Massacre Canyon (20 page)

As Matt bolted to his feet, the heavier boom of revolvers going off followed the rifle shots.

“Smoke!” he exclaimed.

Preacher was up, too. His hand closed over Matt's arm as he said, “Stop and think about it, boy. Them shots come from
behind
us.”

“Somebody on our trail?”

“Could be. Or it could be they don't have nothin' to do with us or your brothers. Ain't no law says we got to be the only ones out here in these badlands.”

Matt realized the old-timer was right. Despite that, they couldn't afford to leave the possibility uninvestigated.

“We've got to check it out,” he said.

“You're right about that,” Preacher said with a nod. “Dog! Hunt!”

The big cur had gotten up at the sound of the shots, too. His ears had pricked forward, and the fur on the back of his neck ruffled. Now, without a sound, he bounded off into the darkness, eager to find the source of the shots.

Matt and Preacher saddled up. They left the other horses picketed at the camp and rode off in the same direction Dog had gone. The shooting had stopped now, and as the last echoes faded to nothing, the silence that cloaked the arid landscape had an ominous quality about it.

Whatever the fight had been about, likely somebody had wound up on the losing side of it.

Despite the sense of urgency both men felt, they took their time. The drumming of rapid hoofbeats could be heard for a long way on a quiet night. They had to proceed at a quieter, more deliberate pace.

They had covered almost half a mile, Matt estimated, when he heard men's voices up ahead, raised in loud talk and raucous laughter. Preacher heard them, too, and reined in, as did Matt.

They swung down from their saddles. Matt stepped closer to the old mountain man and said quietly, “Something's off about what I'm hearing.”

“That's 'cause them fellas are speakin' Mexican,” Preacher replied. “I savvy the lingo pretty good, but we're too far away for me to pick up much of it. They're pleased with themselves over somethin', though.”

“We'd better take a look.”

“Yep. Leave the horses here.”

They dropped their reins, knowing the well-trained horses would stay pretty close to where they were left. With the night shadows thick around them, Matt and Preacher moved forward, crouching low until they got even closer. Then they dropped to their bellies and crawled toward the voices, using the concealment of sagebrush that was barely more than a foot tall.

Matt spoke some Spanish himself, and as they came closer he began to understand more of what was being said. The men were joking about a
puta
—whore—so there was a woman out here, as unlikely as that seemed. Then one of them said something about a
gringa
. They had found a white woman and either captured or killed her.

Matt had an inkling who the victim might be, and he hoped that she wasn't dead.

Although, if he was correct in his guess, he thought, it would almost serve her right!

No, she didn't deserve to die, he rapidly amended in his head. Being annoying wasn't worthy of a death sentence. But as it was, her actions posed a threat not only to her own life, but to Matt and Preacher as well, because they were going to have to rescue her from whatever trouble she had gotten herself into.

“Please.” The woman's voice rang out clearly in the darkness, although a faint quiver in it revealed the strain she was under. “
Por favor.
My father can pay you.”

His hunch had been right, Matt thought. That was definitely Darcy Garnett up ahead.

And she was in trouble, all right.

A man asked her in thickly accented English, “And who is your
padre
, señorita?”

“His name is John Wilton Garnett.” When silence greeted Darcy's words, indicating that the name meant nothing to her captors, she went on, “He owns one of the biggest newspapers in Boston. One of the biggest newspapers on the whole East Coast.”

“This means he has money?”

Darcy sounded a little exasperated as she answered, “Yes. He has a lot of money.”

“And he will pay to get his
niña
back alive?”

“Of course, he will.” Darcy added under her breath, but still loud enough for Matt to hear, “Unless he considers me more trouble than I'm worth, like he always has.”

The men talked among themselves in low, rapid Spanish, too quietly for Matt to understand any of it. He could see them now, but only as vague shapes in the darkness as they stood on the edge of an arroyo. He thought there were five or six of them, but he couldn't be sure.

Finally the man who had spoken before said to Darcy, “We have decided, señorita. We will take you back to Mexico with us and sell you to your father. You will not be harmed.”

