Vengeance Trail (16 page)

His surge was stopped cold by the sound of the hammer being cocked on the Colt that rested in the lawman’s left hand.

“You hold your water, mister, or I’ll see that you are tried, convicted and sentenced right here and now!”

“You don’t have the heart for it, boy!”

The shot exploded dirt between the toes of the outlaw.

“That’s where you’re wrong again, mister. That’s where you are dead wrong! The next one goes through your brisket. Now burrow
your butt back down in the dirt and stay there!”

Within a few minutes, Katie had cut several stalks, broken them in two, and struck several kitchen matches before the fire
took hold.

“Now I need you to help me uncrimp some of these shells,” he said, holding forth a handful of bullets. “I need the gunpowder
from them.”

Using his knife, they managed to dig the lead out of the bullets and pour the gunpowder into a tin cup. The effort was tedious
and each movement caused the young Ranger to wince in pain.

The outlaw, sitting in the shadows, watched and waited, sure that his time would come soon.

Finally, there seemed enough gunpowder in the cup to satisfy the lawman.

“Now, Katie, I want you to sprinkle that powder over the wound in my shoulder.” She did as he asked, carefully making sure
that she did not spill any.

When she finished, Pete Winter took her by the wrist.

“What I want you to do now is to take one of those burning stalks out of the fire and put it to this gunpowder. Keep yourself
back from it as much as you can, protect your eyes, it’ll flare up hot and quick.”

She looked at him with an unwavering gaze.

“I’m hoping it will cauterize the wound and stop the bleeding. If not, I won’t last the night. I’ll most likely go under from
pain when you light it. If I do, you’re the only thing that stands between me and him,” he said, nodding toward the outlaw.

“You know what his intentions are. Do you know how to use a pistol?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never had the need to fire one.”

“It’s easy,” he told her, handing over the Colt. “You just point it like you would your finger, thumb back the hammer, and
squeeze the trigger.”

“I…couldn’t shoot Johnny,” she whispered, her eyes imploring him.

“No, I guess you couldn’t,” he said, leaning back against the saddle of one of the dead horses.

“But I guess if you can’t find it within you to do so, you’ll have to watch him kill me…”

She saw the eyes of the Ranger flutter white, saw his head fall to his chest, saw him struggle to regain consciousness.

“It’s time,” he said. “I can’t hold out any longer. Do it now!”

She reached into the fire and pulled out a burning stalk, hesitated for an instant and then touched its flame to the gunpowder
on the wound. A
whoomp
of flashing white light burned into the night, into the wound, and she heard him moan once and slump over. She quickly poured
water from one of the canteens onto the bloody dressing she had removed earlier and packed it against the cauterized wound.

She heard the rattle of Johnny Montana’s chains, heard him scuttle to his feet.

“It’s all over now!” he said.

She turned quickly to face him, the heavy weight of the pistol in her hand reminding her of the lawman’s warning.

“Don’t,” she said, raising up the Colt with both hands.

He paused for an instant, there in the light of the fire, his features knotted in anger.

“Girl, what has got onto your mind? Don’t you see
unless we take our chance now, we’ll both be swinging from a hangman’s rope in a few more days? Have you gone daft?”

“I won’t let you hurt him, Johnny. You’ve hurt enough people and I didn’t do anything to stop you. But I’m going to stop you
from hurting
him.
”

“Don’t let your heart get in the way of your head, woman. Hell, you fancy that boy, that’s fine with me. But, I ain’t going
to let you or him bring me to a hanging.”

She thumbed back the hammer of the Colt and the sound it made caused the outlaw to catch his breath.

“Whoa up, gal. Easy with that piece, it’s liable to go off and blow a hole in ol’ Johnny.”

“Then get back before it does!” she ordered. The effect was visible as she saw him back away from the fire a step.

“You’d actually do it, pull the trigger on ol’ Johnny,” he said with astonishment. “I’ll be damned if I can believe that.”

“I’ll do what I have to,” she said. “If you get shot, it’ll be because you want to as far as I’m concerned. You have a choice.”

An uneasy silence settled between them.

