Good for what? Lamas wondered. Maybe Black was right. Was it possible that when Franco and Carlos saw Seora Stauffer, they would forget about such things as money and loyalty?
Lamas snapped his teeth together and muttered an oath. He had no choice but to use the Guiterez brothers. Otherwise he didn’t stand a chance of getting the white woman back. And he must have her!
Justine looked up in surprise at the man entering her prison. It was Dan, but a haggard-looking Dan Narrimore, with bloodshot eyes.
“Well, Justine, have you remembered anything?” he asked, his voice tight with impatience.
What, she wondered frantically, could she say? Dejected, she sat on the bed. With her hands folded in her lap, she was hopelessly resigned to his repeated inquisition and prepared for him to become violent this time.
She wrung her fingers and swallowed nervously, then she suddenly recalled something that meek little Bailey had said.
“Wh-what does ‘core sample’ mean?” she asked in a hoarse voice. Slowly she raised her head.
He stood completely still for a moment, his bloodshot eyes wide and unblinking. Then, in two quick strides he moved to her side. His hand gripped her shoulder hard.
“What? What about the core sample?” His fingers dug into her flesh.
Justine winced and ran her tongue over her parched lips. “B-Bailey said the core samples were very good. At least that’s what I think he said,” she mumbled uncertainly.
“With silver?” Dan was breathing heavily, looming over her like an oncoming locomotive.
Justine could not remember clearly, for the moment, but she felt there would be safety in a promising response.
“Yes. Silver. That’s what he said.”
“Ha! I knew it!” Dan boomed with a crack of laughter. He released her shoulder and began pacing the confines of the cramped shed.
Dust, stirred loose by his heavy boots, wafted up Justine’s nostrils. Her nose twitched and a sneeze worked its way upward. Reminded vividly of the stagecoach ride when she had sneezed and nearly lost control of her bladder, Justine felt hysterical laughter building inside her. Clamping her jaws, she wiggled her nose, afraid of drawing Dan’s preoccupied attention to her presence.
“I knew there was silver. Now I’ve got that stupid Wainwright right where I want him,” Dan muttered.
Justine could no longer control the twitching of her nose. The involuntary sneeze came out in a short, sharp burst. Dan turned at the sound and looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Oh, yes, Justine, I had forgotten about you for a moment.” He spoke softly, and she felt he was talking more to himself than to her. “I’ll have to figure out something to do about you. You’ve become, should I say, an inconvenience.” He moved toward the door.
Justine rose and impulsively followed him. In a moment of desperation, she clutched at his sleeve. “But Dan, you said if I—”
“Really, Justine, don’t be so naive.” He shook her hand off, scowling in disgust. “I have no further use for you. I plan to sell you to the highest bidder. They say those fancy bordellos in Mexico are all right.” At her look of horror, he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Don’t run off anywhere, will you?” he said with amused sarcasm as he opened the door.
She could hear him chuckling as he bolted the lock on the other side of the door. A desolate groan escaped her lips. She had stupidly told him what he wanted to know, and by doing so, had sealed her own fate. One potentially even worse than Lamas.
Narrimore’s ranch bustled with activity. Sam T. bellied down on a large boulder and studied the operation through his spyglass, sweeping it slowly over the buildings and corrals far beneath his perch on the mountainside. A large remuda of horses was being moved south by several wranglers. There were a couple of black-garbed women who were probably servants, but he could detect no sign of Justine Stauffer. He folded up the brass telescope and eased back off the boulder.
“Sam T.,” Too-Gut said, squatting beside him on the hard-packed ground. “Riders are coming from the north.”
Sam turned the glass in that direction. He could make out a faint wall of moving dust, but due to a ridge, saw nothing of horses or riders.
“Maybe it’s more of Narrimore’s men.”
“He’ll have plenty men,” Too-Gut said, as if unconvinced.
“It’ll be dark soon,” Sam observed. “Tonight we’ll check the place out. I can’t risk the woman’s life by going in there now with our guns blazing.”
“Look there.” Too-Gut pointed toward the ranch buildings.
