The room got quiet in waves, starting close to Trent, then expanding on into the room as more people looked up and realized who was there.
Red Seaver was sitting at a table with two other men. When he looked up and saw Trent, he went two shades whiter.
Trent pounded on the counter top with the butt of the shotgun. He had their attention. One of the men at the table stood up, hands out wide. Trent recognized him instantly. Dake Priest was an ex-courier. He'd dropped out of sight the last couple of years and Trent had lost track of him.
"I'm not in this, Trent."
"Too bad, Dake. I like to get all my chickens together."
"Now, you got no call to act like that. What happened two years ago wasn't my fault."
"Oh, I know. Someone had to supply the raiders with automatic weapons, right? Tell you what, Dake. You go stand in that corner, and maybe I won't shoot you."
"You want my gun?"
"Keep it. You can use it if you feel lucky.” Trent moved his attention to the rest of the crowd. “Folks, there's going to be some shooting. If you are not friends of Red here, you had better get on outside. If you are friends of his, then stay and join the show. It doesn't matter to me one way or the other."
"Now, Marshal ... you hold on a minute.” Seaver was sweating. “This ain't going to be fair. I got this girl in one hand and a drink in the other. You got to at least give me a chance."
The area between Trent and the table cleared out and most of the patrons filed out the door. The table in front had three men, and standing in the corner was a fourth.
"You men were warned. Not only did you stay, you killed a man. And for what, Seaver? What do you get out of killing that preacher? Was that one fair?"
Seaver stammered an answer. “We were drunk, Trent. Besides, Pagan started that. Not me."
Jumbo Smith had stood it too long. With a truculent voice, he said, “We got you three to one, Mr. Marshal. Maybe if you drop your guns, we'll let you live for awhile."
The bargirl started struggling to get away. It was all the distraction the raiders needed. Trent could see it in Red's eyes. It was going to be now.
Trent made eye contact with the girl and said, “Drop."
The girl fell down, as if she had practiced the move for years, as Red's gun was coming up. Trent dropped the barrel of the duckbilled Ithaca and pulled the trigger, aiming high to avoid the girl. The two men at the table exploded in a red froth as the number four shot blew through them. Trent whirled to face the man in the corner. A bullet nicked the top of his ear and he jacked another shell into the pump shotgun. The Ithaca jammed! Trent sidestepped up the bar, as a second shot went through the side of his shirt, palmed his Ruger and fired. Rocked back against the wall by the expanding slug, the man tried to bring his gun in line. Trent fired again and the man dropped, his gun falling from lifeless fingers.
"Left, Trent!"
Charley's hoarse scream galvanized Trent back into action. Jumbo Smith, covered in blood, was coming up from behind the overturned table. Trent dropped onto one knee as Smith's first shot went over his head. Carefully, as if on a target range, Trent fired one shot. Smith stood stiffly for a moment, then collapsed lifelessly behind the table.
The door opened behind Trent as Walsh got up from the floor. Katie came in, and with one look at the carnage around the table, slowly slid down to the floor. She sat that way, with her arms folded across her knees, forehead on her arms.
Murdock stood protectively over her, but with a sheepish look on her face as she spoke to Trent. “I forgot to tell you. That Ithaca jams a bit. Needs some work."
Trent just looked at her.
"I said I was sorry.” Her customary belligerence was coming back as she went around the bar to help the bargirl to her feet.
Trent helped Katie. “Let's find a place to hole up for the night,” he said gently as he folded her into his arms. “And Murdock ... take care of my friend, here. He looks a little piqued."
Chapter 18
MORNING WAS STILL a promise in the eastern sky as they stood by the preacher's grave. The roar of the water, rushing from beneath the mountain, seemed muted by the fog. The errant breeze, pushing the mist around the small graveyard, was cool and damp.
"We never got along.” Katie's voice was subdued, barely audible above the background noise of the Springs. “I'm sorry for that."
