And Kill Them All (25 page)

That bastard, Eagle Cutner, had one stringy-muscled arm clamped around the skinny girl's neck. She dangled in front of the bug-eyed killer like a kid's corn-shuck doll held up by nothing more than raw strength, propelled by fear. The murderous despoiler's free hand gripped a short-barreled Smith & Wesson .44, the muzzle tightly pressed against Clem's temple.

Sounded like a kicked dog when Cutner yelped, “Who'n the bloody hell 'er you sons a bitches? And what'n the blue-eyed hell you want from me, for the love of sweet Jaysus?”

An ominous, peculiar, creeping silence ran around the room on cat's paws. Several seconds of striking stillness passed before Boz near whispered, “We're the angels of death—your worst nightmares come to life, outlaw.”

“Horseshit,” Cutner snorted. “Angels of death, my ass.”

“We're the men placed on this earth to protect little children and especially defenseless girls. A benevolent God has sent us to erase your sorry, woman-defiling self from the face of the earth,” Boz added. “You don't drop that pistol, I can guarantee you'll end this day a-beggin' for death to come for you like a blind, one-armed, no-legged Civil War vet shaking a tin cup.”

All I could see was the top of Cutner's head and a pair of darting eyes when he let out another derisive grunt. He spoke into Clem's shoulder when he growled, “The hell you say. If you bastards think Mad Dog Cutner's afeared of a pair of blatherin', smart-mouthed jackasses, who just happen to be wavin' pistols around, well, the two of you've got a couple more thinks a-comin', by God.”

“We're Texas Rangers, you ignorant wretch,” I called out. “We came for the girl. You don't give her over, then I'll go a bit further than my partner. Warrant as how your time amongst the living is just about up.”

Then, in an effort to get a better eye on the situation, I slowly sidestepped a shade to my right.

Surprised me a mite when Cutner twisted his head the opposite direction. With a stubble-covered cheek pressed against the girl's back, he spit on the wall, then snarled, “Texas Rangers, my cankered ass. Doan give a single hoot in hell or a paper sack fulla dog shit who you sons a bitches
think
you are. Or how bad you
think
you are. Can tell you one thing for by-God sure, though. I'm as bad as both of you put together and this here little gal's a-stayin' with me. If'n you two walkin' assholes do anything foolish, I'll sure 'nuff kill the hell out of her.”

I could detect the icy hint of imminent death's approach in his voice when Boz said, “You harm the girl any more than you already have, Cutner, and I'll see you die in a way that'll make you wish your sorely put-upon mama'd never dropped you on an unsuspecting world.”

Eagle “Mad Dog” Cutner glared at Boz like he wanted to pull the man's head off, then spit into the open wound. “Tell you true, mister, you push this hoedown the wrong direction,” Cutner barked, “and I'll blow this little gal's head clean off just for the fun of it. Then I'll kill both you shit-eatin' dogs to boot. Figure I ain't got nothin' to lose here.”

Tried to sound mollifying when I said, “Don't go and do anything stupid, Eagle.”

Boz let an odd, near-lunatic-sounding giggle slip out. Then, from beneath a viciously curled lip, he said, “Aw, hell, Lucius, poor ole Mad Dog just can't help himself. Dim-witted fool was born stupider'n an entire family of opossums. Grew up dumber'n a snubbin' post. And he's gonna die a blankethead, if he don't give us Clem and mighty damned quick.”

I got another fleeting glance of Cutner's wide open eyes. As though surprised down to the soles of his bare, bloody feet, he said, “Lucius. Lucius. You're Lucius ‘By God' Dodge?”

“That's me,” I said.

“And that 'un yonder's Boz Tatum?”

Soon as the breathy question slipped his lips, I knew we'd finally got his undivided attention.

Boz flashed a toothy grin, then said, “That's us in the flesh, you worthless piece of trail dung.”

A sound of reckless unease tinged Cutner's voice when he snapped back, “I've heard of you—both of you. But it don't matter none. Hell, don't matter a single whit. 'Cause I already owe you bastards for the fist-sized wad of wood splinters stickin' outta my damaged, bony ass right now. Shit, these things hurt like burnin' perdition. Prolly won't be able to sit a horse for a month. Gonna make you pay for puttin' all these sticker's in me 'fore the day's out, by God.”

