“Because we need to have a word with her,” the first gunman said.
The fat man chuckled and added, “A word and then maybe a little somethin’ else.”
That was all Clint needed to hear. Just the lecherous tone in the fat man’s voice was enough to send him over the edge. Clint’s first move was to reach down for the first gunman’s wrist. He did so with the same speed he might use to draw his Colt from its holster, which was more than fast enough to get to his target before the gunman could pull his trigger.
Once he had hold of the gunman’s wrist, Clint twisted the pistol in a half-circle and then angled it sharply to one side. The gunman’s finger gave way with a wet crunch, but remained within the trigger guard. Clint reached down with his other hand to grab the pistol from above and trap its hammer before it could drop. From there, all he needed to do was wrangle the gun away from its owner. Considering the pain from his snapped finger, the gunman was more than happy to let the weapon go.
All of this happened in the blink of an eye. By the time the fat man saw what was going on, he barely had time to fumble for his own .44.
Clint got a proper grip upon the gun he’d taken from the first man and then drove its barrel into the second one’s ample gut. “What do you want with the girl?”
The fat man sputtered something, but didn’t get out more than a few choked syllables before someone else hollered at him from the nearby saloon.
“What’s the matter, Jesse?” the man called out from the saloon. “You choke on a chicken bone?”
The first gunman clutched his right hand and shouted, “That’s Adams! Put him down!”
Clint turned to find no less than three armed men emerge from the saloon and fan out to form a firing line as they drew their pistols and took aim. In that time, Clint moved around to get behind Jesse and wrap his left arm around the larger man’s flabby throat. Tightening his grip around Jesse’s neck, Clint looked over the fat man’s shoulder at the others. Unfortunately, Jesse was so fat that Clint couldn’t do much more than that while using him as a shield. In order to fire a few shots of his own, Clint would have had to lift his gun hand up high and fire downward.
While Clint was trying to figure out what to do with his rotund shield, the three gunmen from the saloon opened fire. Lead whipped through the air over Clint’s head and one shot even tore a nasty gouge across the top of Jesse’s shoulder.
Hunkering down behind Jesse, Clint drove his knee into the fat man’s back and shoved him forward. Jesse waddled toward the gunmen, waving his arms and staggering like a drunken sailor.
“Don’t shoot!” the fat man cried.
“Get the hell out of the way!” one of the others shouted.
Clint rushed toward the only cover he could find, which was the little shack near the stagecoach platform. Pressing his back against the wooden structure, he leaned toward the wall and said, “I know you’re in there! Who are those men?”
The scarecrow’s response was a shaky squawk. “What? How would I know?”
More shots were fired as the gunmen spoke amongst themselves.
“They know my name,” Clint said. “The lady who left that letter knew my name and told it to you. I don’t know anyone else in this place, so that leaves you.”
Just when it seemed the scarecrow was going to keep his silence, a barrage of shots knocked a few holes through his shack. “They didn’t ask about you!” he squealed from somewhere close to the floor of the shack. Clint slid down so he was squatting with his back against the wall and his head was closer to where the scarecrow must have been cowering.
“The tall fella asked about the Prescott stage and I asked him the same thing I asked you,” the scarecrow continued. “He asked a whole bunch of other questions, which brought him back to the lady who left that letter for you. She’s the one he was interested in.”
“And they know she wanted to contact me,” Clint snarled.
A few more shots blazed past the shack, but the gunmen were easing up on their triggers. In the lull, the scarecrow said, “Yeah, they know. They paid me to keep quiet about it until they got you.”
“Who are they?”
“I swear I don’t—”
Several more shots were fired from multiple angles. The gunmen must have spread out to surround the shack, because their bullets tore through the flimsy structure and splintered the three walls facing the saloon. Clint hunkered down a bit lower, but knew it would only be a matter of seconds before he was either forced from hiding or killed where he was.
“Damn, Maddy,” Clint whispered to himself. “For such a sweet lady, you sure make a lot of enemies.”
TWELVE
Since he didn’t have a lot of time for a thorough check, Clint hefted the gun he’d taken so he could estimate its weight. He’d spent more than enough years around firearms to know the difference between the feel of a loaded pistol and an empty one. He was confident the young gunman’s weapon was probably fully loaded, but he wasn’t about to bet his life on it. When he scrambled away from the shack, he took a quick look at the area in front of the saloon.
As he’d figured, just about everyone had run for cover when the shooting started. That left the three gunmen, the one with the snapped finger, and Jesse, to stand out like birds sitting on a telegraph wire. Clint aimed the stolen pistol at them and fired as quickly as he could while continuing to move.
His shots weren’t accurate, but they came in a loud fire-storm and tested the nerve of all the men in front of him. Even experienced gunfighters would have been thrown off their game by that kind of return fire, but these men were rattled a whole lot more than that. A few of them kept firing but sent their bullets into the street or hissing up toward the clouds. The rest simply scattered.
Knowing he was either out of ammunition or close to it, Clint tucked the stolen gun under his belt and drew his own modified Colt. “What’s this about?” he asked. “Speak up and maybe we can resolve this without anyone getting killed.”
