Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) (14 page)

“Riders,” he said aloud, already gathering the reins to his and Mattie Rourke's horses. As he hurriedly led the horses out of sight, he saw Mattie appear from the crevice and come running toward him, her rifle in hand.

“I heard them too,” she offered, seeing the questioning look on Sam's face. She took her horse's reins from him as they rounded a stone edge and stopped out of sight from the trail.

“Wait here and keep me covered if I need it,” Sam said, jerking his rifle from its boot. “I have a hunch I won't need it,” he added coolly. “It's about time we ran into somebody up here who doesn't want to kill us.” No sooner had he said it than he looked around the edge and saw six dusty, sweat-streaked riders come into sight.

In an upsurge of freshly stirred dust, at the head of the six riders, Sam saw Clayton DeShay's horse spin in a circle before settling down and coming to a halt. Off to the side of DeShay, Dee Ragland sat unsteadily in his saddle, an arm clamped around his bloody bandaged middle. Behind the two rode Arlis Fletcher and Morgan Almond. Behind Almond rode two hatless, bloody prisoners on the end of a short lead rope. Their hands had been bound behind their backs; their battered faces were blackened with dried blood. Their eyes were swollen shut. Their heads bobbed limply on their chests.

“Wait here anyway,” Sam said to Mattie Rourke. “It looks like their bark's on.”

“Careful . . . ,” she said, before she could stop herself.

Sam only looked at her. As a precaution, he handed her his rifle. Then he stepped out into sight, his hands raised chest high.

“DeShay,” he called out across the stone floor covering the wide area in front of the crevice.

DeShay spun toward the sound of the Ranger's voice, horse and all, his rifle coming up pointed until he recognized Sam and eased in his saddle. Ragland and Fletcher turned their horses as well.

“Easy, fellows, stand down,” DeShay said to the other two men. To Sam he called out, “Ranger, we are mighty damned glad to see you!”

Sam lowered his hands and gestured for Mattie to step out beside him. He took his rifle from her slowly and held it in the crook of his arms.

“No more than we are to see you, Sheriff,” he said, the two of them walking forward.

“I need to get back to my sister, Ranger,” Mattie said, now that she saw everything was all right.

Sam only nodded and walked on as she turned and hurried back toward the caves.

Chapter 14

Sheriff Clayton DeShay stepped down from his saddle and over beside Dee Ragland. The Ranger arrived at the sheriff's side in time to help him lower the wounded scout from his saddle. Moving his horse next to the two prisoners Morgan Almond was leading, Arlis Fletcher raised a boot and gave one of the men a hard kick, sending him to the ground. He raised his boot again, but this time before he could get in his kick, he caught the hard stares of both DeShay and the Ranger. Almond turned in his saddle with a look of anger on his sweaty face.

“That'll do, Fletcher,” said DeShay. “These men won't be mistreated while I'm in charge.”

“Let's not forget that these
men
—these lousy
sons a' bitches
—are the reason our tracker is standing there with a bullet stuck in his gut, Sheriff,” Fletcher said. “I don't mind keeping them under a heavy hand right up till we swing them from a limb.”

The man in the dirt struggled to his feet and tried to stare up at Fletcher through eyes swollen almost shut.

“Do I look like I'm afraid of swinging from a limb to you, you fine-haired bastard?” he said through split, puffy lips. He spit toward Fletcher. Fletcher jumped his horse forward and started to kick him again.

“Damn it, stand down, Fletcher!” DeShay shouted, his rifle coming up pointed at the cold-eyed gunman. “What you're doing is against the law.”

As quickly as Fletcher's temper had erupted, it settled. He spread his gloved hands in submission, a bemused look on his face.

“Whatever you say, Sheriff,” he said. “You know me, I'm all about law and order.” He swung down from his saddle, walked over to the other prisoner and said cordially, “Please, sir, may I help you down from your saddle?”

“Jesus . . . ,” DeShay grumbled and shook his head. Turning to Sam, he said, “It's been this way from the get-go with him. I've never wanted to kill a man any worse in my life.”

The two helped Ragland over to the shade of a large rock and sat him in the dirt. The old Mexican appeared with a goatskin full of water and gave the wounded scout a drink.

Stooping down beside Ragland, Sam pulled open the wounded man's buckskin shirt, lifted a blood-soaked cloth and looked at the bullet hole.

“Are you able to make it back to Whiskey Bend?” he asked the wounded trail scout.

“You tell me, Ranger,” said Ragland. “It didn't go all the way through.”

Sam wiped the blood aside enough to see the redness surrounding the wound. He gave a grim look and set the bloody cloth back in place.

“It's got to come out of there,” he said.

“Then you do it, Ranger,” Ragland said. “If there's no whiskey around, I'll just lie still and cuss you the whole way.”

“It could be in there deep,” Sam warned.

“Cut it out for me, Ranger,” Ragland insisted.

