Brutal Vengeance

by J. A. Johnstone

  The Kid didn’t make any promises.

  Bill Gustaffson went on. “Do you reckon we can ... bury our pa first?”

  The Kid shook his head. “Sorry, but there’s no time. Not if you’re riding with—”

  He stopped as a groan came from somewhere among the bodies littering the trail. Swinging around swiftly, he looked for the man who was somehow still alive among the welter of death.

  He was shocked to see Vint Reilly pushing himself up on an elbow. Reilly shook his head as if trying to clear it.

  Without knowing how he got there, The Kid found himself standing over Reilly, booted feet widespread, the Winchester in his hand pointing down at the bandaged man. Blood seeped from the bullet graze underneath the torn bandage on his head. Reilly had been wounded in the charge and fell unconscious. The outlaws hadn’t shot him again because they thought he was dead. The Kid could see all that plain as day.

  Reilly looked up and saw the intention in The Kid’s eyes. Giving a hollow laugh, he rasped, “Go ahead, Morgan. You think I ... give a damn anymore?”

  Chapter 29

  “Don’t do it, Morgan,” Ed Marchman said. “It’d be murder!”

  “Murder?” The Kid repeated. “After the way he led all these good men to their deaths? Sounds more like justice to me!”

  Thad said, “It might not be murder, but I bet you’d regret it, Mr. Morgan.”

  “This ain’t the kind of thing you do,” Bill added.

  For a long moment, The Kid stared down at the defiant Reilly. Then he sighed, muttered a curse under his breath, and turned away. As much as he wanted to blow a hole in the loco son of a bitch, the others were right. If he did, he’d regret it later.

  Without turning back around he jerked his head toward Reilly. “Somebody help him up.”

  Marchman hurried to Reilly. “Let me give you a hand, Vint.”

  Reilly stubbornly ignored him. In obvious pain, he hauled himself to his feet, felt around inside his pockets and produced the little brown bottle of painkiller. “Ahh.”

  Reilly must have brought several bottles with him, The Kid thought. He couldn’t have been nipping at the same one during the entire pursuit.

  Taking hold of the buckskin’s reins, The Kid mounted up. “I’ll catch some of those horses that scattered during the ambush. Get as much ammunition as you can carry and maybe some extra guns.”

  “Scavenge from the dead, you mean?” Marchman demanded in an outraged tone.

  “I can’t think of anything better to do with their bullets than using them on the men who killed them,” The Kid said.

  “Morgan’s got a point there,” one of the cowboys said. “Come on.”

  It didn’t take long for The Kid to catch six horses and bring them back to the survivors of the ambush. Seven men now, including him, against nearly three times that many.

  Oh, well, he mused, the odds had never been good in this pursuit.

  “They’re less than an hour ahead of us, but they’ll be moving fast,” The Kid told the men as they rode out. “We’ll have to move faster.”

  They picked up the trail on the other side of the trees where the outlaws had hidden. After a half mile or so, the tracks curved back to the main trail, which soon ran into an actual road.

  “I think this is the road between Bandera and San Antone,” Thad said. “I remember coming this way once, a few years ago.”

  “I think you’re right,” Bill agreed.

  “They’ll make better time now.” The Kid’s hopes of catching up to the outlaws before they reached San Antonio were sinking. The posse could push the horses only so hard without riding the animals into the ground, which would allow Latch and his men to get away for sure.

  And he couldn’t stop thinking about what Tom Lame Deer had said earlier ... about what he should have said to Lace before they parted.

  The Kid hadn’t been a praying man for a long time, but at that moment he was praying that Lace was still all right.

  “Squirm a little more, why don’t you, darlin’?” Slim Duval told the redhead who was riding double with him. “I don’t mind at all.”

  His arm was wrapped around her waist as she perched on the horse’s back in front of the saddle. From time to time his arm slid up far enough to feel the warm pressure of her breasts.

  She cursed him with the intensity and creativity of a bullwhacker and added, “Sooner or later I’ll kill you, mister. Count on it.”

