“None taken,” The Kid said. “I’m sure she’s not much like the English ladies you’ve known, Captain, but an English lady might not survive very long out here.”
“You’ve been to England?”
“I have. My mother and I did the European tour a number of years ago.”
“My God. You’re not a saddle tramp, are you?”
The Kid smiled. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I’ve been doing a lot of drifting recently.”
“Well…how would a Texan put it? I hope you’ll…light and set for a spell, while you’re visiting Diamondback.”
“Thank you, Captain,” The Kid said as his smile widened into a grin. “I believe I will, and I’m much obliged for the hospitality.”
Starbird said that he would have Rocklin bring in The Kid’s rifles and saddlebags from the barn, then called Carmelita and ordered her to show The Kid to one of the empty bedrooms on the second floor. Powerful arms straining, Starbird wheeled himself out of the living room as The Kid followed the servant up the stairs.
The room Carmelita took him to was large, airy, and comfortable, with a pair of open windows covered by gauzy curtains that moved back and forth in the hot breeze. A four-poster bed, a couple of chairs, a washstand, and a wardrobe completed the furnishings. The windows afforded a view to the west of the house, toward the mountains.
The Kid nodded in satisfaction, then said, “Thank you, Carmelita.” As she started to leave, he gave in to curiosity and stopped her. “I have a question.”
“Sí, señor?”
“How long has Captain Starbird been like he is? His legs, I mean.”
Carmelita shook her head. “No habla, señor.”
That was an outright lie, and The Kid knew it. Downstairs, Starbird had given Carmelita her orders in English, and she had seemed to understand them perfectly. But her loyalty to her employer meant that she didn’t want to talk about the captain, he supposed, so he didn’t press the question. He just smiled, nodded, said, “Gracias,” and waved her out of the room.
His muscles were starting to ache from the battle with Wolfram, even though he hadn’t absorbed as much punishment as he might have expected to in a brawl like that. He’d been riding for days, too, and was tired. He took off his gunbelt, coiled it and placed it on one of the chairs next to the bed. Then he pulled off his boots and shirt and stood next to the washstand as he dipped the cloth in the basin of cool water. It felt good to wipe the dust off his face and torso.
A soft knock sounded on the door. He stepped swiftly to the chair and bent slightly to slide the Colt from its holster. Instinct prompted that move. He didn’t have to think about it. Gun in hand, he went to the door and called, “Who is it?”
“Diana Starbird,” came the answer from the other side of the panel.
The Kid opened the door. Diana’s eyes widened slightly, but whether it was from the sight of his bare chest or the gun in his hand—or both—he didn’t know. He smiled and said, “What can I do for you, Miss Starbird?”
“I-I just wanted to see that you had gotten settled in properly and that the room is comfortable.”
He nodded. “Very much so. Although I haven’t tried out the bed yet. I was just about to do that.”
“Well…well…” Anger suddenly bloomed on her face. “Don’t expect me to join you!”
“The thought never entered my mind,” The Kid replied coolly.
“I’ll just bet!” She turned on her heel and stalked off down the hall.
The Kid laughed and eased the door closed. What he had said to Diana wasn’t strictly, completely true. She was a very attractive woman, and he had the same appetites as any normal man, even though he didn’t intend to indulge them anytime soon. He wasn’t sure you could put a time limit on a period of mourning, say that a certain number of months or years was proper and another wasn’t. He was sure that the girl called Elena had expected him to bed her while they were traveling together, but that had never happened. Come to think of it, maybe that was one reason she had left him in Santa Fe. The Kid knew that when the time was right, he would be aware of it.
Even though he was drawn to Diana Starbird, he wasn’t going to take advantage of the hospitality she and her uncle had offered him. Conrad Browning might have tried to seduce her, at one time, because he’d been a bit of a self-centered scoundrel before making the acquaintance of his father, but Kid Morgan wouldn’t.
He slid his gun back in its holster and stretched out on the bed. His intention was just to rest for a while, but he dozed off without meaning to.
The Kid came awake suddenly, and when he did, he had no idea how long he had been asleep. His dreams had been full of blood and death, of the anguished face of his wife and the leering, evil faces of the men who had kidnapped and killed her. The violent images of the deaths he had meted out to them in turn gave him no satisfaction. Blood paid for blood, but it never quite fulfilled the debt. As The Kid sat up in bed, he supposed that those all-too-vivid dreams had jolted him out of slumber.
Then he realized that somewhere outside, men shouted hoarsely and the roar of gunshots filled the air.
Chapter 8
As The Kid sprang out of bed, the Colt seemed to leap from the holster to his hand as if by magic. In the dimly lit room, no eye would have been able to follow his almost supernaturally swift movements. Gifted with the same sort of speed and accuracy with a gun that had made his father one of the deadliest gunfighters in the history of the West, Kid Morgan had honed those skills—skills he had never known he possessed until tragedy made them necessary—with long hours of practice.
He pushed the curtains aside at one of the windows and saw that shadows were gathering over the ranch headquarters. The sun was down, and twilight was settling in. It was one of the worst times of the day to try to see anything. The Kid spotted a couple of dark shapes lying huddled and motionless on the ground, and recognized them as men who were either wounded or dead.
