High Wild Desert (24 page)

Even with his leg wound, Lang looked back quickly with the Ranger toward the sound of the two sets of pounding hooves. Reye screamed again, this time as both horses veered hard when a rifle shot from a fleeing gunman struck up dirt at their hooves.

Blind Simon managed to straighten his horse, but in doing so the reins to Reye's horse slipped from his hand. Simon's horse pounded on, but Reye's mount had veered too sharply and, unable to right itself in time, the animal crashed through the large window of an apothecary store and lost its rider to a low ceiling beam. The Ranger and Lang saw the clapboard building tremble and spill dust from its window ledges and framework as Reye met the beam broad-faced. His horse thundered on, plowing along a gantlet of shelves, large earthen herb jars and glass medicine bottles, until the frightened animal crashed out the back door and kept running.

“What do you . . . suppose all that was, Ranger?” Lang asked, gripping his wounded calf.

“I won't try to guess,” Sam said, loosening his bandana and tying it around Lang's calf wound. He looked down the street and saw Adele running toward them, the doctor right beside her. “Here comes the doctor, Cisco. You're going to be okay. Tell him to see about Dankett being inside over there.”

“No need seeing about me,” Dankett called out in a weak and strained voice. He limped forward from the open storefront. “I'm harder to kill than a gallon of turpentine.” He held a hand pressed to his bloody, wounded side. “Where's Big Lucy?” he asked. Seeing the shotgun lying beside Lang, he reached down, snatched it up and gave Lang a hard stare, as if Lang had designs on his long-barreled wench. Straightening, he wobbled weakly in place.

As the doctor and Adele ran in, Sam looped Dankett's arm across his shoulders. The woman and Dr. Starr helped Lang to his feet and steadied him between them.

The wounded and the weary began to walk the length of the wide dirt street to Dr. Starr's office. A few townsfolk ventured out from doorways and stores and began to gather and stare, until a shot from behind the row of buildings on the other side of the street sent most of the onlookers back toward cover.

“You best go check that out, Ranger,” Dankett said beside Sam. He lowered his arm from around Sam's shoulders and leaned on Big Lucy for support. “I'll get to the doctor all right by myself.”

Chapter 24

Sonny Rudabough had made it thirty yards farther along a walkway behind the buildings lining the dirt street. He'd only slowed down long enough to listen to the gunfire die down and question whether or not to make a run for it, grab a horse from a hitch rail and get out of town. But as he stood contemplating his next move, another rifle shot exploded. This time the bullet struck the ground an inch from his boot.

“The next place you stop is where you'll die, Rudabough,” Oldham Coyle called out, unseen, somewhere along the back of the row of buildings. “Get to the horse and get yourself some bullets. That's the only chance you've got.”

Okay, you son of a bitch. . . .

If Oldham Coyle wanted a gunfight bad enough to leave him bullets and a horse to ride away on afterward, he'd oblige him, Sonny Rudabough thought—damn right he would. From the sound of the fighting on the street, he figured the Ranger was dead by now anyway.
The Ranger dead, Teague dead . . .
It was all right by him. He smiled a little, turned and ran toward the rear of the Number Five Saloon, keeping close to the backs of the buildings for cover.

When he could see clearly that there was no paint horse standing in sight behind the saloon, he ventured away from the buildings and stepped out of cover, still looking all around.

Damn it, why did Coyle do this?
Anger began boiling inside him. To hell with Coyle, he wasn't playing this stupid game of his.

“There's no damn paint horse back here, Coyle. No damn bullets either!” he shouted.

A shot rang out near Rudabough's feet, forcing him to jump to the side.

“I lied about the paint horse and the bullets, Sonny,” Oldham called out. “I just wanted to get you here without dragging you by your boots after I kill you.”

“What are you trying to pull here?” Rudabough looked all around, seeing the abandoned public ditch twenty feet away.
Uh-oh . . .

“I'm not pulling nothing, Sonny,” Oldham called out. “Nothing except this trigger.”

Another shot exploded, this one almost hitting his foot. Sonny jumped farther away. He bolted a few feet in reflex, then stopped, cursing himself for moving closer to the public ditch. The smell of waste, of putrefaction, already drifted up, surrounding him, pressing him into a dark, rancid vapor.

“I see what you're doing, Coyle,” he shouted. “But I'm not going any closer. This is far enough for me. You want to kill me, go ahead. But you'll have to do it right here—”

His words were cut short as another shot exploded; the bullet grazed the edge of his boot's sole. Instinctively he bolted again. He stopped a few feet away and looked at the edge of the ditch only ten feet from him.

