Chapter 14
Briefly, The Kid considered waking Culhane, but he didn’t want to disturb the Ranger’s sleep for something that might turn out to be nothing.
The rider he’d heard might be a lone cowboy just drifting past in the night, on his way back to an isolated ranch from a night in town ... although The Kid didn’t know what settlements, if any, were around there.
Deciding it would be better to get some more information before raising an alarm, he slid down from the knoll and moved silently into a small stand of trees. The thick shadows under the branches completely concealed him as he waited tensely to see if anyone was coming closer to the camp.
A few minutes later, not just one rider but several men on horseback moved into The Kid’s view. The light was not good. It was hard for him to tell how many shadowy figures there were. Three or four, he thought.
They reined in not far from him, and he heard one of them say in a half whisper, “I tell you, I saw the glow from a campfire up ahead a little ways, Slim.”
“I believe you,” the man called Slim said. “It’s got to be that damned posse, just like the boss thought. But we’d better make sure. I suppose it might be a caravan of freight wagons or something like that.”
In the stygian darkness under the trees, The Kid stiffened at the words he had just overheard. He had no doubt the men were members of Latch’s gang. The boss outlaw must have sent them back to scout for the posse and find out how far behind the pursuit was.
It would be easy enough to bring the Winchester to his shoulder and open fire on them, The Kid thought. Shooting was tricky in bad light, even at short range, but there was a good chance he could bring down all of them.
But if he waited and continued to spy on them, they might say something else that would come in handy to know.
He was confident they weren’t going to ambush the camp. Since there were only four of them—The Kid was certain of that number now that he could see them better—starting a fight with a group the size of the posse would be foolhardy.
“If it is the posse, you think they got Cooper and the others prisoner?” one of the other men asked.
“Not likely,” Slim replied. “The fellas would’ve put up a fight. Anyway, after seeing what happened to those women, the posse wouldn’t have been in any mood to take prisoners. They’d have strung those poor bastards up to the nearest tree.”
Slim was right about that, The Kid thought, although it was possible Culhane would have tried to insist the men be held for trial.
But even a Texas Ranger’s will might not prevail in a situation like that.
“No, if those boys were still at the ranch when the posse got there, they’re dead now,” Slim continued. “I just hope they took some of the posse with ’em.”
Too bad, Slim, The Kid thought. That hadn’t happened ... and the four outlaws were lying in a shallow grave, which was more than they deserved. Leaving them for the buzzards and the coyotes would have been more fitting.
“What do we do now?” one of the men asked.
“I want to get a little closer,” Slim said. “When I tell Warren what we found, I want to know as much as I possibly can about that posse.”
More than ever, The Kid wanted to start blasting away at them. They were partially responsible for what had happened to Molly, Paula, and Helen Gustaffson, not to mention all the death and devastation back in Fire Hill.
Though The Kid hadn’t witnessed that destruction firsthand, the memory of how he had found the three women earlier in the day was still very fresh in his mind. If anybody ever deserved some hot lead justice, it was those four skunks.
However, they might be more valuable in the long run if they could be taken prisoner and made to reveal what they knew about Latch’s plans.
That was uppermost in The Kid’s mind as he moved soundlessly to the edge of the trees and watched the men dismount. One man took the reins of all four horses while the other three outlaws crept closer to the camp on foot.
Watching his companions sneak closer to the camp, the man holding the horse never saw The Kid creeping up soundlessly behind him. As he came within arm’s length, The Kid raised the Winchester to ram the rifle’s butt against the back of the man’s head.
But before he could strike, someone shouted, “Hey, who are you fel—”
Gunshots interrupted the startled cry, but The Kid had heard enough to recognize the voice. It belonged to Nick Burton. The Kid didn’t know if Nick was standing guard, or if he’d just gotten up to relieve himself or something like that.
Either way, Nick was in the middle of plenty of trouble.
The Kid finished the blow he had started to launch. The butt of his Winchester crashed against the back of the outlaw’s head. The man let go of the horses’ reins and dropped like a rock.
Suddenly freed, and startled by the shout and the gunshots, the horses bolted. Leaping back quickly, The Kid managed to avoid being trampled.