Shots came from the barn, the bunkhouse, and the house below him. The gunfire was directed at a stand of aspen trees about a hundred yards from the house. The Kid saw muzzle flashes stabbing through the darkness out there. He heard slugs thudding against the house.
The bushwhackers must have slipped in to the trees, then waited until dusk and opened fire on the ranch hands as they moved around on their final chores of the day. The Diamondback punchers would have scurried for cover, some of them reaching the barn, others the bunkhouse, maybe a few running in to the main house. The hidden riflemen continued pouring lead at the place, keeping the defenders pinned down.
It was impossible to know for sure how many bushwhackers were out there. The Kid estimated at least a dozen, judging by the muzzle flashes. Enough to do some damage, there was no doubt about that.
He couldn’t shake the thought that Diana Starbird and her uncle were likely somewhere in the house, where a stray bullet could shatter a window or punch through a wall and find them.
He grimaced as his hand tightened on the Colt’s grips. At that range, the six-gun wouldn’t do him much good. He might be able to send his shots in a high enough arc that they would reach the trees, but there was no hope of any accuracy doing that.
What he needed were his Sharps and his Winchester.
Moving quickly, he holstered the revolver and buckled the gun belt around his hips. He stomped his feet into his boots and pulled on his shirt. Leaving his hat where he’d hung it on the back of a chair, he left the room.
The house was in darkness. Either the lamps hadn’t been lit yet, or someone had blown them all out. That was good. No sense giving the bushwhackers any better targets than they already had. The Kid clattered down the stairs to the big living room where he had talked with Diana and Captain Starbird earlier.
Someone who was crouched at one of the windows jerked around at the sound of his footsteps and exclaimed, “Son of a—” He recognized Diana’s voice as she went on, “I almost shot you, Kid.”
His eyes were a
djusted enough to the dimness for him to be able to make out the rifle she clutched in her hands. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“What does it sound like? We’re under attack!”
“Malone and his men?”
“Bound to be. I guess he didn’t figure you’d be here, so his word that he wouldn’t try to kill you doesn’t apply.”
The Kid catfooted across the room to join her. As he crouched beside her, he asked, “Where’s your uncle?”
“In his study. There are heavy shutters over the windows. He’s safe.”
“And I’ll bet it’s killing him to have to stay out of the fight, too,” The Kid said.
“That’s right. I didn’t give him any choice, though. As soon as the shooting started, I pushed his chair in there and locked the door.”
The Kid would have bet a hat that Diana was going to get a blistering earful from her uncle for doing that, once the fight was over. Assuming, of course, they both lived through it.
“You can get in there with him, if you want,” she went on.
“Why would I do that?”
“You made it clear that our trouble with Malone isn’t your fight,” Diana said.
“I said I wasn’t a hired gun. There’s a difference.” He started to get up.
She clutched his sleeve. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to make a run for the barn. I need my Sharps and my Winchester.”
“You’re loco! You can’t get to the barn. Those bastards’ll shoot you full of holes if you try.”
She didn’t bother apologizing for her language, The Kid thought with a fleeting grin. He was in complete agreement with her. Bushwhackers were bastards.
“I don’t like being shot at,” he said. “It tends to make me want to shoot back.”
“Well, you don’t have to go to the barn to do it.” She turned and waved a hand. “Your rifles are right over there on the table. One of the boys brought your gear in from the barn a little while ago, but I thought you might be asleep so I told him to just leave it all down here for now.”
That was a lucky break, The Kid thought. He hurried over to the table and saw his Sharps and Winchester lying there. His saddlebags were draped over the back of a chair. He opened one of the pouches and reached inside to pull out a box of cartridges for the Sharps. After stuffing one pocket with ammunition, he filled another with Winchester rounds so they’d be handy. Then he draped the saddlebags over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Diana called as he started toward the stairs with a rifle in each hand.
“The high ground,” he said. “The windows in my room have a good view of those trees.”
He heard her rifle crack again as he headed up the stairs. He thought about telling her to keep her head down but didn’t figure it would do any good.
When he reached his room, he tossed the saddlebags on the bed, then went to one of the windows and thrust the curtains all the way aside. Kneeling, he set the Winchester on the floor beside him and brought the heavy Sharps to his shoulder. It was already loaded. His thumb eased back the hammer, and he nestled his cheek against the smooth wood of the stock as he peered over the barrel at the trees where the bushwhackers had set up shop.
The Kid didn’t have to wait very long, only a couple of heartbeats, before he saw a muzzle flash at just about the spot where he had the Sharps pointed. He shifted his aim just slightly and squeezed the trigger.
The boom of the heavy rifle filled the room and pounded against The Kid’s ears, partially deafening him. Firing a Sharps in confined quarters was sort of like squatting under the barrel of a cannon as it went off.
He didn’t have to be able to hear to do what he did next, though. He set the Sharps aside and snatched up the Winchester. Its magazine held fifteen rounds, with a sixteenth cartridge already in the chamber. He began firing, targeting the muzzle flashes he saw in the shadows under the trees.
