Last Train to Bannock [Clayburn 02] (7 page)

    Clayburn counted Adler's wagons as they rolled past. There were twelve of them, each handled by a hardcase teamster. Riding behind the last wagon came the scar-faced man called Slope, and four other men Clayburn pegged as gunfighters.

    Clayburn's eyes were narrowed as he gazed after them.

    Behind him, Jim Roud asked quietly, "That the outfit we're expecting to tangle with?"

    "That's them," Clayburn said, half to himself. Adler's crew outnumbered his own by seven men. Bad odds, but not quite as bad as he'd expected.

    It might, he decided, be as good a time as any to find out what his own crew was made of.

    Striding back to the bar, he purchased two full bottles of whiskey. Carrying a bottle in each hand, he headed for Farnell's Freight Company, flanked by Roud and Blue.

    Some thirty minutes later, with the wagons ready and nothing left to do but wait for the train, Clayburn gathered Cora Sorel and the men inside the one-room warehouse next to the freight ramp.

    "I figure it's time for our last drink between here and Bannock," he told them, and looked at Cora. "If that's all right with you?"

    Cora made an open gesture with her graceful, slim-fingered hands. "You're running this game from here on, Clay. I'm only the boss."

    "Well then…" Clayburn picked up one of the whiskey bottles and uncorked it. He handed it solemnly to Cora. "You first, boss."

    She hesitated, until she saw the amused way in which he was watching to see what she'd do. Then she raised the bottle, her warm smile taking in the other men, and made a toast: "Here's to Bannock, to a big profit for me and a big bonus for each of you… and to hell with George Adler."

    She tipped the bottle to her lips and took a swallow. She even managed to do it without wincing. Clayburn admired her control.

    Lowering the bottle, Cora passed it to her pet killer, Matt Haycox, who was near her like a watchdog.

    "I don't drink," Haycox said quietly, and passed the bottle on to the next man.

    No one else voiced a similar quirk. By the time the bottle had gone halfway around, it was empty. Clayburn uncorked the other bottle and tossed it to the next man in line. When it reached Ranse Blue, the last man before Clayburn, there was about the equivalent of three doubles left in the bottom.

    Clayburn snagged the bottle out of Blue's hands before it reached his lips. "You don't drink either," he informed Blue, and tilted the bottle to his own mouth, keeping it that way until he'd swallowed the last drop.

    He lowered the bottle with a gasp, tossed it aside, and grinned at his crew. His eyes were suddenly very bright. There was a wildness in them that Cora Sorel hadn't noticed before.

    "Let's go have a look at the opposition," he said, and strolled out onto the loading ramp.

    The others crowded out after him and looked at Adler's wagons and men lined up along the opposite side of the tracks. Clayburn's eyes sought out Adler, held on him for a second, and then moved on to the hulking bruiser next to him.

    "Hello, Benjy."

    Benjy scowled at him, puzzled by the lack of animosity in Clayburn's tone.

    Clayburn started down the ramp toward him, his pace leisurely, his mouth smiling. His hands hung straight down at his sides, his long fingers flexing.

    But Benjy was not looking at his hands. He was studying his face. And as Clayburn reached the tracks, Benjy's scowl became a sneer.

    "What happened to you, Clayburn? You look kind of beat up."

    "I
was
beat up," Clayburn said, and by the time he'd said it he was across the tracks and Benjy was within reach.

    Without preamble, he drove his right fist into Benjy's stomach.

    

    

    Benjy sagged backward, clutching his middle, his face contorted as he fought for breath. Adler hastily got out of the way as Dillon leaped at Clayburn with fists swinging.

    Clayburn swiveled slightly at the hips, not shifting his feet, and backhanded Dillon across the face. The blow twisted Dillon's head around and flung him against a wagon. As he bounced off it, Clayburn hit him with his other hand as hard as he could. Dillon's eyes went blank. He hit the dirt on his side and stayed that way.

    It had given Benjy a chance to catch his breath, though he still couldn't straighten up fully. He came at Clayburn with murder in his face. Clayburn turned to meet his rush, sensing the rest of Adler's bunch converging on them, hoping his own crew was moving in behind him.

