The Loner: The Bounty Killers (17 page)

Despite his rather sedentary profession, Claudius Turnbuckle was a big, strong man. He squeezed so hard the bones inside the man’s wrist ground together. The man would have screamed in pain if Turnbuckle’s other hand hadn’t closed off his throat.

Hot, wet agony flowed from the wound in his belly. He knew he was losing a lot of blood and would soon pass out because of it.

But his instincts as a fighter wouldn’t let him surrender. He shoved his attacker deeper into the shadows of the alley and rammed him against the adobe wall of one of the buildings. The man struggled desperately against the grip Turnbuckle had on his throat, but he couldn’t get free.

Turnbuckle pulled him away from the wall, then slammed him against it repeatedly, until the man went limp in his hands.

The lawyer let go and staggered back. The assailant collapsed on the dirty floor of the alley and didn’t move. Turnbuckle wheeled around and looked at the rectangle of faint light that marked the alley mouth.

He stumbled toward it, pressing his hands to his wounded midsection. “Blanton,” he muttered. He had no doubt the governor’s aide was behind the attack. Blanton wanted him out of the way so he couldn’t continue trying to get the charges against Conrad Browning dropped. That made Turnbuckle more convinced than ever there was something shady behind the ten thousand dollar bounty.

But he had to live in order to prove it. His legs moved, putting one foot in front of the other. He had to remain conscious until he could get some help. If he passed out in the alley, he would bleed to death.

He was only a few feet short of his goal when the world suddenly turned a black deeper than the shadows in the alley. Turnbuckle pitched forward, groaned once, and lay silent and motionless as his life’s blood continued running out onto the dirt.

Chapter 22

The Kid and McCall fetched Max and the horses from the trees, skirting wide around the crater and the bodies of the dead men as they did so. Blount told them they could put the horses in the small pole corral behind the cabin where he kept his mule.

They had been keeping an eye out for the pair of Guthrie’s gun-wolves who had gotten away, just in case the men returned. Blount thought it was more likely the men would hightail it back to the Rafter G with the news of what had happened, and The Kid agreed with that.

Sooner or later, more trouble would show up, and he wanted to be prepared for it when it did. “I’ll take my guns back now,” he told McCall. The revolver he had taken away from one of Guthrie’s men was tucked behind his belt.

“I guess I might as well go along with that,” she agreed with a sigh. “We’ve sort of gotten past the point of considering you my prisoner, haven’t we?”

“I’d say we’re partners . . . for now.”

She shook her head and sounded disgusted with herself as she said, “This is the first time something like this has happened. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“It seems to me like you’re just being reasonable,” The Kid said as he took the Colt she handed to him. They carried all the rifles into the cabin, including his Winchester and Sharps.

Blount said, “First time I’ve seen one of those Big Fifties in a while. Used to know a fella who hunted buffalo with a carbine like that. It’s a hell of a gun if you need to make a long-range shot. Packs a mighty big wallop close up, too. Almost like bein’ shot with a cannon.”

The Kid had actually shot a man once with a cannon, but he didn’t mention that.

“What are we going to do about those bodies out there?” McCall asked. “I can’t help but wonder if any of them have rewards out for them.”

“Spoken like a true bounty hunter,” The Kid said.

Anger flashed in McCall’s eyes. “It’s a job like any other,” she said.

“Any other that pays in blood money.”

“You two best save your squabblin’ for later,” Blount advised. “Guthrie will be back here before the day’s over, more’n likely, and we got to figure out what we’re gonna do about it. He can take them dead hombres with him when he goes, if he wants to.”

“I was looking at the cliff earlier,” The Kid said. “There’s a ledge up there, about a hundred feet above the cabin. Is there any way to get to it?”

“Yeah . . . if you’re a durn mountain goat!”

“What are you thinking, Kid?” McCall asked.

“That a man on that ledge could keep anybody from getting close to the cabin if he had a rifle and plenty of ammunition. It’d be like a target shoot from up there.”

McCall nodded. “Yeah, that’s true. Are you volunteering?”