“Tell you what,” he said. “You let me get these chains off and have that horse, and I’ll clear out—I’ll be gone like the wind.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked. “If I let you take the horse, we’d be stranded out here in the middle of nowhere. We might
as well be dead.”

“I’ll ride to the nearest settlement and send help back for you. How will that be?”

“You’ll more likely ride to the nearest settlement
and rob the place, Johnny. I have no reason to trust anything you say.”

His growing irritation was evident in his voice: “I’ve had my bad ways, Katie, but I ain’t the sort that would just ride off
and leave you to perish out here. Oh no, ma’am. That ain’t Johnny Montana’s way.” He strutted back and forth beyond the fire
as best as he could strut with the manacles on.

“I don’t believe a word you say, Johnny.”

“Well then, maybe you’ll believe this. How long is it you think you can stand guard over that kid? How long before you have
to close them pretty eyes of yours and go to sleep? What’d you think will happen then?”

She knew he was right. She was already bone-tired. She and the Ranger would be at Johnny Montana’s mercy if he got his hand
on the pistol. There would be nothing to stop him from having his way.

He could see the wavering doubt in her eyes.

“You toss me the key, Katie, and let me ride off out of here on the black and send you help. It’s the only way you or him
stand a chance. You do that and we’ll all get what we want out of this thing. I’ll be free, and you won’t have to worry about
me anymore.”

As much as she dreaded the thought of being stranded, she knew that she could not hold out until the Ranger regained consciousness.
The wound had been a terrible one and he had lost a lot of blood. She could not risk falling asleep and letting Johnny get
to the pistol.

“Well, what’s it going to be, woman?”

She reached into the lawman’s pockets and found the key to the manacles. She flung them the distance between her and Johnny.

“You unlock yourself,” she said. “But, I swear to you, if you make any move this way, I’ll pull the trigger. I wouldn’t have
to be much of a shot to hit you at this distance.”

His grin revealed a row of even white teeth.

“You don’t have to worry about that none, darling. All ol’ Johnny wants is his freedom.” He had the shackles off in seconds.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along with me, Kate? It will be some adventure, I promise you that, and a damn sight
better than facing up to a hangman’s noose?”

His effort at trying to be charming no longer had any effect on her—quite the opposite.

“No, Johnny. I’ve gone as far with you as I am ever going to go. And, if you don’t send back that help you promised, I won’t
be surprised.”

He laughed, shook his head. “It’s too bad you have come to feel as you have about ol’ Johnny. I always thought you were a
woman of uncommon looks and up till lately, a good companero. But you never were much on grit.”

He started for the black.

“Toss over the two other canteens,” she ordered.

“Could be a long ways to water,” he said.

“That’s not my concern, you’re the one with the horse. We’ll be afoot. We’ll need the water more than you.”

Reluctantly, he did as she ordered.

“Go on,” she said. Go on and ride away from here and don’t come back!”

“It ain’t too late, darling. You can climb on board. I won’t even hurt that boy lying yonder if you want to go with me.”

She pulled the gun up high, aimed it at him.

“I’m losing patience with you, Johnny. Git before I pull the trigger.”

She watched the smile fade from his face, saw the last of the arrogant appeal.

“Have it your way, girl. But looking at what I’m seeing now, I’d say you made a poor choice.” He bashed the heels of his boots
into the flanks of the black and rode off into the darkness.

She waited until she could no longer hear the thud of the black’s hooves, until there was only silence. Silence and the low
whistle of wind that sounded like the mournful wail of a lonely land.

She took the horse blankets and covered the Ranger and herself. His face was feverish and damp and she poured a little more
water from the canteen and dabbed his face with it.

The fire provided little heat and was nearly spent, so she scooped up dirt to put on it. Without the fire, Johnny Montana
might have a hard time locating them if he decided to return.

Once the fire was banked, the blackness of the night surrounded her. She felt as cold and lonely and exhausted as she ever
had. She knew the only thing that would permit their survival over the next few days would be what ever spare strength she
could muster.

She lay down next to Pete Winter, and wrapping her arms around him for warmth, she pulled one of the blankets over her. Just
before she felt the last ounce of strength leave her and sleep overtake her, she laid the pistol by her side.

