Death Rides Alone (2 page)

Could be Tate wasn't seeing straight because of the clonk on the head from the whiskey bottle, or he might have been so furious that emotion was throwing off his aim. Or maybe he just wasn't that good a shot when he wasn't facing some scared wrangler or sodbuster.

Whatever the reason, some of his bullets whined over Luke's head while others plunked into the mud in front of him.

In smooth, unhurried fashion, Luke drew his right-hand Remington, lifted it, and fired one shot.

The .44 round sizzled through the rain, punched into Tate's chest, and knocked him back against the batwings. He didn't fall through them but caught the one on his left instead, hooking his arm over it as he tried to hold himself up.

The batwing wasn't very stable, though, and neither was Tate. He swayed back and forth for a second as he struggled to raise the gun in his right hand for another shot.

Luke didn't particularly want to shoot him again because of the possibility that the bullet might go all the way through the young fool and hit somebody in the saloon, but he was about to run the risk when blood gushed from Tate's mouth and his strength finally deserted him. He pitched forward to lie facedown on the boardwalk. Both guns fell in the muddy street.

The fight wasn't over, though. One of Tate's friends, the one who hadn't wanted to be reasonable, rushed out gripping a double-barreled shotgun he had gotten from somewhere. He yelled a curse and swung the barrels toward Luke.

The Remington roared and bucked twice in Luke's fist. Both bullets drove into the shotgunner's midsection, just above his belt buckle. As he doubled over, his finger must have jerked the shotgun's triggers, because it boomed like thunder as both barrels discharged.

The weapon was pointing down now, though, and the double load of buckshot slammed into Tate's back at close range, shredding and pulverizing it. The only good thing about that grisly turn of fate was that Tate was likely dead already and didn't feel the terrible blast.

Luke stood in the warm rain, revolver leveled toward the saloon, and waited to see if the third man was going to come out. After a long moment, the batwings swung outward slowly and the man emerged from the Three of a Kind, but he immediately held his empty hands high and in plain sight.

“Don't shoot, mister!” he called to Luke. “Tate took my gun! I'm unarmed!”

“If you came to help your friends, you're too late,” Luke said. His clothes were soaked now. He was wet, uncomfortable, and mad, and he felt like shooting the third man just on general principles. That would have been cold-blooded murder, though, and even bounty hunters drew the line somewhere. At least
this
bounty hunter did.

“Tate's dead, ain't he?”

“Not much doubt about that after your other friend unloaded both barrels into his back.”

At that moment, the gutshot man let out a long, pain-racked groan.

“Clevenger ain't, though,” the third man went on. “I just want to get the doc for him.”

“Go ahead, although I doubt it'll do much good. Wounds like that are invariably fatal.”

“You're sayin' he's gonna die no matter what I do?”

“The odds are overwhelmingly against him.”

The third man thought about that for a couple of seconds before saying, “Well, then, the hell with it. I figure to get on my horse and head outta this town. I know when I'd be pushin' my luck to stay in a place.”

“Go ahead,” Luke told him. “Nobody's going to make you hang around.”

The man went to one of the horses at the hitch rack in front of the saloon, jerked the animal's reins loose, and swung up into the saddle. He hauled the horse around and spurred it into a run that sent mud flying in the air from its hooves. Luke watched him disappear into the rain.

Johnny came out of the saloon, followed by a couple of the citizens of Bent Creek who had been in the saloon.

“Somebody'll fetch the undertaker for these two,” the bartender said.

“One of them isn't dead yet,” Luke pointed out. Clevenger was still squirming slightly and moaning, although the sounds were getting weaker.

“He will be, time the coffin's ready for him.”

Luke finally holstered the Remington and nodded.

“More than likely. Do you have any law around here?”

“Town marshal,” Johnny said. “Deputy rides up from the county seat once a month or so, but he was just here last week so I don't expect to see him again any time soon.”

“Well, if the marshal wants to talk to me, I'll be at the livery stable or the hotel.”

Johnny shook his head and said, “We all saw what happened from inside the saloon, mister. Tate and Clevenger came after you, pure and simple. I told Clevenger not to take that Greener from under the bar, but he wouldn't be stopped. You didn't have any choice but to kill 'em.”

