Brotherhood of Evil (27 page)

Chapter 56

Preacher had felt more than one item in the bottom of the iron pot, under the noxious Chinese soup Loo had brought to the jail. He tossed the gun to Matt, who caught it deftly, and plunged his hand back into the pot. He brought up a second gun, handed it to Monte Carson, and went fishing a third time, coming up with what appeared to be a dagger. Once it was unwrapped from its oilcloth covering they could see it sported a short but very sharp blade.

“That's it,” Preacher said. “But we're a lot better off than we were a few minutes ago.”

The guns were .32 caliber Smith & Wesson revolvers, not as powerful as the .44s and .45s Preacher and Matt were used to, but deadly enough in the right hands.

When it came to gunplay, there weren't many hands better than those of Matt Jensen and Preacher.

“Good Lord,” Curley said as he looked at the weapons. “That little Chinese feller risked his life smugglin' those in here. What if those outlaws had taken that soup away from him and tried to eat it themselves?”

“I reckon that's why it looks and smells like it does,” Matt said with a grin.

“Yeah, Loo was makin' sure they wasn't tempted,” Preacher added. “He's pretty smart, seems like.”

In fact, it has been Loo's subservient attitude and the singsong voice he had adopted that had tipped Preacher off. He hadn't spent a lot of time with Loo Chung How, but enough to realize that the man was putting on an act. The look Loo had given him when he was talking about the tastiest morsels being in the bottom of the pot had confirmed it.

Preacher took the .32 back from Monte Carson, checked the cylinder, and tucked the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. The Smith & Wesson was fully loaded, which meant only five rounds.

Preacher usually kept the hammers of his Colts resting on empty chambers, so he was accustomed to having only five bullets in each gun. Between them, he and Matt had only ten shots. They would just have to make each and every one of those bullets count.

Monte Carson frowned. “Damn it. I wish he'd been able to fit another gun into that pot. I don't feel right being unarmed.”

“You'll get a chance to grab another gun, Sheriff,” Matt said. “And probably pretty soon, too.”

“We're makin' a break for it?” Curley asked.

Preacher nodded. “That's right. I've been sittin' here all day, abuildin' up a heap of mad. I expect you fellers feel the same way. It's time we done somethin' about it.”

“We've only got two guns, Preacher,” Matt said, echoing the thoughts that had gone through the old mountain man's mind a few moments earlier. “Ten shots. That's not much to take on almost half a hundred hardcase killers.”

“And a little pigsticker. You forgot about the knife.” Preacher rubbed his chin, which was bristly with silvery beard stubble. “But I reckon you're right. Startin' out, we won't try to do nothin' 'cept get out of here. Then maybe we can get our hands on some more guns, arm the rest of these boys, and, well, we'll see how it goes from there.”

It seemed like a reasonable plan. Over the next few minutes they figured out exactly what they were going to do.

Once everyone understood, they got in position. Preacher and Matt were close to the bars. The other men were scattered around the cell, although with so many of them there wasn't room to spread out too much.

They doubled over and started moaning and groaning, first one man, then another and another until the whole cell block sounded like it was full of men who were dying, and painfully, at that.

After a few moments, the cell block door was unlocked and thrown open, and one of the guards loomed there with his hand on the butt of his holstered revolver. “What's that unholy racket?” he demanded angrily. “What's wrong with all you in there?”

“We're . . . we're sick!” Matt gasped as he hung on to the bars in the cell door. “We ate that soup . . . and now our guts are being ripped out!”

The outlaw threw back his head and guffawed.

“Serves you right for eatin' that vile swill the Chinaman brought!” He gloated. “No wonder you're sick. There were probably things in there no white man should ever eat!”

“Please,” Matt begged. “You've got to do something.. . .”

“Listen to me.” The guard strode closer to the cell, angry again rather than amused. “I don't have to do a damn thing.” He lifted the hand from his gun and used it to point an accusing finger at the prisoners. “This is your own damn fault, so you're just gonna have to—”

Matt lunged, reaching through the bars to seize the outlaw's wrist. He jerked the man toward the bars and used his other hand to bring up the Smith & Wesson. He jammed the .32's short barrel between the man's teeth just as the outlaw opened his mouth to yell. Some of those teeth broke under the impact.

With their faces only inches apart and the barred door between them, Matt said, “I'll bet if I pulled the trigger right now, your head would muffle the shot so much those other fellas out in the office wouldn't even hear it.”

The outlaw's eyes bulged from a combination of surprise, pain, and fear. His life hung in a delicate balance, and he knew it.

“Now here's what you're going to do.” Matt's voice was low enough that the other outlaws couldn't hear it. “You're going to call your friends in here. Tell them to bring the keys because that soup poisoned us and we're dying. We're important hostages, and the doctor wouldn't like it if we all died.”

“You got that?” Preacher added.

The guard managed to nod, although it wasn't easy with the gun shoved in his mouth.

