Brotherhood of Evil (24 page)

“From what I could see when they threw him in here, it looked like he has a bullet graze on his head. There was quite a bit of dried blood, but you know how head wounds are. They bleed like a stuck pig.”

“If that slug just creased him, he'll be all right. Boy's got a hard head.” Preacher tugged on the bars. “I don't reckon if I found a rope, ol' Horse could pull these here bars outta the window, could he?”

“I don't think even a whole team of wild stallions could do it,” Carson said. “This is a stone wall, and they're set solid. It'd take dynamite to blow them out, and if you set off a blast big enough to do that, it would probably kill every man in here at the same time.”

“Well, then, seems to me the only way to get you boys out is to unlock the door.”

A humorless laugh came from Carson. “How are you going to do that?”

“How many guards out in the office?”

“From what I've been able to tell, there are always at least three. Sometimes four.”

“That ain't too many. I got to get in there somehow . . . or get them out.” Preacher thought about it for a moment, then asked, “Reckon they got a fire goin' in the stove? It's sort of a chilly night.”

“I'm sure they do. They let us shiver back here, but I can't see them putting up with being uncomfortable.”

“All right. That's what I needed to know. I got me an idea.”

“Preacher . . . ?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful,” Carson said. “If you see that you can't get us out of here, then leave and find Smoke. You know what has to be done. It'd be a mighty tall order for two men . . .”

“You mean kill ever' damn one of them hardcases? Don't worry, Sheriff. We'll get around to it.”

Chapter 50

Once again, Preacher patted Horse's shoulder and told the stallion to stay where he was. Horse gave an impatient toss of his head. He was ready to be out of there, running free across the range again.

“I know how you feel, old son,” Preacher told him. “Just hold on a mite longer.”

He went back up the side of the building to where he could see the area in front of the jail. Gun-hung men drifted away and ambled up the street toward the saloons. Preacher heard the door close, and a moment later a bar thumped down in its brackets.

Nobody was left inside except a few guards and the prisoners. It was time for Preacher to make his move.

As he'd moved to the back of the jail, he had noticed a drainpipe on the building next door. It was what had given him an idea in the first place. Climbing it wouldn't be easy, but it was his only chance. He gripped the pipe, muttered, “Up you go,” planted a foot against the wall, and heaved and levered himself up.

I'm climbing this downspout like a dang go-rilla,
he thought as he hauled himself upward. By the time he was able to reach up, grab the edge of the flat roof, and pull himself over it, he was winded and his heart was pounding. “Getting too old for this sort of thing,” he muttered.

Of course, he had been saying that for nigh on to twenty years, and he was still at it, wasn't he?

Adventure kept a feller young. No two ways about it.

He lay there for a few minutes and caught his breath, then climbed to his feet and studied the gap between the building and the jail. Approximately eight feet separated them—quite a leap for an old-timer. Preacher knew that if he didn't make it, he was liable to break both legs when he fell—if not his damn fool neck.

But it was the only course open to him, so he took off the derby and with a flick of his wrist sailed it across the open space onto the jail roof. Then he backed off to get some distance, took a deep breath, and broke into a run toward the edge.

He'd been a pretty fast runner in his day. He'd had to be. More than once, his speed afoot was the only thing that had saved his life. He wasn't nearly as fleet-footed. His run was better than a shuffle, but not by much.

The muscles in his legs were still powerful, though. He reached the edge of the roof, pushed off it, and sailed far out over the shadow-cloaked passage below. He stretched his arms as far as they would reach . . . and landed with his head, arms, and shoulders on the jail roof. His hands dug in as they tried to find purchase on the slate shingles. He slid backwards, but only an inch or so before he got a firm enough grip to support himself.

From there it wasn't difficult to swing a leg up, hook a foot over the edge, and pull himself onto the roof. He rolled over, grateful for the support underneath him.

Yeah,
way
too old for this
, he thought.

He'd made it, so there was no point in worrying about it. He climbed to his feet and looked around until he found the hat he had thrown over a few minutes earlier.

Walking as softly as possible, he carried the derby over to the round tin stovepipe sticking up from the roof. Sure enough, wood smoke drifted from it. The guards had a fire in the stove down below. It was exactly what Preacher needed.

He muttered, “Sorry about your hat, Ike,” then tore the brim away from the derby, wadded up what was left, and forced it under the raised conical tin cover that shielded the top of the pipe from rain. He stuffed the mutilated hat into the pipe until it was completely blocked.

