Deserter (19 page)

“Hot damn,” he breathed appreciatively.

Both saloons emptied and men, guns in hand, gaped at the smoldering scraps of lumber that had moments before been Mott's headquarters. A slug whistled past Jake's head, and then another. The crowds from both of the saloons rushed on foot, slogging through the mud, firing without aiming, rushing toward the only enemy they could see at the moment: Jake Sinclair.

Two waves of Night Riders, one from each direction, in ragged lines that stretched the width of the street, swept toward the outlaws, rifles and pistols blazing. Jake wheeled Mare, his hand already in his saddlebag, and pointed her at the glut of men to his right, sucking on his cigar. The outlaws, most of them drunk, stumbled into one another, unsure whether the lone man charging toward them or the Night Riders presented the greatest danger. Jake hunched low in his saddle, single stick of dynamite clenched in his hand with its fuse touching the ember of the cigar, saw the clerk from the mercantile fire at an outlaw who was swinging his pistol toward the clerk. The outlaw snapped forward at the waist as if he'd taken an unexpected punch, and then pitched forward into the mud, hands clutching at his belly, his pistol dropping from his fingers.

Jake powered through the mass of men, Mare's broad chest and striking forelegs taking down any stupid enough or slow enough to fail to get out of her way. The two bands of Night Riders swept past the crowd and one another and continued down the street and out of town.

Sinclair felt Mare slipping but touched her with his spurs to ask that she give him all the speed she possibly could, regardless of the footing. There was barely an inch of fuse left when Jake raced past the saloon and hurled the dynamite. Mare had gone two strides before it blew and both horse and man felt the force and the heat of the explosion.

The original plan had been for Jake to loop back behind the buildings along Main Street, dynamite the second saloon, and then follow his men as they galloped toward the Galvin Ranch. Mare was struggling, though, working two or three times as hard as she would on normal ground, her hooves sinking deep into the glutinous mud, making each stride a battle. She'd broken a frothy sweat and her breathing was becoming labored.

Jake swung his horse out of the quagmire of Main Street, Fairplay, and rode into the rainy darkness, the sounds of his men ahead barely reaching him. The footing was a bit better outside town; the prairie grass and scrub roots held the soil together more effectively than the churned slop in and around the town. The Night Riders, Jake knew, would be peeling off from the group toward their individual farms, ranches, and homes, those who lived in and near Fairplay swinging back when it was safe to do so.

A good raid,
Jake thought.
A damned good raid.

He hadn't seen a single Rider go down and at least a couple of Mott's men were wounded or killed. The roof lifting off the sheriff's office played again in his mind like the pictures from a stereopticon presentation and the
crump!
of the explosion in the saloon sounded again in his ears. The barrels of whiskey went up like kerosene, the flames pawing at the sky, the lanterns inside smashed and spewing their fuel to the hungry fire.

He reined in atop a small rise. Behind him the fires put a pale glow into the night. Ahead was wind and rain-swept darkness. Near the town the railroad tracks glinted wetly in the orange-yellow light of the blazes. He listened for a full five minutes but heard none of the sounds of horses and riders coming toward him from town, and the balance of the Night Riders headed to Galvin's ranch were far ahead. He stroked Mare's neck. Her breathing was more regular now, and she danced a bit in place, wanting Sinclair to cue her to do something other than standing still in the cold rain, looking at and listening to nothing, knowing there was a dry stall, fresh water, and good hay awaiting her at the end of her night's work.

One of the lookouts the Night Riders had posted stepped out from behind a set of young pines, rifle over his shoulder, appearing ghostlike in the darkness. Mare had caught his scent before Jake saw the man, but his Colt was in his hand by the time the nighthawk showed himself.

“The boys say it went real good, Jake. They tol' me you're quite a hand with that dynamite.” His face wasn't completely distinct but the whiteness of his teeth in a broad grin was clear.

“It went well,” Jake said. “Far as I could tell, all of us who went out came back, and we hit Mott pretty hard.”

“Lou said that new sheriff's office purely went up like a Fourth of July rocket. I wish't I could have been there to see it. Next time out, I'll be ridin' with you, Jake.”

“Anybody mention if they saw Mott?”