Two men in a buckboard headed north. Sam trained the telescope on them. Either they were on their way to meet the riders in the north or perhaps they were unaware of the riders and were simply leaving the ranch. Sam judged by the mens’ hats that one of them was a cowboy. The other man on the buggy seat wore a white flat-crowned hat; maybe he was Narrimore. Whoever they were, they were certainly in a big hurry.
Wincing from the strain on the taut muscles in his injured limb, Sam rose. His right forearm was still tender, but healing without any complications.
Checko, who rode in the lead, gave a signal to halt, and Lamas pulled up with the others.
“A buckboard is coming!” Franco shouted. His lathered horse pranced in a circle beneath him.
“Who is it?” Lamas asked. He squinted, trying to see the approaching rig.
The buckboard dropped under a rise, out of view, but the sounds of galloping horses did not diminish.
“Take them!” Lamas ordered, drawing his pistol. “They could warn the ranch we are coming.”
When the team topped the rise, the driver stood up with his feet jammed on the dash and reined the team in a circle to head them back. Before he could utter a word, a shot rang out, striking him in the chest. The man fell over the side of the wagon, his body hitting the dry ground with a dull thud.
The startled team of horses bolted back toward the ranch house, but two of Guiterezes’ hired men raced in and caught them by their bridles.
Narrimore remained seated, his face registering shock at their attack. He slowly raised his hands at their approach.
“Who in hell are you?” he asked Lamas, who urged his horse closer to the wagon.
Lamas ignored the question. “Where is the woman?”
Narrimore frowned in obvious puzzlement. “Oh, you mean Justine?” A wave of relief swept over his red face. “You want her?” he asked in disbelief.
“Yes, I want her.”
Narrimore lowered his hands and grinned slyly. “Oh, you can have her.” He dismissed Justine as though he were giving away a mangy dog. “Listen, I can pay you with gold.”
“Where is she?”
Narrimore grimaced. “Back at the ranch. I’ll take you there, but no shots, now. I’ll call my boys off and no one else will get hurt. You can have Justine and a lot of gold.”
“And the rifles?” Lamas asked.
“Yes. I have some new ones. You can have them too.” He stopped and searched the bandits’ faces for some sign of their intention.
“So, you are Narrimore?” Lamas questioned.
“Yes. Dan Narrimore. I’m a rich man. I have lots of powerful friends who would be very upset if anything happened to me.”
Lamas reined his horse to the side and nodded at Black. “Kill him.”
“No! You don’t—”
The air became punctuated with pistol shots. Narrimore’s body was torn to shreds as he fell back from the force of the bullets. The panicked horses screamed and reared on their hind legs. Acrid gun smoke created a cloud until the desert breeze swept it away.
Lamas moved away from the others. The bandits descended on Narrimore’s corpse like children around a broken piñata. Lamas and Black watched the outlaws squabble over the gold pieces that they found in the man’s pockets.
Franco looked to Lamas and laughed. “Now there is no leader at the ranch.”
Lamas shrugged. “He wouldn’t have given us the woman or the guns an
d gold.”
“No,” Franco agreed soberly. “Now we will take them.” He reined his horse around and swore at his men. “Get on your horses!”
Checko grinned, his sombrero replaced by Narrimore’s expensive white hat. “Bueno sombrero, no?” He rode on like some parading fool on horseback.
“Will there be horses there that we can sell in Mexico?” Franco asked Lamas quietly.
“Oh, yes. Many horses,” Lamas assured him, forcing a smile that he was far from feeling. Perhaps the horses would satisfy the men. He wanted only the woman and the rifles. The bandits were welcome to the gold that Narrimore had mentioned. The extra bounty might prevent the confrontation that Black feared.
Still, the undisciplined way the hired men hoarded what they found on Narrimore worried Lamas. They were not his men, but perhaps their greed would play into his hands.
Sam T. thought he heard the sound of gunshots, but he couldn’t be sure. With him and his crew positioned out of sight on a flat, high upon the mountain side above the ranch, his hearing was disoriented. He looked at Jesus busy cleaning his pistols; he had obviously heard nothing unusual. Da-yah stood holding the horses, her head cocked as though listening.