Trent's gaze roved around the meadow and toward the town. “He died doing what he believed in. Even in the face of death. I heard from some folks he did not give in. He was telling them to get out of town when they took him. I would say that is a fair judgment of any man. He died facing his troubles. That's all anyone can ask of a man."
Katie looked up, noticing where his glance had gone. “Do you have to go?"
"You know I do."
"Isn't there some other way? Hasn't there been enough killing."
"If there was another way, I would do it, Katie. There has been too much killing, that's a fact. But, there will have to be some more before this is over."
"I'm afraid."
"I know, Katherine. I'm sorry."
"I should have fallen in love with some hillbilly, and raised pigs and chickens.” Katie sighed and leaned her head against his chest. “I don't want to lose you, John."
He held her away and looked steadily into her eyes. “It could happen, you have to know that."
"Why can't we ride out of here? Why not just grab our stuff and go?"
"What about little Tommy? Or Murdock? Do you think she can last? Or any of the settlers?” Trent looked at her, a humorous glint in his eyes. “Don't I remember you telling me I should take this job? It was my duty?"
"I didn't love you then.” She paused and sighed. “Ah, damn you, Trent. I don't know why I stay with you."
"Sure you do. You said us old guys are more interesting."
"Not if you're dead."
"Point taken. This will not be a contest, Katherine. Not if Pagan is alone."
"You can't know that,” she said.
"I know him. I know me."
* * * *
As the sun started to climb, running the shadows from the street below, people began showing up in small groups. They positioned themselves along the street and between buildings for what small protection they would afford. Trust the mountain grapevine to get word around.
Leaving Katie sitting on the church steps, Trent was starting down the hill when he heard his name called. He turned to confront a small group of men, coming in from the trail above the springs.
"Mr. Starking."
"Marshal Trent."
"I'm asking you to stay out of this, Mr. Starking. It would be a favor."
Jeremiah Starking smiled crookedly. “We never had much in common with Pagan Reeves, Marshal. Actually, we're here to meet with some of the townsmen. It is peace we are looking for, not war. We will not interfere."
"Do me a favor then?” Trent asked.
"If I can."
"Pagan still has several men. If I go down, make sure they do not take over the town. There is a future here. If you and your people merge with the settlers, you'll be strong enough that you won't have to worry about the Pagan Reeves of this world."
Starking did not answer, just clucked to his horse and led his people toward town.
Trent stood in the center of the street with the sun warm on his shoulders. The morning breeze gently ruffled his shirt. Every sense was incredibly alive, each breath pure and sweet, as if his body were trying to savor the last feelings he would ever have.
Pagan Reeves stepped smiling out of the saloon where he'd probably been filling up on liquid courage. Two men flanked him, and Trent felt his blood run cold. One of the men was a small time merc for hire, always wearing an idiot smile. Trent had seen him around but could not remember his name. The other man was Dake Priest! Priest, the ex-courier gone bad, now a gun for hire. Trent's mouth tasted dry with tension and adrenalin as he willed the knot in his belly to go away. No one said it would
be easy.
"You're running in rough company, Priest. I should have taken you down last night.” Trent's voice echoed between the buildings as he purposefully ignored Pagan.
"I like it rough, Trent."
Of them all, Priest was the most dangerous. He would have already figured his odds and planned his moves. Standing slightly behind the other two, Priest would know he was in the best position to get a shot off.
"Way I've got it figured, Priest, my first two shots will be for you. At this range, I can't miss. The next shot will be for smiley there. I'll save Pagan for last."
As he stared at Priest and steadily advanced toward them, the gunman began to sweat, eyes darting side to side. Trent could guess what he was thinking. This was not going the way it should. They should stop. Square off. They should taunt each other. This way, and at this range, all of them could die.
Pagan could not stand it anymore. “What about me, Trent? Ain't you worried about me? Don't you want me?"
"How about now, Pagan?"
