The Loner: The Bounty Killers (20 page)

Ignoring the challenge The Kid kept going. He figured the good luck couldn’t last, and he was right.

“Hold it!” the man yelled. “Damn it, I’ll shoot!”

The Kid didn’t stop or even slow down. A moment later, muzzle flame stabbed through the night as the man fired twice. “Everybody out!” he shouted. “Something’s wrong!”

The Kid reached the trees as Guthrie’s men piled out of the bunkhouse, yelling questions and curses. More guns began to roar. It was too dark for accurate shooting, and The Kid heard slugs whip through the pine needles, but none of them came close to him and Guthrie.

He reached his horse and slung Guthrie’s senseless form over its back. As he jerked the reins loose and swung up into the saddle, he heard a bullet smack into a tree trunk only a few feet away.

The Chinese cook shouted, “Stop shooting! Stop shooting! He has Mr. Guthrie! Stop!”

The guns fell silent.

The Kid turned the buckskin and moved as fast as he could through the trees. He couldn’t risk a full-tilt gallop in the darkness.

Within minutes, Guthrie’s men would be mounted up and coming after him. The Kid’s brain worked swiftly as he tried to figure out what to do next. If he headed for the rim, taking the narrow, back-and-forth trail down the cliff face would give the pursuers a good chance to catch up to him.

The gunmen believed that Chester Blount and his mysterious allies had died in the explosion that destroyed the old-timer’s cabin. The timing of Guthrie’s kidnapping was suspicious, of course, but they wouldn’t naturally assume that whoever had grabbed their boss was heading for Dos Caballos Canyon.

When The Kid came out of the trees into an open stretch, he heeled the buckskin into a run that carried them east, roughly parallel to the edge of the Mogollon Rim a couple of miles to the south.

With him fleeing in that direction, Guthrie’s men likely wouldn’t think that he had any connection to Blount and the canyon that Guthrie craved. The Kid wanted to keep it that way.

All he had to do was outride a couple dozen hardcase killers who wanted to see him dead.

As if that wasn’t going to be enough of a chore, Spud Guthrie chose that moment to wake up, twist around, and drive an elbow into The Kid’s belly as hard as he could.

Chapter 26

The sudden attack took The Kid by surprise. He bent forward in the saddle, the breath knocked out of his lungs by Guthrie’s vicious blow.

Guthrie was squirming like a wildcat, almost toppling The Kid out of the saddle. He grabbed the horn at the last second and managed to stay mounted.

Still gasping for air, he launched a left uppercut that caught Guthrie under the chin as he spewed obscenities. The rancher’s teeth clicked together, and he screeched in pain as he bit through his tongue.

The Kid hammered another punch into Guthrie’s face. Guthrie sagged backward. The Kid wrestled him around, looped his left arm around the rancher’s throat, and drew his gun. He pressed the barrel into Guthrie’s back.

“Settle down, you little snake!” The Kid hissed into Guthrie’s ear. “I’m damn close to blowing your spine in two and being done with it.”

Guthrie stopped fighting. He couldn’t talk very well with The Kid’s forearm pressing into his throat like an iron bar, but he managed to rasp, “Who . . . who the hell are you? What do you want with me?”

“Right now I want you to stop fighting so I don’t have to kill you. As for who I am, let’s just say I’m a friend of Chester Blount’s.” The Kid paused, then added with grim humor, “How’s your hat, Spud?”

“You!” Guthrie said. “You son of a—You were the maverick up on that ledge this afternoon!”

“That’s right. I could have killed you then. I drilled your hat on purpose. Don’t make me regret deciding to let you live.”

“But . . . but that cabin . . .”

“We weren’t in it,” The Kid said. “Blount’s fine.”

Guthrie cursed bitterly at the news.

The Kid had kept the buckskin moving, guiding the horse with his knees since both his hands were occupied. But he knew he couldn’t keep on that way. Guthrie’s men weren’t far behind him, and they would be riding hard.

“Take off your belt and put your hands behind your back,” The Kid ordered.

“Go to hell.”

“I’ll kill you if I have to,” The Kid warned. “If I keep you propped up in front of me, your men won’t know you’re dead. They’ll have to hold their fire for fear of hitting you. So you can be a live hostage or a dead one, Guthrie. It’s up to you.”

