Last Train to Bannock [Clayburn 02] (2 page)

    Wilks relieved him of it, and kept both guns steady on Clayburn as Pollock moved around behind the tall gambler and took his Colt. He shoved it into his belt.

    The leathery faced Ryle appeared in the doorway. "Stage coming," he told Wilks.

    Wilks nodded without taking his eyes from Clayburn. "Get all the horses inside the barn. Then stay out of sight and cover from there."

    As Ryle vanished, Wilks advanced to the table. Putting down the station manager's gun, his free hand began picking up the money and stuffing it into his pockets. "Looks like I win after all, gambler."

    Clayburn stared back at him without expression.

    Wilks pocketed the last of Clayburn's winnings. "Maybe you figure it belongs to you? I say you were cheating, tinhorn."

    Clayburn merely continued to look at him, his face wooden.

    His failure to show any reaction enraged Wilks. With a vicious tightening of his face, the redhead slammed his gun at Clayburn's head.

    Clayburn moved as the heavy gun barrel caught him in the temple. He saved himself from the full force of the blow, but it was still bad enough to drop him to the floor against the wall with his senses spinning and pain lashing through his brain.

    "Get over by the window," Wilks snapped at Pollock. As the heavy man obeyed, Wilks broke open the station manager's gun and dumped all the cartridges. He closed the revolver, went to the station manager and shoved it back in his holster. "Now when the stagecoach pulls up, you go out there and act like nothing's wrong. Understand?"

    The station manager nodded quickly, tried to speak and found he couldn't.

    "You better," Wilks told him flatly. " 'Less you want your spine broke by a bullet."

    "We oughta kill him and the gambler now," Pollock said. "Make the job that much easier when the stage…"

    "I'm running this!" Wilks snarled. "And I say we'll wait and make sure Farnell's on that stage first. If he ain't, there's no point in killing anybody else. Having the law on our tail for murder-without even gettin' paid for it."

    Clayburn remained sprawled on the floor with his shoulders against the wall, fighting against dizziness and the blurring of his vision. The sound of the approaching stagecoach reached him. He raised his right hand and gently touched the swollen bruise on the side of his head. He let the hand fall so that its fingers touched the cuff of his left sleeve.

    Neither Wilks nor Pollock saw anything in that to alarm them.

    

    

    The plump station manager came out of the adobe shack as the stage pulled to a jangling, screeching halt in front of it. His empty gun was in his holster, his hands hung down at his sides, and he was trying to smile as ordered. But he moved as though stepping on eggs.

    The big man riding shotgun up beside the team driver raised a hand in greeting. "Hi, Arnie. How late are we?"

    The station manager had to work his throat open to get the words out. " 'Bout an hour." He lost his struggle to keep the smile on his face. There was in him a need to break through his fear, shout a warning and throw himself to the ground. But it was a small need alongside the massive awareness of the two men hidden inside the shack with guns aimed at his back.

    Numbly, he watched the driver lock the brake and tie the reins, saw the coach door open and the three passengers-all men-start climbing out to stretch their legs.

    Wilks came out of the doorway behind the station manager. Pollock appeared inside the window, dividing his attention between Clayburn and the men outside, ready to turn his gun in either direction, as needed. Clayburn braced his heavy shoulders against the wall and waited, his head lolling to one side as though he were still semiconscious. The mist in front of his eyes was beginning to dissolve, and the tips of his fingers were now inside the left sleeve of his coat.

    Outside, Wilks shoved the station manager out of his way and smiled at one of the passengers who'd climbed out of the coach-a middle-aged businessman with a solid build going thick around the middle.

    "Hello, Farnell…"

    The second Harry Farnell recognized Wilks and saw the gun in his hand he knew what was coming. His hand vanished under his coat, grabbing desperately for the small revolver he kept there.

    Wilks laughed softly and the gun in his hand roared. The slug rammed into Farnell's chest, driving him back against the coach and pinning him there for a split second. As he crumpled toward the ground the man riding shotgun-he actually carried a rifle-broke out of his stupor and twisted in his high seat, bringing his rifle around to bear on the red-haired killer.