As soon as the animals were out of his way, he ran toward the sounds of battle. Muzzle flashes split the darkness, but there was no way to tell who was firing until he got closer.
With no warning, a rapidly moving shape charged out of the night and collided with The Kid. They caromed off each other, the impact causing The Kid to drop his rifle as he fell to the ground.
The other man lost his footing, too. As he rolled over and came up, a stream of Spanish obscenities poured from his mouth. The Kid had met everybody in the posse and none of them were Mexican, so the Spanish curses pegged the man as one of the outlaws.
The man drew his arm back and flashed it forward, further proving his hostile intent. Only The Kid’s almost superhuman reflexes saved him as he jerked out of the path of the knife whipping past him.
The Kid palmed out his Colt and brought it up, hesitating for a second. If his opponent was armed only with the knife, he ought to be able to take him prisoner.
The man clawed at his hip, eliminating that possibility. Starlight flickered on the barrel of a gun as the weapon cleared leather.
The Kid didn’t wait any longer. He fired, flame licking from the barrel of the revolver in his hand.
The bullet smashed into the outlaw’s chest and drove him backward. His finger clenched on the trigger of his gun in a dying spasm, but the bullet went harmlessly into the ground at his feet. He landed on his back in the loose sprawl of death.
“There they go! Get ’em!”
That was Culhane’s voice. The Kid heard pounding footsteps and realized the other two outlaws were fleeing straight toward him as fast as they could.
The posse members had taken a few moments to get their wits about them after they’d been jolted out of sleep, but now they were awake and ready to fight. A barrage of shots directed at the remaining two outlaws lit up the night.
Unfortunately, The Kid was in the path of the posse’s bullets, as well. He threw himself forward and hit the dirt, making himself as small a target as possible as lead shredded the air above his head.
One of the outlaws howled in pain and threw his arms out to the sides as he stumbled, driven ahead by the slugs slamming into his back. When he lost his balance he pitched forward and landed facedown on the ground, practically beside The Kid.
The other man remained unhit, protected from the storm of bullets by a providence he didn’t deserve. The Kid snapped a shot at him with the Colt, but the man kept moving fast as before.
A couple seconds later The Kid heard hoofbeats. Coming across one of the horses left behind, the outlaw had grabbed it and leaped into the saddle. Over the shots fired by the posse men The Kid heard the drumming of the horses’s hooves on the prairie. The animal wasn’t slowing down.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire! It’s Morgan!”
He had to yell a couple more times before Culhane heard him and bellowed, “Hold your fire, blast it! We got one of our men out there!”
The shooting trailed off and then stopped completely. The Kid was still cautious as he poked his head up and called, “It’s me, Morgan! I’m coming in!”
He got to his feet, looked around for a minute, and found his rifle lying where he had dropped it. As he walked up to the campsite, someone stirred the fire back to life and added some wood to it. Flames leaped up, casting a circle of light.
Culhane didn’t have his hat or his boots on, but his gun was in his hand. Stepping up to The Kid, he asked, “What happened out there?”
“Latch sent four men back to spy on us,” The Kid explained. “I happened to hear them coming and was able to get behind them. I was going to try to capture them, but then Nick yelled and the shooting started.” The Kid looked around at the gathered posse members. “I don’t see Nick. Is he all right?”
A slight figure pushed between two of the other men and stepped forward.
“Yeah, I’m all right, Mr. Morgan,” Nick Burton said. “Those outlaws shot at me when I saw them, but I was lucky. They didn’t hit me.”
“What were you doin’ up, son?” Culhane asked. “It wasn’t your turn to stand guard.”
“I, uh, couldn’t sleep,” Nick said uncomfortably. “I had to go off in the bushes and, uh, tend to some business.”
“Did you tell anybody before you went to tend to that
business
?” Culhane asked.
“Well ... no.”
“Then you’re lucky one of our own guards didn’t ventilate you, let alone them owlhoots!” Culhane said. “Don’t go skulkin’ around in the dark, boy. It’s a good way to get killed.”
Nick swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir, Ranger Culhane. I’ll remember that from now on.”
“See that you do,” Culhane said with a disgusted snort. He turned back to The Kid. “Did they all get away?”