“Let me see this
deep
wound,” the old Mexican said, taking on a sudden air of authority.

“He says he used to be a priest,” Sam said, seeing Ragland's questioning eyes. “You judge.”

But the old Mexican didn't even wait to hear from Ragland. He stooped down and rolled the scout onto his side. Ragland grunted in pain. Sam watched the old Mexican expertly probe a purple lump on Ragland's back.

“It's too deep from the front,” the old Mexican said, “but it's not so deep from here.” He took the Ranger's hand and guided his finger to the lump on Ragland's back and pushed on it. “There, do you feel it?” he asked.

“Yes, I feel it.” Sam nodded, the hard nose of the bullet on his fingertips. The bullet had bored straight and deep, digging into the scout's back. It had been stopped short by Ragland's muscle and sinew.

“Get to cutting, Ranger,” Ragland said with resolve. “The sooner, the better.”

Almond and Fletcher had led the horses and the two prisoners over beside DeShay for a closer look.

“First let's get you inside the cave,” Sam said. “It might be best if this man cuts it out. He seems to know what he's—”

“Huh-uh,” said Ragland, cutting him off. “Last time a Mex cut on me it was over a whore in Sonora. I swore it would never happen again.”

Ignoring Ragland's remark, the old Mexican stood up and took a step back.

“I have a keg of mescal buried in the rocks,” he said. “It will help deaden the pain.”

“Mescal. . . . ? A
keg
of it?” Ragland perked up.

“Sí
, more than enough, so that you will not know when I do my cutting,” the old Mexican said. Only then did he look down at Ragland as if seeking permission. “Shall I go get it?”

Sam started to answer for Ragland, but the wounded scout spoke ahead of him.

“Well, hell yes,
go get it.
We're going to do this thing right from the start,
hombre.”

The old Mexican left to get the mescal and Sam and Morgan Almond helped Ragland to his feet to move him inside the torchlit caves.

Mattie came out of the black crevice and moved toward them with a grim look on her face. Halfway across the stone walkway, she stopped and waited for the Ranger.

“My sister's husband is dead,” she said quietly.

Sam just looked at her.

“When I got back,” Mattie said, seeing the look on the Ranger's face, “she told me he just stopped breathing.”

DeShay looked back and forth between the two of them.

Sister? Husband . . . ?
He turned to Sam. “What's going on here, Ranger?” he asked.

“I must get back to her,” Mattie said.

“We'll talk about it later,” Sam said to DeShay, stepping in beside Mattie as she turned to hurry back to the cave.

—

Inside the cave, Isabelle Rourke stood out of the flickering torchlight with her arms folded tightly across her bosom, as if trying to ward off a hard chill. Seeing Mattie return with the Ranger at her side, the two looking down at Phillip Kendrick's limp body, she turned away before speaking to them.

“I didn't kill him,” she said, although no one had brought up the possibility. “I stepped away for a moment, and when I returned, this is how I found him.”

As she spoke, Sam kneeled down beside the body and closed its gaping mouth. He spread the bloodstained shirt collar open a little and looked at the throat for any signs of strangulation.

“What's he doing?” Isabelle asked her sister. “Doesn't he believe me?”

“Of course he believes you, Isabelle,” Mattie said. Then she asked Sam, “Don't you, Ranger?”

Sam closed the shirt collar and stood up, seeing no signs of foul play.

“He took a bad beating,” Sam said, looking at not only the long barrel marks on Kendrick's face, but at an assortment of deeper gashes as well—gashes made by the deadly hammering edge of a gun butt. “The shape he was in, there's no point speculating. We'll never know exactly what killed him.”

Even as he spoke, Sam noted that one corner of the blanket beneath the body was folded over. He imagined how easy it would have been for a strong hand to hold that blanket edge down over the man's face and nose until the body ceased to struggle.

Stop it.
He put the notion aside, hearing DeShay and the others walk into the cave from the narrow stone hallway.

The two prisoners looked at Isabelle through swollen eyes, and down at the body of Phillip Kendrick on the blanket.

“Recognize him?” Sam asked them.

“It's Brother Phillip, one of Dad Orwick's main saints,” said one of the prisoners, “or what's left of him.”

“It couldn't have happened to a more deserving son of a bitch, far as I'm concerned,” said the other. He turned his battered, swollen face to Isabelle. “It's us, ma'am,” he said, “Bob Hewitt and Donnie Dobbs.”

“Oh my!” said Isabelle. “What in God's name has happened to you two?” she asked.

“In God's name, not a whole lot, ma'am,” said Bob Hewitt. He turned a pained and crooked half smile toward the posse men and replied to her. “But otherwise, you might say we ran afoul of the law.”

“All of us Redemption Riders did,” Donnie Dobbs put in, “except all of Dad's churchmen got away—which is no surprise, since they always do.”

Paying no attention to the two prisoners, DeShay gestured toward the body on the ground.

“Fletcher, you and Almond get this one out so we'll have room for Ragland in the torchlight,” he said.