“I could take the first shift, anyway. You and I could take turns guarding the place.” The Kid frowned in thought. “That won’t solve Mr. Blount’s problem in the long run, though.”

“Nothin’s gonna solve that except puttin’ a bullet through Spud Guthrie’s head,” Blount said. “I don’t much cotton to cold-blooded murder, though.”

“If he’s attacking you, it wouldn’t be murder,” The Kid pointed out. “This is your land. It would be self-defense.”

“Yeah. Problem is, all them hardcases workin’ for him would try to grab the range for themselves as soon as Guthrie was dead.”

The Kid didn’t have a solution for that. For the time being, however, he and McCall could protect the old-timer and try to figure out something else as they went along. He picked up his Winchester and said, “Show me the trail to that ledge.”

“Callin’ it a trail is bein’ mighty generous. But I’ll show you where to climb.”

The Kid stuffed a box full of .44-40 cartridges into his coat pocket and followed the old man out of the cabin. McCall came along, too, and said, “I’ll keep an eye out for trouble.”

The Kid and Blount went around the cabin and walked over to the cliff face. Blount started pointing out the footholds and handholds The Kid would need to use to reach the ledge, which had a slab of rock perched on it that he could use for cover.

“I’ll head on up,” The Kid said when he was sure of the route. He took off his belt and used it to rig a sling for the rifle so he could carry the weapon over his shoulder.

The climb took almost a quarter of an hour. When The Kid finally reached the ledge, he rolled onto it and waved a hand to let Blount know he was there safely. He unslung the Winchester and scooted into position behind the rock.

He could see the entire open area in front of the cabin, as well as the band of trees on the other side of it. In fact, the view was spectacular, stretching for several miles of green, pinecovered landscape. Sitting up there and looking out over the vast swath of Arizona Territory would have been pretty peaceful, he thought . . .

If he hadn’t been waiting for a small army of gunmen to show up and try to kill him, McCall, and Blount.

The Kid wondered if McCall was starting to believe that he was innocent of the charges leveled against him. She had agreed to give back his guns with much less argument than he had expected.

Of course, the fact that he was already armed might have had something to do with that. It was easier for them to cooperate than to try to kill each other.

Having her as an actual ally would make it easier for him to get to Santa Fe and set the record straight. From all indications, they had given Pike and the other bounty hunters the slip, but The Kid had believed that before and turned out to be wrong.

He didn’t let his mind wander too much. His attention stayed focused on the approaches to the cabin. About an hour had passed since his climb to the ledge when he spotted riders approaching from the east.

It was a large group, approximately twenty men, but according to Blount, that was only about half of Guthrie’s force. The rancher probably thought that was more than enough to overwhelm any defense Blount might put up.

The Kid had no doubt that Spud Guthrie believed his word was law in those parts. The Kid had run into that sort of arrogant cattle baron before, and he had heard about others from his father. Men who believed they could run roughshod over anyone who opposed them, even to the point of murder, simply because they had more land and cattle than anybody else in the area.

Sometimes they had to be shown the error of their ways at the point of a gun.

The Kid’s eyes followed the riders as they circled to the far side of the trees. They disappeared from his sight there, but he was confident that they would show up again.

Twenty minutes later, three of the men rode out of the trees and reined in where they could see the cabin. One of the riders edged his horse slightly in front of the other two. Even from far away, The Kid could tell that he was on the small side. That was probably what had gotten him the nickname Spud.

The man cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Blount! Blount, can you hear me?”

His voice was surprisingly deep for a man of his size and carried like a foghorn.

“I hear you, Guthrie!” Blount replied through the single window in the front of the cabin.

“You killed some of my men!”

“Only because they tried to kill me first!”

The contrast between Guthrie’s bullfrog-like bellows and Blount’s rather high-pitched voice would have been humorous if the situation hadn’t been so deadly serious, The Kid thought.

“I’m gonna give you one more chance!” Guthrie said. “Get on that mule of yours and ride away, and you can have safe passage out of here. Just don’t ever come back!”