    Before he could squeeze the trigger Ryle's rifle crashed out from inside the barn. The bullet caught the shotgun rider in the head, killing him instantly. His rifle spilled from lifeless hands and fell as he sagged back in the high seat next to the stage driver, his head tipping back, sightless eyes staring at the sky. The team horses, frightened by the crash of gunfire, reared and whinnied, but the driver caught the reins and held them steady. The other two passengers had already thrown their hands high and were standing there frozen, eager to give no one an excuse for shooting at them.

    It was all over that quickly. Or seemed to be. Wilks stood holding his Colt carelessly, gazing down at the still figure of Farnell in the dust before him. Ryle was walking from the barn toward the shack, rifle still ready in both hands.

    Inside the shack Pollock took his eyes off Clayburn and called through the window to Wilks, "Might as well lift whatever the passengers got on 'em while we're…"

    Clayburn came to life in the same instant, drawing the knife out of his sleeve and throwing it in the same motion as he lunged to his feet.

    Pollock whipped around, trying to shoot Clayburn and dodge the flung knife at the same time. He succeeded in neither. The knifeblade plunged into his chest, cutting off his scream as it started. He squeezed the trigger automatically as he fell forward. The gun boomed within the confines of the small room, the slug chopping into the adobe wall.

    Clayburn reached Pollock as his body hit the dirt floor. Snatching his own Colt from the dead man's belt, he straightened beside the window, ready to fire through it at Wilks.

    But the redhead had reacted fast to the sound of Pollock's gun inside the shack. By the time Clayburn reached the window Wilks was holding one of the passengers between him and the shack, using the man as a shield. When he spotted Clayburn he instantly began backing toward the barn, dragging his terrified shield along with him. He saw no sense in running the risk of trying to shoot it out. His mission was accomplished; he'd get paid. Now he was concentrating on getting away.

    But Ryle, halfway between the barn and the shack, spotted Clayburn too, and decided he could get him. He snapped up his rifle, taking aim at the window. As he fired, Clayburn took a step backward into deeper shadow. The rifle bullet slashed past his ear as he fired his own aimed Colt. The distance wasn't good. The slug got Ryle in the hip, staggering him, but he didn't go down.

    Clayburn was taking aim again when another shot sounded from next to the stagecoach. The plump station manager had gone down on one knee and seized the rifle dropped by the dead shotgun rider. It was his shot that killed Ryle.

    While the rifle shot still echoed, Wilks fired from behind his human shield. The station manager fell back with a scream of pain, clutching his bullet-broken shoulder. Wilks continued backing toward the barn, one hand gripping the back of his prisoner's coat, too well hidden behind the other man for Clayburn to try a shot at him.

    Leaving the window, he moved swiftly to the door. He slid his Colt back in its holster, crouched low, and dodged out toward the rifle the moaning station manager had dropped. Wilks(bullet kicked dirt against his leg as he reached and grabbed it. Clayburn dodged back to the protection of the corner of the adobe shack.

    "Anybody tries to stop me," Wilks yelled, "and I shoot this pilgrim in the head!"

    Clayburn levered a fresh shell into the rifle's fire chamber and took aim, hoping the man being used as a shield would have the sense to drop and give him a safe shot at the redhead's face. But it was a lost hope. The man's face was blank with shock and terror. His big figure continued to block Wilks from view the rest of the way to the barn.

    Clayburn stayed where he was, waiting to get a shot at Wilks when he emerged. Two shots sounded inside the barn. Seconds later two horses raced out of the other end of the barn, headed for the hills to the north. Wilks was riding one and leading the other. And he had his hostage up on the first horse clinging to his back, still shielding him.

    With a soft, vicious curse, Clayburn sprinted to the barn. Inside he found what he'd expected. The two horses left behind were dead.