“Only one of them,” The Kid said. “And I knocked one of them out, so maybe we can get him to tell us exactly where Latch is heading.”
“Give the prisoner ... to me,” Vint Reilly rasped. “I’ll make him talk.”
“Take it easy, Reilly,” Culhane said. “Let me put my boots on, Morgan, and we’ll fetch in this fella.”
A couple minutes later, Culhane and The Kid started toward the man who had been holding the horses. Thad Gustaffson and Jack Hogan went along, carrying burning branches plucked from the fire. It didn’t take them long to find the man who was lying facedown in the dirt.
Culhane knelt and rolled him over. The man’s eyes stared up sightlessly into the torchlight.
“Damn it,” The Kid burst out. “I didn’t think I hit him that hard.”
Culhane lifted the outlaw’s head and felt the back of it. “Yep, his skull’s stove in, all right. You might not’ve done it, though, Morgan. The way those horses were stampedin’ around out here, one of them could’ve stepped on him.”
That was true, The Kid supposed. Actually it was a more likely explanation. It was a stroke of bad luck, though. He’d been counting on getting some information from the prisoner.
Now they just had three more dead outlaws to bury, instead of two.
Unless Culhane decided to leave them for the carrion eaters this time.
Chapter 15
Duval was still a little shaken by the time he got back to the outlaw camp, long after midnight.
On several occasions in his violent past, he had come close enough to dying to hear the whine of a bullet close to his head, but never in his life had he experienced the sheer terror of being caught in a volley like the one that had shot Al Haskins to pieces.
Even though several hours had passed since then, Duval still found it hard to believe he wasn’t dead, too. Slugs had been humming around him like he had blundered into a swarm of bees. Yet not one of them had touched him.
He had a guardian angel looking out for him, he supposed. That was the only explanation.
Although considering the things he had done in his life, a guardian devil was more likely ...
He reined to a halt on top of the ridge overlooking the hollow and called softly, “Hello, the camp!”
“Who’s that?” one of the guards challenged him.
Duval recognized Ortiz’s voice. “It’s me. Duval.”
“Slim?” Holding a rifle, Ortiz stepped out from behind the tree where he had been standing. “Is that you? Where are the three hombres who went with you?”
“Dead, is my best guess,” Duval said grimly. “I have to talk to the boss.”
Ortiz shook his head. “I don’t envy you that job, amigo.”
Duval snorted and rode on down the slope into the camp. His arrival disturbed some of the sleeping men, who roused up enough to curse bitterly.
Duval asked, “Where’s the boss?”
“I’m here,” Latch said as he strode forward. He knelt beside the embers of the fire and stirred them up so the red glow they gave off lit his face.
The man had never looked more like Satan himself, Duval thought.
Latch straightened to his feet and snapped, “What did you find out? Where are the other men?”
“The posse’s back there, all right,” Duval reported. “About five miles behind us. I’m sorry, Warren. They killed Haskins, Jonah, and Sanchez.”
Latch stiffened. His eyes widened with anger as he stepped toward Duval. “You weren’t supposed to engage them, just find out where they were.”
“I know that. It wasn’t my idea to trade shots with them. One of the bastards was out wandering around in the brush where we didn’t expect anybody to be. He grabbed for a gun, and Sanchez panicked and started shooting at him. That got the whole camp mixed up in it.” Duval paused. “I’m damned lucky to be alive, Warren. The bullets were as thick as flies around me. But I knew I had to make it back here to report to you.”
“So that excuses fleeing and leaving those other men behind to die?”
Duval’s pride wouldn’t allow him to meekly accept the implication of cowardice in Latch’s sharply worded question. His own voice was sharp as he replied, “They were already down, shot to pieces, before I got out of there. I didn’t see how it would do any good for me to die there, too.”
What he said wasn’t strictly, completely true. He had seen Al Haskins cut down and knew the man had to be dead. Nobody carried around that much lead and lived. And since the horses were loose, he had assumed that young Jonah was done for, as well.
But he hadn’t seen Sanchez’s body. That was worrisome. If Sanchez was alive, and that posse had him, they might force him to talk.
Duval wasn’t going to say anything about that and give Latch even more of a reason to be mad at him.
