exclaimed. “What in heaven’s name—”

  He didn’t have time to finish the question. Whoever was in the corridor rammed into the door again, and this time the wood in the jamb around the knob splintered. The door flew open.

  Maggie O’Ryan stumbled into the room, clutching the shoulder she had obviously just used to break the door open. She forgot any pain she was feeling, though, in the surge of anger that reddened her face as she glared at Rebecca and said, “You! I knew you were up to no good, you . . . you trollop!”

  Rebecca pulled herself up and gave Maggie a haughty stare as she said, “You have no right to break in
to my room like that, Miss O’Ryan. Seymour, you’re the marshal. Arrest her!”

  Seymour’s mouth opened and closed without any sound coming out. That, and the stunned, pop-eyed look on his face, gave him a vaguely fishlike appearance.

  Maggie pointed a finger at Seymour and said, “You can arrest me when I’m through with her, and with you! That’s right, Seymour Standish, I have some things to say to you, too! But first . . .” She advanced on Rebecca, stalking forward like a cat after its prey. “When I saw you taking Seymour up here, I knew you were still after him. I should have known better than to ever trust him. I certainly didn’t trust you!”

  Seymour finally found his voice. “Maggie, I . . . I promise you, nothing happened—”

  “For God’s sake, Seymour, what sort of fool do you think I am? Your face is red, you were breathing hard—”

  “You startled me,” he said.

  That was actually a reasonable explanation, Rebecca thought, but Maggie was clearly too angry to accept it. Rebecca’s fingers flexed around the handle of the knife. The crash of the door being broken open like that was bound to attract attention. She had only seconds to act, if she was going to. Killing once had been difficult for her; could she kill twice?

  Of course, with Maggie O’Ryan, it might be easier, Rebecca thought as she started to bring the knife from behind her back.

  Maggie never gave her a chance. She leaped forward, throwing a punch like a man, and her fist crashed into Rebecca’s jaw.

  Seymour had never been more shocked in his life than at the moment when the door of the hotel room burst open and Maggie stood there. Not only was he not expecting to see her, but also he never would have dreamed that a delicate slip of a girl like her could wreak such destruction.

  Of course, she wasn’t really that delicate, he realized. And her life growing up here in the border country had toughened her considerably. Still . . .

  His stunned brain was working just enough for him to understand that Maggie must have looked through the hotel’s front window just as Rebecca was leading him upstairs. He’d thought that she had gone on, but obviously she had turned back for some reason. And she had seen what he would have given almost anything for her not to have seen. The only thing that could have been worse was if she had actually witnessed Rebecca kissing him.

  It wasn’t really fair either to characterize what had happened that way, because after the first few seconds, he had been kissing Rebecca just as much as she had been kissing him. He hadn’t wanted to . . . he knew better, Dear Lord, but he knew better! It was just that her lips were so warm and soft and insistent . . .

  What happened next drove even those thoughts from Seymour’s brain. He made a grab for Maggie as she launched herself forward, but he was taken by surprise and too late. The crack of Maggie’s hard little fist against Rebecca’s jaw stunned Seymour beyond belief.

  Rebecca was stunned, too, physically at least. The punch’s impact drove her backward against a dressing table. A knife that must have been lying on the table clattered to the floor at her feet. Seymour didn’t have time to wonder what the knife had been doing on the table. He lunged at Maggie as she swung another blow at Rebecca’s head.

  This one didn’t land, not because of Seymour’s efforts, but because Rebecca recovered enough of her wits to duck underneath it. With an angry screech, she threw herself at Maggie, fingers hooked into claws that lashed out. The two young women crashed together and then slammed into Seymour. It was like he’d been run over by a mauling, clawing, hair-pulling buzz saw. With his arms flailing, he went over backward and landed on the floor with such force that all the breath was knocked out of his lungs.

  He rolled over, gasping for air, and saw that Maggie and Rebecca had fallen, too. The impact had knocked them apart. Rebecca scrambled to her feet first and fled, dashing out the open door.

  Maggie went after her, ignoring Seymour’s choked cries for her to stop. He struggled to his feet and stumbled after the two women.

  Several people were in the hallway, their attention drawn by the commotion. Among them were Cornelius Standish and the three men who claimed to be dry-goods salesmen. Standish grabbed his nephew’s arm and demanded, “Seymour, what in blazes is going on here?”

  “No time to talk, Uncle Cornelius!” Seymour cried as he jerked free and ran along the corridor toward the second-floor landing, where Maggie had caught up to Rebecca. They were fighting again, Rebecca’s arms windmilling as she slapped at Maggie in an attempt to hold off the other young woman’s attack. Maggie brushed aside Rebecca’s blows and grabbed her by the throat, evidently intent on choking the life out of her.