“You can go to hell!” Blount responded. “Dos Caballos is mine and always will be!”

“I’ve got twenty men out here, you old fool! If we charge that cabin, I don’t care who you’ve got helping you! We’ll overrun you and kill you!”

“Not without a whole heap o’ you buzzards dyin’ first!” Blount shouted defiantly. “And I reckon I’ll be aimin’ at you first thing,
Spud
!”

The scornful tone of the old-timer’s voice told The Kid that Guthrie probably didn’t like being called by his nickname. Probably didn’t care for being reminded of his lack of stature. Another indication of that was the tall crown on the hat Guthrie wore.

That hat was a mighty tempting target, and a faint grin tugged at The Kid’s mouth as he lined the Winchester’s sights on it.

“All right, Blount!” Guthrie roared. “You called the tune, now you can damned well dance to it!”

He lifted an arm to signal for his men to attack. Even though The Kid couldn’t see them, he knew they were probably spread out through the trees in a skirmish line. Blount and McCall couldn’t hope to pick off more than a few of them as they charged.

But The Kid could see the whole field, and he thought it was time to send a signal of his own.

He squeezed the Winchester’s trigger.

Chapter 23

As the rifle cracked, Spud Guthrie’s hat leaped from his head. Guthrie leaped, too, bouncing in the saddle and clapping a hand to his suddenly uncovered cranium. As he came back down on leather, he grabbed the reins and whirled his horse around to dash back into the timber.

At the same time, the two men who had ridden out with him whipped their rifles to their shoulders and started blazing away at the ledge where the shot had come from.

The Kid ducked low behind the rock. From their angle, the two gunmen couldn’t get a clear view of him, nor could they ricochet their slugs off the cliff face behind him.

He waited until their weapons fell silent, then thrust his Winchester over the top of the rock again and cranked off four swift shots, aiming just short so the bullets kicked up dust under the hooves of the horses.

The animals spooked. The men had to fight to get them under control. The Kid probably could have picked them both off, but instead he held his fire and allowed Guthrie’s men to retreat into the woods.

The message he had sent was clear. With a field of fire commanding the entire area in front of the cabin, he could kill the men at will if they charged. Combined with the damage that McCall and Blount would do by firing from inside the cabin, it was possible they might be able to wipe out the whole party.

Guthrie was smart enough to know that, too. He came back to the edge of the trees and called, “Blount! Blount!”

“Speak your piece!” Blount shouted back from the cabin.

“Tell your man to hold his fire!”

“He already is, ain’t he? Hurry it up, ’fore we get impatient!”

“I want the bodies of my men!” Guthrie said.

Blount hesitated in answering, but after a moment he called, “All right! You can take ’em! There ain’t nothin’ left of the one who was standin’ right over that dynamite when it blew, though!”

“We’ll come out and get the others! Hold your fire!”

Several men emerged from the pines and cast nervous glances toward the ledge where The Kid had them covered. They hurried forward, picked up the bodies of the two men who had been killed in the explosion and the two who had died in the fighting afterward. They carried the corpses back into the cover of the trees.

“I’m leaving!” Guthrie yelled. “But I’ll be back! You can’t win, Blount! You can’t hold out against all of us!”

“Maybe not, but a bunch of you will die before you root me out!” Blount followed the declaration with a cackling laugh.

Guthrie didn’t respond to that. The Kid kept watching, and a few minutes later, the group of riders reappeared, moving away from the area. Some of the men had doubled up, so their horses could be used to carry the bodies.

“They’re gone!” he shouted down to the cabin when Guthrie and his men were out of sight.

McCall and Blount emerged and waved up at him to show they had heard. “You need me to spell you?” the bounty hunter called.

“Not yet,” The Kid replied. “I’m fine.”

He settled back to keep watch. As his eyes scanned the landscape, he muttered, “I hope you’re satisfied, Rebel. I’ve gotten myself mixed up in trouble that’s none of my business . . . again.”

A warm breeze blew past him. It was almost like the caress of fingers against his cheek.