Payback at Big Silver (9 page)

Seadon ignored Harper and stared down at the younger Mexican.

“Felipe,” he said. “I want that woman, right now.” He looked all around at the few gathering villagers who ventured in closer. “Who manages her—who speaks for her?” he called out. “Who the hell do I talk to to get her on her back?”

“Let it go, Seadon,” said Lon Bartow in a firm tone.

Instead of Felipe, the older Mexican stepped forward. He gestured for the younger Mexican to go fetch the needed tools. Felipe turned and hurried away.

“
Señor
, no one manages her, but I will speak for her,” said Paco. “She has markings, but she is a tired and aging woman. She no longer has use for a man.”

“Yeah, but she could have, huh?” Seadon grinned. Then his grin fell away. “Now, how much for her, soon as I get myself freed up here?” he insisted.

This stupid bastard. . . .
Knapp eyed the crazy gunman and let his hand fall onto the rifle across his lap.

“You mistake her,
señor
. She is not a
puta
,” the old man said to Seadon, shaking his head. “She is no longer a
puta
. She only lies down with one man—her uncle, Renaldo . . . who spits and suffers with a terrible cough.”

“Bloody coughing don't scare me none at all, ol' hoss,” said Seadon. “Do you realize how long I've been without a woman?” He stared down at the old man.

The old Mexican looked him up and down, Seadon perched sidesaddle atop his horse.

“From the way you ride, it has been a long,
long
time,
señor
,” he said with a flat stare. The riders shared a short laugh; Seadon's face burned red.

“All right, that's it,” he said. “I've got to kill this ol' turd. Somebody give me a gun!” He started to slide down his horse's side. But Harper grabbed the horse's reins, stopping him.

“Stay where you are, Crazy Bill,” he demanded. “We've got iron we need to get shed of—or have you forgot why we're here?”

“I won't
need a gun
!” Seadon said, unheeding Harper's words. Out of control, he slid down to the ground and lunged forward in his shackles at the old Mexican, his cuffed hands out to choke him.

Paco stepped backward, nimbly staying out of reach. Yet instead of avoiding Seadon's outstretched hands, he grabbed the short chain between the cuffs and rolled down onto his back with Seadon in tow.

Uh-oh!

Harper watched transfixed; so did the others as Seadon fell forward, his stomach on the balls of Paco's sandaled feet, Paco with a firm grip on the chain. Rolling backward quickly, Seadon on top, the Mexican shot his legs straight up and sent Seadon flipping over him, landing flat on his back. The ground jarred; dust billowed. Paco still held the handcuff chain.

Jumping to his feet in a crouch, Paco somersaulted over the prone gunman, his head in Seadon's chest. Seadon, limp and defenseless, rolled with him. This time Paco twisted the handcuff chain as he rolled. When Seadon flipped high in midair and turned over, Paco let go of the chain and stepped out from under the falling gunman.

“Gawd Almighty!”
Knapp whispered in disgust as Seadon smacked the ground hard, facedown, his cuffed hands stretched out in front of him. The impact of the fall caused the horses to take a step back. “Did he say he wouldn't
need a gun
?”

Paco stood staring down humbly at the knocked-out gunman. Running up, having seen Seadon hit the ground, Felipe tossed an ax and some other tools onto the dirt. He looked at Seadon and up at Harper and Knapp.

“We should begin,
sí
?” he said to them, hoping to divert any retaliatory violence. He quickly stooped down to take Seadon's shackles in hand.

“Huh-uh,” said Harper. “Save that fool till last. I'm in no hurry to have him running unfettered.”

“Where'd you learn such shenanigans as that?” Knapp asked Paco, seeing him in a different light.

Paco didn't reply.

“He was once a
luchador
,” said Felipe, “a wrestler. As a young man he wrestled for both the French and the Mexican circus.”

“You don't say so,” said Knapp. He shook the gold coins in his hand and smiled. “How much you charge to show us that again—?”

“Whoa, now, Charlie,” said Harper. “Let's get these chains off and get the hell out of here.” He looked at the other men and saw the disappointment in their eyes. Then he looked down at Seadon and at Paco and shrugged.