  She might have done it, too, if they hadn’t been perched at the edge of the stairs. Suddenly, Rebecca fell, and since Maggie didn’t let go, she went with her. Seymour’s eyes widened in horror as he shouted, “No!”

  He dashed toward the stairs as Rebecca and Maggie tumbled over and over down the flight. Seymour thought surely they would stop before they reached the bottom, but they didn’t. Instead, they fell all the way to the lobby, and when they reached the bottom of the stairs, they lay there in two huddled, moaning heaps.

  At the top of the stairs, Seymour stared at them, a little surprised that both of them were still alive, praying that neither of the young women was badly hurt. As he started down toward the lobby, Rebecca pushed herself up onto hands and knees and then weaved upright. She seemed stunned and not really sure where she was or what was going on, but something, probably instinct, started her toward the front door of the hotel. She was still trying to get away.

  “Maggie!” Seymour cried as the young schoolteacher got up and went after Rebecca. Maggie was unsteady on her feet, too, but her anger drove her on.

  Rebecca ran out of the hotel with Maggie right behind her. Seymour reached the bottom of the stairs and went after them. He made it to the hotel porch in time to see Maggie bring Rebecca down with an unladylike tackle that sent both of them sprawling in the dust of the street.

  Rebecca lashed out with a foot, and Seymour winced as the kick caught Maggie in the jaw with a resounding crack. Maggie rolled over and over and came to a stop on her belly. This time, instead of fleeing, Rebecca went after her. She landed on Maggie’s back with a knee, grasped the other woman’s long dark hair, and jerked Maggie’s head up only to drive her face back down against the ground. She was about to do it again when Maggie bucked upward like a maddened bronco and sent Rebecca flying through the air.

  “Maggie! Rebecca!” Seymour shouted. “Stop! Stop that!”

  He didn’t know what to do. If it had been two men whaling away at each other in a drunken saloon brawl, he would have been tempted to draw his gun and wallop them over their heads, knocking them senseless so that they could be hauled off to jail.

  But he couldn’t do that to females. He might hurt them too badly. After all, they were the delicate flower of womanhood—

  “Man-stealing whore!” Maggie screamed at Rebecca. “Little slut!” The insults were followed by a torrent of border Spanish that Seymour could only assume was profane in nature.

  “Crazy bitch!” Rebecca howled right back at Maggie. “I’ll kill you!”

  Then they were at it again, scratching, biting, clawing, punching, and kicking in a wild melee that sent them careening back and forth in the street.

  Out of instinct, Seymour reached for his gun. He still didn’t plan to pistol-whip them, but he thought that maybe firing a shot into the air would startle them into settling down.

  His hand found only an empty holster. He realized that the gun must have fallen out when they knocked him down in the hotel room, when the fight started.

  With no weapon, he ran toward them, empty hands outstretched, and called, “Ladies! Ladies, please! You have to stop this madness!”

  He didn’t know if his pleading ever would have gotten through to them or not. He didn’t have a chance to find out.

  Because that was when people began to yell and scream, hoofbeats thu
ndered in the street, and the sudden roar of gunshots filled the air.

  “I’ll hear opening statements from counsel,” Judge Simon Clark said. He pointed the gavel at Hugh Addison. “You first, Colonel.”

  Matt and Sam didn’t pay much attention to the eloquent oratory of Addison or Everett Sloane, Esau Paxton’s attorney. Instead, they watched the crowd, alert for any signs of trouble. The cowboys from the Double C and Pax kept their seats, content for the moment just to glower darkly at each other.

  When the opening statements were over, Judge Clark said to Addison, “Very well, Colonel, you may present your case.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Addison said as he hooked his left thumb in his vest and reached down to the desk in front of him to pick up several sheets of paper. “Our case is quite simple. When the CP ranch, owned jointly by my client and Esau Paxton, was split up into the Double C and Pax ranches, Mr. Paxton signed away any and all rights in perpetuity to any use whatsoever of the stream that forms part of the boundary line between the aforesaid ranches.”

  Esau Paxton shot to his feet and said loudly, “That’s a dad-blasted lie! That creek is the boundary between the ranches. That means we can both use it.”

  Judge Clark pointed his gavel at Paxton and snapped, “Sit down, sir! Mr. Sloane, I advise you to keep your client under control.”

  Sloane was already tugging at Paxton’s sleeve, trying to get him to take his seat again.

  “I’ll hear from you in due time, Mr. Paxton,” the judge went on, “and if you try to jump the gun again, I promise you you’ll be sorry you did.” Clark turned back to Addison. “Go on, Colonel.”

  Addison raised the document he held in his hand. “This contract is all the proof of our claim that we need, Your Honor,” he said. “I enter it into evidence as our first and only exhibit, and when you examine its provisions, you’ll see for yourself that Mr. Paxton’s land ends at the eastern bank of the stream in question, meaning that the stream itself and all the water therein belong to my client, Mr. Shadrach Colton.”