“Tell us where to find the Chinese whore and you won’t have to get killed,” one of the others replied from wherever he was hiding.
Choking back the impulse to shoot that man on principle, Clint said, “What do you want her for?”
The man who stood up was the same one who’d had his gun taken away. Clint had to give the man credit for collecting himself so soon. Of course, it seemed to help that he looked able to pull a trigger with his left hand just as easily as he could his right. He even had another pistol taken from the double rig around his waist to back up his words. “You’re outnumbered, mister,” he said. “Tell us where that house is before we hurt you bad enough to wish you would’ve told us the first time I asked.”
“I don’t know what house you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. Didn’t you read that letter yet?”
“Nope.”
“Then come along with us,” the gunman said as his partners slowly stepped out from where they’d hidden. “You’ll have time enough to read it along the way.”
“The way to where?”
Jesse had been crouching behind a barrel, which hadn’t been big enough to fully protect him anyway. Anxious to regain some of the pride he’d lost by getting captured so easily before, the fat man stepped forward and said, “For Christ’s sake, Ayden, just shoot the prick’s legs out from under him and we’ll drag him to the camp!”
That idea was good enough for the rest of the men and the remaining three raised their guns to see it through.
Clint fired three quick shots from the hip, two of which clipped the men who had come from the saloon and sent them to the ground. Before those men hit the dirt, Clint was already running to where Eclipse was tethered. Jesse waddled to follow him, so Clint fired in his direction. The fat man reflexively grabbed the bloody section of his shoulder and dropped. He’d either been hit in the same spot as before or was petrified of that very thing. Either way, he was down for the moment.
After untying Eclipse,
Clint climbed onto the Darley Arabian’s back and snapped the reins. He then turned and spotted Ayden and one of the men from the saloon taking aim at him. Clint sent a round into the closest one, knocking him off his feet with a solid hit to the chest to land heavily beside Ayden.
Putting one gunman down kept the others busy for a few seconds, which was all the time Clint needed to ride away from the camp and platform. Gunfire erupted from behind him, but it only added some fuel to Eclipse’s fire. The Darley Arabian galloped away amid a cloud of dust and it was all Clint could do to hang on.
Every so often, Clint glanced over his shoulder to look for any trace of a pursuit. The gunmen might have gotten to their horses to try and catch him, but all Clint could see was a few specks on the horizon. After another few minutes, he couldn’t even see that much.
THIRTEEN
Clint took a roundabout way back to Madeline’s house, just in case those gunmen were still following him. He circled and doubled back a few times before even truly getting halfway back to her town. From what he’d heard, those men didn’t even know where to start looking for her home, but Clint took those extra precautions to make certain of it. Between his backtracking and Eclipse’s natural speed, they never got close enough to any pursuers for Clint to catch sight of them.
Once he got close enough to the town to see it, Clint pulled back on his reins and removed the spyglass from his saddlebag. A careful study of the terrain behind and around him revealed nothing but a few coyotes and one wagon making its way into town. After dropping the spyglass back into the pack, Clint took Maddy’s letter from his pocket and read it all the way through.
Clint,
If you’re reading this, that means you’re at the platform waiting for me to arrive. You must leave this instant before you’re seen. There are men after me and they might hurt you if they know you’re a friend of mine.
“Too late for that,” Clint chuckled. He shifted in his saddle and continued reading.
Sam and Chen are safe, but I’ve acquired another one of my cherished strays. I call her Lylah, but I’m not certain what her true name is. Because of my current circumstances, I arranged for Lylah to arrive at my house before me. That way, I hope to prevent any trouble with the same men who have forced Lylah into my care.
I know it’s a lot to ask, but I implore you to go to my house and make sure Lylah is all right. I hope to be there to meet you, but if not, you’ll need to make sure she gets to the proper authorities. She has information about a killer named Kyle Morrow. If you’re unable to come back to my house, please get this information to someone who can help. I fear the local law isn’t quite up to the task.
Maddy
Clint smirked at the thought of just how much he agreed with that last sentence. From what he’d seen of Maddy’s local law, it wasn’t quite up to the task of tossing drunks. Protecting anyone from a known killer seemed to be way too much trouble for someone like Sheriff Bailey. As Clint folded the letter and placed it back into his pocket, he realized that the gunmen at the stagecoach platform might not have been referring to Chen after all.
Without letting another moment slip by, Clint tapped his heels against Eclipse’s sides and rode into town. He didn’t stop at the sheriff’s office and didn’t waste a second in looking around at the folks on either side of the street. Nobody was shooting at him and, as far as he could tell, nobody was following him. Everything else was beneath his notice.
Upon arriving at Maddy’s house, Clint drew his pistol and circled the place. His eyes darted up and down, side to side, looking for anyone peeking from a window or waiting in any kind of possible ambush. There was no one on the roof and not so much as a hint of movement that he could see. Bringing Eclipse to a halt at the back of the house, Clint dismounted and carefully approached the back door.