Even Matt could tell that the man was lying about that last part. They might really intend to ransom Darcy back to her father, but she certainly wouldn't be returned untouched.

“We have been up here in Arizona Territory stealing horses,” the man went on, openly admitting that he and his companions were bandits from south of the border. “But I think that you are the true prize we will take back with us.”

One of the other men said something in swift Spanish.

“José wants to know if there is anyone out here with you,” the spokesman translated.

“Yes!” Darcy said, answering too quickly and with too much eagerness to be believed. “I've been traveling with a dozen men . . . bodyguards . . . and they'll be back any minute now.”

The spokesman, who was evidently the only one of the bandits who spoke English, told the others what she'd said. They all laughed.

“We just wanted to see what you would say, señorita. We know you are alone. We watched you for an hour before the sun went down and you made camp here. But it's all right that you lied.”

The sudden crack of an open-handed slap sounded, followed instantly by Darcy's pained gasp. Matt fought down the urge to leap to his feet, draw his gun and start blazing away.

“Just don't do it again,” the bandit said, his voice hard and flat with menace.

He started talking in Spanish again to his companions. After a minute, Preacher touched Matt lightly on the shoulder and jerked his head, indicating that they should back off.

They crawled away from the arroyo, and when they had put enough distance between them and the bandits for it to be safe, Preacher whispered, “They left that herd o' stolen horses off a ways with a coupla hombres watchin' it. The fella who was talkin' to the gal seems to be the boss. He told three of the others to go back and get the herd and bring it here. That means there'll only be three of 'em watchin' the gal for a little while.”

“Best time for us to make our move,” Matt said.

“Yep. We'll whittle down the odds while we got the chance. Once the guns start goin' off, though, the rest of the bunch'll come a-larrupin' just as hard as they can.”

“We'll have to try to be ready for them.”

“'Less'n you want to go back to our horses and ride away. We got Smoke and Luke to think about.”

“And even though we've never met Luke, I feel sure he wouldn't want us to abandon Miss Garnett. I
know
Smoke wouldn't.”

Preacher chuckled.

“That's what I figured you'd say. I'd'a been mighty disappointed if you hadn't. Come on.”

As they started working their way back to the arroyo where Darcy had been captured by the bandits, the orange glow of flames appeared against the night sky. As Matt and Preacher came closer, they could see that the men who had stayed behind had kindled a campfire. They had to be pretty confident that they weren't in any danger from anybody else who might be out here.

That overconfidence might cost them their lives.

Matt and Preacher didn't have to stop and discuss their plans. They had been in too many situations like this before. They knew what needed to be done and how to go about doing it. When they reached a certain point in their approach to the camp they split up, Matt going right and Preacher going left.

Several more minutes went by while the young gunfighter and the old mountain man worked their way into position. From where he was, Matt could see Darcy sitting with her back against her saddle. Her captors had lashed her wrists together, but her feet were still free. Her face was pale and drawn in the firelight, and the fear she had to feel was easy to see on her features.

But anger and defiance were there in her face, too. She had no way of knowing that help was close at hand, but despite that, she wasn't going to give up hope. If something terrible was going to happen to her, she would fight it every inch of the way.

Matt couldn't help but admire her a little.

But he could understand why her newspaper tycoon father might feel like she was more trouble than she was worth, too. He had a hunch Darcy Garnett had been a handful growing up.

The three horse thieves had the look of typical border outlaws, unshaven, hard-bitten men in well-worn charro clothes and battered old sombreros. Each man carried a gun and a knife, and they would be good with the weapons, too. Matt and Preacher had the element of surprise on their side, though.

Matt heard an owl hoot and knew that was Preacher signaling that he was ready.

Just in time, too, because one of the bandits, a stocky man who had pushed his sombrero back so it hung by its neck strap behind his head, walked over to Darcy and proved himself to be the spokesman they had heard earlier by saying, “It'll be a while before those other hombres are back with the horses. I think we should do something enjoyable to pass the time.” He nudged Darcy's left thigh with a booted foot. “What do you think, señorita?”

