Bad Men Die (13 page)

McCluskey kissed her. He was fond of the crazy woman, no doubt about that, even if he didn't have any interest in spending the rest of his life with her.

A second later, a shout of alarm drove all those thoughts from his head when Burroughs yelled, “Those aren't our men!”

McCluskey bolted to his feet, dumping Delia unceremoniously on the deck. She let out a startled cry.

That sound was swallowed up by the roar of guns as McCluskey, Burroughs, and the other outlaws clawed out revolvers and opened fire on the three men on the bank.

Luke had to come to the surface twice to get a breath during his swim, which seemed to take a lot longer than it actually did. The second time, his face emerged far enough from the water for him to see Winslow, Bolden, and Stinson riding along the bank not far from the riverboat. Luke rolled over and stroked hard, propelling himself against the current. Time was running out.

As in most mountain streams, the water was crystal clear. He could see the boat's hull as he approached it, as well as the paddlewheel at the stern. He swam past the paddle and reached up to grasp the edge of the deck. He knew he might pull himself out of the water and find himself looking down the barrels of half a dozen guns. He was counting on the hope that most of the outlaws, if not all of them, would be on the other side of the boat watching the arrival of the men they thought were their comrades.

As his head broke the surface and he shook it to get water out of his eyes, he heard guns blasting somewhere close by.

That gave his movements added urgency as he heaved himself out of the river and rolled onto the deck. The Colts tied in the bundle thudded against the planking, but that sound was lost in the gun thunder coming from elsewhere on the boat.

He looked around, saw that none of the outlaws were close by, and tore at the knot holding the bundle closed. Seconds later, he had filled both hands with gun butts and dropped the wet shirt on the deck.

Most of the ten-foot-wide deck was taken up by the superstructure that housed the boilers, the engine room, storage space, and a few passenger cabins. As he trotted toward the corner, intending to edge around it and get a look at the fighting, someone shouted above him and a gun blasted. The bullet chewed splinters from the deck near his bare feet.

His head jerked back as he looked up. One of the outlaws was up in the pilothouse and had spotted him. The man leaned out one of the big windows and fired again, coming so close that Luke felt the heat of the bullet as it ripped past his ear. He lifted the left-hand Colt and triggered a hurried but accurate shot.

The outlaw in the pilothouse rocked back, dropping his gun so that it landed on top of the boiler room. He sagged forward again, eyes bulging with pain, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth just before he collapsed over the window sill and hung there, half in and half out of the pilothouse.

Luke knew the shots from his side of the boat would draw attention, so he wasn't surprised when an outlaw charged around the corner, guns in hand. Spotting Luke, he tried to skid to a stop as he opened fire. His first shot went wild, and he didn't get the chance for another as Luke hammered a slug into his chest and spilled him off the boat into the river.

Luke ran to the corner, put his back against the wall, and risked a quick look. Muzzle flashes came from the trees and clumps of brush scattered along the bank. He counted shots from three men, so he knew his volunteers had managed to get off their horses and make it to cover when the shooting started.

The outlaws had taken cover, too, some of them crouching in doorways and others kneeling behind crates of supplies on the deck. Luke saw a flash of fair hair and spotted Delia Bradley hunkered behind the strongboxes. That was actually a pretty good place to take shelter, he thought. No bullet could possibly penetrate those boxes full of gold bars.

A noise from behind alerted him to trouble coming from that direction. He whirled and found himself facing Derek Burroughs with a leveled gun in his hand.

Luke knew Burroughs could have cut him down, but he didn't fire.

For some reason, he had hesitated.

In the split second they faced each other over gun barrels, the two men's eyes met. Despite everything that had happened, despite the greed that had led Burroughs to turn into a ruthless outlaw with blood on his hands and despite the anger that filled Luke at what Burroughs had done, at that moment, the bond that war had forged between them was still there, and it kept Burroughs from pulling the trigger.

No such bond existed for McCluskey. The outlaw had climbed on top of the passenger cabins and charged across them with a gun in each hand spouting fiery death, yelling at Luke in incoherent, hate-filled rage as he triggered the revolvers.

The slugs fell like hail around Luke. He twisted and threw himself toward the edge of the deck as McCluskey's bullets whipped around him. None of them found him as he dived into the river.

McCluskey didn't stop shooting.

Luke closed his eyes instinctively as he went under the surface. When he opened them again he saw the little trails of bubbles streaking through the water as the bullets searched for him. He kicked hard, knowing that the only safe place for him at the moment was
under
the riverboat.

The shadow cast by the boat enveloped him as he glided underneath it. He hadn't had a chance to grab much of a breath before he went into the river, and his lungs were clamoring for air. He planned to swim to the other side, climb out, and get back into the fight.

