Sidewinders (15 page)

“All right,” she said in grudging acceptance. “But if you need anything, you know where to come.”

“I sure do.”

They talked for a few minutes more, then Scratch said he had to be going. The men in the saloon were ignoring him now, but he knew that wouldn't last if he walked all the way through the crowded room again.

“Think I'll slip out the back,” he told Lauralee.

“All right. Remember what I told you about coming to see me if I can help.”

“I ain't likely to forget it.”

Scratch got to his feet and moved over to a door in the back of the room, beside the stage. It opened into a short corridor with another door at the far end. He knew that one let out into the alley behind the saloon.

The alley where somebody who looked just like Bo had killed Rose Delavan, Scratch reminded himself. So far he hadn't taken a look at the place. Maybe it was time he did.

He eased the door closed behind him and went along the corridor to the other door. As he stepped out into the alley, the usual smells of trash and animal droppings made him wrinkle his nose.

He looked around. On the other side of the alley stood an old storage shed with a bunch of empty barrels in it. To the left of the shed was an outhouse, to the right a stretch of empty ground with a few trees and bushes growing on it.

Scratch hadn't known Rose, but he thought this was a particularly bleak and squalid place for anybody to die. He studied the ground, not knowing what he expected to see. In the weeks since Rose's death, all the blood that had been spilled would have soaked into the ground. If it had rained any since then, that would have finished washing away any traces of the murder.

“I thought I saw you slip out the back door like the yellow dog you are.”

The harsh voice made Scratch's head snap around. Two men had just come around the corner of the building. He recognized them instantly as two of the varmints he had clashed with at the medicine show wagon the night before.

A footstep from the other direction made him glance that way. The third member of that ugly trio had just come around the other corner. They had him boxed in between them.

The man who had spoken sneered and went on, “You didn't think we were gonna let you get away with what you did last night, did you, old-timer?”

“No, polecats like you always come around to stink everythin' up again,” Scratch snapped.

The spokesman for the three Rafter F hands was walking a little funny as they came closer. His face twisted with hate.

“We're gonna make you sorry you were ever born,” he blustered.

For a moment Scratch considered reaching for his guns. He knew he was fast enough to clear leather with both Remingtons, and he could shoot in two directions at once.

But gunplay would draw the attention of the men boozing it up in the saloon, and he knew without a doubt which side they would be on. Anyway, if he killed these men, the marshal would probably lock him up for it, and then he couldn't do a blasted thing to help Bo.

No, this had to be settled without guns if possible, and against three younger men experienced in brawling, it wasn't likely that he would come out on top. His chances would be better, though, if he could rattle them some, make them rush their attack.

“You're the one I kicked in the family jewels, ain't you?” he asked the spokesman with a mocking grin. “Well, it don't really matter, I guess, since no gal would ever have anything to do with an ugly son of a bitch like you, not even a Dodge City whore.”

The cowboy's face contorted even more, and Scratch knew his gibe had gone home. The man said, “I'm gonna kill you, you old bastard. Get him!”

All three cowboys rushed at Scratch, fists poised to beat him within an inch of his life, or maybe even all the way into the grave.

Since there was only one man attacking him from behind, Scratch twisted around and lunged in that direction, going in low and ducking under the roundhouse punch the cowboy swung at his head. He hooked a fist into the man's belly and then grabbed the front of his shirt to haul him around and fling him at the other two.

They collided, and one of the men lost his balance and fell down, nearly upsetting the other two. That gave Scratch time to whirl around and break into a run.

Retreating in the face of trouble rubbed Scratch the wrong way, but sometimes it was the smart thing to do. After all, Sam Houston had retreated from Santa Anna's army during the Runaway Scrape, until it was time to turn and make a valiant stand at San Jacinto. That had worked out all right, even against overwhelming odds.

Scratch didn't actually try to run away. He wasn't that fleet of foot. Instead he dashed over to the shed and put his back against one of the big barrels stacked up there. With his back protected, they couldn't come at him from all directions at once.

In fact, they weren't even smart enough to coordinate their attack. One man rushed him alone. Scratch ducked a punch and drove a fist into the cowboy's belly. His other hand lifted in an uppercut that caught the man under the chin and snapped his head back. Scratch kicked him in the knee, causing the man's leg to collapse and dump him in the dirt of the alley. That put him in the way of the other two and slowed them down again.