“If you yell and try to warn them, you'll die,” Matt went on. “You may ruin our plans and keep us from escaping, but you won't know one way or the other because you'll be dead. Do what you're told and there's a chance that you might live through this.” He paused to let that sink in on the outlaw's brain, then went on. “I'm taking the gun out now. You know what to do. Live or die, it's your choice.”

He pulled the gun back. A mixture of blood and spit dribbled from the guard's mouth. He stood with his jaw hanging open for a few seconds, breathing hard. Then he swallowed and called thickly through the open door into the office, “Bass! Crandall! Get in here, and bring the keys! These . . . these prisoners are all dyin'. We gotta do something!”

Curses and rapid footsteps sounded. The other two outlaws rushed into the cell block, one of them carrying the key ring, and as Preacher and Matt had hoped, they hadn't taken the time to grab the shotguns. Their revolvers were holstered, too. They skidded to a stop as they found themselves looking down the barrels of the .32s.

A third gun was aimed at them, as well. Monte Carson had reached through the bars and plucked the first guard's Colt from its holster. His finger was taut on the trigger as he pointed the weapon at the other two outlaws.

“Don't yell, and don't reach for your guns,” Matt warned them. “You'll be dead before you hit the floor if you do.”

Since the first man was disarmed, Matt let go of him. He stepped back, groaned, and held a hand to his ruined mouth.

“Carter, you idiot,” one of the other men said. “What the hell have you done?”

“I . . . I didn't have any choice,” Carter said. “They were gonna kill me.”

“What do you think the doctor's gonna do when he finds out about this?”

Carter's eyes had been wide and scared. At that thought, they fairly bulged out of their sockets. Whatever fate might await him at the hands of Dr. Jonas Trask obviously terrified him more than anything else in the world.

Matt and Preacher could never have predicted what happened next.

Carter lurched in front of the other two guards, shielding them with his own body, and croaked, “Kill them!”

Chapter 57

The other two guards clawed at their guns.

Matt didn't like the idea of killing an unarmed man, but he knew that with Carter in the way, the outlaws would use him for cover and might have time to wipe out the men in the cell. He targeted the shouting Carter first and sent a .32 slug into the man's left eye. The bullet popped the orb and bored on into Carter's brain, instantly ending his life. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Everybody get down!” Preacher yelled.

The gun thunder was deafening in the cell block as everybody opened up at once.

Bullets whined off the bars and ricocheted around the room. Matt felt the wind-rip of a slug passing within inches of his ear. The Smith & Wesson in his hand cracked spitefully as he triggered it, as did the gun Preacher held. The louder roar of .45s added to the terrible racket.

The two outlaws staggered back against the stone wall behind them as bullets pounded into their bodies. Bloodstains bloomed like crimson flowers on their clothes. As death claimed them, the guns slipped from their fingers and thudded to the floor. One man slid down the wall, leaving a gory stain on the stone. The other pitched forward loosely and let go of the key ring as he toppled. The keys clattered toward the cell, stopping just short of it.

Gunsmoke was thick in the air, stinging eyes and noses. The guns fell silent, but clamorous echoes still rebounded from the thick walls.

Matt had emptied the .32. He jammed it behind his belt and dropped to one knee as he reached through the bars. He stretched his hand toward the keys but couldn't quite reach them.

“We got to get out of here,” Preacher said. “Them shots'll make the rest of those varmints come arunnin'.”

“I know,” Matt grunted as he strained against the bars and tried to get just a little more extension on his arm. His fingers still couldn't quite reach the key ring.

“I've got one round left in this gun,” Monte Carson announced.

“I'm empty. Still got that little knife, though.” Preacher took the dagger out and handed it to Matt. “Try that.”

The knife proved to be just what Matt needed. He held the end of the handle and hooked the tip of the blade into the key ring to pull it closer.

A second later, he was on his feet with the ring in his hand. Carson took it from him and thrust the right key in the lock. A twist of the key and they were free.

The question was how long they would stay that way.

The first thing to do was get out of the jail. They couldn't afford to get trapped in there again. A siege would end only one way. They needed to be out where they could move around if they were going to have any chance.

As Carson unlocked the other cells to release the rest of the townspeople, Matt and Preacher hurried into the sheriff's office. They grabbed Winchesters from the rack of rifles and shotguns on the wall and stuffed their pockets full of cartridges from a box Matt found in the desk. He dumped a box of shotgun shells on the desk and told the men to help themselves to the scatterguns in the rack.

Only a couple minutes had passed since the shots died out in the cell block, but he was worried that was already too long. He blew out the lamp, plunging the office into darkness, and went to the window to look out.

The street appeared to be deserted. How was that possible, he wondered? Could it be that the rest of the outlaws hadn't heard the shooting from the jail? He couldn't bring himself to believe that.

They had the opportunity to get away. They had to seize it. Besides, they couldn't stay there....