“That's the way of the world,” Luke said. “Too often it doesn't give a man a choice.”

* * *

He knew as soon as he stepped into the cavernous livery barn that he had found what he was looking for.

At least, there was a good chance he had, because a brown-and-white paint pony stood in one of the stalls, its serene gaze turned in his direction.

Luke had never laid eyes on Judd Tyler or on the horse Tyler had stolen to make his getaway from White Fork, Montana, after murdering poor Rachel Montgomery. This horse sure fit the description on the wanted poster currently folded up and stowed in one of Luke's saddlebags, though.

Of course, it was possible Tyler had traded horses or simply abandoned the paint and stolen another mount since fleeing from White Fork. If he had any sense at all, he wouldn't still be riding such a distinctive animal.

And there were quite a few paint horses around, Luke reminded himself. This one didn't have to be Tyler's.

The instincts he had developed from surviving for so many long years in a dangerous business told him that his quarry was nearby, though. Luke carried a number of different maps with him, and all of them agreed there wasn't a hell of a lot between here and White Fork. A few small settlements and some ranches, that was all. Tyler might not have been able to find a better horse.

It was the maps that had brought Luke to Bent Creek. He had been in another town, several days' ride south of here, when he had seen the poster on Tyler in the local badge-toter's office. Luke had studied the maps and seen that Tyler was likely to head for Bent Creek if he continued south.

Luke had ridden hard in order to get here in time to intercept the fugitive. It had been a gamble, but he sensed it was going to pay off.

A tall, gaunt old man in overalls and a battered hat stood just inside the barn doors. His left cheek bulged out from the chaw of tobacco he had stashed there.

“Mr. Crandall?” Luke asked him.

“Yep,” the man said around the chaw. He nodded toward the far side of the street, where a man carrying a black bag had just hurried up to the scene of the shooting.

Luke and the liveryman watched as the doctor dropped to one knee beside Clevenger, looked at the wounds for a moment, then stood up and shook his head at Johnny and the other bystanders. He walked off without ever opening his medical bag.

“I seen some of what happened,” Crandall said. “Shot the hell outta them boys, didn't you?”

“It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Luke said.

Crandall spat a long, brown stream into the rain, then said, “Nobody's gonna miss 'em, if that's what you're worried about. Tate's been a pain in everybody's butt around here ever since he growed up and decided he was a tough
hombre
. Clevenger was mite near as bad.”

“Tate said he grew up on a ranch near here?”

“Yeah, but his folks are dead and it's his uncle's place now, and his uncle couldn't stand him. Ran him off and told him never to set foot on the spread again. So you don't have to be afeared of anybody comin' after you to settle the score.”

“I wasn't afeared,” Luke said.

Crandall looked at him with narrowed eyes for a second, then said, “No, I reckon you ain't very often, are you?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on, “Lookin' for a place to put your horse up for the night?”

“That's right, and I'm in search of some information as well.”

Crandall scratched his angular jaw and said, “Got some empty stalls, but I dunno about the information. Most folks figure my head's pretty empty, too.”

“Oh, I doubt that very seriously,” Luke said. “For example, I'll bet you can tell me all about the man who rode in on that paint pony over there.”

Crandall glanced toward the paint and grunted.

“How come you want to know?”

“I think he might be a friend of mine.”

Crandall spat again, said, “Man who shoots like you gen'rally don't have many friends.” His bony shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “But I just rent out stalls and take care o' horses. Fella who rode in on that paint yesterday is young, twenty-three or twenty-four, I'd say. Got brown hair. A mite on the scrawny side. Sound like your friend?”

“It very well could be. Is he still in town?”

“His horse is still there, ain't it?”

“He could have worked out a trade with you for another horse,” Luke said.

“Could have, but he didn't. He seemed to set a heap of store by that animal. Said he needed to be movin' on today, but he couldn't do it. He was afraid of runnin' that paint into the ground. He was right, too. That varmint was plumb in need of a day's rest.”

“Been ridden hard, had it?”

“Yep.”

“Did you happen to get a name?”