  Duval laughed. “I won’t hold my breath waiting, if you don’t mind.”

  Latch had already told him he could keep the redhead once they reached San Antonio. The youngster was a different story. Foolishly, he had let slip that he was the grandson of the rancher whose money the gang had stolen out of the stage station safe at Fire Hill.

  They had already taken a considerable amount of old Marcus Burton’s money. There was no reason they shouldn’t have more of it, in the form of ransom for the boy, Latch decided.

  Of course, even if the old man paid the ransom, the boy was doomed, Duval knew. Latch would take particular pleasure in blowing the whelp’s brains out, probably with one of those fancy foreign guns of his.

  The boy was riding in front of one of the other men, looking stunned. As well he should, Duval thought. He was in deep trouble, whether he knew it yet or not.

  Duval hadn’t been sure about the idea of setting up another ambush for the posse after the previous attempts to wipe them out had failed. But Latch had been insistent, and of course there was no use arguing with him.

  And it had worked. A few of those stubborn bastards might still be alive, but not enough to come after Latch and his men. Whoever was left of the posse could limp back to the ruins of their homes and try to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives.

  Duval would have liked one more shot at the man on top of that bluff who had forced them to light out before the massacre was complete, but he supposed that in the long run, it didn’t really matter. By the end of the day, whoever was left of the gang would be in San Antonio, and the chase would be over.

  And he would have the redhead to amuse himself with for a while, until he grew tired of her and sold her to the madam at one of the houses along the river.

  Alongside Duval, Latch startled him a little by saying, “You see, Slim, it’s just a matter of proper planning. That’s what it takes for a successful operation.”

  Duval felt a surge of anger. He knew Latch blamed him for the previous failures, but the boss didn’t have to rub his nose in it. But all he said was, “You’re right, Warren. That ambush you set up went off slick as it could be.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Too bad we didn’t manage to kill all of them.”

  Latch waved a hand as he rode. “It doesn’t matter. There can’t be more than two or three of them left alive. They’re no threat to us.”

  Duval felt a little shudder go through the woman he held so tightly. Maybe her lover had been among the men who’d been killed back there. He hoped so. He didn’t mind a little spirit in a woman, but if she knew nobody was going to come after her, she would be easier to handle.

  Making good time, the gang moved at an easy lope over the road. As they came around a bend, however, Latch abruptly raised a hand to signal a stop. Several hundred yards ahead of them, moving slowly along the road, were a dozen freight wagons.

  “Well, well,” Latch said as a smile curved his thin lips. “What’s this?”

  “Nothing we need to bother with, Warren,” Duval said. “We can leave the road and get around them. They’ll never even see us.”

  Ignoring his second-in-command’s suggestion, Latch took a pair of field glasses from his saddlebags and lifted them to his eyes. “Those wagons are empty,” he reported a moment later. “Just as I expected since they’re on their way to San Antonio. The drivers have already made their deliveries ... and collected the money that was due for the goods they carried.”

  “Which can’t amount to much, compared to the loot we’ve already got,” Duval point
ed out. “Holding them up would be a waste of time, Warren, not to mention running a risk that we don’t need.”

  Latch’s head snapped around toward him. “You think I’m afraid of a bunch of teamsters?” His voice dripped scorn. “I was born to lead men into battle.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Duval argued. “Hitting those wagons would be a waste of your time and talents. It’s beneath you, Warren.”

  Latch turned in his saddle to look back along the line of men, less than half as many as had started out a couple of weeks earlier. Their faces were impassive, and none of them said anything. They all knew Latch was half loco. They would do whatever he told them to do.

  “Fortune has begun smiling on us again,” Latch said. “It wouldn’t be wise to turn our backs on fortune’s smile.”

  Crazy as an outhouse rat, Duval thought. Latch was probably hearing voices in his head again.

  But he was the boss, no doubt about that.

  “You want to hit those wagons, we’ll hit ’em,” Duval said.

  Latch smiled as he stowed away the field glasses and drew his left-hand Mauser. “We’ll take our time until we get closer.”