Trent's gun was up and firing. Priest took one in the shoulder as he dove for cover. The other merc, his hand just bringing up his gun, was looking down at the small hole in his chest. Bright red blood pumped from his shirt. He started to say something, but ran out of time. He folded up on wilted legs and fell in the dust.
Trent brought his gun to bear on Pagan. Pagan's hand was on his weapon, but he had not drawn it. Now, it was too late.
"Don't shoot, Trent.” Pagan looked from side to side, desperately seeking help.
Trent just stared at him while keeping track of Priest at the same time. A sudden shot rang out and Priest flopped from behind a boardwalk.
The musical voice of Chico Cruz said, “We'll watch your back, compadre. You have a trial to do, yes?"
A trial.
"How many people have you killed in these hills, Pagan? How much grief and pain have you caused?"
"I'll leave. Please. You'll never see me again.” Sweat dripped from Pagan's face, his gaze locked on Trent in a vain hope of reprieve.
"No, Pagan, you'll not be leaving. It's too late. You have Rev. Stephens to answer for, and the McCracken family. God knows how many others."
"You're the law, Trent. You have rules. You can't just..."
Pagan Reeves probably thought he had a chance. Trent glanced to the side, and Reeves’ hand streaked toward the gun in his holster.
* * * *
The Watcher stood looking at the girl in the print dress. Beautiful and willowy, blond hair and large breasts, skin soft and unblemished. Not now! It was too soon. There were too many people. But she was worthy. He could taste her; feel her flesh under his hands. The Watcher drew in a shaky breath. And what of the man? The man he had come to see fight with Pagan Reeves. He'd known it would be no contest, but three men? And the man was close. He would come for her, come hard! The hero would come for the killer. The Watcher laughed to himself. The hero would not return. So be it. Maybe it was time for that too.
Silently, the Watcher moved up behind the girl. She had come in with Starking, but had separated and was walking toward the church. The girl flinched as shots rang out in the street below, and the Watcher glanced disdainfully in that direction. It would be no contest. The man would win. Would he always win?
The Watcher mentally shrugged as he advanced on the girl. It did not matter. It was the girl that mattered. The one who was worthy.
* * * *
Chico and Trent walked up the hill toward the church, Chico leading his horse by the reins.
"I used to think I was very fast with my guns, Senor.” He shook his head ruefully. “Now, I think I'll throw them away. I saw Reeves kill a man on that very street and I thought he was fast. It is not so. And then, when you looked away from him ... on purpose?"
"I had to bait him, Chico. Otherwise, he would have crawled away. I just could not shoot him in cold blood. Not even him.” Trent palmed his gun and held it up. “You know, this isn't something I asked for, or ever wanted, Chico. I was born with quick hands. It seems to me, there should be something better to use them for."
"You did a good thing today, my friend. If you had shown him mercy, he would not have stopped killing. He would not have changed."
"In my heart, I know,” Trent said. “In my mind, sometimes I do not know."
A scream snapped their heads up in unison. A girl was struggling with someone in front of the church. As they watched they saw the man swing and her head snap back. Katie came rushing around the building, but was knocked sprawling by a sweep of the man's arm. Almost in the same motion, the man swung the girl to his shoulders and disappeared into the forest behind the church.
Cruz was trying to line up a rifle shot when Trent pushed down the barrel. “Too risky."
They both mounted Cruz's horse and arrived at the church in moments, scattering divots of grass and dirt around the porch. A faint trail led away in the wet grass toward the forest beyond.
"Katherine, are you all right?” Trent asked hurriedly.
"Yeah, I guess so,” she answered groggily.
Trent ran to his horse tied to the porch. He pulled out his knee-length moccasins, dropped to the ground, shucked his boots, and tugged them on. Pulling his Bowie, he threaded his belt through the loop in the scabbard. Donning a long-tailed hunting shirt, he stuffed trail mix in the pouches. Slipping a strip of leather over his revolver, to keep it from falling out as he ran, he reached up and took out his SKS. He folded the stock to make it shorter, then checked the clip. Thirty rounds. It would have to do.
