White Lightning (27 page)

And his luck was holding—anyway, enough to keep from being shot down in the yard. The other side of that was missing Rafferty at home and maybe losing him completely. If his guess was wrong, and Rafferty didn’t return to Stateline, Slade would guarantee his getaway by riding back to town. That was a long shot, though, logic dictating that the fugitive would try to salvage what he could from this night’s loss, maybe hole up at the Sunflower overnight, or at the very least retrieve cash for the road from his saloon.

Slade found his roan, ignored the moaning lookout he’d left trussed up in the corn nearby, and saddled up. Five minutes later he was on the road, nearing the gate that advertised the Rocking R. When he reached the county highway, Slade turned south toward Stateline, hoping that he hadn’t thrown away his last, best chance to overtake his quarry.

Grim-faced in the night, he galloped back toward town.

“So, is he coming after you or not?” asked Grady Sullivan.

“The hell should I know?” Rafferty snapped back at him. “I’m
here.
He’s
there
, or somewhere in between.”

Sullivan knew better than to insult his boss by calling him a yellow dog. Instead, he nodded understanding. Said, “You got a dozen men out there. Maybe they’ve finished him by now.”

“Maybe.” Rafferty drank the whiskey Sullivan had poured him. Not his first tonight, by any means, the way he’d smelled when he came barging in. “You didn’t see them mill around like goddamn chickens with their heads cut off.”

“Trying to save the barn and still, you said.”

“Too late! The place went up in nothing flat. They gave up hunting Slade the minute that they saw the fire.”

“If it
was
Slade,” said Sullivan.

Rafferty stopped his pacing, glared at him. “Who else?”

Sullivan shrugged. “Maybe the judge sent other deputies to help him out by now.”

“Why would he? Do you know something?”

“No, Boss. I—”

“Did he find someone to help him use the goddamn telegraph?”

“Not that I know of.”

Rafferty sneered, moving to pour himself another drink. “I wonder sometimes what you know,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It
means
that for my second in command, you seem to let things get away from you.”

“Your second in command? Since when?” asked Sullivan, feeling the rise of anger warm his cheeks.

“Well, who else is there?”

“Cap’n Gallagher, until you slit his throat. And Berringer.”

“A damn bookkeeper, counting redskins on the reservation. Christ, he wouldn’t know a pistol from a piss pot.”

“I can tell the difference,” said Sullivan. “But I can’t shoot what I can’t see.”

“He’ll be here,” Rafferty insisted. “If he makes it off the Rocking R alive, he’ll come for me.”

“And if he don’t? How long are we supposed to wait around?”

“Daylight. If there’s no sign of him by then, we’ll send one of the men out for a look around the place. How many do you have in town?”

“Still five,” said Sullivan. Thinking,
Same as the last two times you asked.

“We need to get them spotted, watching out for Slade.”

“Already done. I told you that.”

“You did?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right.” The big man slugged his liquor down, then laid the glass aside. “We’ll hole up here and wait till someone spots him. If he makes it.”

“What about the warehouse?” Sullivan inquired.

“It’s safe enough for now. Six men should be enough to stop him,” Rafferty replied.

Meaning I’m in it, too,
thought Sullivan.
About damn time.

And said, “Six here, if he already got away from twelve.”

“Their hearts weren’t in it, Grady. If you could’ve seen them…”

“Headless chickens. Got it.”

“Show him to me dead, and there’s a thousand-dollar bonus in it for you.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, Boss.”

“And no mistakes this time.”

“I’ll see to it myself.” Thinking,
The way I should’ve done, first thing.

“You’d better make the rounds and keep them sharp,” said Rafferty.

“Just thinkin’ that, myself.”

“Oh, what about the captain?” Rafferty inquired, as Sullivan was leaving.

“Got him tucked away, together with his soldier boys. After we finish up with Slade, I’ll take ’em out and set up somethin’ for the law to find.”

Rafferty nodded and turned back to the whiskey bottle. Sullivan was glad to get away from him and out into the night. Hoping Slade
was
alive, and that he’d turn up soon.

This time,
he thought,
we do it right.

•    •    •

Slade circled wide around Stateline to enter from the east. It cost him time, but there were hours yet till daylight, and he knew that any lookouts Rafferty had posted would expect him to be coming from the north or west. Making his way back into town unseen might not be half the battle, but it was a decent start.

It would have helped to know how many guns were waiting for him, but he’d never got a final tally on how many Rafferty employed. Whatever, they’d been whittled down by six before tonight, not counting bluecoats, and he’d left at least a dozen at the Rocking R, trying to keep the barn fire from expanding to consume the house and other outbuildings.

How many more were waiting for him now, he only needed to uncover one of them.

Flynn Rafferty.

And then what? Play the cards as they were dealt, and see what happened next.

There was no outcry and no shooting as he left his roan behind the Stateline Arms, untied and free to run away if anything went wrong. Not safe, exactly, but it was the best that he could do under the circumstances. Leaving her, he took both long guns with him—one for range, the other for its close-up stopping power.

Ready for the worst Stateline and Rafferty could throw at him.

The only foot traffic that Slade could see on Border Boulevard consisted of a few men passing in and out of each saloon, downrange. The Sunflower and Swagger Inn were making money, making noise, while the remainder of their
neighbors slept, or tried to. Slade stood peering from an alleyway beside the barber’s shop, watching for any sign of lookouts on the street, but couldn’t spot them. Either they were hidden well, or Rafferty had posted them at vantage points where they could scan the road and prairie north of town.

Too late for that, since he was on the inside now and drawing closer to his quarry.

Rafferty would be inside the Sunflower, Slade reasoned. All he had to do was cross the street and work his way around behind the shops on Border Boulevard’s north side, find the saloon’s back door, and drop into surprise its owner. The Sunflower was a public place, no warrant needed for a visit to the premises, and if someone sprang an ambush on him, Slade would naturally have to act in self-defense.