“Nobody did. The boys, they figure he was servicin' one of them whores of his an' everything was over by the time he got his drawers up.”

“Could be,” Jake said. “You watch careful now. That crew isn't going to take real kindly to what happened tonight.”

“I'll do that, Jake.” The lookout grinned. He offered a casual salute. Jake's right hand began to rise automatically, without conscious command, to return the salute. He stopped it halfway and made an unnecessary adjustment to his slicker.

First salute I've seen since just before Pickett's charge.

There was a nonmilitary joviality in the Galvin barn that reached Jake on the far side of the structure, in Mare's stall, where he was rubbing her down with an empty grain sack, cleaning away rain, sweat, and mud from her coat. There was a tad too much laughter, a little too much hilarity for the men to share, considering it wasn't a battle they'd just won, but a quick skirmish without the intense engagement that he knew would come later on in the conflict.
Still,
he chided himself,
these fellows aren't trained fighters and they did well. They drew some blood, followed orders, got the thing done. What's the harm in them letting off the tension with a few too many hits at the bourbon bottle and telling one another how brave they are?

Jake tugged a short-bristled brush from the collection of grooming tools Galvin and his men had assembled in a tattered four-quart basket and used it on Mare's legs. He was just finishing up when Lou Galvin walked down the aisle carrying a lantern.

“The boys are wondering where you are, Jake,” he said. The whiskey on the man's breath reached Sinclair a moment after the words did. “They did a good job tonight, didn't they? I think they'd like to hear that from you, though. Tellin' each other gets old after a couple of times.”

“They did fine. I was planning on coming right over, Lou,” Jake said. “Soon as I looked after Mare.”

Jake placed the basket next to a pair of grain barrels and the two men walked toward the gathering. “Do you think we accomplished much of anything with this raid?” Galvin asked. “Anything that'll make any difference?”

“We kind of declared war, Lou—joined the battle. Everything is going to go faster now. I can guarantee you that Mott isn't going to swallow his jail being blown to hell again, and a couple of his men wounded or killed.” He stopped walking and Galvin did too, turning to face him. A wave of laughter ebbed and then receded.

“I need to make clear to the Riders that things have changed, that they need to watch themselves and their families. A little too much booze has flowed tonight for me to get through to them right now, but I want to bring them back in a day or so. And if Mott starts attacking farms and ranches, I want the men to come here, to bring their families and be ready for a siege.”

“I don't know how you'll convince them to leave their homes, their land, their stock, Jake.”

“If this gets real bad—and I think it will—they won't have a choice. There aren't more than a few hundred men within thirty or so miles of Fairplay, Lou. It won't be hard for Mott to figure who's a Night Rider. And if he burns a couple places and kills a few innocent men, it won't bother him. You've got to realize—”

Two distant reports—a shotgun from the sound of them—stopped the conversation. Sinclair's and Galvin's eyes met in the harsh light of Lou's lantern. “That ain't good,” the older man said. Jake held up his hand for silence. A moment passed during which the wind-driven rain outside and the laughter and carousing of the Night Riders were the only sounds.

“No answering fire,” Jake said. They waited another full minute. There was no further gunfire.

“Might be one of the boys maybe heard an animal in the brush and let his imagination get the best of him—fired before he thought it over.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Jake answered dubiously. “Even so, I'm going to saddle up and go out and take a—”

A voice reached them, and even in the distance and over the wind and rain, the note of fear—of panic—was clear, although the words were indistinct, more of a wail than a sentence or statement. The voice sounded again, this time closer. “Mr. Galvin! Jake! We got bad trouble!”

The group heard that even over their celebration. Their drinks and tales forgotten, they rushed out the front door of the barn to where Jake and Galvin stood, Lou still holding his lantern. The splashing of a horse at speed reached them a heartbeat before they saw the rider—one of the three lookouts who'd been posted, his rain slicker whipping about him, his horse's chest
frothy in spite of the rain. “Those bastards strung up Archie an' Todd!” he shouted, voice breaking. “They hung 'em from an oak an' they're both dead!”

