Brotherhood of Evil (7 page)

Chapter 14

The crashing in the brush faded as Sally got to her knees. Whoever had been hurrying toward them had stopped or at least slowed down.

She jumped to her feet and levered the carbine again, then stood there and tracked the barrel back and forth across the trees as she searched for a target. She didn't see anything moving.

A groan from Hardy drew her attention. She turned toward the cowboy and saw him struggling to get up. The front of his shirt was dark with blood. She had known he was hit but hadn't realized it was that bad.

“Ben!” She hurried over to him, dropped to a knee, and held the carbine in one hand as she rested the other on his shoulder. “It's all right. Just lie there and take it easy.”

“That . . . son of a . . .” he rasped.

“He's gone. He ran off into the woods.”

“He might . . . come back.”

“If he does, I'll give him a warm welcome,” she said as she gestured slightly with the carbine. She leaned closer. “How bad are you hit?”

“Pretty . . . bad. Feels like . . . he drilled me . . . clean through.”

She lifted him just enough to see that he was right. The back of his shirt was bloody, too. And judging from where the bullet hole on the front was located, the bullet couldn't have gone all the way through him without hitting something important.

He coughed. From the bubbling sound of it, Sally was certain he had a hole in one of his lungs. He was drowning in his own blood, and there wasn't a blessed thing she could do about it. He had only minutes to live.

“You better . . . leave me here,” he told her. “Go find . . . Pearlie and Cal . . .”

She heard shots in the distance and knew her friends were still in danger. She wanted to go to them, help them, but she wasn't going to abandon Hardy. “I'm not going anywhere.” She leaned closer to him. “You hang on.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. She knew from the rattle in his throat as it came back out that he was gone. He stared up sightlessly at the trees. Sunlight flickered through the branches and made the shadows shift on the dead man's face. Sally eased his eyelids down.

She stood, filled with the same sort of anger that Smoke would have felt had he been there. Evil men had come onto Sugarloaf land and had brought death with them. They had to pay for that.

Sally jerked the carbine level as someone came through the trees. Fallen pine needles crunched under the man's boots. Her finger was taut on the trigger as he lunged into view.

“Whoa!” Cal cried as he tried to stop himself. He threw his hands up in front of him as if they would turn aside a bullet. “Miss Sally, don't shoot! It's me!”

Sally held off on the trigger at the last instant. A tremor went through her as she lowered the weapon. “Cal, I almost shot you!”

“Yeah, I know.” He swallowed hard. “Are you all right, Miss Sally?”

“I am, but poor Ben . . .” She looked over at Hardy's still form.

“Dadblast it!” Cal burst out. “I reckon that varmint I tangled with is the one who got him?”

“You fought with one of them?”

“Yeah. Fella who looked like he was shot in the right arm. Are you the one who ventilated him?”

“That doesn't matter now,” Sally said. “He's the one who got the drop on us, all right. We managed to turn the tables on him and wound him, but he got away.”

Cal grimaced. “He got away from me, too. Even wounded and losing blood like he was, he managed to give me the slip.”

“Don't worry about that. At least he didn't try to double back. Where's Pearlie?”

Cal angled his head toward the sound of shooting. “He's trying to keep the other two pinned down, but it sounds like he's got his hands full.”

Sally jerked her head in a curt nod. “There's nothing we can do for Ben. Let's go see if we can give Pearlie a hand.”

 

 

As one of the outlaws tried to get around to his side, Pearlie did the only thing he could. He thrust his Colt out in that direction and started thumbing off shots as fast as he could, firing blindly until he had emptied the revolver.

As that peal of gun thunder ended and the echoes rolled away against the mountainside above him, he shoved the revolver back into its holster and grabbed the Winchester lying on the ground beside him.

He heard a man muttering curses somewhere not far away. Had he hit the varmint trying to flank him? It was possible, he supposed, but it would have been pure luck if he did.

Of course, everybody could use a little good luck now and then.