I flipped the barrel of my pistol at Boz. He nodded, and we both took a pair of bold-as-brass steps Cutner's direction. The thug scrunched as far down behind Clementine's slender, limp body as he could. He moved his arm from around her fragile, teenager's neck, then used it to quickly encircle her boyish chest. The cowardly skunk raised her up like a human shield, then peeked over one of her skinny shoulders.

“Best stop right where you are, boys,” he sang out and seemed to push his pistol's muzzle against the girl's skull with added force. “Make another move my direction and this here li'l gal's gonna be huggin' Jesus, the rest of the heavenly host, and swappin' spit with real, honest-to-God angels.”

“Give us the girl, and maybe we'll let you live a little longer,” I said.

With his forehead pressed aginst Clem's spine, Cutner spoke into the girl's back when he hissed, “She's mine, by God. Girl's mine. She was give to me. Ain't give'n 'er up. Gonna do as I please with this here little bit of split tail, till I get tired of it, then I'll probably kill 'er and go on to the next 'un. And ain't nothin' either of you can do about it.”

Cutner didn't have to prod Boz any farther. He holstered his weak-side pistol and turned sidewise, like a New Orleans duelist. He brought the freed hand up to support the polished walnut butt of the pistol in his right. Went as rigid as one of those bronze statues they keep in them museums back East.

Sounded like a crosscut saw ripping through oak boards when he snarled, “I'm ready when you are, Lucius. You call it and we'll bring this shindig to an end.”

“You've got 'im, Boz?” I said.

“You bet. I've got 'im dead to rights. Now have Eagle ‘Mad Dog' Cutner's head bone sitting atop my front sight as we speak. No job a'tall to empty his pea-sized brain out onto the floor. So, you just give me the word, I'll let 'er rip. Blow all the rusted-up filler in his malignant thinker box from here to kingdom come.”

Now, Boz and I'd confronted similar situations any number of times in the past. We pretty much knew what to expect from a skunk like ole Mad Dog. And Cutner didn't disappoint. Did exactly what both of us figured he would. Silly idiot scrunched farther down behind Clementine—as far as he could—then raised the girl up a bit higher to protect his worthless, empty noggin.

Unfortunately, for him at least, he'd gone and made a serious error in judgment. Went and exposed his dangling manhood in the process of trying to conceal himself behind the girl's limp, blood-smeared torso.

I knew without even having to think about it, Boz Tatum had already spotted the same thing I had. I sliced a quick, corner-of-the-eye glance my partner's direction. Could tell by the faint grin etched across his thin, chapped lips that he'd already picked his target and was happier than a fat armadillo chewing on a big ole nest of yellow jacket larvae.

Couldn't help but grin myself when I said, “You've got one more chance here, you back-shootin' bastard. Gonna say it one more time. Let us have the girl. Give her over right this very second or suffer the consequences. And trust me when I tell you, Cutner, you ain't gonna like the consequences of holding on to her.”

I couldn't see any of his face at all when Cutner went to cackling like something crazed. Idiot still thought he had the upper hand. Between gasps for air, he huffed, “Screw you law-bringin' bastards and the horses you rode up on.”

I turned to my compadre. Said, “He's all yours, Boz. Do whatever it takes.”

I saw the muzzle of my running buddy's pistol drop about two inches. Then, an instant later, a thumping, ear-shattering explosion lit the murky room like a Fourth of July whizbang at midnight. A thumb-sized, 255-grain chunk of forty-five caliber lead turned Eagle ‘Mad Dog' Cutner's family jewels into nothing more than a cloud of bloody, mist-like memories.

Amidst an instant, wavelike cloud of dust, raised by the pistol's head-ringing blast, Cutner let out a single, ear-shattering shriek. Honest to sweet Mary, screech he let out sounded like a stagecoach ran over a mountain lion right in front of me. No doubt about it, Boz's well-placed shot did the trick, and then some.

Cutner turned his pistol loose like it was a fresh-forged horseshoe. The still-cocked weapon skittered across the packed-dirt floor and ricocheted off the stone wall. He dropped Clem, then grabbed at his blood-gushing crotch with both hands. Went down on both knees then rolled onto one side. Hit his unprotected shoulder like a felled tree. Set to whooping, hollering, and thrashing around in the dirt as if Boz's shot had cut his head off.