Jake hustled to the rider and grabbed at his reins. “Tell us what happened,” he demanded. “Calm down and tell us what happened—come on, climb down. We need to know exactly what happened out there, Jim. Get hold of yourself!”

The rider swung down from the saddle, his doublebarreled shotgun still clutched in his hand. He drew air in shuddering gasps, his eyes wide with panic, sweeping over Sinclair and the other men but not focusing. Jake took the shotgun from his hand and checked the breech. Both barrels had been fired. Lou Galvin stepped forward and put his arm over the rider's shoulder. “Tell, us, Jim,” he said. “This isn't the time to lose control. Just tell us what you saw, what happened.”

Jim struggled with his fear, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as if he were gulping water after a long thirst. “Yessir,” he croaked. He swallowed hard a couple of times, his hands dancing in front of him almost spastically, as if trying to pull words from the rain that fell on the group. Galvin took his arm and led him into the shelter of the barn. The others followed silently, their faces now pale, the hilarity of a few moments ago swept away by the rider's fear.

“Me an' Archie an'Todd was posted out just like we was supposed to be, maybe a hundred or so yards apart, keepin'a good watch—or as good as we could on a night like this. We'd talked it over earlier, and we was goin' to keep in touch with each other, give a owl hoot every so often jus'to let each other know we was OK an'
awake an' all.” He gulped some air and swept rain from his face with a hand.“Go on,” Jake said quietly.

“Yessir. Well, it seemed like I hadn't heard no owl hoots from either of those boys in some good time. I hooted myself a few times but didn't get no answer. I got a little worried an' decided I'd work myself over to where Archie was, off to my right. See, I was kinda in the middle of the three of us. I got to where Arch had been—as close as I could figure, anyway. He wasn't there. That scared me some and I started over to Todd's position. It was darker'n a son of a bitch and still raining hard, but my eyes was pretty used to it. I went on by my position and then I come upon a big oak maybe halfway between me an' Todd an' there they was, hangin', dead, twistin' at the end of ropes when the wind hit them. Their hands was tied behind them and they was gagged with cloths. Even in the dark an' rain I seen there was nothin' I could do for either of them boys. I guess I kinda . . . I run off, then, run to my horse an'fired off my shotgun for a warning an'rode on back here at a gallop. It's a goddamn wonder I didn't kill my horse an' me, both.” He sucked some more air and then looked away from Sinclair and Galvin and the group of Night Riders, focusing on the hard-packed dirt floor in front of him at his feet. His voice took on a defensive tone. “Wasn't nothin' I could do—nothin' at all, 'cept get back here an' give the alarm.”

“Of course there wasn't anything you could do, Jim,” Lou said. “I'm just glad they didn't . . . glad you got back here safely.”

Jake stepped back from the other men and clapped his hands to get their attention. “We don't have time to talk right now,” he said, his voice hard. “I want armed
men in a ring around Lou's house and barn. If there's any trouble—if you see anything—fire twice.” Without questioning him, the men started for where they'd left their rifles and shotguns.

“Wait,” Jake said, stopping them. “If you hear the alarm—the two shots—don't leave your post. You hear?
Don't leave your post.
I'll be there to tell you what needs to be done.” He paused for a second, meeting the eyes of several of the Riders. When he continued, his voice was quieter but still tight and emphatic. “I know many of you have families you're worried about. They'll be OK for tonight. Tomorrow we'll bring your people into Lou's house and barn. The women can sleep in the house with the youngest children. Men and boys will bunk in the barn.”

A quick buzz of conversation—questions—began. Jake held up his hand. “We don't have time to discuss anything just now. Get out there and take your positions. We'll talk at first light. Now move!”

If they were going to question Jake, he figured it would be now. The men with wives and kids unprotected wouldn't like the idea of leaving their people alone overnight.
Hell, I wouldn't like it either,
he thought.
Would I obey the order?
He watched the men, not quite realizing he was holding his breath. When they turned away and hustled to fetch their weapons, Jake exhaled.
No,
he thought,
I'd be riding hard for my home and the hell with Galvin, Sinclair, and the Night Riders.
He glanced at Lou, who met his eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly. “I'll be riding inside our line through the night. I'll call out and identify myself every so often,” he called to the backs of the men.