“Bandits!” Too-Gut shouted. He was coming down the slope behind Sam, his knee-high boots sending loose dirt down the hill. “Sam T., plenty of bandits are coming!” He pointed to the ranch below.
“What?”
“Big shooting down there.” Too-Gut had reached Sam’s side. He gestured with his rifle as he talked. “They must have stopped the buckboard.”
“Oh, hell,” Sam swore. “We better get down there fast.”
Justine peered between the cracks in the shed. Something was going on outside. The whole ranch looked frantic with activity. She glimpsed several men brandishing rifles.
“Bandits are coming!”
The words filled her with dread. Bandits? It would be Lamas, of course. A quick check of her prison showed her there was no place to hide; he would surely find her in this shed, and when he did … She shuddered in horror and searched around frantically. There had to be a way out—she could not endure Lamas’s touch again.
Taking several deep breaths, she tried to settle her rising hysteria. She had to think and plan; first she must calm down and be rational. With great effort she unclenched her fingers and wiped her damp palms on the sides of her skirt. Then she moved to the door and placed her ear against the rough boards.
There were no sounds from outside the door. A small ray of hope rose within her. The guards had deserted their post to get ready for the bandits. The opportunity to escape seemed to be upon her.
Almost whimpering with frustration, she darted a quick glance around the cramped room. Her eyes lingered on a three-legged chair propped against the back wall.
Quickly she crossed the room. The chair proved heavy and awkward to lift, but she managed, swaying slightly beneath the weight.
Fear gave her added strength as she smashed the stool against the boarded-up, waist-high window. Two boards separated under the force of the blow, but she knew it wasn’t enough. Her arms ached and felt like leaden weights as she lifted the chair again. She staggered backward when the chair came into violent contact with the boards. The blows caused her arms to jerk in their sockets. A gasp escaped her throat when a bright stream of sunlight flooded through the opening.
Dropping the chair, she raced to the window and began pulling at the loose boards with trembling fingers. She ignored the sharp splinters and rusted nails that seemed intent on punishing her daring.
Finally the boards hung drunkenly at the side of the window frame. Glorious sunlight bathed Justine’s face and she hoisted herself up on the window ledge. She cast a quick look around the area outside, but no one was looking her way.
She struggled out the empty window frame, her skirt caught on a nail. Cursing beneath her breath, she grabbed a handful of material and gave a vicious yank. Then, with her skirt hem clutched in her hand, she ran toward the barn.
Her breath came in painful gasps when she reached the relative safety of the sweet-smelling, hay-filled structure. When she slipped inside, a horse nickered to her. She heard the sounds of men’s voices close by and hurriedly scuttled toward the harness room in the rear of the barn.
With her fist jammed in her mouth to keep from crying, Justine swept a glance over the small room. It was no larger than the shed had been, but it was clean and filled with oily-smelling harnesses and riding tack.
A sudden eruption of gunfire outside startled her into action. She threw herself on the straw-littered floor behind a stack of long, new-looking crates. A frenzy of activity began outside the barn. She tried to close her ears and mind to the gunfire, the horses’ screams and the sound of men dying.
Lamas, the black-hearted outlaw, she knew, was out there somewhere. But this time she would not be taken alive; this time she would fight him until he was furious enough to shoot her. For the moment, all she could do was hide and wait.
Sam T. could hear them shooting. A serious fight had broken out on Narrimore’s ranch. He had no choice but to descend down the mountain face and cross to the ranch in plain view. His only hope was that the fight between the bandits and Narrimore’s men might be so distracting that he and his assistants would not be noticed until it was too late to stop them. The gunshots sounded like distant firecrackers in the high-walled canyon. When Sam forced his horse down the rocky mountainside, the shots became more distinct. The sorrel’s hooves slid, causing Sam to lurch in the saddle. He did not draw his Colt yet, because he knew the weight of it in his hand would bring pain to his sore arm. When he got close enough to aim accurately, he would clench his teeth and fire the damn thing.