“Damn you to hell, Coyle!” he shouted. “I'm walking away!” He spread his hands, dropped the empty gun to the ground. “You want to kill an unarmed man, go ahead. I'm not going over that edge, you son of a—”

The rifle rang out again; the bullet thumped high into his right shoulder, spun him half around. He stopped himself, staggering in place. He started to shout again, but before he could, the next bullet hit him high in his left shoulder and he spun another half turn, this time in the opposite direction.

His boot soles rocked back and forth on the edge of the black, odorous ditch.
Huh-uh, this isn't going to happen
. Not to him, he told himself. With both shoulders bleeding badly, his arms hanging limp, he started to take a step forward; but the next shot hit him dead center. He fell backward, did a stiff flip, then a bounce, a short slide through something dark and slimy, then another flip and a facedown landing—a scream cut short by a loud wet slap.

Oldham stepped out of the dark shade of a building and levered a fresh round into his rifle chamber. He walked forward and looked down, seeing Rudabough struggling to come unstuck from a large puddle of human waste. Taking his time, he stooped and picked up his empty Colt, which Rudabough had discarded. Oldham watched the wounded man struggle with useless arms while he took bullets from his gun belt, reloaded the Colt and shoved it down in his holster. In the ditch, Sonny finally managed to free his face and swing it back and forth, making some strange, muffled sound. Then he dropped his face again with a splat, as if into some horrible yet irresistible stew.

All right, that'll do.

“Just wanted you to know . . . ,” Oldham murmured under his breath, raising his rifle, taking aim as Sonny's boots kicked and dug in the dark waste matter.

The rifle bucked against Oldham's shoulder; Sonny's boots fell limp, as did the rest of him, the shot still echoing out across rock and desert lands.

“Good Lord, brother,” Dave Coyle said behind Oldham, startling him for one reflex second. Oldham turned with the smoking rifle still raised. But he lowered it, seeing Dave and Sieg staring down at Rudabough's body lying half buried in waste. “I would not have gone along with this, had I known.”

“Then be glad I didn't tell you,” Oldham said, letting his rifle hang in his hand. “This meant more to me than killing the Ranger. I suspect that means I show little promise as a hired killer.” He looked at Sieg, who was still staring down at Rudabough's body with a sour, twisted look on his face.

“You got something to say about this, Karl?” he asked.

Sieg looked at Oldham, at the rifle in his hand.

“Hell no!” he said quickly. “If I did, I sure as hell wouldn't say so standing here.” He stared at Oldham for a second longer, then stifled a laugh until he saw how it would be taken.

Oldham chuckled under his breath, shook his head and looked away.

Finally Dave let out a breath and gave a short laugh himself.

“All right,” he said. “Unless you want to stick around and watch Rudabough sink, let's go chase Simon and Reye down if we can find them. I've got a feeling Reye won't be leaving with us. I saw his horse wandering the streets.”

Oldham nodded, looking all around. “Deak's around here somewhere. He had a hard time keeping up.”

“I'm over here,” Deak Holder called out, running from the alleyway leading to the street where their horses were standing. “I just saw Chic Reye lying dead in a drugstore. The poor bastard.” He kept himself from grinning. “I saw the Ranger too. He's coming this way. You want to kill him, boss, here's your chance.”

Dave gave his brother a look, seeing excitement flash across his eyes. But he waited and watched the excitement finally give way to good sense.

“I don't want to kill the Ranger,” Oldham said. “The man has never done anything to me. There's something doesn't seem right about killing a man just for money.” He looked embarrassed and said, “I let the oddsmaking and the sport of it get the better of me for a while. But I'm over it now.” He looked at the three men, at the expressions on their faces. “Let's get over to Colorado, find ourselves something to rob.”

As Oldham and his men turned to walk to the alleyway where their horses stood waiting, the Ranger lowered his Winchester from the corner of a building where he'd been supporting it.

Good decision, Coyle,
he thought, hearing Oldham's plans, realizing his death was no longer a part of them. He let out a breath, knowing that from here, his bullet would have lifted the top of the gunman's head off.

He had followed the dwarf closely through the alleyway and stood with his rifle aimed and ready, listening to what Oldham had to say. Having heard it, he backed away, rifle in hand, and rubbed a gloved hand across a skittish horse's side, keeping it settled until he'd slipped past them and backed away into the black shadow of a side doorway.

•   •   •

It was nearing noon when Tom Singleton and Hugh Fenderson heard the knock on the Pullman car door. Fenderson half rose from behind his desk, a look of fear in his red-rimmed eyes. He jerked the cigar from between his lips.