It wouldn't be long until the smoke from the stove began to back up into the sheriff's office. Preacher moved to the front of the building and stretched out on the roof to watch what happened below.

A minute or so went by before he began to hear angry voices through the roof and ceiling. He couldn't make out the words, but the tone of voice was obvious and so was the reason.

After a moment, a man said loud enough for Preacher to understand, “Don't do that, you idiot!” followed by coughing.

One of the guards had opened the door on the stove and let even more smoke billow out into the office.

The bar scraped in its brackets, and the door banged open. Men emerged onto the boardwalk, stomping heavily and coughing. A couple walked out into the street. Preacher slid back a little, knowing that instinct would make the men look up onto the roof. He didn't want them to spot him.

“I can't see anything.” The guard's voice was hoarse from the smoke.

“Could be a damn bird got up under that stovepipe cover somehow,” the other outlaw said. “One of us better climb up there and take a look. Something's got it clogged up, that's for sure.”

“Climb up there how?”

“Well, go find a ladder, damn it.”

The first man walked off grumbling while the one who had given the order went on. “Scanlon, you stay in there and keep an eye on the prisoners.”

“Why me?” Scanlon asked between coughs. “That smoke bothers me just as much as it does you.”

“Well, then, stand there in the doorway and watch the cell block door.”

“That's crazy, Rawley. There's nobody in there.”

“I'm just saying we don't want to disappoint the major . . . or the doctor.”

“No,” Scanlon agreed with a sudden note of worry in his voice. “We don't want to disappoint the doctor.”

They were scared of the doctor hombre, whoever he was, thought Preacher. The gent had to be hell on wheels to make a whole crew of hardened gunmen leery of him.

Preacher waited patiently. Some of the smoke was probably drifting into the cell block, but the men being held prisoner there would just have to put up with it for a while. That was a small price to pay for their freedom.

The man Rawley had sent to look for a ladder came back after a few minutes, still muttering and cursing.

Rawley told him, “Prop it there at the side of the building.” He pointed to the alley.

Preacher heard the ladder bump against the roof.

“Who's goin' up there, you or me?” asked the man with the ladder.

“You can, Nelson.”

“Thanks.” Nelson didn't sound grateful at all.

Preacher moved to the side of the building where the ladder was. The top of it projected about a foot above the edge of the roof. He reached behind him and drew the Colt from the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. Reversing it, he gripped the barrel and cylinder and waited.

Nelson grunted with effort as he climbed the ladder. Clearly he wasn't in very good shape. Spending most of his time in saloons would do that. As long as he could get his gun out in a hurry and shoot accurately, that was all that mattered.

Nelson's hat appeared at the top of the ladder. His head was down as he watched what he was doing. In one quick movement, Preacher's left hand shot out, snatched the hat off Nelson's head, and threw it away. His right brought the gun butt down hard on the gunman's skull and he grabbed Nelson's collar to keep the outlaw from falling. Nelson slumped against the ladder.

Preacher put the gun down, got both arms under Nelson's arms, and hauled the man up and over the edge of the roof. He was senseless for the moment, but he might not stay that way, so Preacher picked up the Colt and walloped him again, harder. He knew he might wind up busting the fella's skull, but considering all the evil the gang had done in Big Rock, he wasn't going to worry too much about that.

He had made some racket knocking out the gunman and pulling him onto the roof, but no more than Nelson might have made clambering up. Rawley and Scanlon were still standing on the front porch, talking.

After a few moments, Rawley stepped out in front of the building again and called, “Hey, Nelson, what have you found up there? The smoke's still coming out of the stove down here.”

Preacher didn't reply, and Nelson couldn't say anything since he was out cold.

“Nelson? Damn it, what are you—? Stay here, Scanlon.”

“What are you gonna do?” Scanlon asked.

“Looks like I have to climb up there and find out what the hell happened to Nelson.”

“Let me do it,” Scanlon suggested. “I could use the fresh air.”

Rawley didn't answer immediately. After a moment, he said, “All right. Hurry it up. I'm startin' not to like this.”

Preacher heard the ladder rattle as Scanlon started up. He dragged Nelson over to the edge and lifted his head and shoulder between the ladder's side pieces. He grabbed Nelson's ankles.

Just as Scanlon glanced up, saw Nelson's head, and exclaimed, “Hey, what—” Preacher tipped the senseless outlaw over the edge.