The rumble of the boat's engine abruptly got louder, and the paddlewheel lurched into motion. Someone who knew how to run the boat had made it up to the pilothouse. Luke twisted in the water as the wheel began to churn toward him.

He swam hard, knowing that if he got caught in the paddlewheel, it would bust him to pieces. He could get clear faster going back the way he'd come, but some of the outlaws were still shooting into the water. He saw the streaks up ahead left by the bullets.

He couldn't stay where he was. He reached down to the bottom and pushed off hard against it, arrowing through the water and out from under the boat. Rolling over, he jackknifed the upper half of his body out of the water and fired up at the riverboat as it roared past him like a giant primordial beast.

Water blurred his vision, but he could see well enough to shoot. He didn't see Burroughs or McCluskey or Delia. Several outlaws stood on the deck shooting at him. He lanced slugs among them, downing one man and making the others scatter for cover.

The riverboat picked up steam. Luke bit back a curse as it moved on past him and he fell behind. The decks were clear as all the train robbers had hunted holes. All he had to shoot at were the dripping, revolving paddles.

Burroughs and his gang had gotten away—again.

Luke stayed low in the water until the riverboat had vanished around the next bend, just in case anybody was trying to draw a bead on him with a rifle. When the boat was gone, he headed for shore. He stood up when the river became shallow and waded in.

Kermit Winslow and Ray Stinson emerged from the trees, helping Craig Bolden limp along. The mining engineer had taken a bullet through his right calf.

Winslow called, “Jensen, are you all right?”

Luke emerged from the river with water streaming from him. He nodded and said disgustedly, “I'm fine, but they got away with the gold.”

“We hurt 'em, though,” Stinson said. “I reckon we killed two or three of 'em. That'll make it a mite easier the next time we go up against 'em.”

“There's not going to be a next time for you men,” Luke said, his voice still harsh with anger, directed mostly at himself. “Bolden's hurt. You need to take him back to the train and wait for help with the others.”

“Damn it, we set out to get that gold back and give those outlaws what they got comin'!” Winslow protested.

“Yes, but this was our best chance to do it,” Luke said.

“So you're gonna give up?”

Luke reined in his temper. He couldn't blame Winslow for being angry. The man took it personally that someone had held up his train. Luke was sure the conductor felt the same way.

“I never said I was going to give up. I'm going after them. But I'm going to do it alone. Stinson, you and Bolden can ride double back to the train. I'll take the other horse so I'll have an extra mount. I know where that riverboat's headed, and I'm going to see if I can beat it there.”

“And if you can . . . ?” Winslow asked.

“I'll have a warm welcome waiting for them.” There was nothing warm about Luke's voice.

It was cold and hard as ice.

“Where's a rifle?” McCluskey raged as the riverboat went around the bend. “Somebody give me a rifle! I can still draw a bead on Jensen!”

“Forget it,” Burroughs snapped. “Luke's out of sight now, and so are the others.”

McCluskey sneered at him as the two men stood on the deck with Delia. “Luke, is it? That's what you call him because the two of you are such good friends.”

“We fought together in the war,” Burroughs said. “A man doesn't forget something like that, no matter where he finds himself later.”

“A man doesn't forget that he needs to be loyal to his partners, either,” McCluskey said. “Who's more important to you, Burroughs, the men you ride with now or somebody you knew fifteen years ago?”

“My men know good and well that I'm loyal to them.”

“Is that right? You want to explain to them how come you didn't pull the trigger when you had Jensen dead to rights and could have gunned him down?”

One member of the gang was up in the pilothouse, having been sent there by Burroughs after Lynch was killed. Two more were in the engine room, stoking the boiler and keeping the engine running.

But the others, including a couple men who were wounded, were on the deck and heard what McCluskey had to say. They listened with intense interest as the body of an outlaw who'd been killed in the fighting lay uncovered on the stern, a grim, bloody reminder of what had happened back around the bend of the river.

“I didn't have the drop on him—” Burroughs began.

“Yes, you did,” Delia piped up. “I saw it, too. You had your gun pointed at him and he had his back to you. All you had to do was pull the trigger.”

Burroughs stood with a bleak frown on his face and didn't say anything. He couldn't refute that accusation, and McCluskey and Delia both knew it.

After a moment, Burroughs gave a nod of his head. “What's done is done. Let's just worry about getting on up to Pine City and splitting up the gold—”

“Hold on a minute,” McCluskey interrupted. “I know I'm not part of your gang, Burroughs—”

“That's right, you're not,” Burroughs said.

“But I've got a stake in this now,” McCluskey persisted. “I helped you fight off that ambush Jensen and his friends tried to pull, didn't I? Seems to me that pretty much makes me one of you, doesn't it?”

Several of Burroughs' men muttered in agreement, and a couple others nodded.