Almond started to step forward, but Fletcher stopped him.

“Sure thing, Sheriff,” he said. He reached the toe of his boot out and rolled Kendrick's limp body off the blanket. “Done,” he said, dusting his hands together.

Sheriff DeShay gave the surly gunman a harsh look.

“You and Almond get out front and stand guard while the Mexican cuts the bullet out of Ragland,” he said.

“Anything you say,
Sheriff
,” Fletcher said half mockingly, touching his hat brim toward the seething DeShay, then toward the two women.

“Whatever you need, Sheriff, you holler out,” Almond said in earnest.

“Obliged, Almond,” said DeShay.

Only moments after Almond and Fletcher left, the Mexican walked in from the stone hallway carrying a cask of mescal under his arm and a large wooden cup for Ragland to drink from. Ragland's face brightened a little as he saw the strong drink arrive, but his expression changed when he saw the Mexican draw a lengthy knife and a pair of long-handled surgical tongs from inside his frayed robe.

“You'll need the Ranger and me to help hold him down,” DeShay said, stepping in close and peeling his coat off.

“No,” the Mexican said confidently. Smiling, he set the cask and the cup down beside Ragland. “He will never know when I cut into his back.”

Mattie only stood staring, but Isabelle looked stunned at the prospect of what she was about to witness.

“I'm taking the womenfolk and your prisoners out of here,” Sam said to DeShay. “We'll get a fire going out front and boil some coffee.”

“Obliged,” said DeShay.

“Ragland, you're going to be all right, if the mescal doesn't kill you,” Sam said.

“Obliged, Ranger,” Ragland replied, watching the Mexican pull a wooden plug from the cask and fill the cup. “If the mescal does kill me, I'll just figure I had it coming.”

“Let's go,” Sam said to the two prisoners, gesturing them ahead of himself and the women toward the long stone tunnel. On their way, Sam made sure they heard him lever a round into his Winchester for good measure.

“You won't have to worry about us, Ranger,” Hewitt said over his shoulder. “Donnie and I have had it. All we ever were is decoys and trail guards for Dad Orwick anyway.”

“Yeah,” said Dobbs, walking along, both of them with their hands tied behind them, “Orwick doesn't give a blue damn for any of us outlaws.”

“Or anybody else who's not a part of his church
brethren
,” said Hewitt.

“So, anything we can tell you about him and his disciples that might help us catch a softer bunk when we get to Yuma, feel free to ask us,” Dobbs put in. “We can tell you more than Isabelle can. No offense, ma'am,” he said over his shoulder to her. “But Dad's kept you in the dark since he left you up at his northern compound.”

Isabelle only lowered her head in silence.

“How long have you been riding with Dad?” Sam asked the two men.

“We've both been with him the past seven or eight months,” said Hewitt. “But I worked for him five years ago for a while.”

“How old a man is he?” Sam asked. Mattie shot him a curious look in the flicker of torchlight along the stone tunnel.

Hewitt gave a shrug, walking along ahead of them.

“I don't know, but he's an old geezer,” he said. “Too damned old to have so many young new wives being brought to him—again, no offense, ma'am,” he added over his shoulder to Isabelle.

Walking behind the Ranger, Isabelle continued looking down in silence. Beside her, Mattie held one arm around her sister's shoulders.

“How long since either of you've last seen him face-to-face?” Sam asked.

The two outlaws looked at each other through their swollen eyes.

“Hell, come to think of it,” Hewitt said, “I haven't seen him since I took up with him this time. Used to be I saw him all the time. Not anymore. Elder Barcinder sent for me the day I got out of jail in Tinus. I haven't seen Dad.”

“Neither have I,” said Dobbs. “All I know is when they want someone to get shot at while him and his disciple slip away, they send some of us out.”

“Decoys and trail guards, huh?” Sam said, wanting to keep them talking.

“Yep, that's all we are,” Hewitt said, his inflamed face keeping his voice stifled. As he talked, they walked out of the crevice into the waning sunlight. “And I'll tell you right now, you haven't seen the last of them yet. Anywhere Dad and all his disciples go, there's going to be plenty of trail guards strung out behind him—”

Hewlett's words cut short as a bullet thumped into his chest, sliced through him and erupted out the middle of his back. A second behind the bullet came the explosion of the distant shot. Blood and fine viscera matter stung the Ranger and the women walking behind the hapless outlaw.

“Get back!” Sam shouted, pushing Mattie and Isabelle back into the shelter of the stone tunnel as two more bullets slapped Dobbs backward before he could duck away and take cover.

Fifteen yards away, Fletcher and Almond heard the rifle shots and dived behind rocks. They returned fire with nothing to aim at but the rising spirals of smoke on the distant hill line.

“Hold your fire,” the Ranger called out to the two posse men, when a moment had passed without any more gunfire from the rocks. “I've got a feeling they've done what they came here to do.”