Guthrie realized The Kid meant it. He fumbled with his belt and pulled it off. The Kid holstered his gun but kept his tight grip around Guthrie’s neck. He looped the belt around Guthrie’s wrists and jerked it tight, binding the rancher’s arms behind his back.

With that done, The Kid was able to take hold of the reins and urge the buckskin into a gallop again. They made better time, but when he looked back, he spotted a dark mass in the distance—the riders from the Rafter G giving chase.

Coming to an area of more rugged terrain cut by rocky ridges and gullies, The Kid was forced to slow down and ride back and forth to avoid some of the obstacles. He worked the buckskin into a brush-choked ravine. The shadows were so thick no starlight penetrated. Taking a bandanna from his saddlebags, he wadded it up, and forced it into the mouth of a bitterly protesting Guthrie to serve as a gag.

“Take it easy,” he whispered into the rancher’s ear. “I can cut your throat without making a sound.”

He could have if he’d had a knife . . . which he didn’t. But Guthrie didn’t have to know that.

They waited in silence for about fifteen minutes. Then The Kid began to hear hoofbeats not far away.

The riders came closer. The Kid knew they had to be the hired killers from the Rafter G. The men passed close enough to the ravine for him to hear them arguing.

“Damn it, Nebel, we don’t know that he came this way,” a man protested.

“He was headed in this direction when he left the flats,” another man replied.

“Why would he grab the boss in the first place? Ransom, maybe?”

“Could be. Spud’s the richest hombre in these parts.” The gunman called Nebel laughed. “Hell, his wallet’s damn near as big as he is.”

Guthrie made angry noises until The Kid closed a hand around his throat.

The voices faded as the searchers rode on past, but The Kid heard one of the men say, “I think we ought to check out that canyon.”

“Dos Caballos?” Nebel asked. “We blew up that old codger and his friends. They didn’t have anything to do with this.”

The Kid smiled grimly. That was exactly what he wanted them to think.

After a moment, he couldn’t make out the voices anymore, and the hoofbeats soon faded to nothingness. The Kid waited another half hour, then, satisfied that his decoying tactics had worked, he emerged from the ravine and sent the buckskin back toward the Rafter G.

When he came to the trail that led down off the rim, he dismounted and hauled Guthrie down from the horse’s back. “You’re going in front,” he told the rancher. “Try anything funny, and you’ll be the one who makes it to the bottom of the rim in a hurry.”

With The Kid leading the buckskin and prodding Guthrie along, the three of them started the descent. It was bad enough having to follow the trail in darkness, but with his hands tied behind him, Guthrie had it even worse. He had to move very slowly to keep his balance and find each spot to place his feet.

It seemed to take forever to reach the bottom. The Kid lifted Guthrie onto the horse and felt the man trembling as he did so. Likely Guthrie didn’t want to live through anything like that again any time soon.

For that matter, neither did The Kid.

The eastern sky was gray with the approach of dawn by the time they reached the entrance to Dos Caballos Canyon. The Kid gave the cry of a hoot owl, something Frank Morgan had taught him how to do, and a moment later the brush-covered gate began to swing open.

“Kid!” Lace called softly. “Kid, is that you?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “and I’ve got Guthrie.”

“Good Lord!” The exclamation came from Chester Blount. “I didn’t really believe you could do it.”

The Kid took hold of the heavy gate and helped Lace open it. Then he led the buckskin through with the prisoner on its back. He and Lace closed the gate while Blount glared up at Guthrie in the gray gloom.

“Bet you thought I was blowed to smithereens, didn’t you, you snaky little varmint?” Blount demanded. “Well, I ain’t, and pretty soon you’re gonna be answerin’ for all the no-good things you done. Some o’ them fellas who disappeared just before you gobbled up their range was friends o’ mine. I’ll bet once the law starts pokin’ around, they’ll find that them skallyhooters who work for you are mighty good with a runnin’ iron, too!”

Blount hadn’t said anything before about suspecting Guthrie of being behind a wave of murder and rustling in the area, but The Kid wasn’t surprised.

Guthrie still had the gag in his mouth. He made angry sounds through it at Blount’s accusations.

“Let’s get him back to the camp,” The Kid said. “I want to get him tied up good and proper, so he can’t get away.”