Scratch reached up and caught hold of one of the barrels stacked atop other barrels. He heaved against it and toppled it forward. Even though the barrel was empty, it still weighed quite a bit, and when it landed on top of the man Scratch had just knocked down, the hombre let out a pained grunt. Scratch kicked the barrel and sent it rolling into the legs of the other two.

One of them stumbled and fell over it. The whole thing would have been comical if Scratch hadn't been fighting for his life.

The third man was able to get around the barrel. He windmilled punches at Scratch, and the silver-haired Texan couldn't block all of them. A hard fist crashed against his jaw and forced him back into the barrels again.

That collision knocked another barrel off the stack, but this time it toppled onto Scratch and drove him to his knees. One of the men on the ground tackled him. Scratch wound up on his back with the man on top of him, pummeling away at him.

The man still on his feet crowded in, yelling, “Get out of the way! I'll stomp the old bastard!”

He aimed a kick at Scratch's head. Scratch grabbed the shirtfront of the man on top of him and hauled hard, yanking that man's head in the way of that kick, which had gone too far to stop. His companion's boot thudded solidly into the man's head.

That impact made the man's eyes roll up in their sockets. Scratch shoved him aside and rolled in the other direction. He came up on one knee and flung up his hands to catch a second kick aimed in his direction. A quick heave sent the man flying over backward.

So far luck and his unexpected ferocity had carried him through. Even though he had clashed with them the night before, the three men probably had underestimated Scratch's rough-and-tumble abilities, due to his age and the fact that they had him outnumbered three to one.

That advantage couldn't last, though, and Scratch knew it. He scrambled to his feet and prepared to make a run for it again. This time he would try to get away while his three opponents were all still on the ground.

He hadn't made it very far when one of the men launched after him in a diving tackle that caught him around the knees. Scratch pitched forward as the man jerked his legs out from under him. He hit the hard-packed dirt with stunning force and wasn't able to move for a couple of seconds.

That was long enough to be his undoing. The other two men caught up, and then all three of them went to work on him with hammering punches and thudding kicks. Scratch tried to fight them off, but it was no use. Whether he wanted any gunplay or not, he no longer had a choice.

When he reached for one of the Remingtons, his hand slapped an empty holster. The revolver had fallen out during the ruckus.

His left-hand Remington was still in its holster, but his move had given away what he was trying to do. As he reached for it, one of the men yelled, “Look out! He's goin' for his gun!”

A booted foot came down hard on Scratch's left wrist, pinning that arm to the ground before he could close his hand around the Remington's ivory grips. He tried to reach across his body with his right hand, but another kick slammed into that shoulder, making his whole right arm go numb.

Fury roared through him like a grizzly bear. Some of it was directed at himself. He shouldn't have come across the creek today. It would have been better for him to stay on the other side of the stream so he could help Bo. If he didn't get away, his oldest and best friend might not have a chance . . .

With that thought fueling him, Scratch surged up from the ground. His right arm still wouldn't work, but he swung a punch with his left that knocked one of the men back and gave him a narrow opening.

It wasn't enough. Something hard, probably a gun butt, landed on the back of his head. It was like an explosion going off inside his skull. Red rockets erupted behind Scratch's eyes, but the glare was washed out almost instantly by an inexorable tide of blackness.

Scratch didn't feel himself hit the ground. He was already out cold.

 

 

He fully expected the three cowboys to carry through on their threat to stomp him to death, so he was more than a little surprised—but gratified—to wake up an unknown amount of time later.

Consciousness came back to him slowly, bringing with it a great deal of pain. An imp straight out of Hades seemed to be pounding an anvil inside his skull, and every muscle and bone in his body ached to the point that moving was simply inconceivable.

But he had to move. Bo still needed his help. It might not be too late to help his friend.

At least, Scratch
hoped
it wasn't too late . . .

He was lying on what he thought was the ground. With an effort, he tried to get his hands underneath him and lever himself to his feet. That effort failed because his arms wouldn't move. His wrists weren't tied, but somebody had looped a rope around his torso several times, making it impossible for him to lift his arms.

Scratch bit back a groan. He wouldn't allow himself to give in to despair. At least he could open his eyes and take stock of his surroundings.

His eyelids seemed to weigh a ton, but after a while he succeeding in raising them. It was so dark around him that at first he thought his eyes were still closed. Then, when he was sure they weren't, he experienced a moment of near-panic when he thought he might be blind.

Light began to seep into his vision here and there, assuring him that he could still see after all. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized that he was inside some sort of structure, but it was open to the air because he could feel a slight breeze against his face.