“I think you should go to hell,” she said through clenched teeth.

The bandit lost his affable air and snarled as he reached down toward her, obviously intending to rip her shirt open.

That was when Matt stood up and said, “I think you should do what the lady told you.”

The bandit jerked upright, whirled around, and clawed at the gun on his hip.

He had just cleared leather when Matt said, “Go to hell,” and squeezed the trigger of the Colt in his hand.

Flame spouted from the muzzle of Matt's gun and drove the slug deep in the bandit's chest. He staggered backwards, tripped and fell, and crashed down halfway on top of Darcy, who let out an involuntary shriek.

At the same time, Preacher's guns roared and another of the bandits doubled over as a pair of bullets punched into his midsection.

That left just one of the men on his feet, and Matt took care of that a split second later as he pivoted smoothly and fired again. The third bandit had gotten his gun out and jerked the trigger as Matt's shot ripped through his body and twisted him off his feet. The bullet from the outlaw's gun whined off harmlessly into the night.

“Get
off
of me!” Darcy cried as she pushed the corpse to the side. Matt heard hysteria in her voice.

The fight wasn't over and he knew it. They would stand a better chance against the five remaining bandits if they didn't have to worry about Darcy doing something loco.

So he pouched his iron, reached down and grasped her arms, and hauled her to her feet. She started to struggle and cry out. Putting his face close to hers, he said, “Miss Garnett. Darcy! It's me, Matt Jensen! Settle down!”

She stopped yelling and said hesitantly, “M-Matt?”

“That's right. It's Matt, and Preacher's here, too. You're all right. Those men are dead.”

“They sure are,” Preacher reported. He had been checking the bodies to make certain. “Problem is, they ain't the only ones out here.”

“The . . . the others,” Darcy said. “Three or four of them . . . they went back to get some horses . . . and some other men.”

Matt nodded and said, “I know. They'll have heard those shots, too, and they won't waste any time getting here.”

“We could try to slip away whilst we got the chance,” Preacher suggested.

“Then we'd have to worry about them being behind us.” Matt shook his head. “We don't need that complication. No, I'd rather go ahead and deal with them here and now.”

“Reckon I feel the same way,” Preacher said. “Just wanted to make sure you did.”

Darcy seemed to have calmed down a little. Matt thought she was rational enough to understand what he was telling her as he said, “You need to take your horse, get down in the arroyo, and follow it away from here. Go at least a mile before you stop. Wait for us there, and if we don't come for you pretty quickly after the shooting stops, you'll know you're on your own again.”

“I . . . I'd rather stay here with you.”

Matt shook his head.

“If you did, and Preacher and I didn't make it, you'd be just as bad off as you were to start with. We're not going to risk getting ourselves killed for that. Do what I told you.”

She tossed her head defiantly and said, “You certainly seem to like giving orders, Mr. Jensen.”

“You were calling me Matt a minute ago.”

“A minute ago you weren't bossing me around.”

Preacher said, “Young lady, we're just tryin' to give you a chance to get outta this mess alive. Now, you best take it, or you're just gonna make things harder for ever'body.”

She sighed. The sound was full of frustration.

“All right,” she said. “Let me get my saddle on my horse.”

“I'll do that,” Matt said. “Preacher, keep an eye out.”

“Already doin' it,” the old mountain man said. “An ear, too.”

It took Matt only a couple of minutes to saddle Darcy's mount. He was going to help her get on the horse, but she pulled away from his hand.

“I can take care of myself,” she told him.

“You keep saying that, but you don't seem to be doing a very good job of it.”

He didn't have to have much light to know that she was glaring at him as she swung up into the saddle.

The banks of the arroyo had caved in here and there. She rode down into the wash at one of those places and started along it, quickly vanishing from sight. Preacher kicked the fire out, then lifted his head and said, “I hear horses comin' fast.”

“That'll be them,” Matt said as he finished thumbing fresh cartridges into his Colt to replace the ones he had fired. He slid a cartridge into the cylinder's sixth chamber, which he usually kept empty so the hammer could rest on it.

