Love and Fury: The Coltrane Saga, Book 4 (12 page)

A ripple of snickers went through the men. Booth’s face began to redden. Branch Pope was trying to make him look foolish, and he didn’t like that one little bit. He squirmed uncomfortably and said, “Hell, he’ll get himself killed, that’s what. There were five of ’em, and he’s one man. I tried to talk some sense into him. I done my duty by him, so if he gets himself killed, it’s not my fault.”

Branch wasn’t worried about Colt, but he knew the marshal was, and he decided to let him stew. He knew Colt would purposely leave a trail, so if Branch didn’t hear anything from him in a day or two, he’d just follow along after him and see what was going on. There was, he knew, no problem.

Colt had been trailing the outlaws since leaving the posse. He knew exactly where they were. He’d had them in his sight since dawn. All he’d had to do was remain at a discreet distance, careful to make sure
they
didn’t spot
him.
Years of tracking with his father were paying off.

He knew precisely what he was doing and, he reflected grimly, the bastards ahead of him apparently knew what they were doing, too. Since leaving Silver Butte, they had been riding at an angle, southeast, a route that would take them into the Esmeralda salt marshes, on into Death Valley, and eventually to Mexico. They were counting on the posse giving up and turning back.

The outlaws had made camp for the night in a large crevice, shrouded by mesquite and sage, near the top of a jutting butte. There were five of them: four inside, one outside on lookout. They were not worried about the posse; Colt knew that. They had been careful, circling around, crisscrossing their own trail, taking to streams and creeks whenever possible to hide their tracks. The posse was as confused as they had wanted it to be.

Colt knew all the tricks, however, and had, from the beginning, been aware of every ploy. He had allowed them to become overconfident, and smug. “Think like your prey,” his father had told him over and over again, hammering it into his memory. “Think like they think. Anticipate every move they might even remotely consider making. Don’t think like the hunter. Think like the hunted.”

The sound of drunken laughter reached Colt on the gentle night wind. Yes, they were just where he’d known they would be.

It was a dark night, moonless. He left his horse tethered and walked half a mile. The horse might have made a noise, especially if he was spooked by a coyote. Very carefully, Colt climbed the butte, taking his time, careful not to make a sound.

The outlaws were not as cautious, and he heard them continuously. Finally he sat down and waited, giving them time to get good and drunk.

Closing his eyes, he found the image floating before him, as it always did when he was alone. Charlene lay in the mud, her golden hair red with seeping blood, the bullet hole in her head visible. Then the living Charlene, vivacious, contrary, fiercely passionate, appeared to him, laughing at something he’d said. And then, again, came the vision of Charlene in death.

He had thought it all through carefully. He understood himself. It wasn’t that her death made him realize he’d loved Charlene. No. He wasn’t confused. He hadn’t loved her, not loved her in the way a man needed to love a woman if he wanted to live with her the rest of his life. But he had been very fond of her, exasperating though she was. He saw no reason why he shouldn’t feel guilty over her death, for he was sure he had caused it. They said she’d walked right into the gunfire, heedless to shouts of warning. He knew she’d been lost in thought over what had happened between them.

That was his fault.

He had treated her callously. She was caught up in a scandal, her reputation ruined. Her world had been destroyed.

And then her life was over.

The only way he could live with himself was to exact revenge for her death.

He waited in the shadow of the jutting rock, and then, it was time to move. They were passed-out drunk.

He reached inside his boot and withdrew the knife. A wicked weapon, Travis had used it in the war. Some called it a Bowie knife, invented, they said, by the infamous Jim Bowie. His father called it an “Arkansas toothpick”. It was one of Colt’s proudest possessions, for it had served his father in the war. Now, for the first time, it would serve Colt.

He moved as stealthily as a bobcat after prey. There was no thought, only deadly purpose.

Colt could just barely make out the guard in the darkness. He sat dozing, slumped against the ragged stump of a tree that had tried, and failed, to grow there. The guard came awake at the sudden touch of cold steel against his flesh, but it was too late. “For Charlene,” Colt whispered, and, with one savage slash, slit his throat.

Blood gurgling was the only sound.

Colt shoved the body sideways, stepped over it, and climbed slowly up to the crevice that led into the side of the butte. Wiping blood from the knife onto his trousers, he returned the knife to his boot and drew both his pistols from his double holster.

A small fire burned inside the crevice, and the four outlaws were lying near it. He stepped into the soft glow of light provided by the flames and spoke quietly. “This is for Charlene, the woman you murdered five days ago.”

His guns blazed simultaneously, felling one man with a shot between the eyes and a second with a bullet under the right eye. The third man turned and scrambled for cover. Colt shot him in the back of the neck.

The fourth drew his gun and fired. Colt felt the burning blow to his shoulder but kept on shooting until the last man fell dead into the fire.

It had been a small fire, and it was smothered quickly by the dead body. Colt found himself in sudden darkness. He stood still, listening as the silence began to rise about him, screaming until it became a giant roar. Five men lay dead by his hand. He felt—what? Guilt? No. Vengeance had been achieved. What he felt was a void, an emptiness that went on and on. Suddenly, there seemed no purpose to anything, no reason for anything.

The pain in his shoulder was deep and burning. Holstering his guns, he pressed his fingers against the wound, felt the profusion of his own blood. It was not, he knew, a clean wound. The bullet was still in him and had to come out. He knew he must have help or he would bleed to death.

He stepped out into the crisp freshness of the night air, breathing in deep gulps. He kept his hand pressed against the wound as he started down the incline. He had to get to his horse and find the posse.

Yet he moved slowly, for fast, reckless movements would only make the blood flow faster. There was a deep roaring in his ears, a roaring that matched the silence. The pain was being replaced by numbness, but the bleeding continued. He was beginning to feel dizzy. Gritting his teeth, pressing his hand harder against the bullet hole, he forced his wobbly legs to continue plodding forward, downward. He hoped to God he’d remember where the horse was.