"Let me come with you.” Cruz was already turning away to remount.
"No time. I am going to run him down, Cruz. He will have a horse back in the brush. If I push hard enough, he will not have time to stop and hurt the girl. On rough ground I can make better time on foot than he can on a horse. I might even be able to outrun his horse. But above all, I've got to keep him running."
"You mean like a wolf pack runs a deer,” Cruz said.
"You got it."
"What can I do?"
Trent held his friend's gaze for a moment. “This may be a long run. If the worst happens and he kills the girl ... I will stay after him. I have to push him hard enough that he knows that. You and Katherine round up some men and supplies to follow, but not too close. Just stay close enough that I can find you. If I do not get him right away, I will need supplies. If you get a chance, cut in front of him. We do not want to lose him. Not now."
"Hurry, friend Trent. This man is a devil. You must run like the wind."
Trent did not answer. He was already ducking into the gloom of the forest.
Chapter 19
TRENT HIT THE edge of the forest at a dead run. For the first few minutes, he would throw aside caution. The girl's life was at stake. He picked up the trail immediately. Broken grass and bent limbs, then the churned grass where the man had mounted his horse. The trail went straight away down a dim path in the forest that would skirt around the mountain. This was second growth forest, which meant there were not many trees, and the grass and bushes were almost waist high.
He was trying to match the pace of the man ahead. The kidnapper's first burst of speed would be from the panic of discovery and trying to get away. Soon, reason would set in and he would slow down or stop. If Trent could keep from overrunning him, that would be his first and best chance.
The initial burst of speed from the man he chased, was a lot longer than Trent expected. It was a full half hour later when the stride of the horse he was trailing began to shorten. Keeping his attention as far up the trail as possible, Trent almost missed the torn grass and dirt clods where the man had reined in his horse and gone off the trail about fifty feet ahead.
The first shot passed with a sonic crack, and whacked into a tree behind him. The second creased his hip, leaving a burning red hole in his hunting shirt. Panic shooting? Or a warning? The first came too high, the second too low. Trent did not stop, just swerved to the side and into the brush. The
growth under the tall trees was not thick here, mostly sumac and scattered fern, so he began a weaving approach toward a copse of trees ahead.
Moments later, Trent rolled into the clearing, bringing his SKS to bear around the perimeter. Nothing. The sun glittered off the bright shell casings ejected into the grass. The man had dismounted to shoot. The imprints in the soft earth were small, maybe a size nine or ten. After the missed shot, he had mounted and continued down the path, leaving a trail a child could follow. Knowing something of the man he followed, that fact worried Trent more than anything else did. This man had never left a trail before. A challenge? And maybe his first mistake.
Trent cursed as he stood in the clearing, trying to catch his breath. He had not been fast enough. The man was gone ... and so was the girl.
Quickly cutting three sticks, Trent made a crude arrow in the trail to show which direction he was going. As he began to run, he felt a cold fear knot up in his belly. From now on, the man would be more cautious ... and Trent would have to give him the first shot. He would not miss forever.
An hour later, Trent stood on top of a bald knob overlooking the trail ahead. He was scratched and bleeding from the nearly impenetrable shortcut he had taken. His knee-length moccasins were torn near the top from the fangs of a startled timber rattler that sunned itself on a limestone ledge. Trent had merely ripped it out of the leather and tossed it away. His mind was focused on the quarry ahead. If the man followed the trail around the mountain, he would have to appear in one of the clearings below. Trent picked the clearing that had a stream in it. If they stopped for water...
He set the sights of the SKS to battle setting, for longer range, and settled down to wait. Watching the clearing below, he tried to control his breathing. This was a real gamble. If he guessed wrong and they did not show up, he'd lose an hour picking up the trail again and the girl would be dead. If they did show up, and he missed his shot, he would be behind again. It would take valuable minutes to get off the promontory he was sitting on and continue pursuit.
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