I holstered my pistols, jumped across the ten or so feet that separated us, and snatched Clem away, while Boz snatched Cutner's pistol up off the floor. He shoved the short-barreled blaster behind his own cartridge belt. A beaming grin painted across his face, he stood over a freshly neutered Eagle “Mad Dog” Cutner and watched as the man rolled around on the floor, slinging blood every which direction.

Quick as I could, I carried Clem to the ramshackle piece of a bed. Laid her out atop a blanket that was horrifyingly smeared in what I figured had to be her own blood.

I covered the girl up best I could manage, with anything I could lay a hand on. Pressed two fingers against her gore-caked neck in an effort to find something akin to a pulse. Bent over and listened for breathing, then put an ear against her chest. I could barely hear her heartbeat 'cause of all the yelling and hollering Cutner was doing.

“She's still with us,” I said more to myself than to anyone in particular. “Think if we can get her awake, cleaned up, and moving around, she just might make it. Gotta get on it fast as we can, though.”

Boz eased up beside me. He jammed a fresh shell into the empty chamber of his pistol. Slapped the loading gate closed, then shoved the gun into his hip holster. Thumbs hooked over a hand-tooled Mexican cartridge belt, he rocked back on his heels and frowned. “Hard thing to think, but given the way the poor child looks, be nothin' short of a miracle if she lives another ten minutes, you ask me, Lucius.”

From outside, I heard Glo call out, “How is it in there with you, Mistuh Boz? Mistuh Dodge? You gennemens okay? Y'all still be alive and kickin'?”

I turned and yelled, “We're fine and dandy, Glo. Still breathin'. Still kickin'. Need you to run back to the horses. Get the blanket tied behind my saddle. Also all our canteens and my saddlebags. Bring everything inside here quick as you can.”

Hadn't quite finished my instructions, when I spotted him standing in the blasted doorway. Thought for a second or so the man would break down weeping when he said, “Sweet merciful Jesus, Mistuh Dodge. What'd that animal go and do to the poor chile? Top of everthang else she's done suffered, what'd he go and do?”

I stood beside the shaky piece of a bed and gazed down into Clementine Webb's scabrous, splotched face. Took the whole of my self-control to keep from breaking down like the girl's very own father. “Sweet Jesus, don't know for sure, Glo. Doubt we'll ever know all of it for certain. Whatever he did, we need to get her warm and cleaned off right quick-like. Want her outta here and shaped up as best we can manage 'fore she manages to regain some semblance of consciousness—if she ever does.”

“Goin' for the blankets, water, and sech right now, Mistuh Dodge. Back fast as these ole legs and the good Lord'll let me.”

Glo's words were still hanging in the air when I heard Eagle Cutner moan. He sounded most like a man being tortured by a band of Satan's red-eyed imps.

I stomped my way across the room and tried my dead level best to put my booted foot completely up his no-account backside. Guess I must've kicked the unmitigated hell out of him four or five times. Would've probably kicked him slap to death, but then Boz slid up from behind, grabbed me around the shoulders, and dragged me back a few steps.

Arms still locked around me in a viselike grip, mouth right next to my ear, Boz hissed, “He's still alive, Lucius. Son of a bitch is still alive. Doubt he'll die from losing them there gonads of his'n. And we don't wanna kill 'im completely dead just yet.”

Still mad enough to eat raw bees, I grunted and tried to wrench myself from his grip.

“Think, now, ole friend,” he hissed into my ear. “Wanna get at the head of this beast, we've still gotta find out where that stink sprayer Ax Webb went. Keep on kickin' ole Eagle and he just might give up the ghost.”

Can't remember a time when I've let my emotions get hold of me to the point where I seemed to lose all reason like I did that day. But, my glorious God, appeared as how Eagle Cutner had gone and done deplorable things to Clementine Webb, and I wasn't in anything like a forgiving mood. Felt like my head might explode if I couldn't stomp a bloody ditch in his sorry hide, then stomp it dry.

Boz didn't turn me loose until I'd relaxed a mite. Got to admit, it took an almighty heap of self-control to keep from finishing the job I'd started. I clomped a path all the way around that big ole room a time or two. Kicked at every piece of broken-down furniture handy. Was trying like the dickens to shake off the urge to go back over and put the boot to Eagle Cutner till I'd stomped him slap to death. Pretty sure, at the time, the simple act of killin' the bee-Jesus out of him would've made me feel one hell of a bunch better about the whole situation.