“Green?” Joe called tentatively. “Green, are you all right?”

“Shut up, you damn fool!” came the harsh reply. Green sounded like he was in pain, no doubt about that. Pearlie was more convinced that he had winged the damn outlaw by accident.

Somebody else was coming. Pearlie heard them crashing through the brush behind him. Might be Cal, might even be Sally or Ben Hardy or all three of them.

Might be the other owlhoot, too. What had they called him? Larson?

Pearlie shifted his grip a little on the rifle and squirmed backwards. He angled to the side and wound up under some thick brush. The branches snagged his clothes and scratched him, but he ignored that minor annoyance.

“Green! Green, don't shoot! It's me! I'm comin' in!”

That was Larson, all right. He staggered past close enough that Pearlie could have thrust out the rifle barrel and tripped him.

He didn't. He was outnumbered three to one and didn't know what had happened to his companions. Giving up on a fight rubbed him the wrong way, but Sally could be hurt bad and need help. The same was true of Cal and Hardy. Finding out what had happened to them had to come before stopping those three hardcases, whether Pearlie liked it or not.

“Damn it. You're shot up.” That was Green's voice again. “Joe, get the horses.”

Joe whined, “You said we had to stay here until the boss—”

Green exploded. “To hell with the boss! Jensen's men know we're here.”

“Listen, Green,” Larson babbled. “I . . . I found out something . . .”

That was all Pearlie heard as the men's voices faded. He stayed where he was. A couple minutes later he heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats as the three outlaws fled.

He had just gotten to his feet with the rifle in his hands when he heard a low call.

“Pearlie!”

That was the kid. Pearlie responded, “Over here, Cal!”

Relief flooded through the foreman when he saw that Sally was with Cal. He looked them both over quickly and didn't see any blood on their clothes.

Sally clutched his arm. “Are you all right, Pearlie?”

“Yeah, I'm fine, I reckon. What about Hardy?”

Sally's face was grim as she shook her head.

Pearlie always tried to watch his language around women, but he grated out, “Damn.” He hadn't known Hardy that well, but the puncher had seemed like a decent hombre.

“What about those men?” Cal asked.

Pearlie jerked his head toward the north.

“They lit a shuck outta here. One of 'em had a busted wing, and I think a second one was hit, too. They decided to take off for the tall and uncut while they still could.” He grimaced and shook his head. “Sorry I let 'em get away, Miss Sally. I was worried about you and the youngster here.”

“Don't be silly,” she told him. “I think we all burned enough powder today. We need to get poor Ben back to the ranch and see to it that he's laid to rest properly.” She looked in the direction the outlaws had fled. “I'd still like to know who those men were and what they were doing here, but if they don't come back, I suppose it doesn't matter.”

“Somebody sent 'em here and told 'em to wait. I know that from listenin' to what they said, so I wouldn't place any bets on 'em not comin' back.” Pearlie's mouth was a bleak line under the drooping mustache as he added, “Whatever they were up to, I got a hunch they ain't done yet.”

Chapter 15

Men who rode the dark and lonely trails knew the place as Zeke's. No other name was necessary. The two-story log building was the centerpiece of a small community that had no name at all, situated in a winding canyon far from the main trails. Tall and brooding, the canyon walls cast a never-ending shadow over the buildings.

In addition to the big house, the settlement had a barn with an attached blacksmith shop, a small trading post, and a squalid little cabin where a gnarled old man lived. He was a master gunsmith, known far and wide among the men on the wrong side of the law as someone who could repair or modify any gun ever made. His services were usually in demand . . . but not as in demand as the services of those who worked in the big house.

Zeke had three bartenders pouring drinks around the clock as long as there were customers. A frock-coated gambler addicted to laudanum ran a poker game . . . and it was honest. One rule for dealing with outlaws and killers was to play straight with them. They wouldn't stand for anything else.

Busiest of all were the six soiled doves who sometimes worked delivering drinks in the saloon but spent most of their time in the rooms upstairs. Zeke—again, the only name anyone knew him by—made a good living.