Nelson plummeted, crashing into Scanlon and knocking him off the ladder.

Preacher went down right behind him, sliding down the ladder as much as climbing.

Scanlon was pinned to the ground with Nelson's dead weight on top of him. He was trying to yell but couldn't muster much volume from that position. Preacher silenced him with a swift kick to the head.

He'd caused enough commotion to alarm Rawley, who charged around the corner with a gun in his hand. “What the hell—”

Preacher tackled him, going low at Rawley's knees so that the outlaw tumbled over him and went down hard.

Rawley was tough and stubborn, and hung on to his gun as he rolled over and came back up. Preacher couldn't afford the sound of a shot, whether it hit him or not. He leaped at the man and closed his left hand over the cylinder of Rawley's gun, knowing the weapon couldn't fire if the cylinder couldn't turn.

Rawley hammered a punch into the old mountain man's body. Preacher grunted from the impact but didn't loosen his grip on the gun. He jabbed a right into the middle of Rawley's face. Blood spurted from the outlaw's nose as his head rocked back.

Preacher had learned how to wrestle from Indians who were expert at it. He got a foot between Rawley's ankles, grabbed the front of his shirt, and heaved. The throw sent the outlaw off his feet, and as the man went down, Preacher twisted his gun arm so that the fall put a lot of strain on his bones and muscles. Rawley cried out in pain and let go of the revolver.

A split second later, Preacher slammed the heavy gun against the side of Rawley's head. The outlaw went limp and sagged to the ground.

The plan had worked. With a little luck on his side, Preacher had managed to knock out all three guards.

All he had to do was go inside and free Matt, Monte Carson, and the other prisoners.

Preacher left the unconscious outlaws lying in the dark passage beside the jail and hurried to the door. Coils of smoke wafted from the opening. The air inside the sheriff's office was thick with it. He coughed but ignored the smoke as best he could. He knew from previous visits to Monte Carson's office that the keys to the cells were on a ring hanging on the wall behind the sheriff's desk.

He snatched the key ring from its nail and went to the cell block door. It was locked, so Preacher had to take precious seconds finding out which key opened it. His eyes stung and watered from the smoke as he tried one after the other.

The sixth or seventh key opened the door. He pulled it back and hurried into the cell block.

In the light that came from the office lamp, Preacher saw that Matt had regained consciousness. The young man stood at the barred door with Carson. He still looked a little groggy but was able to say, “Preacher, I sure am glad to see you.”

“Likewise,” Preacher grunted as he started trying keys in the cell door.

“Let me.” Carson thrust his arm through the bars. “I know which one it is.”

“Good idea.” Preacher handed over the key ring.

Carson quickly sorted out the right one and thrust it into the lock. He was able to turn it from inside the cell, and the door came open.

Before the prisoners could charge out, figures appeared in the doorway between the office and the cell block.

A man's sharp voice ordered, “Mow them down!”

Carson grabbed Preacher's shirt and jerked him into the cell. The prisoners sprawled back away from the bars as gouts of flame blossomed from the twin barrels of a shotgun wielded by one of the men in the doorway.

Preacher felt the sting from a couple buckshot but knew he wasn't badly hurt. That condition might not last long, as more men with Greeners rushed into the cell block.

“Hold your fire!” the same man ordered.

The shotgunners moved aside to let him step forward, but they kept their weapons trained on the men in the cell.

Preacher saw that the man in charge had a limp and knew he must be the major, the hombre he had seen earlier when Matt was captured.

The major had a pistol in his hand and pointed it at the prisoners. The cell door was still open, but if the men inside tried to make a break for it, they would be slaughtered. He slammed the door shut and pocketed the keys, ending any hope of escape.

Preacher knew he had failed, but he wasn't the sort to give in to despair. A setback just made him more angry and determined.

Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do at the moment to change things.

“Get up,” the major said curtly. He frowned at Preacher. “I don't remember you.”

“That's 'cause I wasn't in here before,” the old mountain man replied. He stood up and brushed himself off, ignoring the pain in his leg and back where he had picked up a couple buckshot in the blast.

“Who are you?”

“A feller who ain't got no use for scum like you awaltzin' in and takin' over a whole town full o' good folks,” Preacher replied defiantly.

A man said from the office, “Major, the three men who were on guard here are all in the alley, out cold. That old geezer must've knocked them out.”