Burroughs' frown went from angry to worried as he asked, “What are you getting at, McCluskey?”

“These men know you a lot better than I do, but I'd be worried about a leader who risks not only all that gold but also their lives to spare a man who's trying to hunt them down.”

That eloquent comment prompted one of the outlaws to exclaim, “Damn right!”

“I told you it wasn't like that,” Burroughs said as he glared at McCluskey. He turned to look at his men. “McCluskey's twisting it all out of proportion. It's true that Jensen had his back to me as I came around the corner, and yes, my gun was in my hand, but I didn't have time to fire before he realized I was there. Before I could do anything, McCluskey started blazing away at him from the top of the cabin and Jensen jumped in the river to get away from the shots. That's all there was to it.”

“That's a damn lie.” McCluskey knew he was taking a risk by making such a bold charge, but his instincts told him the moment was right.

Delia put a hand on his arm and squeezed in support.

“You had plenty of time to plug him.”

Burroughs shook his head and turned away. “I'm tired of arguing with you. You're not one of us, McCluskey—”

“Maybe he ought to be,” one of the men said.

Burroughs' head snapped around, and he demanded, “What do you mean by that, Jurgenson?”

The outlaw who had spoken was a hard-bitten man with an old knife scar running down the side of his face. “You gave him a share in the loot from the train. That sort of makes him one of us, doesn't it?”

“That was just a business arrangement, and I didn't have much choice in the matter. It doesn't make McCluskey a member of the gang.”

“Nobody's asked me,” McCluskey put in, “but from what I've seen so far, I'd be proud to throw in with this bunch.”

Another gang member spoke up. “I've heard of this fella McCluskey, boss. He's got a mighty salty reputation. I'd say we ought to think about askin' him to join up with us.”

“That's for me to decide—”

“Why?” Jurgenson broke in. “We've let you run the show for a while, Burroughs, but there's nothin' saying it was always gonna be that way. If we don't like somethin', we've got a right to speak up and say so.”

“And we don't like you bein' so friendly with a damn bounty hunter,” another man added.

McCluskey made an effort not to grin. A couple hours ago, he had never heard of Derek Burroughs and didn't know anything about the man's gang of outlaws.

Now he was not only several bars of gold richer, but he was also close to taking over this bunch, even though they probably didn't realize it yet.

“We've made plenty of money on our jobs,” Burroughs argued, “and we've never had much trouble—”

“Until today,” Jurgenson interrupted again. “Lynch is dead, Holcroft's dead, and all four of those fellas you left back at the train are probably dead, too. McCluskey's right—we should've just killed all those passengers and train crew and been done with it. Jensen included!”

“That sort of massacre would've had every lawman in the territory on our trail,” Burroughs said tightly. “It would have been a foolish thing to do.”

“Maybe you just don't have the stomach for it,” Jurgenson said with a curled lip.

It was all McCluskey could do not to chortle. Things were falling into place perfectly for him.

Burroughs' face flushed with anger. Trenches appeared in his cheeks as his mouth tightened. “If you think I don't have the stomach for killing, Jurgenson, why don't you push me just a little further and find out for sure?”

Jurgenson was breathing hard as he tried to keep himself reined in. At the same time, he looked wary. Burroughs couldn't have risen to leadership of the gang without being pretty tough, and he was bound to have handled challenges to that leadership before. Naturally, that would make Jurgenson and the other men cautious about pushing him too far.

The difference was that McCluskey hadn't been there to step in and take over. He shook off Delia's hand and stepped closer to Burroughs. “I'm the one who put the burr under your saddle. Why don't you take it up with me?”

Burroughs turned toward him angrily. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

McCluskey leaned his head toward the rest of the gang. “Letting these men know they've got somebody who wants to be on their side. Somebody who's willing to do the things that need to be done.”

The two of them were standing about five feet apart, glaring at each other. McCluskey could tell by Burroughs' stance that the man was ready to slap leather if he had to. McCluskey's hand wasn't far from the butt of one of the revolvers stuck into his waistband.

He suddenly realized he might have a problem. He didn't know how fast Burroughs was. He hadn't seen the man's draw. McCluskey was confident in his own speed—it had kept him alive, after all—but there was always a chance Burroughs was faster. There might be a better way to handle things.

Burroughs said, “I'm starting to think it was a mistake to bring you and your fancy woman with us, McCluskey. Maybe we should have left you back there. Maybe Jensen wouldn't have come after us if we had.”

Delia started to step forward and respond angrily, but McCluskey motioned her back.

“Don't try to blame that on me,” he said to Burroughs. “You're the one who let him live. You could have killed him back at the train, or let me kill him, and all your men who died would still be alive.”

That was it. He had finally prodded Burroughs over the edge. Burroughs grabbed for his gun.