Caleb Drew did his best to keep himself busy, but Al Freemont kept coming back to nag him time and time again. It was not
that he felt particularly close to the old lawman, it was not that. Al Freemont was an irascible old cuss who had come to
develop offensive manners and personal habits brought on mostly by his growing penchant for drunkenness.

Nonetheless, Caleb Drew knew his deputy to be a man who had spent the better part of his life upholding the law. And in spite
of his own admitted shortcomings: “I ain’t the best shot that ever was,” he had often confessed, “And paperwork leaves me
cold,” Al Freemont was a man that would not shirk his duty, and did not, even on his final assignment.

“He always stuck pretty good,” another deputy had said at hearing his fate. “Drunk or sober, happy or blue, Al rode what ever
horse was given to him.”

In spite of everything—old, drunken, busted down—Al Freemont still merited the praise and testimony of his fellow lawmen for
having upheld his office and duties. Caleb Drew, sitting in the shaft of dusty light of his conventional office, realized
that the murdered deputy had been twice the lawman that he himself was, and the thought nagged at him.

At first, when the haunting of Al Freemont had
begun, Caleb Drew tended to inwardly justify his own situation as an administrator. His chief responsibility was to see that
assignments were made, reports filed, payrolls met, correspondence with the appropriate authorities made, and so forth.

That was his job—to make sure the law got administered. But now, it didn’t seem like enough.

He wore a badge and a cream-white Stetson hat, a string tie and a blue-steel Colt revolver…for all the world, he looked
like a U.S. Marshal.

It seemed an illusion.

But still, he had refused to admit the truth to himself.

He had the command and respect of local businessmen, ranchers and politicians. He even had the ear of Judge Parker himself
when it came to matters of legal advice. He had a good position in life, appointed by the President of the United States.
He had a wife and dutiful children. Why risk it all because of some silly notion that he was a fake to himself and others?
That was the question that Al Freemont’s death had raised.

A question that begged an answer.

“I’m going to the Nations!” he announced to his assistant, Roy Stove.

“What fer?”

“I need to arrest a fellow.”

“That’s what us deputies are fer, Marshal,” rebutted the assistant.

“Not this time. This is something special.”

The assistant seemed confused, scratched a place under his hat brim and snuffled through his nose.

“Don’t seem right, Caleb, you doin’ a deputy’s work. Just don’t seem right.”

“It does to me, Roy,” said the lawman, removing a holstered pistol from his desk drawer. It wasn’t something he felt all that
comfortable with, having never had a real need to use the thing. But, holding it now brought him a sense of himself and his
mission.

“I ever tell you that before I became a U.S. Marshal,” he said to the curious-eyed assistant as he strapped the gunbelt around
his waist, “that I used to sell barbed wire?”

“No sir, you never did,” replied Roy Stove.

“Yes sir, I sold a lot of barbed wire throughout this country. I was a successful salesman, made good money and had friends
in high places. That’s how I come to get this appointment—through well-placed friends of mine.”

“Well, why in the world would you give it up to become a Marshal?” asked the deputy.

“I wanted to become a lawman. It was just something I thought I wanted to be.” He took one of several Winchesters riding in
a rack along the wall and two boxes of shells.

“Well, you look set fer bear, Marshal, I’ll say that fer you. But, it ain’t necessary you go out on a job yerself.”

Caleb Drew started for the door but paused as he reached it.

“I know that you and some of the other deputies haven’t thought highly of me as a lawman, not like Al Freemont was a lawman.
. .”

Roy Stove started to wave a hand in protest, but Caleb Drew cut him off.

“No need to deny or discuss it,” he continued. “Truth is, up until now, I haven’t seen myself as much
of a lawman. I reckon it’s time that I see if I can uphold the law as well as I once could sell barbed wire.”

“I reckon you just might, Caleb,” said the deputy with a toothy grin.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, or when I’ll be back exactly,” he told the deputy. “Just don’t let your backside get
too fond of my chair, and don’t put any heel marks on the top of my desk. You do, and you’ll have me to answer to.” He stepped
outside his office and headed toward the livery to acquire his horse.