Suddenly, his foot slipped and he went to his knees. Too weak to stop himself, he fell forward and began rolling-down the steep incline, rolling over and over, the pounding of the rocks against his body sending excruciating pain through his wounded shoulder.

Then he felt nothing, fainting into oblivion as he continued to roll down the rocky incline.

The sound of gunfire in the still night, ricocheting through the mountains and valleys, woke Branch Pope instantly. Scrambling to his feet, he understood what was happening. Colt had found the outlaws.

“Let’s go,” Branch called to everybody in general and no one in particular. “That’s got to be Coltrane and them.”

The men shifted uneasily, exchanging anxious glances in the soft glow of the dying campfire. They were weary of riding day after day in the heat, and their eagerness had waned. One man had given up that day, heading back to Silver Butte, saying he had crops to tend.

Branch had been sleeping with his head on his saddle, and he stooped to pick it up, balancing it on his shoulder. He scowled at the men, demanding, “Let’s ride. That was a damn short gunfight.”

Hank Bunch spoke up. “We’re not crazy, Pope. In case you ain’t noticed, it’s dark as shit out there, and we ain’t got no idea where the gunfire came from. You want us to charge outta here in the dark and ride right into the lot of ’em?” He shook his head and settled back against his saddle. “I say wait till daylight.”

The others grunted agreement, and Branch looked to Marshal Booth, who had risen and was standing a few feet away, listening. “Well, since you’re in charge,” he said, “what do
you
say?”

The marshal cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Without looking at Branch, he replied, “Well, I—reckon I agree with Bunch. I don’t see how we’d find anything out there in the dark. We’d just be risking our lives for nothing.”

Contemptuously, Branch spat a wad of tobacco juice, landing it directly between the marshal’s feet. “Well,
I
reckon you’re a bunch of gutless sons o’ bitches.” He strode angrily to where the horses were tethered and, within moments, was saddled and on his way.

Branch rode slowly. All was silent. Branch allowed his horse to pick his way along as he steered him toward where Branch thought the gunfire had come from: southwest. There was a valley in front of him and it stretched toward a small butte, maybe two or three miles ahead. The robbers wouldn’t have camped out in the open, so Branch figured the shooting had come from that butte.

Branch rubbed his big stomach, a gesture he was not aware of when he was in deep thought. If Colt was dead, then the outlaws were going to know the posse couldn’t be far behind, and they would naturally figure that the sound of gunfire would bring the posse riding hell-bent for leather. So they would do one of two things: They’d either take off, trying to put as much distance between them and the law as possible, or they’d dig in, take cover, and wait in ambush. In which case, Branch realized, he would get killed.

Branch kicked his horse, urging him to move faster. A plan was starting to formulate. He’d be a fool if he just rode along yelling out to Colt. But if he waited till he got a little closer to where he thought the gunfire had come from, then fired his own guns, the outlaws might figure they were being fired on and shoot back. He would then have a fix on their location and do his damnedest to keep them pinned down till it got light. Surely even that chicken-shit posse would ride out at first light to see what was going on.

He rode on, the butte growing into a hulking shape as he got closer. He wasn’t moving as fast as he’d have liked for fear the horse’s hooves would give him away.

Branch rode with one hand on the reins. The other hand held his drawn gun. There were two kinds of varmints he was concerned about just then, the outlaws and sidewinder rattlesnakes. He preferred the legless varmints but intended to be ready for either kind.

About an hour later, Branch drew close enough to the butte that he figured it was safe to fire off a volley of shots. He dismounted, then did so.

Nothing happened.

Why didn’t they shoot back? Were they smart enough to figure what he was up to? Were they going to sit and wait for him to ride in on top of them? Damn it, he didn’t know what to do.

A quarter of a mile ahead, lying at the bottom of the sloping butte, Colt stirred and moaned. It had been a rough roll down the gradient, and he’d finally been stopped by a large, prickly mesquite. The sound of gunshots penetrated the numbing fog, and he lifted his head, opening his eyes to see that it was still dark. How long had he been unconscious? Who was out there in the night? He knew the outlaws were dead, so there was nothing to fear. Still, you never knew. It didn’t do to be careless.

With stiff fingers, he reached for the gun on his right side but felt only an empty holster. Fresh anguish shot through his shoulder, and then there was a flutter of panic. If one gun had been lost in the downward roll, then had he also lost the other gun?

His hand closed around the gun on his left side, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Drawing it, he forced his bruised body to roll onto his back. He fired once, twice, then lay very still.

Branch heard two shots. Surely not someone firing at him. Was it a signal? Hell, he was going to take a chance that it was. He couldn’t continue to crouch there forever, or even till morning. He fired off two shots in response.

Colt heard and shot two more times.

Branch swung his large body up into the saddle and began riding, suppressing an urge to hurry, forcing himself to go warily in case it was a trap.

Colt pulled himself to his knees and braced his back against a rock. Straining to hear, he was soon rewarded by the distant sound of hooves. He told himself sternly that hope was making him giddy. He must take no chances. Holding his gun cocked and ready, he took a deep breath, mustered what was left of his strength, and hollered, “It’s Coltrane.”

Branch Pope was not a religious man. But just in case somebody up there was listening, he offered a quick thanks, then kicked his horse into a gallop.

“Here!” Colt yelled as the rider approached. He waved his good arm and fired off one more shot.

Branch closed the gap between them and leaped off his horse. As he reached Colt, his friend fell into his arms. “You’re hit,” Branch cried, lowering him carefully to the ground. “Where is it? How bad? How many of ’em are left and where are they?”