McCluskey was already moving. He threw himself forward and crashed into Burroughs. His left hand closed around the outlaw's wrist and kept him from completing the draw. The impact of their collision drove Burroughs backward and suddenly both men were at the edge of the deck, toppling out of control into the river.

As they were falling, McCluskey heard some of the gang whooping with excitement. A fight always provoked that reaction in some men. They hit the water and went under, and silence closed in around them.

They continued grappling underwater. McCluskey hung on to Burroughs' wrist to keep him from pulling the gun. He tried to get his other hand on Burroughs' neck, but the outlaw fended him off, lifting a knee into McCluskey's stomach. The blow wasn't a particularly hard one, but it was enough to drive some of the air out of McCluskey's lungs and make him desperate to get back to the surface.

The water churned around them as they battled. McCluskey balled his free hand into a fist and jabbed a punch to Burroughs' face. The blow rocked Burroughs' head back and made red streamers of blood leak from his nose.

Burroughs gave up on drawing his gun and wrenched his wrist free from McCluskey's grip. He splayed that hand over McCluskey's face to dig fingers into his eyes. McCluskey jerked away and landed a punch to Burroughs' throat. Burroughs started to gag, opening his mouth so big bubbles of air escaped. He pulled away and kicked for the surface.

McCluskey went after him.

As soon as he broke into the open air, McCluskey heard the shouting from the boat. The whole gang was gathered on the side of the deck, watching the river. Delia stood in front of the men with an eager yet anxious look on her face. McCluskey knew she wanted to see him defeat Burroughs, but at the same time she was worried about him—and probably a little about herself, too. If Burroughs killed him, she would be left to the mercy of the gang. She couldn't expect the same sort of treatment a decent woman would have received, even at the hands of the owlhoots.

McCluskey spotted Burroughs a few feet away and lunged at him. He got behind Burroughs, looped an arm around his neck, and forced him below the water. Burroughs kicked and flailed, but McCluskey hung on tightly, bearing down harder and harder on the gang leader's throat, until the man went limp. With a savage exultation surging through him, McCluskey kicked toward the boat and found willing hands ready to reach down and pull him and Burroughs from the water.

McCluskey rolled onto his back, breathing hard from the exertion of the fight underwater. As soon as he could, he pushed himself up onto an elbow and looked over at Burroughs, who lay a few feet away. He figured the gang's former leader was dead, and for a moment it looked that way, but McCluskey saw that Burroughs' chest was rising and falling shallowly.

Delia dropped to her knees beside him and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly even though he was soaking wet. “Oh, Frank! I was so afraid that man would hurt you.”

“Not . . . a chance,” McCluskey rasped. He pushed Delia aside without being too rough and held up his arm toward Jurgenson. “Give a man a hand?”

Jurgenson grinned as he clasped McCluskey's wrist and hauled him to his feet. He slapped McCluskey on the back. “You're my sort of hombre, mister. That fight didn't last long, but it was a hell of a fracas while it did.”

Several other men gathered around to offer their congratulations, as well.

McCluskey grinned as he accepted them. “If you boys will have me, I'd be proud to be one of you.”

“One of us, hell!” Jurgenson looked around at the others, got several nods of encouragement, and went on. “We want you to step in and be the boss, like you said.”

McCluskey nodded. “I think that'll work out mighty fine for all of—”

“Look out!” one of the men yelled.

McCluskey's head jerked around, and to his surprise, he saw that Burroughs had regained consciousness and managed to climb up off the deck.

Not only was he on his feet, he had clawed his gun out of its holster.

McCluskey had figured he'd be out longer than that and slapped at his waist, only to realize that his guns must have slipped out while he and Burroughs were fighting in the river.

The sharp crack of a shot sounded, but it didn't come from Burroughs' gun.

Burroughs grunted in pain and hunched over as his own weapon sagged toward the deck. He squeezed the trigger and the gun roared, but the bullet went harmlessly into the planks at his feet. He fell to his knees, then toppled over onto his side.

McCluskey's grin came right back, wider than ever at the sight of Delia standing with a gun in her hand. She had plucked it from the holster of the outlaw standing next to her. A wisp of smoke curled from the revolver's barrel.

McCluskey whooped with laughter and flung up a hand, pointing at Delia. “There's the one who ought to be in charge of your gang, boys! There's your gun-slinging outlaw queen. Right there!”

Delia shook her head and handed the gun back to the man she had taken it from. “I just did it to save you, Frank. That's all I care about.”

McCluskey laughed and drew her into an embrace. He looked past her at Burroughs' body lying crumpled on the deck. “Get rid of that.”

A couple outlaws bent down, grasped Burroughs by the shoulders and ankles, and heaved him into the river with a big splash.

The riverboat chugged on upstream, leaving him behind.