    Clayburn was in no mood for boxing with the bigger man. There was a wildness flaming inside him, demanding vengeance for what had happened in that dark alley. He met Benjy head-on, took a chest blow that threatened to break a rib, and smashed a left and right to Benjy's face with all the power of his shoulders and back. Benjy stumbled sideways and spat out the stump of a tooth. Clayburn went after him and aimed a right at the big man's nose. Benjy ducked. Clayburn's fist rammed into his forehead. It was like hitting a boulder. Clayburn's arm went numb all the way to his shoulder and for a second he thought his knuckles were broken. The punch didn't seem to affect Benjy at all. He bored in for the kill.

    Hard knuckles skidded off Clayburn's cheek, ripping away the plaster over the previous cut. A fist slammed into his heart, knocking him backward and spinning him around. Benjy leaped at his back, but didn't get there on time. Clayburn caught his balance, wrenched himself around to face Benjy, and drove his left forearm into the big man's throat.

    Benjy teetered on his heels, gagging, eyes bulging in their sockets. Clayburn spread his feet and began driving one punch after another into the other man. Having learned his lesson, he kept away from Benjy's head, concentrating on sinking short, chopping blows into the midsection. Benjy fought back with all his superior weight and strength. But the impact of the first blows had taken some of the steam out of him. He couldn't stand up against Clayburn's cold, relentless fury. He began backing away, legs buckling, eyes glazing.

    The sight of Benjy being broken was too much for Adler's crew. The nearest ones closed in. A man grabbed Clayburn's right wrist with both hands and hung on. Another landed on his back, wrapping an arm around his throat. Slope suddenly appeared between Clayburn and Benjy, launching a kick at Clayburn's stomach.

    Clayburn knocked Slope's kick aside with his knee, tried to punch with his free fist at the man hanging onto his arm. But the man on his back abruptly increased the pressure of his arm against Clayburn's throat, strangling him and dragging his head back. Blood pounded against the backs of Clayburn's eyes, blurring his vision. The weight of the two men bore him to the ground on his knees. Slope stepped in fast to drive a bootheel against Clayburn's face.

    Slope's foot was coming up off the ground when Jim Roud materialized out of nowhere and rammed into him bodily. The two men tumbled to the ground, Roud on top with both fists swinging.

    A split-second later the weight was plucked from Clayburn's back.

    He caught a blurred glimpse of the towering Kosta, his dark face a mask of fury, the man struggling uselessly in the grip of his enormous hands. Kosta raised the man high in the air and threw him headfirst against a wagon wheel. Then he turned, reached down for the man hanging onto Clayburn's arm, and lifted him away as though he were a puppy.

    By then the whole area had exploded into a free-for-all between the two wagon crews.

    Clayburn came to his feet and found himself hemmed in by a knot of surging, stamping, fist-flailing men. He broke free of the crush, tripped over a falling man, knocked aside another man. Then he and Benjy found each other.

    Benjy had had time to recover. He knocked aside Clayburn's fist and rammed a punch into Clayburn's jaw. Clayburn took it, shook his head once, hard, and struck back. For a few seconds they slugged it out toe to toe. Then the driving power behind Clayburn's fists began to sap Benjy's strength again. And his courage. His punches became slow, wild. And then he backed off.

    Before Clayburn could go after him, two wrestling teamsters fell against his back, knocking him off his feet. He landed on his hands and knees. Benjy lurched forward and kicked. The toe of his boot caught Clayburn's side and flopped him over on his back. Clenching his teeth against the pain of it, Clayburn saw Benjy's next kick coming straight at his head.

    He rolled fast. The bootheel slashed past his ear. He grabbed the boot with both hands and twisted. Benjy sprawled face down in the dirt. Shoving to his feet, still holding onto the boot, Clayburn increased his pressure. Benjy's other boot hammered into his chest, hurling him away.

    He staggered but stayed on his feet, bending forward and sucking air into his lungs, his heart thudding, waiting as Benjy came up off the ground.

    The press of battling men around them suddenly shoved them against each other. And Benjy changed tactics. His fingers clawed for Clayburn's eyes; his knee came up at Clayburn's groin. Clayburn jerked his face away from the reaching fingers and he twisted taking the knee on his hip. If Benjy wanted to fight the rest of it dirty, he was more than willing to oblige.

