High Wild Desert (11 page)

“Decide here and now, ma'am,” he said firmly, stepping back from Lang lying on the ground, seeing the downed outlaw wasn't going to be able to do anything for a while. “The gun's in your hand.”

A look passed across Adele's face; the Ranger saw it but wasn't able to read it before it was gone.

“No, Ranger, no!” she said, shaking her head wildly. She turned the gun in her hand and held it out to him butt first. “I'm not doing this. I told him all along I wasn't going to help him escape.” She looked tearfully down at Cisco Lang. “I've done things I shouldn't have done, but I'm not going to kill somebody.”

Sam took the gun from her hand, and wrapped her in his arm as she bowed forward against him, sobbing.

“Forgive me, Ranger,” she said.

“It's all right, Adele,” he said softly. “You made the right choice. You don't need to be forgiven . . . not by me anyway.” As he spoke, he reached back and shoved the gun down behind his belt. He wasn't going to mention that he had unloaded it. No one would ever need to know, he told himself.

Chapter 11

At daylight, Blind Simon sat his turn at guard. Instead of using his eyes, he kept his nose and ears turned to the trail as the distant sound of hooves moved farther away through the morning gloom. Soon after Henry Teague and Sonny Rudabough had ridden out of their camp, Dave Coyle poured himself a cup of coffee. Little Deak, Karl Sieg and Chic Reye sat near the fire, watching as Dave placed his steaming cup aside and filled another cup for his brother. He carried it over to where Oldham sat on a blanket leaning against a rock, fifteen yards away.

“Where's this going to put us?” Sieg asked Reye quietly. “If he wants to go off after the Ranger?”

“Do I look like I know where it puts us?” Reye said, sounding a little irritated. He spit and stared across the camp watching as Dave approached his brother, who sat holding his big Colt in his right hand, twirling it deftly back and forth, his eyes dark and riveted before him on things unseen, engaged in deep serious contemplation.

At the edge of his blanket, Dave stooped down and set the steaming cup of coffee on the ground beside him.

“Drink this, Oldham. It'll make you feel better,” Dave said.

“What are they talking about over there?” Oldham asked, the gun twirling, his eyes turning toward the men across the camp from them.

“They're probably
talking about the same thing I'm thinking about, Oldham,” Dave said. “We're all wondering if you're going to stop everything and go after the Ranger.”

“There's nothing to
stop
, brother Dave,” Oldham said. The gun ceased twirling suddenly and stood near the side of his face, pointed skyward. “I messed up everything for us. I had a good thing set up, but I lost my mind gambling, drinking and eating dope. That's the truth of it.”

Dave Coyle shrugged, reached over and lowered his brother's gun hand. He sipped from his own cup of hot steaming coffee.

“Everybody makes mistakes,” he said.

“No, they don't,” said Oldham. “Not as bad as I do.”

“But there's no point in letting it eat at you,” Dave said. “Learn something from it this time. Pick yourself up and let's go on. Everybody's depending on you.”

“And I've let them all down,” Oldham said. “We're all broke because of me.”

“We're not broke. Not all of us anyway,” said Dave. “We could use some money, sure. But there's always next month, far as the mine payroll goes.”

“And the five thousand dollars bounty would go a long ways holding us over until then,” said Oldham. “We're all proud men here. We live up to our appetites.”

“Here you go, Oldham,” said Dave, shaking his head.

“Here I go
what
?”
Oldham asked.

“You do this every time,” said Dave.

“What, damn it?” said Oldham, getting heated. “What the hell do I do every time?”

“This right here,” said Dave. “You start making up all the right reasons for doing whatever it is you're aching to do anyway.”

“I don't make up the reasons,” said Oldham. “The reasons are there. I just consider them and—”

“Can I say something?” said Dave, cutting him off.

Oldham just stared at him.

“Here it is, then,” Dave said. “Money is not the real reason you want to kill the Ranger. You want to do it because some sporting man has put the odds in your favor.”

“So what?” said Oldham with a crooked smile. “What's wrong with me being favored to win? Would it be better if everybody thought I was going to lose?”