Crandall waved a knobby-knuckled hand and said, “Oh, he didn't call the horse nothin', not while I was around, anyway.”

“I think you know what I meant.”

“A fella's got cold, hard cash, I don't need his life story or his name,” Crandall said. “Anyway, he's your
friend
. Reckon you oughta know his name.”

“Then maybe you can tell me where to find him,” Luke said, although he had a hunch he already knew the answer.

Crandall pointed with a thumb and said, “He's stayin' at the hotel. If he ain't there, he's likely in one of the saloons or the café. Gettin' on toward suppertime, so he might be gettin' something to eat.”

Luke took a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket and tossed it to Crandall, who caught it with practiced ease.

“You'll see to my horse?”

“Sure, mister, but it ain't gonna cost this much.”

“The rest of it is for your help,” Luke said.

“Not sure I helped all that much. Did I tell you anything you hadn't already guessed?”

“Not really, but it was only a hunch. It's always nice to have confirmation.”

Luke handed the reins to the old man, then started to turn toward the open doors.

As he did, he heard something behind him and caught a flicker of movement from the deep shadows under the hayloft. He tried to twist back in that direction as his right hand darted across his body toward the forward-facing butt of the Remington on that side.

The gun came clear of the holster, but Luke didn't have a chance to use it before something crashed against his head with enough force to make it feel like his brain had popped right out of his skull. He heard Crandall's startled shout, but that was the last thing he was aware of before he plunged into seemingly endless darkness.

Little streaks and flashes of light popped into Luke's brain, letting him know that the darkness wasn't endless after all.

So he wasn't dead. That came as something of a surprise, but he wasn't one to be ungrateful for a stroke of luck.

“Damn it, boy, that hurts!”

Crandall's raspy old voice made the complaint. The words that answered it came from a younger man.

“Sorry, Pop. You've got to let me tie you up and gag you, though, or else I'll have to kill you.”

“That's what you're gonna do to that fella? You're gonna kill him in cold blood?”

The reply didn't come right away. When it did, the younger man sounded torn.

“I don't want to,” he said. “But he's got to be a bounty hunter, the way he was asking around about me. He described me to the bartender over at the saloon, and then he came in here and started asking questions about my horse.”

“Got paper out on you, do you? You don't hardly
look
like a desperado. You're mean as hell, though, tyin' these knots so blasted tight.”

“Quit complaining, Pop—”

“I ain't your pop. And even if I was, I'd never claim a no-good whelp like you.”

Crandall tried to say something else, but the words came out as a muffled jumble that told Luke he'd had something shoved in his mouth to serve as a gag.

And it was Judd Tyler who was doing the tying and gagging. It couldn't be anybody else.

While the conversation between Crandall and Tyler was going on, Luke had stayed right where he was, as silent and unmoving as he would have been if he were still out cold.

His head throbbed from being hit, but the ache was already beginning to fade slightly. He felt a little strength flowing back into his muscles. He wasn't ready to jump up and fight yet, but he was getting there.

Since Tyler was just finishing the job of securing the old liveryman, Luke figured only a few minutes had passed since the wallop that knocked him out. He didn't know how Tyler had found out that Luke was in town looking for him. He had probably overheard someone talking about what had happened in the Three of a Kind.

At the moment the how of it didn't really matter. The important thing was turning this situation around so that Tyler was his prisoner.

“I really ought to shoot this fella in the head,” Tyler muttered, more to himself than to Crandall. “But that'd draw too much attention.” The fugitive sighed. “I know I'm gonna regret this, but I guess I'd better tie him up, too.”

That was good news to Luke's ears. He could afford to lie there and wait while he continued to recover from being knocked unconscious.

He was stretched out on his belly, with the side of his face pressed against the hard-packed dirt of the stable's aisle where he had been standing when he was struck down. It smelled faintly of all the horse manure that had been dropped here over the years.

Luke hoped once again that he would be able to get a hot bath.

Once he had captured or killed Judd Tyler, of course.

A tense moment passed. Maybe Tyler had caught on that he was shamming and said that about tying him up just to keep Luke from trying anything. Maybe the young killer was aiming a gun at his head this very second, about to squeeze the trigger and blow his brains out.