    He grabbed both of Benjy's ears and yanked in opposite directions. Benjy screamed and tore himself loose. It left him wide open. Clayburn hit him well below the belt with a left, and then a right-measured, bludgeoning punches that bent him forward and down. Clayburn's knee came up to meet Benjy's nose, breaking it.

    Benjy staggered back, blood streaming down over his mouth and chin. But he was a hard man to finish. He didn't go down. Clayburn closed in to put him down. Benjy hit him twice but there wasn't enough in either blow to stop him. He clubbed the side of Benjy's jaw. Benjy's legs bent, but his fingers groped for his enemy's throat. Clayburn waited till the hands were around his neck, leaned against them, and hooked a left deep into Benjy's middle. The hands dropped from his throat.

    He clubbed Benjy's jaw again. And again… It was like chopping down a heavy tree with a blunt ax. It took time. But he got it done.

    When the man lay face down at his feet, Clayburn took a moment to survey what was happening around him and see where else he was needed.

    It appeared that he wasn't needed anywhere. He'd wanted to find out what his crew was made of. Now he knew. Jim Roud was getting up off Slope's unconscious form when one of Adler's gunmen slugged him in the ear and knocked him back down. Roud's feet shot out and kicked the other man's ankles out from under him. The next second the two of them were fighting it out in the dirt. Ranse Blue was engaged in teaching a man about twenty years younger than him a variety of vicious tricks he'd learned in battles with trappers and riverboat men-including eye-gouging, nose-biting and throat-kicking. Kosta was using one of Adler's men as a battering ram against three others.

    And despite the odds Farnell's regular teamsters and the two new recruits were holding their own against Adler's in as savage a mass brawl as Clayburn had ever witnessed.

    Only three people held off from the fight, taking no part in it: Adler, Cora Sorel-and Matt Haycox. Cora's pet killer was where he usually was: at her elbow up on the ramp, showing no interest in what was happening.

    At that moment Clayburn caught sight of one of his new teamsters, O'Hara, going limp under two of Adler's men. Instead of letting up, they went on pounding at his unconscious form.

    Clayburn reached them in three long, fast steps. With his next stride, not slowing his momentum, he kicked one of Adler's men in the head. The man fell off O'Hara as though his neck were broken. Clayburn was turning to deal with the other one when the roar of shots froze him.

    They froze everyone. Heads turned in the direction of the gunfire. Marshal Kavanaugh stood in the middle of the tracks pointing a Colt at the sky. Several yards to either side of him stood two deputies, holding sawed-off shotguns.

    The marshal lowered his gun slowly, pointing it at no one and everyone. "Fun's fun," he said without heat. "Now you've all had yours and it's over. Next man that swings at anybody, I'll break his elbow or knee with a bullet."

    "He's the one who started it," Adler stated, stabbing a finger at Clayburn. "For no reason. Just walked over and started hitting Benjy without warning."

    Kavanaugh eyed Clayburn, who raised and lowered his shoulders in a slow shrug.

    "Just a little fist fight, marshal. Same as last night. Only this time nobody was holding my arms. Not for long."

    Marshal Kavanaugh sighed. "I don't know what it's about and I don't care. As of now. But if there's any more trouble between these two outfits, no matter who starts it, I'm gonna hold all of you in town while I try to find out. I figure the questioning might delay your departure as much as a week."

    He paused to let the threat sink in. "Okay, Clayburn… get your men back on your own side of the tracks."

    Clayburn did so. Some of the men needed help, but they left a number of Adler's men still sleeping it off beside the tracks.

    An angry Cora met him on the ramp. "Just what was the point of that, Clay?"

    He wiped blood from his mouth. "Just wanted to make sure all our crew are really on our side."

    "That was a hell of a way to find out. Some of them will be in no condition to do their jobs for a couple of days."

    "If they can't, they don't belong in our crew," Clayburn said. But he was no longer looking at her. His eyes were on Matt Haycox. "Are you part of this outfit, Haycox?"

    Haycox stared back at him without expression. "You heard Cora say she hired me."

    "I didn't see you earning your wages."