The Apaches were ahead of him about a hundred yards. He heard Jesus on his left, behind him, swearing in Spanish at his horse. Sam couldn’t afford the luxury of looking at his assistants. If his attention was distracted for a moment, he was liable to be pitched off his horse in the wild descent straight down the hillside.
Lamas crouched behind a wagon, his pistol smoking. Black was beside him, reloading his pistol. The acrid smell of gunpowder burned Lamas’s nose. He raised his eyes for a moment and peered through the smoke.
“Franco is hit,” he hissed to Black. He watched Franco trying to drag himself to safety. Carlos blazed his guns at the ranch house and screamed at his brother to hurry.
Lamas noted a cowboy trying to run toward the house, a smoking rifle at his hip. Raising his pistol, Lamas fired, then smiled when the cowboy fell to the ground.
Checko lay pinned under his dead horse, his body twisted grotesquely. Who else was down? Lamas knew that two of the hired pistoleros were dead. A fresh round of shots was fired in his direction. Lamas ducked low, cursing the cowboys in the house.
“Let’s get to the horses!” Carlos shouted. “Ride out!”
“No!” Lamas screamed. His eyes blazed in hatred. He could see that Carlos had his wounded brother safely behind an outbuilding. “Fight these gringos. Don’t run like dogs!” he screeched, the muscles in his neck bulging.
“What’s he doing?” Black asked between shots.
“Turning coward. Shoot the bastard, Ezra.”
Black’s Colt blasted in rapid fire until the hammer clicked on an empty. Carlos’s screams were silenced; there was no more gunfire from his position.
“Son of a bitch!” Black swore as he tried to reload. “Lamas, we’ve got more company.” He jerked his head, indicating the men who were riding up behind them.
Lamas whirled. At the sight of the four riders approaching with blazing guns, his face paled and his heart plummeted. He raised his Colt and aimed for the big man in the brown suit This must be the gringo Sam T. Mayes. The knowledge of who was closing in on him filled Lamas with a fiery rage. He squeezed off a shot, realizing when the hammer struck the cartridge it was a dud. The explosion muffled. He cocked the hammer, issuing Spanish profanity with the trigger pull, when the next round barely explode
d. The big man drew closer. Frantically, Lamas began to punch out the shells.
Sam T. paced his own shots as he and his assistants drew closer. He kept his eyes on the two men, who were half hidden behind a wagon.
Black looked at Lamas, still reloading, then at the approaching riders. He shook his head, moved a few feet away from Lamas, then stood up.
“Hold your fire!” he shouted, raising his hands in the air.
From the description of the outlaws, Sam knew this must be Black. The shorter man beside him looked at his comrade in outrage, then quickly snapped off two shots at Sam that zinged by him. Abruptly the outlaw broke from his cover and raced across the yard toward the barn and corrals.
“Jesus,” Sam shouted, “get the others; that one is mine!” He knew by his dress the fleeing man must be the leader, Lamas.
Urging his horse forward, Sam held his revolver ready, oblivious of the stinging pain in his arm.
Lamas reached the corral and looked around wildly for a horse. He could hear the hoofbeats of the gringo’s horse getting nearer. But there was no route of escape, nowhere to hide now. Bracing himself against the side of the pens, Lamas swung up the barrel of his .44, ready to shoot the brown-suited bastard.
Sam rounded the corner of the barn, his eyes narrowed, his fist gripping the handle of his revolver. He aimed for Lamas’s heart, just as the outlaw blasted in his direction. A bullet buzzed by Sam T.’s head like an angry hornet while the Colt in his fist belched acrid smoke and lead.
His bullet’s force slammed Lamas into the corral rails. The outlaw tried to raise his gun arm, but could not find the strength. His vision blurred and he slumped to the ground. He had to say something to this hombre who had brought down the mighty Lamas.
Sam T. dismounted and stood over the outlaw. The look of approaching death on the man’s face and the rapidly spreading stain of blood on his shirt gave Sam no sense of satisfaction.
Lawless Land Page 25