He might need that sixth round in the next few minutes.

“We'll split up again,” he said. “Catch them in a cross fire.”

“I hope you ain't plannin' on doin' anything stupid, like givin' 'em a chance to surrender.”

Grimly, Matt shook his head and said, “Not this bunch. They wouldn't take it anyway.”

“Not hardly,” Preacher said.

They moved off in different directions in the brush. Matt dropped to one knee and bent lower to make himself inconspicuous in the shadows. He heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats now, too, as the other bandits raced back to see what all the shooting was about.

It wouldn't take them long to find out.

A few embers still glowed in the remains of the campfire. Those tiny orange beacons gave the other bandits something to aim for as they galloped up. Matt counted five men and figured they had left the herd of stolen horses somewhere nearby. A couple of them called out in Spanish, and when they didn't get an answer, all the men reached for the rifles they carried on their saddles.

Matt stood up and opened fire.

He was about thirty feet away from the nearest bandit, who jerked and toppled off his horse as the suddenly skittish animal danced to one side. Matt heard Preacher's guns roaring and saw muzzle flashes lighting up the night on the far side of the riders. He shifted his aim and triggered two more shots. One of the bandits threw his arms in the air and slid from the saddle.

It was bleak work, but necessary. Matt knew any of those men would have taken great pleasure in killing him and Preacher if he'd had the chance. Probably would have taken his time and made their dying long and agonizing. And as for what they all would have done to Darcy Garnett . . .

Only one bandit was still mounted. In desperation, he wheeled his horse and kicked it into a run along the arroyo. Matt fired after the fleeing man and so did Preacher. The horse didn't break stride, and the rider stayed in the saddle like he was nailed to it.

It would be better not to leave any enemies behind them, Matt thought as he lowered his Colt, but it was doubtful that one man could really pose a threat to them.

The sudden crack of a rifle shot split the night, along with the spurt of flame from the weapon's muzzle. The fleeing bandit cried out and pitched headlong from the saddle.

“What the hell!” exclaimed Preacher.

“I think I know,” Matt said. “Check this bunch. Make sure they're all dead.”

While Preacher was doing that, Matt trotted toward where the fifth bandit had fallen. He called out, “Hold your fire, Miss Garnett! It's Matt Jensen!”

Darcy emerged from the arroyo, carrying her carbine in one hand and leading her horse with the other, while Matt nudged the fallen man over onto his back with a toe. He kept his Colt trained on the bandit the whole time, but there was no need. The way the man's head flopped loosely told Matt that not only had Darcy drilled him, he had broken his neck when he fell, too.

“Is he . . . dead?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “You didn't even go a hundred yards, did you?”

“I thought you and Preacher might need some help. Clearly, you did.”

“If this hombre had gotten away, it wouldn't have made any difference—”

“It might have,” Darcy interrupted. “What if they had even more friends nearby? He could have gone to summon help. Or he might have lurked around in the vicinity and tried to shoot us from a distance.”

Matt had to admit she was right about both of those things, although he considered them unlikely.

“So you went out of sight along the arroyo and waited to see what was going to happen,” he said.

“It worked out all right, didn't it?” she demanded. “I was able to . . . to k—to—”

She dropped the carbine and fainted dead away.

Matt uttered a heartfelt, “Blast it!”

Then he shook his head and bent to help her.

 

 

A mile away, Simon Ford stood tensely, peering into the darkness as if his eyes could pierce that veil and let him know what had happened in the distance.

Beside him, Jesse Clinton hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and said, “That was quite a ruckus, from the sound of it. Two of 'em, in fact.”

“If Matt Jensen and the old man are dead, our plan is ruined,” Ford snapped. “We need to go find out.”

“And if they ain't dead and we go blundering in on top of them, our plan is ruined, too,” Clinton pointed out. “Either way, it's bad. But if they're alive and we wait, we can pick up their trail again in the morning and nothing has to change. We go right on the way we intended. That's the least risky move, Marshal.”

“Don't call me that. I'm not a marshal anymore, you know that.”

Clinton shrugged.