“All right,” he said. “One more time won't hurt nothing, I don't suppose. After he wakes up good, of course,” he added.

“Why not just as
soon as he wakes up
?” Knapp grinned.

Harper looked back down at Seadon, considering it.

“We'll see how it goes,” he said. He pushed himself atop his saddle onto his chained feet, like a frog, hopped down to the ground and walked forward, holding his cuffed hands out to Felipe and Paco for his freedom. “Me first,” he said.

On the high hill trails to the prisoner relay cells at Fort Hamlin, the Ranger kept Freddie Dobbs in front of him at all times. He kept the horse carrying the canvas-wrapped body of Boomer Phipps tagging behind him on a ten-foot lead rope. A dark cloud of suspecting blue flies circled and snarled above the seasoning corpse. As the three horses rode along at a walk in the noon heat, Dobbs half turned in the saddle and looked back as if checking the body.

“He's still there,” the Ranger said flatly, knowing that Dobbs was in fact checking on him, looking for any chance to make a run for it, in spite of his shoulder wound and cuffed hands.

Dobbs only nodded at Boomer's corpse and its countless flies, and stayed turned in his saddle.

“Ever notice no matter where you go, if something's dead, a million flies show up out of nowhere?”

“Seems I have noticed it,” Sam said wryly, willing to go along with a certain amount of conversation. “Why?” he asked.

“Nothing, it's just something that I always wonder. Where are all the flies the rest of the time?”

Sam stared at him as the horses clopped along at a slow, swaying pace.

Dobbs shrugged and said, “I mean, they've got to come from somewhere. Were they just sitting somewhere waiting? I'd like to know more about it.”

The Ranger took a breath and let it out slowly, adjusting his rifle across his lap, making sure Dobbs saw him do it.

“Maybe you'll find a discussion group on such matters when you get to Yuma,” he said.

“A discussion group. . . .” Dobbs appeared to consider it as he turned forward in his saddle. “If there's not, maybe I'll start one,” he added.

“There's a thought,” Sam said flatly, his eyes searching along the cliffs and sparse stands of pine on the steep hillside to their right. For the past couple of hours he'd felt the mildly cautioning sensation of being watched from up there. He had learned to never dismiss such inner warnings out of hand. Sometimes they were real, sometimes not. Today they were strong—those innate senses he considered commonplace to man, as well as to all animals who trekked the wilds alone.

“Hold up, Dobbs,” he said as he searched the upper cliffs ahead of them and caught a glint of sunlight reflect off a rifle barrel. As Dobbs stopped his horse and looked around, Sam gestured him over to the inside edge of the trail, out of sight from the forward cliff lines.

“What's wrong?” Dobbs asked quietly.

“Somebody's up there,” the Ranger said. “Friends of yours, maybe?” He glanced at Dobbs, then shifted his gaze back up along the high cliffs ahead of them.

“Never can tell,” Dobbs said, deciding to play it crafty. Sam looked at him and decided he was bluffing.

“Whoever it is has been with us for a while,” Sam said, looking back up. “We're going to sit tight here. See if there's an ambush waiting for us—”

“Yiii!”
Dobbs shouted suddenly, nailing his heels to his horse's sides, sending it bolting forward into a hard run.

“Wait—” the Ranger said. In reflex he started to give pursuit. So did his dun. But Sam held both himself and the horse back, even drawing the lead rope taught to keep Boomer's horse from bolting off behind Dobbs.

Big mistake, Freddie.

As Dobbs' horse raced out of sight around the protruding wall of stone, Sam heard the sound of rifles bark from the cliff lines overhead. From his view he saw puffs of smoke streak out and drift along the jagged rocks. He had no chance of returning fire from here. Whoever was up there had good cover, he told himself. In spite of Dobbs taking advantage and making a getaway, he hoped he'd made it through to safety.

No sooner had he thought it than he heard the hard clacking of hooves and saw Dobbs' frightened horse go streaking back past him in the opposite direction, its saddle empty and saddle horn missing. As the rifle fire ceased, he heard Dobbs call out to him from farther along the trail.