Anyway, there wasn’t really that much Sanchez could reveal about their plans. He knew they were headed for San Antonio, but hell, anybody who knew east from west could tell that much just by following the gang’s trail.
Since they all split up before they reached the city, nobody knew where more than one or two of the others could be found. That was the beauty of operating the way they did.
Latch glared at Duval for a few seconds more, then abruptly stepped forward and rested a hand on the Cajun’s shoulder. Duval had to force himself not to flinch.
“You’re right, Slim,” Latch said as the anger disappeared from his lean face and no longer burned in his deep-set eyes. “It wouldn’t have done any good for you to die, too. And it shows your loyalty that you were determined to live so you could warn us about the posse.”
Latch looked around at the members of the gang who had gathered to hear what Duval had to say. “Isn’t that right, men?”
He got mutters of agreement, and one of the men even pitched in with a half-hearted, “Good job, Slim.”
“You must be tired,” Latch went on. “You need to get some rest now.”
“What are we going to do about that posse?” Duval asked.
“You said they’re five miles behind us?”
“About that, yeah.”
“We don’t have to worry about them catching up to us tonight,” Latch declared. “It appears we’re going to have try again to discourage them from following us, though. I’ll think about it and decide what form that discouragement should take.”
Satisfied that he was still alive and Latch didn’t seem to be too upset with him, Duval figured it was better to quit while he was ahead. “That sounds good to me, boss. I’ll turn in, like you suggested.”
“Sleep well, Slim.” Latch smiled coldly. “After all, you could be sleeping permanently right now.”
The next morning, Culhane insisted they put the three dead outlaws in a shallow grave, just as The Kid expected he would.
“It may not keep the coyotes from diggin’ ’em up,” Culhane said, “but at least we made the effort, and that’s one thing that separates us from animals like them.”
“When you say animals, do you mean the coyotes. . . or the outlaws?” The Kid asked.
The Ranger grunted. “Take your pick. Personally, I reckon the coyotes are a mite more honorable than Latch’s varmints. They don’t have the excuse of bein’ what passes for human.”
When the burial was finished, Abel Gustaffson took off his hat and stepped up to the mound of dirt marking the final resting place of the three outlaws. Everybody else stepped back, giving the grief-stricken man room to do whatever it was he intended to do.
Gustaffson stood there for a long moment, holding his hat in one hand. Then he spat on the grave.
His sons started toward him, but Vint Reilly got there first. The badly burned man laid a bandaged hand on Gustaffson’s shoulder and spoke to him in gravelly tones too low for any of the other men to understand.
Gustaffson seemed to agree with whatever Reilly was saying. After a moment he nodded, and both men turned away from the grave.
“Let’s go,” Reilly said in his tortured voice. “We’ve got ... outlaws to catch.”
As the members of the posse mounted up and moved out, Culhane took the lead as usual and waved a hand for The Kid to join him. “Those fellas showin’ up the way they did means Latch is worried about us followin’ him. Since one of ’em got away, chances are he knows by now how far behind him we are.”
“You’re not telling me anything I haven’t already thought about, Ranger,” The Kid said. “The odds of us riding into an ambush just went up, didn’t they?”
Culhane nodded. “We got to be more careful than ever, especially since so many of the fellas with us are greenhorns when it comes to huntin’ owlhoots. I been keepin’ an eye on you, Morgan. I can tell by the way you carry yourself, you’ve packed a badge before, haven’t you?”
The Kid laughed. Just the opposite was true, in fact. He had been in prison—unjustly, sure, but still, he’d been there—and he had been a wanted fugitive with a bounty on his head.
“Well, maybe you ain’t ever been an official lawman, but I know this ain’t the first manhunt you’ve been part of. You’re a top-notch fightin’ man, and you’re the second-in-command of this posse now.”
“I didn’t ask for that job,” The Kid said sharply.
“I know you didn’t, but I’m givin’ it to you anyway. If anything happens to me, you’re in charge, and I’m countin’ on you gettin’ the job done.”
The Kid glanced over his shoulder at the riders strung out behind them. In a low voice, he said, “You’re putting me in charge of some grieving townies, a bunch of cowpokes, a wet-behind-the-ears kid, and a man who’s burned so bad he ought to be in a hospital, not to mention he’s maybe more than a little bit loco. With that group we’re going to track down and kill or capture a small army of cold-blooded killers and gunmen. Is that about the size of it?”