The Kid’s swift, deadly accurate fire from the second story window soon drew the attention of the bushwhackers. Bullets began to smack into the outer wall, and glass showered down around The Kid as more slugs shattered the upper panes of the window. As bullets whipped past his head, he threw himself backward out of the line of fire.
There was another window in the room and he rolled across the floor, avoiding the broken glass, and came up on one knee at that one. Gun flashes still winked like fireflies under the trees, but there were fewer of them. He had a hunch some of his shots had found their targets. He lined his sights and started firing again, emptying the Winchester in a long burst of well-placed shots.
There was no return barrage. The trees went dark as the bushwhackers stopped shooting. Morgan began reloading the Winchester and the Sharps while he had the chance. His ears were starting to work again and he heard Diana calling, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”
As the defenders’ shots died away, The Kid leaned closer to the window and listened as intently as he could. The sound of rapid hoofbeats came to his ears.
Sam Rocklin shouted from the bunkhouse, “I think they’re lightin’ a shuck, Miss Diana!”
“Everyone hold your position!” Diana called back. “It could be a trick!”
The Kid was glad that she had some sense of strategy. It would help keep her from making any foolish mistakes.
He left the Sharps in the room but took the Winchester with him as he went downstairs. Diana heard him coming. She was waiting in the living room, along with a couple of ranch hands who had come in there from other parts of the house.
“Do you think they’re really gone?” she asked.
The Kid said, “I don’t know. It sounded like they were pulling out, but like you said, it could be a trick.”
“If it is, we’ll wait them out.”
The Kid glanced at the window. Outside, the sky was almost completely dark. The stars would be putting in an appearance soon, if they weren’t already. That darkness could come in handy.
“I’ll go scout around and make sure they’re gone.”
He couldn’t see Diana’s face very well in the gloom, but he heard the surprise in her voice as she said, “You can’t do that. It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ll be all right,” The Kid assured her. “I know how to move without being seen and take care of myself if I run into any trouble.” He thought briefly about his father, Frank Morgan. “I had a good teacher.”
Grudgingly, Diana said, “All right…but be careful. Do you want some of the men to go with you?”
“No, I’ll handle the chore by myself,” The Kid answered without hesitation. He knew his own capabilities. He didn’t know how quietly the other men could move.
He went to the back of the house, slipped out the rear door, and catfooted his way around the structure. As he worked his way around the bunkhouse and the barn toward the trees, he told himself to be especially cautious about not being seen. Some of the Diamondback hands might mistake him for one of the bushwhackers. Unfortunately, it was a risk he had to take.
He made it to the trees without incident and stopped in the thick shadows underneath them. His keen ears strained to hear any sound. The shooting had chased away any birds or small animals, so it was utterly quiet without the usual nocturnal stirrings and rustlings.
For a good five minutes, The Kid stood absolutely silent and motionless, barely breathing as he used his other senses in addition to his hearing. He peered through the shadows, alert for even the slightest movement, and he smelled the thinning clouds of powdersmoke that lingered in the air and gradually faded. When he was convinced that the bushwhackers were actually gone, he stepped to the edge of the trees and called, “Hello, inside the house!”
“Mr. Morgan!” Diana’s voice came back. “Are you all right?”
“They’re gone,” The Kid responded. “I’m coming out. Hold your fire.”
“Hold your fire!” Diana echoed. “It’s Mr. Morgan!”
The Kid walked out of the tree
s into the open, carrying the Winchester at his side. He noted that the dead or wounded cowboys he had seen lying on the ground earlier were gone and supposed that their friends had risked emerging from cover to pick them up.
He headed for the house, and by the time he got there and went up the steps, Diana was waiting on the porch with Sam Rocklin and some of the other men.
“The bushwhackers are gone,” The Kid said. “If somebody will fetch a lantern, we can search the trees and see if they left any dead or wounded behind. I’d be willing to bet they didn’t, though.”
“Probably not,” Diana agreed. “Malone wouldn’t want to leave anybody behind who could testify against him.” She turned to the foreman. “Sam, can you handle that?”
“I sure can,” Rocklin replied with a curt nod. He turned to the other punchers and went on, “Orrie, fetch a lantern from the bunkhouse. Lon, you and Gordon come along, too.”
The Kid started to turn around and accompany them, but Diana stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I wish you’d come with me, Kid,” she said.
“To do what?”
“I have to let Uncle Owen out of the study…and I don’t particularly want to be alone when I do it!”
Chapter 9
The Kid didn’t really blame her for feeling that way. He knew that Owen Starbird would probably be furious at being shunted aside like that when danger threatened.
Diana led the way inside. “Do you think it’s safe to light the lamps now?” she asked.
“I think so.”
He heard the rasp of a match as Diana struck it against the stone hearth of the fireplace. Flame flared up. She held the match to the wick of a lamp that sat on the mantel, then lowered the chimney as it caught. Yellow, slightly flickering light spread out through the room.
The Loner: Rattlesnake Valley Page 5