“What's wrong is it clouds the picture, Oldham,” Dave said. “It makes it all into some game. And it's not a game. It's a dirty, dangerous piece of work. We're not assassins, brother. We're highwaymen, long riders.”

“We've killed men,” said Oldham in defense.

“But not like this, never for pay,” said Dave. “And never a man like this Ranger.”

Oldham cocked his head slightly and gave Dave a curious look. “You don't think I can beat the Ranger in a straight-up match, do you?”

“Jesus, brother, listen to you,” said Dave. “This is not
a match
, not some sort of sporting event. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Even if you do kill the Ranger, what do you think happens then? Do you figure you'll get a bronze plaque? Do you figure Hugh Fenderson will take you for a ride in a Pullman car?”

“Go to hell, brother Dave,” said Oldham.

“They'll hang you—no, wait,” he said, catching himself. “They won't hang you. They won't even take you to trial. They'll kill you in the street before you've even collected the bounty money. Every lawman between here and hell will be out to kill you, for killing one of their own.”

“Leave it alone, Dave,” Oldham warned him.

But Dave would have none of it.

“See?” he said with sarcasm. “They're the law. That's why, as rich as Fenderson is, he won't step out in front of this and put his own ass on the line. He'll pay some stupid thug who'll do the bloody work for him.” He paused, then said, “Stick to what we do, Oldham. Let's get clear away from here and go rob something.”

Oldham took a deep breath, placating himself, and slipped his Colt into his holster. He reached over, picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip.

“There's times I could bend a gun barrel over your head, brother Dave,” he said, almost sighing.

Dave gave a short, dark chuckle.

“Yeah?” he said. “There's times I could bend one over
your
head and straighten it across your jaw.” He sipped his hot coffee and said, “So, are you going to put all this bounty nonsense out of your mind?”

“No,” Oldham said firmly, staring off toward the fire and the men gathered a few yards from it. “I'm going to kill Burrack and collect that bounty.”

“Damn it,” said Dave. “Why is it the more I talk against doing something, the more determined you get on doing it?”

“That's just me, brother,” Oldham said. “I'm molded that way, by bigger hands than these.” He glanced down at the hot tin cup in his hands, then looked back over toward the men.

•   •   •

From across the camp, Chic Reye turned away from Oldham's gaze and sipped his coffee. Sieg sat to his left. A few feet away sat Little Deak Holder.

“Sounds like they're arguing right now,” Reye said, more irritated than he'd been earlier. “I expect this will last most of the day. Meanwhile, we sit and wait like a band of drooling idiots ready to laugh if one of them farts.”

“I see you woke up in a good mood,” said Sieg. “That's always worth something.”

“I can't help it if I'm not some mindless fool,” Reye growled. “I know what I see, and if what I see makes me ill, I ain't withdrawn from speaking my mind on the matter. The Reyes are known all across Kansas for speaking their minds and letting the chips fall where they will.”

“I can believe that,” Sieg said dryly.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Reye asked in a surly tone.

“It means I have taken note over time that you're not one to mask either your attitudes or opinions.”

“It's true, I will orate where necessary,” Reye said, seemingly satisfied with Sieg's explanation.

“That's all I was saying,” Sieg concluded.

Reye sat quietly for a moment, then spit in disgust, looking out at the spot where Blind Simon sat with his senses tuned to the trail toward New Delmar.

“I'll tell you something else,” Reye said. “That right there goes straight through me.”

“What?” said Sieg, both he and Little Deak Holder looking toward Blind Simon.

“Him,” said Reye. “That blind son of a bitch pretending he can hear this, and smell that, and sense one thing and guess the other. It's all horse dribble, and I know it.”

“My God!” said Sieg. “I thought we were through with all that.”

“We're not through with nothing,” said Reye standing, slinging grounds from his coffee cup. “I just overlooked it for a while.”

“When a man is blind, his other senses step in and take up the slack,” Deak ventured quietly. “Everybody knows that.” He paused, then said in the same low tone, “You want to know what I think, pards? I think we—”

“Nobody wants to know what you think,” Reye said coldly, cutting him off. “We'd be a damned sight better off if it wasn't for having you two freaks of nature with us.”