Culhane grinned. “No need to thank me.”
The Kid grunted and shook his head.
The Ranger grew serious. “If something happens to me and you don’t take over, Morgan ... who will?”
“Reilly, maybe. He seems to be about as driven as anybody I’ve ever seen. He’d have to be in order to keep going, the shape he’s in. And maybe Gustaffson would be his segundo.”
“Wouldn’t work,” Culhane snapped. “Yeah, those two are bound and determined to catch Latch, but they got too much hate burnin’ ’em up inside. They can’t think straight without somebody else tellin’ ’em what to do. Leave it up to them and they’d pull some damn fool stunt like chargin’ into a trap and gettin’ themselves and everybody else killed.” The Ranger paused. “I mean it, Morgan. I need to know you’ll step in if you have to.”
The Kid could have kicked himself for doing it, but he nodded. “All right, Culhane. I’ll take over if I have to.”
“Your word on it?”
“My word on it,” The Kid said.
“All right. I’m much obliged to you, Morgan, I’ll tell you that. I’ll let the others know later, when we stop, that you’re in charge if anything happens to me.”
“There’s no guarantee they’ll all go along with the idea,” The Kid pointed out.
“They will if they know what’s good for ’em.”
That was just it, The Kid thought. Some of the posse were so blinded by hate and grief they didn’t know what was good for them. It was a situation he knew well. He’d found himself in it more than once.
As the trail they were following neared the edge of the hill country, which was marked by a green line of thicker vegetation on the horizon, The Kid spotted smoke rising to the north. It wasn’t the billowing black clouds of something on fire, but rather several thin white columns of chimney smoke.
He pointed them out to Culhane. “Looks like a little settlement over there.”
The Ranger nodded and waved a hand toward the tracks, which continued angling to the southeast.
“Yeah, but Latch and his bunch went around it. I reckon those folks who live over there don’t know how lucky they are. It’s like havin’ a tornado skip past you on a stormy night without you ever seein’ it.”
Except that a raid by Warren Latch and his gang was an unnatural disaster, not a natural one, The Kid thought, but he understood what Culhane meant and agreed with it.
He and the Ranger weren’t the only ones who had spotted the settlement. Buildings were visible in the distance, and Ed Marchman rode up and pointed at them. “We need supplies, Culhane. You know we couldn’t salvage much from what was left of Fire Hill, and we’ve been on short rations pretty much the whole way.”
“That’s true,” Culhane admitted, “but that settlement’s out of our way.”
“My God, it’s just right over there! Probably not more than half a mile. It wouldn’t take us long to see if we can pick up some provisions. Good Lord, you’d think if we can take the time to bury some murderous outlaws, we can take the time to get some food.”
Culhane glanced at The Kid, who shrugged. He wasn’t in charge yet, and the decision was still the Ranger’s to make.
“I reckon you’re right, Marchman,” Culhane admitted. “We’ll ride over there and see if there’s a general store.” His voice hardened. “But if there’s a saloon in that town, it’s off-limits, understand? We ain’t gonna take the time for anybody to guzzle down any tonsil varnish.”
“That’s fine with me,” Marchman said. “I just want some supplies.”
Culhane signaled for the men to rein in. He pointed out the settlement, which all of them had already noticed anyway. “We’ll stop for a few minutes and pick up some supplies. But that’s all. When I say we hit the trail, we hit the trail. Got it?”
Several of the men nodded. Marchman said, “We understand, Ranger.”
Culhane waved them into motion again. The posse rode toward the settlement at a trot.
After being on the trail for several days, the men were anxious for the sight of a town again.
It would probably just remind them of everything they had lost, The Kid mused. As they approached the settlement, he saw that it didn’t amount to much. There were two lines of buildings, a mixture of houses and businesses, facing each other for a distance of a couple hundred yards. A public well stood at one end of the street, a small church at the other. That was it.
But there was a store—
B
RENNAMAN’S
T
RADING
P
OST AND
E
MPORIUM
,
according to the sign on the front of the building—and that was all that mattered.