“Ranger . . . I'm hit,” Dobbs cried out. “I'm hit bad. Please, for God's sakes. . . .”

Sam sat still, watching the cliff line ahead of him. Boomer's horse had moved up closer beside him in the fury of gunfire, and at the sound of Dobbs' voice pricked its ears and tried to step forward. Sam drew it back firm-handedly. He looked closely at the animal and its cloud of flies for a moment. Then he took a long breath and stepped down from his saddle.

He needed a better position—
that's all there is to it,
he told himself. He looked all around for a place to tie the dun's reins.
Hang on, Freddie. . . .
He looked back along the trail, hearing the diminishing clack of hoofbeats as Dobbs' fleeing horse moved farther away.

•   •   •

Atop a flat stretch of cliff high up above the trail, a paid killer named Marlin Oakley sighted down his rifle barrel at Dobbs, who lay barely moving in the middle of the trail below. After a few more pleas for the Ranger's help, the prisoner had fallen quiet. The sling was gone that had supported his forearm beneath his shoulder wound. His arms lay spread-eagle over a pool of blood. His left wrist lay cuffed to the broken saddle horn.

“One more time, Monk,” said Oakley to the gunman Monk Barber lying on his right. “This time I'll pop his head open like a red ripe melon.” He chuckled darkly, envisioning his plan.

Barber looked down at the trail through an outstretched telescope.

“No, hold up,” he said to Oakley. “Long as he's alive there's a chance he'll draw the Ranger to him.” He grinned behind the telescope. “That's how the Rebs did it at Falls Church, or one of them damn places.”

Oakley let his aim relax and looked over at Barber.

“The Ranger ain't fool enough to stick his nose out in the open for us,” he said. “He's most likely heard of that old tactic himself.”

“He'll come,” Barber said with confidence. “Just hold up and watch. Be ready when he gets out there.”

“Wanna bet?” Marlin Oakley said.

“How much?” said Barber.

“I've got five Mexican pesos says the Ranger won't show,” said Oakley. “I say the Ranger cuts back and skins out of here.”

“I'll take that bet,” said Barber, pushing back from the edge, dusting himself off. He stuck the telescope into his belt and reached behind him for a canteen sitting on a ledge.

Oakley pushed back a little, but only rose onto his knees, staying ready to drop down and fire should he need to. The two waited and watched. The hillside below them lay in silence except for Dobbs letting out a pain-filled plea every now and then. Ten minutes passed, then twenty.

“How long are we talking about?” Oakley asked after a while. “I figure he's already turned tail.”

Looking back along the trail at the quiet clack of a horse's hooves walking forward from around the stone wall, Barber grinned and nodded toward the sound.

“The waiting's over, Marlin. Here he comes. You owe me five pesos.” He stepped over and stood against a rock, leveling his rifle over the top of it. “Let's blast him and the prisoner at the same time.”

“Not so fast,” Oakley said, rising onto his knee. “What's coming here?”

On the trail below they saw the horse carrying the canvas-wrapped body step into sight and walk to where Dobbs lay on the trail.

“Ha,” said Oakley, “I was right after all. The Ranger cut out of here so fast he left his dead prisoner behind.” He pushed to his feet and stared down at the trail. “Let's go. We'll have to chase him down to kill him.”

Barber stepped over beside him. The two looked down at the badly wounded Dobbs, and at the horse carrying the body.

“I'm disappointed in the Ranger,” said Barber. “I expected better from him—never figured him to cut and run.”

“He saw we had him,” said Oakley. “He'd been a fool to ride into two rifles.” As he spoke he dusted his trouser knee. The two started walking down the steep rocky hillside.

“So now he knows we're dogging him, and we still have to kill him, if we don't want Silas Rudabaugh down our shirts, thinking we let him down.”

“We'll get the Ranger, don't you worry,” said Oakley. “We've got him on the run. We'll pin him down.”

The two stopped on a bald, open cliff farther down the hillside. Oakley raised his rifle to his shoulder and aimed down at Dobbs.