“I got that other horse o’ yours right here,” Blount said as he led the animal forward. “The names I need to remember when I get to Phoenix are John Stafford in San Francisco and Conrad Browning, right?”

“That’s right,” The Kid told him. He shook hands with the old man. “Good luck.”

“You two are the ones who’re gonna need it,” Blount said. “You’ll be stuck here in this canyon with a viper in your midst and a whole heap o’ killers right outside just waitin’ for a chance to ventilate you.”

“We won’t give them that chance,” The Kid promised. “You’d better get started. It’ll be a while before they decide to come look here, but there’s no point in waiting.”

Blount mounted up, and The Kid and Lace opened the gate again. The Kid kept one eye on Guthrie while they were doing that, but the rancher didn’t try anything. His shoulders seemed to droop in defeat.

It could be just a ruse. The Kid wasn’t going to let down his guard.

When Blount was gone and the gate was securely fastened again, The Kid and Lace escorted Guthrie to the camp on the other side of the big rock. While The Kid covered him, Lace used several pieces of rope to hogtie Guthrie. They set him down with his back against the rock, confident that he couldn’t get loose.

“You’ve had some practice at tying up prisoners,” The Kid commented.

Lace smiled. “Yeah. Once I’ve got my hands on a man, he doesn’t get away . . . unless I want him to.”

The Kid didn’t ask what she meant by that. He had a hunch he might find out.

Chapter 27

It was the middle of the morning before The Kid heard horses approaching the canyon. “Riders coming,” he called to Lace.

She hurried around the rock to where he was standing watch, leaving Guthrie trussed up on the other side and the dog to keep an eye on him. “I told Max if Guthrie opens his mouth to yell, he can chew on him a little,” she informed The Kid with a grin.

Carrying their Winchesters, they trotted up to the gate to look out. A group of about a dozen men came into sight, riding toward the canyon from the east. The Kid knew they had probably come down the treacherous trail he and Guthrie had descended the night before. He didn’t actually recognize any of them, but the hard stamp of their faces told him they were some of Guthrie’s hired killers.

“That whole gun crew’s probably split up to search in all directions for Guthrie,” Lace said quietly. “You think they’ll ride on past?”

“They might,” The Kid said. “But in case they don’t, we’d better get behind some cover.” He nodded toward a couple thick-trunked pine trees that would give them a good view of the gate. In a crouching run, he and Lace moved over and got situated behind them. They waited as the hoofbeats got louder.

The riders stopped just outside its entrance, as The Kid thought they would. One of them ordered, “A couple of you get down and open that damn gate the old man built.”

The voice was familiar. The Kid thought it belonged to one of the gunmen he’d heard talking the night before, while he and Guthrie waited in the brushy ravine.

That was confirmed a second later when someone asked, “What would the boss be doin’ in there, Nebel?”

“Damned if I know,” Nebel replied, “but we’re gonna look every place we can find.”

From the way he gave orders, Nebel was probably Guthrie’s
segundo
, or at least the boss of the hired hardcases. There might be a regular foreman who supervised the cowboys doing the actual work of running the ranch.

From The Kid’s position, he could see the latch that held the gate closed. He drew a bead on it with his rifle and waited. A moment later, through a gap in the brush, he saw a hand reach for the latch.

He drilled a .44-40 slug right through the hand.

The man screamed and jerked it back. A second later, shots roared as the men outside the gate acted instinctively, pulling iron and blazing away through the brush.

The Kid had already ducked back behind the tree, and Lace was safely behind the trunk of the other pine. A few bullets knocked bark off the trunks, but that was all. Most of the slugs whined off harmlessly up the canyon.

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Nebel roared, cutting short the fusillade. “We don’t know who’s in there!”

“Must be that old codger,” one of the other men said.

“We blew him up,” a third gunnie protested.

Nebel said, “We blew up his cabin. We don’t know for sure that he was inside it. Besides, he had some help yesterday, and we don’t know who or how many.” He paused. “We gotta get that gate open.”

“And get shot like Benson?” a man asked. “He may not ever be able to use that hand again.”

There was a moment of silence while Nebel thought about it. Then he said, “Rope it. We’ll pull the damned thing down.”

That would probably work, The Kid thought, and if it did, the gunmen could charge through and overwhelm him and Lace before they could stop all of them. They couldn’t run that risk, so he called out, “Nebel! Can you hear me?”