“Is everybody armed?” he asked the men crowding into the office.

He got a round of agreements in return.

“All right, we're getting out of here. I'll lead the way. If any shooting starts, hunt some cover and fight back the best you can.”

Curley said, “I'll be glad to get some of those varmints in my sights. They got a lot to answer for.”

A couple townsmen lifted the bar from the door. Matt levered a round into the Winchester's firing chamber, twisted the knob, threw the door open, and charged out onto the boardwalk, crouching low to make himself a smaller target.

Nothing happened.

He stopped a few yards into the street and turned from side to side, ready to open fire if he needed to. Big Rock remained quiet and peaceful.

The newly released prisoners couldn't take it anymore. They poured out of the office onto the boardwalk and into the street, despite Preacher's warning. “Hold on a minute, dang it—”

Matt knew why the old mountain man was upset. It had to be a trap. That was the only explanation that made sense. Major Pike or someone else among the outlaws had reacted quickly to the shooting in the jail and had set up an ambush.

That thought raced through Matt's brain at the same instant as Preacher shouted, and all of it was too late. With a crash like the world ending, dozens of guns went off. A deadly hailstorm of lead ripped through the former prisoners. Men cried out in pain and went down.

 

 

Albert Pike was in the room he had taken at the hotel, reading one of Jonas's books. He knew that his mind was nowhere near the same level as Trask's, but he tried to educate himself so he could at least vaguely grasp what Trask was talking about most of the time.

That particular volume was about how you could tell what a man's personality and capabilities were by studying the shape of his skull and the bumps on it. That seemed a little crazy, but Trask had been saying for a long time that the key to everything about a man could be found in the brain. He believed that if you could study the brains of men with shared characteristics, you would be able to see the similarities in them. Since the brain rested inside the skull, Pike thought maybe there was something to the theory in the book he was reading....

Gunshots made him lift his head and slam the book closed. Nothing theoretical about guns going off. That was real, and Pike knew exactly what it meant. Somebody in Big Rock was fighting back.

He had been expecting it. In fact, he
welcomed
it. There was no better way to kill the spirit of a conquered people once and for all than to let them have a moment of hope . . . and then crush it utterly and completely.

He might have to kill half the town tonight, Pike thought as he stood up. If he did, the half that was left would never give him any trouble again.

He was buckling on his gun belt when somebody pounded on the door. Pike called for the man to come in.

“Major, there's been a jailbreak,” Cully reported breathlessly as he stood in the doorway.

“I'm not surprised.” Pike clapped his flat-crowned hat on his head. “What's being done about it?”

“We held our fire until they all came out into the street, then opened up on 'em.”

Pike nodded in curt approval. It was a good tactic, the sort of thing he might have ordered himself if he had been on hand.

“Did it work?”

“We got some of 'em. The others took cover. It's settled down into quite a fight.”

“One that we'll win,” Pike declared. He shrugged into his coat. “Come on.”

 

 

Matt threw the Winchester to his shoulder and fired the rifle as fast as he could work its lever, swinging the barrel from left to right and spraying bullets at the muzzle flashes from the darkened buildings across the street. Something hot kissed his cheek, leaving behind a streak of fiery pain.

Bullets would be getting even closer if he didn't move.

He lunged to the side and broke into a zigzagging run, continuing to fire the rifle as he dashed for cover. Spotting a water trough, he threw himself full-length behind it. He squirmed forward until he could thrust the Winchester's barrel around the end of the trough and return the outlaws' fire from there.

Preacher ran along the boardwalk until he reached a rain barrel not far from Matt's position, kneeling behind it and firing over the top. Matt looked back along the street toward the jail and saw several dark forms sprawled in the dirt in front of the building. Those men had been chopped down in the first volley and hadn't been able to make it to cover.

The others had scattered and were putting up a fight from various places along the street where they had taken shelter. Shots were coming from the jail, so Matt knew some of the men had made it back inside. He didn't see Monte Carson and Curley, but there was no time to check on them. He had bigger problems to worry about.

“Preacher, they're going to try to get behind us!” Matt called to the old mountain man as both of them paused to reload their rifles. “There are too many of them!”

“Damned if I don't know it!” Preacher replied. He jacked the rifle's lever, then thumbed one more cartridge through the loading gate. “I'm gonna fade back and see if I can fight a delayin' action in the alleys.”

“Be careful.”

“We done gone way past the time for that!” Preacher turned and ran for the nearest alley. Bullets from across the street chewed splinters from the boardwalk and the posts that held up the awning over it.

He never broke stride, though, as Matt watched the old-timer disappear into the black maw at the mouth of the alley, so he probably wasn't hit. He seemed to have a guardian angel watching over him, although he would have scoffed at that idea.

If it was true, that guardian angel had his work cut out for him. Only a few seconds after Preacher disappeared into the alley, a thunderous fusillade of gunshots erupted back there.