That breeze carried a mixture of foul odors with it. He had smelled that particular stink before, he thought. His brain struggled to identify it, and after a few moments he realized it was the smell of the alley behind the Southern Belle Saloon where the three cowboys from the Rafter F had jumped him.

He wasn't just lying out in the open in the alley, though. Large dark shapes loomed around him. Tied up the way he was, he couldn't stand up or move his arms, but he was able to roll onto his side and lift his head to get a better look around.

Somebody had dragged him into that shed, he finally figured out. He was lying behind those empty barrels. The ones he had knocked down had been stacked up again. Anybody walking by in the alley wouldn't be able to see him.

Not that there was much reason for anybody who might help him to be back here, he thought bitterly. But his captors had taken that precaution anyway.

The darkness told him it was night. He heard a low hum of noise that he thought came from the saloon across the alley. Men were in there talking and laughing and drinking. Were they still working themselves up to form a lynch mob, egged on by the Fontaines . . . or had they already done their dirty work and returned to celebrate?

Was Bo's lifeless body already dangling from the limb of a tree?

Scratch had to find out, and he couldn't do that if he was stuck here, tied up in the darkness like a pig on its way to market.

He wasn't thinking anymore about how bad he hurt from the beating he had taken. All his thoughts were concentrated on finding a way out of this predicament. He rolled over again, thinking that if he could work his way over to the wall of the shed, he might be able to find a nail head sticking out that he could use to work at the ropes binding him.

Before he reached the wall, he stopped because he had felt something hard in his pocket as he rolled over it. He could move the fingers of his right hand enough to reach the object, and as he explored its shape he realized it was the bottle of elixir Professor Sarlat had given him. Scratch was a little surprised it hadn't fallen out during the fight.

The cork
had
come out of the neck, though. His jacket was still damp where the liquid that was left had leaked out.

That was all right, he thought. In fact, it might make what he had in mind a little easier.

Straining with the effort, he managed to get his fingers in the pocket and grasp the bottle. He worked it loose and dropped it on the ground. Then he wriggled his body backward until he could touch the bottle with his foot. He lifted his leg and brought the back of his boot heel down on the bottle as hard as he could. It took two tries, but then he was rewarded by the sound of glass breaking.

Scratch twisted and rolled until he had worked his way back around to where he could fumble on the ground and find the pieces of the broken bottle. He got hold of the largest fragment, ignoring the way it sliced tiny cuts in his fingertips, and turned his wrist until he was able to rest the sharp edge against the lowest turn of the rope around his torso. He started sawing at it.

Cutting through the ropes this way was going to take time, he knew, but he didn't have a choice. This was the only way he could get free.

The rope was a tough lasso, and it stubbornly resisted his efforts. Blood seeping from the cuts made his fingers slick and threatened his grip on the broken glass.

But after long minutes that seemed even longer, the strands began to part. When the first loop gave way, that allowed his hand and wrist to move a little more freely. He could get better leverage and could saw harder on the next loop.

His progress was slow but steady. He didn't allow himself to think about what might have already happened but instead focused all his attention on what he was doing. Eventually his forearm was free. He was able to get hold of the rope and start unwinding it until it all came loose. Pain shot through his arms when he moved them, but he welcomed those pins and needles, knowing that they meant the blood was flowing and his muscles were working again. Now that he was able to brace himself, he clambered to his feet and stood there swaying slightly for a moment as he breathed hard from the strain and effort.

The sound of voices approaching made him stiffen.

“—think we should have gone ahead and stomped the guts out of him.”

That was the voice of one of the men who'd attacked him. Another man chuckled and said, “Aw, you're still just mad because the old pelican kicked you in the
cojones
.”

“Well, hell, wouldn't you be?”

“It's like he said, you don't actually
need
'em—”

“Shut up. Let's just get him and drag him out, like the boss said. Anyway, I reckon it'll be pretty entertaining to make the son of a bitch watch while his friend's strung up.”

Those words sent a thrill of excitement shooting through Scratch. So they hadn't broken into the jail and lynched Bo yet!

From the sound of it, though, that atrocity wasn't far off. These men had been sent to get him so he could be forced to witness the lynching. That would be a particularly cruel turn of fate.

But it wasn't going to happen, Scratch vowed. He heard the men's footsteps as they approached the shed. Listening intently, he waited until they were right on the other side of the stacked-up barrels, still talking but not expecting any trouble since they thought he was still tied up.

Then he lunged forward, spreading his arms wide to send two of the barrels toppling forward as he crashed through the barrier.