He was a tall, thin, gray-haired, gray-faced man who nearly always had an unlit cheroot clenched between his teeth. He wore a gray suit and sat at a table in the corner, taking the cigar out of his mouth now and then so he could sip from a tumbler of whiskey. As a rule, he didn't say much.

He sat up straighter when three newcomers came in. One of them had his right arm in a crude sling. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his elbow. Another man had a crimson-stained rag tied around his left thigh. The third one, who didn't seem to be wounded, helped his companions to a table and then went over to the bar.

“We're lookin' for Jonas Trask,” he said to the bartender. “He's supposed to be here.”

The bartender glanced past the man and looked across the room at Zeke.

Zeke took the cigar out of his mouth and crooked a finger at one of the doves, who had just set some drinks down at another table. “Go upstairs and tell Mr. Trask some of his boys are here,” Zeke said to the woman when she stood at his table.

She was a tall, skinny redhead with fair skin. The scattering of freckles stood out as the order made her turn pale. “I-I hate to disturb him,” she stammered.

“Do what I told you,” Zeke snapped. He put the cheroot back in his mouth and clamped his teeth on it as the dove headed hesitantly for the staircase.

He understood her reluctance. Most of the time Jonas Trask was friendly enough, but twice during the time he had been there, somebody had prodded him. In both cases, the other man was a known gunman, but Trask had bested both, wounding them and ending the fight.

What had happened after that was worse. Neither Zeke nor anyone else had tried to stop it. In such a place, a man handled his own problems. If he bit off too big a chunk, no one was going to come to his aid.

Especially when it meant crossing a man like Trask and running the risk of getting the same treatment.

Over at the bar, the man who had asked for Trask said impatiently to the apron, “Well? Didn't you hear me?”

Zeke stood up. Most of the eyes in the room followed him as he sauntered over to the bar. He said in a deceptively mild tone of voice, “Take it easy, my friend. I've sent someone to fetch Mr. Trask.”

“Oh.” The newcomer looked a little uneasy. “You're the fella who runs this place, ain't you? The one they call Zeke?”

“That's right,” Zeke said around the cheroot.

The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Well, I'm sorry for the ruckus. My pards and I have been ridin' hard, and they're hurt.”

“Bottle,” Zeke said to the bartender.

The man set it on the hardwood.

Zeke used the cheroot as a pointer. “Take that over to your friends. Trask will be down when he's good and ready, I suppose.”

The gunman nodded. “Obliged. What do I owe you?”

“If you're one of Trask's men, nothing. He's taking care of it.”

“Well, that's, uh, mighty decent of him.”

Zeke's mouth quirked a little. He didn't think anybody would use the words
mighty decent
to describe Jonas Trask very often.

As the newcomers passed around the bottle, Zeke returned to his table. Movement on the staircase caught his eye and he looked in that direction. The redhead was hurrying down from the second floor. She was still pale.

Lord knew what she had seen up there in Trask's room.

The man himself sauntered out onto the balcony a moment later and rested his hands on the railing as he looked down and smiled. There was no denying that Jonas Trask was a handsome man with his fine-boned face, his piercing blue eyes, and his shock of black hair. He wore a good suit, a white shirt, and a string tie. The saloon grew quieter as he stood there, and after a few seconds all the noise died away entirely.

In a powerful, resonant voice, he said, “I hear you're looking for me, Joseph.”

The gunman who wasn't wounded swallowed. “Uh, yes, sir, I reckon.” He waved a hand at his companions. “Green and Larson are wounded—”

“Yes, I can see that,” Trask interrupted. “Can they make it upstairs?”

“Yeah, I reckon.”

“Come on up, then. I'm sure we have a great deal to talk about.” He turned and disappeared back into his room.

Joe and the other two gunmen stood up and went to the stairs. They started up, their tread slow and hesitant.

Zeke had seen men walk that same way when they were climbing the steps to the gallows.