    Coming out of the barn, he watched Wilks riding fast up the nearest hill. At the top, without stopping the red-haired killer turned in his saddle and clubbed his gun against his hostage's head. The man fell backward from the horse and rolled part way down the slope. Before Clayburn could fire, Wilks and his two horses disappeared down the other side of the hill.

    Clayburn lowered his rifle and glanced toward the stage and the shack. The station manager leaned against the wall, and the remaining passenger had begun trying to do what he could for the plump man's shoulder wound. Clayburn was surprised to see the stage driver sitting on the ground with Farnell's head on his lap.

    Hurrying to them, he saw that Farnell was not yet dead-though he was getting closer to it by the second. His blood-smeared chest was heaving weakly and his eyes were glazed. Pink froth bubbled between his white lips as he tried to speak.

    "What's he saying?" Clayburn asked the stage driver.

    "Can't make it out. Something about hired killers is all I got so far."

    Clayburn knelt over the dying man. "Who hired them?"

    Farnell made an effort to answer. Broken sounds came out of him, but nothing intelligible.

    Clayburn bent closer. "Who hired those men to kill you? Do you know?"

    Farnell's lips twisted as he tried to get the words out. The only ones that could be understood were: "… bastard… said… he'd stop me…"

    "Who?" Clayburn repeated insistently.

    But this time there was no answer of any kind. Farnell stopped making the effort. His head rolled against the stage driver's knee and was still. He'd finished his dying.

    Clayburn stood up and began trudging out to the unconscious man on the side of the hill.

    

    

    The stagecoach took six hours to reach Parrish. On the way Clayburn rode up beside the driver and learned what he knew about Harry Farnell. Clayburn's interest was strictly personal. The red-haired killer had robbed him of his stake and his winnings. And pistol-whipped him into the bargain. These were things for which due retribution would be extracted. About such matters Clayburn had the persistence and patience of an Apache. And he figured the best method of finding the redhead was through whoever had hired him to do the killing.

    According to the stage driver, Farnell had run a freight line out of Parrish. He'd hit a string of bad luck and been close to going out of business when he'd acquired a new partner recently who'd injected fresh money into his firm. The reason Farnell hadn't been able to weather his business losses on his own was that he'd sunk all the profits of his previous successful years into a big spread up north. That was where Farnell had been coming back from on the stage; his wife and children lived on the spread.

    The stage driver couldn't think of anyone with a reason to hire killers to murder Farnell.

    "How about this new partner of his?"

    The driver shook his head. "Remember when he was try in' to tell us who hired them? He said the
bastard
hired 'em. Never heard anybody call a woman a bastard. Some get called a lot of other things. But not that."

    "Farnell's partner is a woman?"

    "Uh-huh. Don't know much about her except she's mighty good-looking. Makes
you
sweat just to look at her. That kind. She ain't from anywhere around here. Name's Cora Sorel."

    The name brought back a memory. Clayburn leaned back on the hard, jouncing seat, gazing thoughtfully past the pulling horses, across the flat distances to the southern horizon.

    He didn't know much about Coral Sorel either. But he knew more than the stage driver.

    It was dark when they got into Parrish, a big boomtown sprawled across the railroad tracks that cut through the Jemson Valley. Clayburn knew the place only from what he'd heard about it. Parrish had sprung up when the railroad first began pushing through the Valley, and for a couple years it had been the worst hell-spot in the Territory. But its lawless stage was past, ended by a town-taming marshal named Kavanaugh.

    Parrish was still a wild enough place, with a flourishing red-light district. But now Marshal Kavanaugh, his tough-reputation deputies and a sheriff strong enough to handle the surrounding county kept the wildness under rigid control, confining the red-light goings on to an allotted section of town.

    Within minutes of reaching Parrish, Clayburn had met the marshal and the sheriff. Both lived up to their reputations for efficiency. The wounded station manager was immediately turned over to a doctor, the bodies of the shotgun rider and Harry Farnell to the undertaker. The two passengers-one with a sizeable lump on his head-were questioned and allowed to register into the hotel. Twenty minutes after the stage came in, the sheriff rode out with a posse of six picked men to hunt down the red-haired killer.