Then Tyler grunted as he bent over, grabbed Luke's left wrist with one hand, and pulled it behind his back. He held it there while he took hold of Luke's other wrist.

That meant both of Tyler's hands were full, so he couldn't be holding a gun.

Luke exploded into action.

He bucked up from the ground and threw himself toward where his ears had told him Tyler was standing. His shoulders rammed into the man's legs at the knees. Tyler yelled in surprise and alarm as he went down.

Luke rolled over and pushed himself up. Tyler lay on his back a couple of yards away, clawing at the gun on his hip. Luke dived toward him, caught his wrist just as Tyler jerked the Colt out of its holster, and shoved the gun aside as it went off. The shot echoed from the barn's high ceiling and made the horses in the stalls move around skittishly.

Luke drove his fist into Tyler's face while hanging on to the fugitive's gun wrist with his other hand. He planned to batter Tyler into senselessness.

Tyler fought back with surprising strength. He might be slender, but evidently his muscles were tough as rawhide. He writhed partially out from under Luke and aimed a knee at his groin.

Luke wasn't able to avoid the blow entirely, although it landed higher in his abdomen and didn't do as much damage as it would have if it had found its intended target.

As it was, his grip slipped enough for Tyler to tear free. The gun in the young man's hand slashed at Luke's head in a vicious swipe.

That blow missed, too, as Luke jerked aside, but it did some damage anyway as the gun barrel crashed down on his left shoulder. Luke's entire left arm went numb, which meant he was fighting one-handed.

Tyler really turned into a wildcat then, fighting with the ferocity of sheer desperation. He punched, kicked, clawed, and even bit, clamping his teeth down on Luke's thumb when Luke tried to grab his jaw.

With a pained yell, Luke tore his hand free and hammered a punch into Tyler's midsection. His left arm was still numb and not any good to him, so he struck as hard and fast as he could with the right.

Tyler was snake-quick, though, and most of the blows glanced off.

As the two men rolled and thrashed on the floor, they wound up next to a shovel lying on the ground. Tyler grabbed it and rammed the handle into Luke's ribs.

Fresh pain shot through Luke at the impact. Tyler swung the handle at his head. After being knocked out once already, Luke knew another blow might cause permanent damage, so he ducked, hunched his shoulders, and took the blow there.

He butted his head into Tyler's face. Tyler reared back, stunned. Luke dug a knee into the wanted man's belly and grabbed him around the throat at the same time. Keeping him pinned down, Luke banged Tyler's head on the ground several times. The young man stopped fighting, although he didn't pass out. His eyes were glassy and unfocused as they stared up at Luke.

Feeling was starting to come back into Luke's left arm. He used that hand to take hold of the shovel and toss it away, out of Tyler's reach. Then he pushed himself to his feet and stood over the young man. Both of Luke's holsters were empty, as was the sheath where his knife rode.

A pitchfork leaned nearby against the gate of one of the stalls, though, so Luke reached over and took hold of it. He held the fork's sharp tines poised over Tyler's chest and said, “Stop fighting, or I'll remind myself that the bounty on your head is payable dead or alive.”

Tyler was still mostly out of it, but he was able to lift a hand and gasp, “No . . . no more! Don't kill me!”

Luke stepped back but kept the pitchfork ready. He glanced around, saw that Tyler's Colt had wound up several yards away during the fight. The fugitive was unarmed, unless he had a hideout gun somewhere on him.

A man appeared in the stable's open doors. For the second time today, Luke had a shotgun pointed at him, but this Greener was in the hands of a bulky, middle-aged man with a star pinned to his vest under the open rain slicker he wore.

“What the hell!” the lawman said. “Throw that pitchfork down, mister, or I'll blast you.”

“Take it easy, Marshal,” Luke said. He tossed the pitchfork aside. “I'm not the man you want.” He nodded toward Tyler. “This one is. He's a killer, wanted up in Montana.”

“How in blazes do I know that?” the marshal asked as he came farther into the barn. His face was broad and florid, with the bulbous nose of a drinker. He went on, “I come in here and find ol' Fred tied up and one stranger about to skewer another stranger with a pitchfork. Maybe I oughta just shoot the both of you.”