Of course, if Rafferty experienced an unexpected impulse to surrender and confess his crimes, Slade would be pleased to listen and arrest him. There’d already been enough blood spilled—too much, in fact—for one investigation.

Slade stepped from the alley, glanced both ways along the street once more, then started for the other side. An easy jog, nothing to draw attention from the drinkers down the street, but neither did he want to linger in the open any longer than required.

Halfway across, something buzzed past his face, an angry wasp’s sound, then he heard the sharp crack of a rifle shot from somewhere to his right. In the direction of the Sunflower Saloon. Instead of looking for the shooter, trying to return fire, Slade kicked into top speed, sprinting for the far side of the street. He made it as a second shot rang out and struck one of the posts holding an awning up in front of lawyer Coltrane’s office.

Then another alley swallowed Slade, and he was on his way.

Surrender, hell. The fight was on.

Grady Sullivan cursed his wasted shot and shook his Winchester, as if it were the rifle’s fault. In fact, he knew he’d been too hasty on the first one, jerked the trigger when he should’ve squeezed it gently, and the second had been close to hopeless once his target started sprinting through the shadows.

“Shit fire!”

Now he had to scramble like a madman, out of Rosy Harrow’s little room, located at the southeast corner of the second floor, and back downstairs to meet Slade if he tried to get inside the Sunflower. The echo of his rifle shots had spoiled the party going on downstairs, dried up the jangling piano music and Rosy’s off-key voice trying to sing along.

To hell with it. If Rafferty lost money getting rid of Slade, whose fault was that? Sullivan thought they should’ve killed both marshals on the same day they arrived in Stateline, but his boss had called for caution, prudence, all of it a goddamn waste of time. Now they were sunk unless he dealt with Slade immediately, and the boss was out God only knew how many thousands of his hard-earned dollars anyhow.

Sullivan hammered down the stairs, some of the lushes from the barroom drifting back to meet him, asking stupid questions, getting in his way. He shouldered past them, hit one in the belly with his rifle butt for grabbing at his sleeve, and left the idjit puking on the floor as Sullivan moved on.

He’d locked the back door personally, double-checking it before he went upstairs to watch the street from Rosy’s
crib. They had a spare room in the upstairs brothel at the moment, so his presence wouldn’t hamper business if she caught herself a paying customer. Meanwhile, her window had the best view of the eastern end of Border Boulevard, and Grady’s other men were concentrated to the west.

The way Slade should have come to town, but hadn’t. Getting tricky, thinking he could slip in unobserved to do his dirty work. The lawman’s first mistake might also prove to be his last.

Wishing he could call the others in from where he’d posted them, Sullivan hoped his wasted shots would serve to summon them. If the remaining hands showed up to find their enemy already dead, so much the better. The could cart him off, along with his dead partner and the soldiers Sullivan had kept on hand as props for the persuasive scene he planned to stage on Rafferty’s behalf.

One marshal scalped and butchered hadn’t been enough to sell Judge Dennison on hostile redskins. How about an army squad and two more deputies slaughtered together, maybe with some arrows added for effect to set the stage. Dump all of them together, near the rez where Agent Berringer could do his part in building up the story, and they’d be a long way toward their goal of booting useless Indians off land they’d never managed to develop anyway.

A winning situation all the way around.

Sullivan raced along the hallway toward the back door, voices calling after him, demanding that he tell them what in hell was going on. He reached the door, found it secure, and reached out to unlock it, balancing his Winchester one-handed. He threw the door wide open and plunged through it in a rush, turning to an enemy approaching from the east.

A voice behind him asked, “Looking for me?”

The shooter hesitated for a second, maybe calculating
odds, then spun around toward Slade, his rifle rising to his shoulder. Slade was ready with the shotgun, squeezing off from ten feet with no possibility of missing. Barely spreading at that range, his buckshot tore a gaping hole in the unlucky gunman’s chest and hurled him backward through a sloppy somersault that left him facedown in the dust.

Slade pumped the shotgun’s lever action, rifle in his left hand as he charged the Sunflower’s back door. Some eight or ten spectators watched him from the far end of a hallway leading to the barroom, none holding a weapon, though a couple of the men were obviously heeled. They didn’t try to draw on Slade, instead retreating hastily as he approached.

The hallway was clear by the time Slade reached Rafferty’s office. He didn’t bother knocking, just gave the door a kick and followed through to find the chamber empty. There was no way to determine when the Sunflower’s proprietor had left—or if, in fact, he’d even stopped there after fleeing from the Rocking R. A side trip to the barroom found the customers evacuating, while the girls in residence were crouched with the piano player, down behind his instrument. The bartender showed Slade a blank face and his empty hands.

“Where’s Rafferty?” asked Slade.

“Beats me,” the barkeep said. “He came in looking spooked, maybe an hour back. I didn’t see him leave.”

Slade backed into the corridor, considered scouring the place from top to bottom. It could be a waste of time, but if he didn’t check…

Before he could decide, two gunmen barged in through the back door he’d left standing open, pistols drawn. Their faces told him they’d already seen their friend lying outside and didn’t feel like joining him if they could help it. Six-guns barked at Slade, as he lunged headlong to the floor,
dropping his rifle for the moment, freeing both hands for the shotgun.

There was no time to aim precisely, so he picked a spot
between
his two assailants, waist-high on the taller of the pair, and let a charge of buckshot do the rest. They spun in opposite directions, both men crying out in shock and pain as leaden pellets ripped through flesh and shattered bone on impact. Scrambling to his feet, Slade swapped out guns and caught the shooter on his left trying to rise, his pistol still in hand, slamming a .44-40 Winchester round through his chest.