“Hold it, Marlin,” Barber said, staring with suspicion at the body across the horse's back. They were down close enough now to hear and see the swirl of flies. “Something ain't right down there. I can feel it.”

Oakley looked him up and down, but eased his finger off the trigger and lowered his rifle a little.

“Yeah?” he said. “I think maybe you're sour over losing five pesos.” He started to aim again at Dobbs.

“No, wait up,” said Barber, staring at the body across the horse's back. “This is a trick! That's not the dead prisoner. That's the Ranger under the canvas. I think I just saw something move.”

“You're loco, Monk,” said Oakley with a dark chuckle. “No lawman would lie in a swarm of blowflies.” He shook his head, started to aim again.

“It's him! This is all a trick, I tell you!” Barber shouted, his voice getting shaky as he raised his rifle toward the canvas-wrapped body.

Before he could fire, the sound of the rifle beside him caused him to flinch. He saw the dirt canvas puff slightly on the big body below as the bullet sliced through it. The horse only jerked, but settled instantly beneath the weight of Boomer's body.

“There, you see?” said Oakley. He chuckled, levering a fresh round into his smoking rifle chamber. The shot echoed out across the hill lines. “If that was a trick, I bet he wishes he'd thought it out better.”

Barber looked embarrassed.

“I coulda sworn . . . ,” he said. Oakley's rifle exploded again. The canvas puffed on the body; the horse tensed, then settled.

“Just in case you still wondered,” Oakley said with a thin smile. He levered another round. “Satisfied?”

“Yeah,” Barber said stiffly. He nodded at Dobbs. “Finish that one off and let's go. We've still got to run the Ranger down.”

“Whatever you say.” Oakley gave him a smug look, shrugged and raised his rifle again. He aimed down at Dobbs in the trail as Dobbs tried to crawl away.

This time when the rifle shot resounded, it sounded different somehow, less loud—
less close?

Hearing Oakley let out a grunt, Barber looked around quickly, in time to see Oakley's rifle fall from his hands as he clutched his bloody abdomen.

“I'm sho-
ot
?” Oakley asked, a strange surprised look on his face. He toppled forward and bounced and tumbled down the hillside.

Realization set in just as Barber heard a rifle levering not too far behind him. He swung around toward it, cocking his rifle, raising it to fire. He saw the Ranger standing behind a waist-high rock thirty feet away—saw him just in time to see the blue-orange fire streak from his rifle barrel.

“Holy—!”
His words broke away as the bullet thumped into his forehead and sent him spilling backward beneath a red mist of blood and brain matter.

The Ranger stepped around the rock levering a fresh round into his rifle chamber. He looked down at Barber and kept walking, seeing no more of a problem there. He walked on, picking his steps down the rocky hillside until he stood over the badly wounded ambusher.

“Marlin Oakley,” he said, recognizing the twisted, pain-filled face staring up at him. “Imagine meeting you here.”

“You . . . go to . . . hell, Ranger!” Oakley snarled, clutching his abdomen with both hands.

The Ranger only nodded. He stepped in closer and raised the wounded outlaw enough to lean him back against a rock. Oakley lay trembling, sweat pouring. He tilted his head and looked down his chest at his bloody shirt pocket as the Ranger pulled a thin cigar from it. He watched the Ranger light the cigar and hold it down to his mouth. Oakley took the cigar between his teeth, bit down on it and settled a little, puffing on it.

“I ain't . . . thanking you . . . you killing son of a bitch,” he groaned, and coughed.

“You weren't out to kill Freddie Dobbs, so it must have been me,” Sam said quietly, ignoring the insult. He sat down on a rock facing the dying man, his rifle across his lap. He knew he had to get down the hill and help Dobbs, but he also needed to know who was behind this.

“Yeah . . . it was you,” said Oakley. “I've nothing . . . agin Dobbs.” He settled a little more, puffing on what he knew to be his last cigar. “Would have . . . got you too, had it not . . . been for—”

“Who sent you?” the Ranger asked, cutting him off, knowing he wasn't going to last much longer.

“I said, go . . . to hell,” Oakley said.

“Don't make me take back the cigar and stand on your belly,” the Ranger said in the same quiet tone.