“Shut up, Reye,” said Sieg. To Deak he said, “Pay no attention to Chic, Deak. He's just a turd when he first wakes up.”

“Damn it, Sieg,” said Reye. “I'm tired of skirting around the matter. This one knows what he is. He was born like this because his pa only let off half a squirt instead of a full one—like jerking it out at the last second, but not fast enough. Left just enough goo to make a mess of things.”

“Why, you rotten—!” Deak stood and spread his feet shoulder-width, both of his tiny hands near the butt of his belly gun.

“Oh, look, he's going to draw on me. Ain't that cute?” Reye said in a mocking tone.

“Both of you settle down,” Sieg demanded, “before everything takes a bad turn here.”

Reye ignored him.

“I heard Oldham talk about what a fast and deadly gunman you are, Half Squirt,” he said to Little Deak, still goading him. “But I figure he was just saying that to make you feel welcome. The fact is, your hands ain't even big enough to draw a gun and fire it. If you did, the kick would knock you on your ass.”

“Stop it, Chic, damn it!” Sieg said.

“Let's see you draw it, Half Squirt,” said Reye. “We like a good laugh.”

Little Deak's face turned cold and stonelike. His hands dropped to his sides.

“I'm not drawing it,” he said.

“Yes, you will draw it, Half Squirt,” Reye said down to him. “Else I'll burn you down where you stand.” His hand went for the big revolver holstered on his hip.

•   •   •

Across the camp, both Coyle brothers dropped their coffee and jumped to their feet, seeing what was going on.

“Whoa! Stop!” Oldham shouted as the two ran forward.

But it was too late. They saw Reye's hand wrap around the butt of his bone-handled revolver; they saw Little Deak's right arm come up from his side and point up open-handed at Reye. But they didn't see the two-shot derringer slip out of Little Deak's coat sleeve into his small hand until fire streaked from the barrel and the bullet hit Reye in the face like a hard-flying hornet. The shot made a sharp popping sound.

Reye's gun flew from his hand. He staggered backward a step and slapped his cheek with his left hand as if that might help. He struggled to stay on his feet.

“By thunder!” said Simon, springing to his feet. “Little Deak shot that sumbitch, didn't he?”

“He sure did,” Sieg said, wincing at the sight of blood spewing from the hole in Reye's cheek.

“One more coming,” Little Deak said matter-of-factly to the dazed, staggering gunman. He waddled forward, pointing the barrel straight out against Reye's navel.

“Holy!”
said Dave Coyle, he and Oldham sliding to a halt as Deak fired again. This time the bullet punched into Reye's belly and jackknifed him at the waist. His arms went around his bleeding lower belly. He fell onto his side, thrashing in the dirt, his boots scraping, walking him in a circle on the ground.

“I knew he'd do it,” Oldham said quietly to Dave. “I tried to tell him.”

“Now for your
big surprise
,” Little Deak said almost to himself, looking down at the writhing gunman. The smoking derringer slipped back up inside his coat sleeve. He drew the big Colt from across his belly and cocked it. Holding the big Colt with both hands, he leveled it down at the side of Reye's bloody head. The first derringer bullet had hit the gunman right beneath the ball of his cheekbone and come out in front of his right ear, leaving a ragged hole. Deak aimed the big Colt just beside the ragged bleeding exit hole and started to squeeze the trigger.

“Hold it, Deak,” said Oldham with authority. “Don't kill him.”

Deak kept the gun pointed as he turned his head and faced Oldham with a bemused expression.

“Why not?” he said, as if having trouble understanding Oldham's reasoning on the matter. “I've already cocked the gun,” he added.

“Because I said not to,” Oldham said firmly. “Uncock it, put it away.”

“Can I mark him?” Little Deak asked with a thin, devilish grin. He reached down to unbutton his fly.

“You've marked him plenty,” said Oldham. “Back away and leave him alone. Don't make me tell you again.”

“Damn it. Please! Somebody help me here,” Reye said in a strained, pain-filled voice. “The sneaking little son of a bitch
shot me
!”
His voice sounded stiff and unreal from the bullet having sliced through his cheek. Blood ran freely down from both the small entrance and the larger exit holes.