  “Then we’ll hit them, and hit them hard.”

  “You’re gonna die,” the redhead said under her breath to Duval.

  His arm tightened around her. “Maybe, but you’re going to be right in front of me, honey child.”

  The Kid let the men stop and rest their horses for a few minutes every now and then, but for the most part he kept them moving as fast as he dared.

  His eyes constantly scanned the wooded, hilly terrain around and in front of them. He didn’t think Latch would attempt another ambush so close to the gang’s goal, but if this remnant of the posse rode into a trap, that would be the end of them, no doubt about it.

  Their only chance was to take Latch and his men by surprise and kill enough of the outlaws in the first strike to make the odds closer to even.

  So when The Kid heard gunfire up ahead, it surprised him. He had figured Latch’s bunch wouldn’t slow down until they reached San Antonio. But every instinct in his body told him they were responsible for those shots.

  The Kid reined in and paused long enough to pull his Winchester from its saddle sheath. He motioned for the other men to do likewise.

  “That’s got to be Latch. Maybe the gang ran into some trouble. If they did, it’s a break for us. We’ll see if we can’t turn the tide against them. But be careful ... They’ve still got Nick and Miss McCall with them.”

  Unless Latch had decided to kill the two prisoners and dump them somewhere along the way, The Kid thought bleakly. With a man as crazy as the outlaw leader seemed to be, anything was possible.

  Reilly said, “Don’t worry about ... those prisoners. Just kill ... as many outlaws as you see.”

  “Mister”—Thad turned in his saddle toward Reilly—“why don’t you just shut the hell up!” The young man exploded. “You think you’re the only one who suffered? The only one who lost somebody? My brother and me lost both our folks and our sisters! And you’re the one who got my pa killed! You and your beatin’ the drums for revenge all the time!”

  “Take it easy, Thad,” Bill said.

  “Easy? Easy! Reilly’s as loco as Warren Latch is! We shouldn’t have even brought him with us. He’ll find a way to get us all killed!”

  “No, he won’t,” The Kid said. “If he tries, I’ll shoot him myself. You hear that, Reilly?”

  “I ... hear you. And you don’t ... scare me, Morgan. You can’t ... hurt me.”

  “We might just see about that,” The Kid snapped. He pulled the buckskin around impatiently. “Come on. We’re wasting time.”

  All seven of the men pounded down the road toward the sound of the gunshots.

  Several minutes later, they came in sight of a line of freight wagons stopped along the road. Gunsmoke spurted from the backs of the wagons where the teamsters had taken cover behind the thick sideboards. They were firing at men on horseback who raced back and forth, blazing away at the wagons like Indians attacking a train of immigrants.

  “That’s ... them,” Reilly grated. Digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, he sent the animal lunging forward.

  “Mr. Morgan!” Thad yelped.

  The Kid lifted his Winchester. “For once Reilly’s done the right thing. Let’s get ’em!”

  He urged the buckskin into a pounding run behind Reilly. The other men strung out behind him. The outlaws had their attention focused on the wagons and didn’t see the new threat approaching rapidly from behind them.

  They had Latch’s men in a trap.

  The Kid’s eyes searched for a flash of red hair, but didn’t find it. He didn’t see Nick Burton, either. The two of them had to be there somewhere, he told himself. The alternative was unthinkable.

  Until he could find them, The Kid could gun down those outlaws without having to worry about hitting the prisoners.

  Ahead of him, Reilly opened fire with his pistol before he was in good range, his desire for revenge getting the better of him again. The Kid brought his rifle to his shoulder and sprayed three shots into the gang of outlaws. Even though firing from the back of a running horse played hell with a man’s accuracy, he still brought down one of them.

  Finally realizing the trouble they were in, some of the outlaws whirled and fired at the charging riders. The Kid snapped two more shots and saw another man throw up his hands and pitch from the saddle. Close enough for handgun work, he jammed the Winchester back in the saddle boot and palmed out his Colt.