It wasn’t until that moment that he realized just how long he’d gone without taking a slow breath. The stagecoach platform was a sizable distance away, but Clint had covered it in record time. Although Eclipse did most of the work in that regard, Clint’s muscles were feeling the strain of being in the saddle for so many hours without letting up on his pace. To go along with the physical strain of making such a rushed journey, being ready for a fight or watching for an ambush for all of that time took a toll of its own. Clint’s blood raced through his veins. His breath came in shallow gulps. His muscles all felt as if they’d been drawn taut and stretched thin over his bones. Even his eyeballs felt as if they’d spent the day rattling around in their sockets.
Standing with one foot propped against the step leading up to the back door, Clint filled his lungs and let out his breath in a steady sigh. It didn’t relax him completely, but at least the rushing in his ears died down enough for him to hear a bit more than his own heartbeat. And then, to set his whole system to running again, Clint slammed his shoulder against the door and pushed it open.
He jumped into Maddy’s kitchen with his gun in hand. Although he could still hear the echo of splintering wood, he could tell the entire house was a bit too still for its own good. His instincts had been to come in like a bull rather than take his chances announcing his presence with a polite knock. Stalking forward into the familiar home, he could tell those instincts had been correct.
The house didn’t feel the way it had when he’d left it.
The air was thick and had the feel of a tomb.
But there was something more than that. Clint could sense something on an animal level that caught somewhere between his nose and his brain. It was something that let him know he was being watched, mixed in with a liberal dose of fear. More often than not, those things hinted at an ambush. He could be wrong about that, but Clint wasn’t going to be caught unaware.
“Maddy?” he called out.
There was no response.
“Maddy? It’s Clint.”
Still nothing.
Clint set his sights upon the doorway leading from the kitchen to the dining room. Just as he was stepping through, the ambush he’d been waiting for finally arrived. And, despite all his preparation and jangling nerves, the damn thing still caught him by surprise.
FOURTEEN
There really wasn’t much to see in the kitchen. Apart from the stove, several cupboards, and the table where Maddy did most of her cooking preparation, there were only a couple of stools scattered throughout the room. Since nobody could really hide behind one of those stools, Clint had moved along. Unfortunately, someone could hide in one of the cupboards. Clint discovered that the hard way when a wild banshee exploded from the cupboard where it had been hiding to swat furiously at Clint’s back and arm.
Clint wheeled around and swung his arm reflexively at whatever was attacking him. Since none of the blows had really hurt him, he only swung his arm at about half its strength. His effort didn’t matter either way, since the banshee easily ducked under it to start kicking his shins. Unlike the first round of attacks, those kicks hurt.
“Hey!” Clint yelled as he backed away. “What the hell?”
He held his gun in hand, but had yet to get a clear look at his target. When he tried to move away, he merely caught another batch of kicks in a different spot. The banshee looked to be about the size of a small woman, but was hunched over to the height of a child. Long, straight black hair hung down to cover the banshee’s face. The arms and legs that continued to batter Clint were thin, but strong enough to do some damage.
Since he wasn’t about to shoot the banshee just yet, Clint grabbed the first body part he could reach that wasn’t flailing too much to be caught. Once he closed his fist around a clump of hair, he pulled the banshee away and stepped back.
The banshee looked up at him and bared its teeth. Despite the twisted features and sweaty skin, it was obviously the face of a woman.
“Who are you?” Clint asked.
The woman looked to be somewhere in her late teens or early twenties. Before Clint could see much more than that, she snarled and reached up to sink both sets of finge
rnails into the hand that had grabbed her hair. She growled viciously as she drove her nails in deep enough to start a trickle of blood flowing down from Clint’s hand.
“Ow, son of a—” was all Clint could say before a kick landed squarely on his shin. He’d been about to let her go before, but he sure as hell let go of her now. The instant she’d hopped back a step, the banshee stood up straight and delivered a solid kick between Clint’s legs.
A wave of cold flowed up from Clint’s privates and flooded into his stomach. He tried to pull in a breath, but could only draw enough air to let out a hacking wheeze. He reached down to hold on to the spot where he’d been kicked, knowing all too well what was coming next. Sure enough, the pain exploded in him a few seconds later. It erupted in a white-hot torrent that went straight up to his spinal cord.
Clint’s first instinct was to grit his teeth and beat to a pulp whoever had caused that very distinctive pain. His fist tightened around his Colt and his gaze fixed upon the wild, panicked eyes of the woman in front of him. Although he choked down the bloodthirsty impulse triggered by the pain, enough of it must have shone through in his eyes to put the fear of God into the scraggly young woman.
The banshee spun toward the doorway and ran into the dining room.
“Wait,” Clint croaked. He tried to run after her, but wasn’t able to get up to full speed. The banshee’s legs and feet might have been slender, but they’d hit him with a sharp impact that Clint knew he would be feeling for a long time.
She bolted from the kitchen in a flurry of scrambling limbs and wild hair. Her breaths were short and choppy, filling the otherwise empty house like moans from a ghost.
Clint dragged himself toward the dining room. It took a couple of fumbling attempts, but he managed to drop his Colt back into its holster. Still grabbing himself in his tender nether regions, he grunted, “I’m . . . a friend of Madeline’s. She sent me . . . here.”
Pariah Page 5