“Who the hell might this be, Tom?” he said.

“Don't you worry about a thing, sir,” Singleton said, lifting his Colt from its holster as he walked to the door. “I've got you covered here.”

None of the three men who had run away from Polly Corn's restaurant after the gun battle had returned to the train. Knowing he sat unprotected, down to one gunman, had Hugh Fenderson unnerved. The railroad men it took to run the train were not gunmen, and they made no pretense at being skilled as such. While he waited for the train to get moving, Fenderson sat at his desk with a shiny, engraved Winchester rifle lying to his right, the elaborate Colt to his left.

“Who's there?” Singleton asked, his face close to the edge of the door.

“Arizona Ranger Sam Burrrack,” came the reply.

Singleton and Fenderson gave each other a stunned look from across the Pullman car. Neither of them had expected this.

“Stall him!” Fenderson said in a lowered voice as he rounded the desk, picking up the rifle on his way.

Stall him?
Singleton stared at his boss, seeing him become more and more rattled by this Ranger.

“Uh . . . just a minute, Ranger,” Singleton said, huddled up next to the edge of the door. Fenderson stood close beside him, both of them staring at the door.

Neither of them saw the Ranger raise a leg over the edge of the open window behind Fenderson's desk and climb inside. He stood for a moment listening, watching the two men, his Colt out, cocked and ready.

Fenderson pointed at the dressing screen, motioning for Singleton to get behind it and wait in ambush. Sam kept his Colt on Singleton just in case, and watched the gunman slip along the other side of the room and step out of sight behind the screen.

At the door, Fenderson took a deep breath and swung the door open, rifle in hand. Expecting the Ranger, he started to say something. But he stopped and stood staring at the empty platform.

“He's not here!” he said, surprised. “The hell is this?”

Swinging the door shut, Fenderson turned back toward his desk and saw the Ranger staring at him from above his aimed Colt. He started to call out and warn Singleton, yet before he could speak, he saw a streak of gunmetal as the Colt turned in the Ranger's hand and fired three shots through the thin dressing screen.

Fenderson stared in shock as Singleton tumbled forward, dressing screen and all, and landed facedown, dead on the floor.

“Well?” Sam said, turning the smoking Colt toward the armed businessman.

“What?” Fenderson managed to say.

Sam gestured his Colt toward the rifle in Fenderson's hands.

“Oh, this?” He tossed the rifle forward onto the floor as if it had suddenly turned too hot to hold. He tried what he considered to be a winning smile, even though it looked worried and tense. “I'm afraid things have gotten way out of hand between us, Ranger Sam—I hope I may call you
Sam
?”

The Ranger didn't reply.

“It got out of hand when you placed a bounty on my head,” Sam said.

“It's true, I did do that,” he said matter-of-factly. “But you're going to find that impossible to prove in a court of law.”

“I hadn't considered that,” the Ranger said.

“Well, you should, you know,” Fenderson said. As he spoke, he walked around his desk and stood facing the Ranger now from ten feet away. “May I?” he said, gesturing toward his tall leather chair. Sam backed away and stepped around the desk, giving the man back the security and confidence of his lofty perch. “Because, as you may know, it is not easy to prove a man as powerful as myself guilty,” he continued, sitting down in his chair and leaning back a little. “It takes a lot of—”

“That's not what I meant,” Sam said, stopping him. “I meant I hadn't considered proving anything in court.” He stared intently at him. “I thought we'd settle here. Today.
Out of court.
”

“I see, then,” said Fenderson, getting it, his face turning grim. “No judge, no trial, no jury. Just you taking the law into your own hands?”

“There you have it,” Sam said. He wasn't going to justify himself to this man who had tried to kill him.

“And that doesn't bother you in the slightest?” Fenderson said, looking for an opening, a way to wedge logic and reasoning into the matter—a matter that he himself had created based on neither logic nor reasoning.

“Most days it would. But today it doesn't,” Sam said.

“I see,” Fenderson said, slumping, letting both of his hands fall below the desk into his lap, letting the Ranger see no threat in him going for the engraved Colt. “Then you've decided I must die simply because I sought to avenge your shooting my nephew, and in doing so, dishonoring my family name?”

“Yes, exactly,” Sam said firmly.

Fenderson sighed and said, “So, then, there is no rational way to end this to both of our satisfaction? Say . . . a large cash settlement perhaps? Instead of rewarding someone for
killing you
, I reward you, for
staying alive
?”