“Sorry. Once a fella's toted a badge, it's hard to forget.”

“How would you know?” Ford said. “You were never a lawman.”

“No . . . but I've crossed trails with a heap of them.”

Clinton left it at that, and Ford didn't push the issue. He was more worried about what might have happened on the trail ahead of them.

“Even if Jensen and Preacher are dead, it might not ruin everything,” he said after a moment's thought. “We might be able to find the trail left by Smoke Jensen and Mordecai Kroll.”

“See?” Clinton said. “We'll handle it, Simon. Whatever comes along, we'll handle it.”

Ford liked the gunman calling him by his given name even less than he liked Clinton addressing him as “Marshal,” but he supposed none of that mattered now. The only important thing was seeing justice done.

What some hired killer called him was nothing.

And so was the soul he risked by throwing in with men such as these.

 

 

“Whoo-ee!” Mordecai said as the second flurry of shots echoed in the distance. “I thought the entertainment was over for the evenin', but it sounds like there's a second act!”

Smoke heard the shots, too, and frowned in concern. He knew that Matt and Preacher were back there somewhere, and it wouldn't surprise him a bit if those two had somehow landed smack-dab in the middle of trouble. Preacher, especially, had a positive genius for that.

Although it was true of Matt and him, too, Smoke thought. Somehow, whatever they did and wherever they went, somebody wound up shooting at them. If not for the fact that all three of them had come through those deadly dustups alive, he might have started to think that they were jinxed....

“What do you reckon that was?” Mordecai went on. “Apaches raidin' some ranch, maybe? Or
bandidos
? One thing's for sure . . . blood was spilled tonight. I can almost smell it in the air.”

“Quit worrying about what you can smell and get some sleep,” Smoke said. “You ought to be tired after all those hours in the saddle.”

“Ain't you ever heard the old sayin', Jensen? ‘A man can rest when he's dead.' I don't plan on that happenin' for a long time yet!”

“How long do you think it'll be before we get to that hideout of yours?”

Mordecai opened his mouth to say something, but he laughed instead as he leaned back against the big rock beside which they had made camp.

“Almost tricked me into sayin' more than I wanted to, didn't you, Jensen? You ain't just slick on the draw. You're slick all the way around. Not slick enough, though. I got all these trump cards in my hand, and I'm playin' 'em one by one. I'm even savin' one of 'em for the last hand. The big casino. Know what I mean?”

Smoke knew.

And the showdown Mordecai referred to couldn't get here soon enough to suit him.

 

 

Darcy woke up to the smell of coffee.

She cracked one eye open but saw nothing but darkness at first. Then she became aware of starlight, mainly because a shape appeared and blocked out some of it.

“I know you're awake,” Matt said. “You were moving around just a minute ago.”

Darcy didn't really remember that, but she was willing to take his word for it. She got her other eye open and saw him hunkered there in front of her with a cup in his left hand.

“You . . . you built a fire for me?” she said. “I didn't think that was safe at night.”

“It ain't,” Preacher said from somewhere nearby. “Had to dig a goldang hole for it so nobody could see it.”

Darcy reached out and wrapped her hands around the cup Matt extended to her. The night was chilly, as nights on the desert always were, and the heat felt good on her fingers.

It felt even better inside her as she sipped the strong, black brew.

“Don't get used to it,” Preacher went on. “I ain't always gonna be in such a considerate mood. And if you're gonna travel with us, you got to do what you're told.”

“So no more rebelling against your pa who never had time for you,” Matt added, “or whatever the hell it is you think you're doing out here.”

“I'm going after a story,” Darcy said. “Just like I was trained to do. Do you mean that about me traveling with you?”

“What else are we going to do with you?” Matt asked, not bothering to hide the note of disgust in his voice. “Now that we know you've been following us, we can't just leave you out here to fend for yourself.”

“I've done a pretty good job of it so far.”

“Until you were kidnapped by a bunch of bandits who intended to rape you and then try to sell you back to your father.”

Her breath caught in her throat for a second. She said, “You don't believe in pulling any punches, do you, Matt?”