“That might simplify your life, but it would be the wrong thing to do. If you'll allow me to reach into my saddlebags, I can show you the wanted poster on this man. Not only that, if you'll remove Mr. Crandall's gag, I'm sure he'll be glad to tell you that we were the ones who were attacked.”

“We'll just see about both of those things. You stand right there where you are.”

The marshal moved over to the stool where Crandall was perched with his hands tied behind his back and a dirty rag stuffed into his mouth. The lawman pulled the gag out, and Crandall started spitting. He kept that up for several seconds, then glared toward Tyler.

“That fella is tellin' you the truth, Marshal,” he said. “The varmint on the ground is the one what caused the trouble. He must'a snuck in the back while me and that
hombre
in black were talkin', then he jumped out and walloped him on the head with a shovel.”

The marshal frowned and didn't look convinced. He said, “I need some names here.”

“My name is Luke Jensen,” Luke introduced himself. He pointed at the fugitive. “That's Judd Tyler. He's wanted in White Fork, Montana, for murdering a young woman.”

Tyler had gotten enough of his senses back to respond to that charge. He pushed himself up on an elbow and said, “That's a damned lie!”

“Like I said, Marshal, I can prove it if you'll let me show you that wanted poster.”

The lawman continued to frown for a moment, like maybe thinking didn't come that easy for him, but then he jerked his head in a nod and told Luke, “Go ahead and get it. But try anything funny and I'll blow your head off.”

Luke's gray hadn't spooked during the ruckus. It had stood stolidly during the shoot-out in the street a short time earlier, too. Luke liked that about the horse.

He unfastened one of the saddlebags, reached inside, and brought out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and held it out to the marshal.

Lowering the shotgun, the lawman stepped forward and took the wanted poster from Luke. He studied it for a long moment, moving his lips a little as he read. Then he looked down at Judd Tyler.

“You'll see that the horse in that stall over there matches the description on the poster,” Luke said, pointing at the paint, “and Mr. Crandall can confirm that Tyler is the one who rode it into town yesterday.”

“He sure as blazes did,” the old liveryman said. “Now, is somebody gonna get these dadblasted ropes off'a me? It's mighty uncomfortable, bein' tied up like this.”

The marshal grunted, handed the reward dodger back to Luke, and said, “All right, Jensen, why don't you give Fred a hand? I'll keep an eye on Tyler.”

“Make it a close eye,” Luke said. “He's tricky.”

“Huh. Bein' tricky when there's a shotgun pointed at you don't get you anything except a load of buckshot.”

Luke went behind Crandall and quickly untied the ropes around the old man's wrists. As Crandall was flexing his newly freed arms and muttering, Luke asked, “Did you see what he did with my guns and knife?”

“Dropped 'em over yonder in that feed bin.”

Luke retrieved the weapons. He felt better when he was armed again. He kept his right-hand Remington out. He found his hat, which had been knocked off when Tyler clouted him with the shovel, and clapped it back on his head, wincing a little at the pressure on the goose egg that had risen where he was hit.

“I assume you can lock up Tyler in your jail, Marshal?”

“Yeah, I guess that'd be all right. Name's Donovan, by the way. Chet Donovan.”

“I noticed telegraph wires leading into town. I hope you won't mind sending a message to White Fork, Marshal, to let the authorities know that Tyler is in custody here. And that I'm the one who captured him, of course.”

“Of course,” Donovan said. “Wouldn't want to forget that, would we . . . bounty hunter?”

“Perhaps it's not an honorable profession in the minds of many . . . but it
is
an honest one.”

“Whatever you say.” Donovan jerked the shotgun's twin barrels at Tyler and went on, “Get up, mister.”

Tyler climbed to his feet. He seemed a little shaky from the pounding he had taken, but his voice was firm and clear as he looked at Luke and said, “I meant it when I said that was a damned lie, you know.”

“You mean about you being wanted in Montana?”

“I mean about killing Rachel Montgomery. I never did it, Jensen. I didn't kill her.”

Marshal Donovan made a disgusted noise in his throat and said, “Every killer claims the same thing, I reckon. Get movin'. You're goin' behind bars where you belong.”