  The teamsters had put up a lot stouter defense than Latch had expected. They had downed some of the outlaws already, and as dust roiled and shots roared, The Kid and his companions brought down more. The fighting was fierce, but not without paying a price. The Kid saw Vint Reilly jerk in the saddle as a bullet punched through his burned body. He stayed on his horse and charged straight toward two outlaws, still firing as he thundered toward them. He was hit again and then again, but he kept going. The outlaws finally broke in fear of the bandaged apparition coming toward them with a roaring gun in his hand.

  It was too late. Reilly blasted them off their horses before he tumbled off his own mount and rolled over and over on the ground.

  The Kid whirled the buckskin and triggered another shot that tore into the throat of an outlaw. Blood flooded over the front of the man’s shirt as he clutched futilely at the wound before losing his balance and falling from his horse.

  Turning the buckskin again, The Kid saw that Ed Marchman was down ... but not dead. He pushed himself up and fired his pistol at the remaining outlaws. Marchman might be a jackass, but at that moment, he didn’t lack for courage.

  Thad and Bill Gustaffson were right in the middle of the fight, too, their rifles cracking as they fired shot after shot. They fought with a fierce intensity. Not loco, like Reilly, but clearly determined to avenge the deaths of their loved ones.

  Then, suddenly, it was over. The shooting stopped. All the outlaws were down. The rugged-looking teamsters emerged from their wagons, carrying their rifles. “Are you men Rangers?” one of them called to The Kid.

  “No, but we’re what’s left of a posse that’s been on the trail of these outlaws,” The Kid explained. “This was Warren Latch’s bunch.”

  “Latch!” the man exclaimed. Like seemingly everyone else in that part of the country, he had heard of the outlaw leader. “You mean we actually beat Warren Latch’s gang?”

  “That’s right.” The Kid nodded. He looked over the dead outlaws. “But I don’t see Latch himself among them. He must have lit out when the attack didn’t go like he expected it to.”

  Not all the outlaws were dead, The Kid realized as one of the bloody figures on the ground suddenly coughed and rolled onto his side.

  Instantly, half a dozen rifles covered the man.

  The Kid quickly dismounted and motioned for the men to give him room. With his Colt still in his hand, he knelt next to the w
ounded outlaw. “Who are you, mister?”

  “S-Slim Duval,” the man gasped out. He looked like he’d been shot at least twice in the belly. He didn’t have much time left.

  So this was Slim, The Kid thought, the one who had led that scouting party they’d run into a few nights earlier.

  “Where’s Latch, Duval?”

  “I ... I don’t know. He ... ran out on us. We never ... turned on him ... no matter how loco he got ... and then he double-crossed us!”

  “Then you won’t mind telling me where to find him,” The Kid said. “You had a couple of prisoners, a woman and a young man—”

  “Latch took them ... with him ... along with ... all the loot. I never ... never thought he’d do something ... like that.”

  The Kid grunted. “No honor among thieves, eh? Tell me where to find him. Where does he go in San Antonio?”

  Duval’s voice rose into a despairing wail as he replied, “I don’t know!”

  “Well, you’d better think hard.” The Kid put the revolver’s barrel under Duval’s chin and pressed it into his throat as blood leaked from a corner of the outlaw’s mouth. “Because if you can’t help me find Latch and those prisoners, I don’t have any reason not to kill you right now.”

  Chapter 30

  San Antonio was beautiful at night. The lights of the sprawling city stretched for a long way.

  Downtown, along the river, and near the ruins of the old mission called the Alamo, music and laughter drifted through the open doorways of the numerous saloons. The warm night air was filled with the scent of flowers, although the stink of decay from the river lay underneath the more pleasant smells.

  The house was built in the Spanish style, with a red tile roof and an adobe wall around it. A black wrought-iron gate opened into a garden.

  The Kid didn’t try to open the gate. He went over the wall, dropping lightly into a shrub-bordered flower bed on the other side.

  His black trousers, shirt, and hat helped him blend into the darkness. The Colt’s handle with its ivory grips was the only bit of light about him, and he had his hand wrapped around it. Somewhere not far away, a guitar played a mournful tune.