The Killing Blow (17 page)

Looking down once more at her backside, Clint put his hands on her hips and drove into her again. This time, he thrust forward until he was buried completely inside of her. His first few pumps were long and slow, easing almost completely out of her before sliding back in. Then, he gave in to his own desire and started thrusting harder.

Rain grabbed onto the tree and watched Clint over her shoulder with wide eyes. Soon, she was moaning and tightening around him once more as she was brought into a second orgasm.

Holding her little body in his hands and feeling her pussy envelop him perfectly, Clint only had to keep thrusting before he felt his own pleasure reach a boiling point. He placed one hand on her shoulder and slid it down her back. By the time his hand came to a rest upon her backside again, he was exploding inside of her.

“Was that good?” she asked while turning around to lean back against the tree.

“The best.”

Rain lifted one leg up to wrap around Clint's waist and pull him to her once more. “I think I can do better.”

Ordell had never felt better in his life.

Even though he was caked in mud from head to toe, felt every muscle he owned burning under his skin, and hadn't had a mattress under him for weeks, he couldn't remember ever feeling better. The dirt smelled better than rosewater to him and the cold of the morning was only beaten by the chill of the night.

Even the blood encrusted into his beard wasn't enough to dampen his spirits. On the contrary, it was more like a mask that had been placed upon him so he could play out his final role. The Indians could paint up their faces for war, but they'd never look as fierce as Mark Ordell wearing his dirty, bloody smile.

His camp was situated under a low rock shelf close to the river. It was cold. It was wet. It was also home to plenty of bugs and lizards, but that only meant it was the sort of place none of the others would think to look for a camp. It was also located perfectly between the other two camps, allowing Ordell to move back and forth so he could keep an eye on Clint, Howlett and those other three Indians. Well, now there were only two.

Ordell grinned a bit wider as he felt the bloody crust on his left cheek crack. Scooting closer to the open end of the rock shelf, Ordell leaned down close to the water so he could get a look at his face. His thick beard was caked with more than just dirt and leaves. Now, there were thick clumps of dried blood as well as a few bits of charred flesh.

As he pulled out some of the bigger pieces, Ordell thought about the shot that had given him that wound. It had come from the one man he'd never intended on being here for this hunt. Ordell could still see Clint Adams taking aim and firing his shot as if the whole thing had been captured like a photograph in his mind.

Feeling that bullet tear through his face had surprised the living hell out of Ordell. It had also been a great reminder of why he hunted in the first place. Although tracking down prey and delivering the killing blow was one of the best things a man could feel, Ordell knew that victory was only made sweeter when there was the danger that he might be killed along the way.

Finding Howlett and those Indians was no work at all. They caught Ordell's eye after just a little bit of looking. Riling them up had been even easier, since Ordell had found a way to make some money in the process.

Preparing his cabin and laying all of his traps had been a labor of love. Ordell thought back fondly to whittling every last one of those stakes while sitting on his porch and watching the sun set. He thought about it even now as he stuck his fingertips into the wound in his cheek.

The gouge in his face nearly went all the way through and Ordell admired Clint's shot the way a fellow carpenter would admire another man's hand-carved dining room table. That wasn't an easy shot to make. Ordell knew because he'd dodged dozens of shots taken by men in the middle of a hunt.

Most men fired their guns as if they were blindly flailing their arms during a saloon fight. Their shots were wild and desperate. Actually, they were pathetic, but Ordell knew all too well that every animal would fall victim to their instincts sooner or later.

Every now and then, however, a man could push through the fear and choke back the urge to run just long enough to win the day. Most men wouldn't even have the guts to keep quiet while threading a needle and sewing up their own face and staring at their reflection in bloody water.

Ordell held back his beard and scrunched his mouth to one side as if he were merely shaving as he pushed his needle through his cheek again and again. Every bit of pain made his eyes sharper and his nose pick up more smells from the air.

Most men couldn't appreciate the smell of blood, especially if it was their own. Ordell, on the other hand, never knew he could run so fast as when he'd felt Clint's shot rip through his face and the smell of blood fill his nostrils. There was even a moment when Ordell had wondered if Clint would be able to chase him down and deliver the killing blow.

Ordell paused as he was about to tie off the last stitch. Finally, he shook his head. Clint might be a hell of a runner and even a hell of a fighter, but he wouldn't be able to close the book on Mark Ordell. Not unless he was able to get a clean shot with that fancy Colt he wore.

Just thinking about going up against Clint Adams on even ground made Ordell gnash his teeth together. Surely, those others had been spreading the word about all the things that had been done to flush them from where they'd been hiding. Clint seemed like the sort who might even sign on to the sob stories spit out by those Indians.

But it had been Josh who'd truly pushed Clint into this mess. That young prick who would've turned on his own uncle seemed to have a use after all. Until this moment, Mark had almost forgotten about the kid. There had been a quick moment of satisfaction when he'd pulled his trigger, but that had passed.

Josh deserved to die. Killing him was just something that needed doing. There had been no honor in it. There was no challenge. It was just a simple case of killing a dirty piece of vermin.

But Clint had come after Mark more than once regarding Josh. For that, Ordell almost wanted to thank the kid for serving at least one use in his miserable, ungrateful life.

“Thanks, kid,” Ordell said under his breath.

The Indians liked talking about ghosts and spirits, but Ordell didn't hear anything that could be a spirit's voice. All he heard was the water flowing over the rocks and his heart beating in his chest.

Josh was gone, so Mark put the kid out of his mind.

Cupping his hands, Ordell dipped them into the water and made certain to scoop up some of his blood in the process. The Indians also talked about the power of blood and how it made a man stronger. They painted their faces with it sometimes.

Drinking down that water, savoring the coppery taste of his blood, Ordell felt his heart beat faster. Apparently some of those savages' superstitions were correct. Ordell decided he would try talking to Clint Adams's ghost once this hunt was over.

The sun's first rays had yet to make it through the trees in the thickest portions of the woods. Even at that early hour, plenty of animals were out and about. Most of those animals were on four legs. Three of the biggest, however, were on two.

Howlett grunted and grumbled under his breath as he struggled to get up and get some water from his canteen. He grunted and grumbled some more as he fixed some coffee. The moment he picked up on the sound of snapping twigs, however, the grumbling stopped and a wide smile crossed his face.

Dropping the kettle and coffee grounds he'd been holding, Howlett snatched up his rifle and aimed at the woods. This time, he didn't grumble one syllable as he shuffled into the trees. When he saw Rain's face, he lowered the rifle and grumbled some more.

“Damn it, girl, I could've killed you.”

“Where's my brother?”

“Crow ain't hardly been around here the last day. He only comes by to eat and let me know what he's found when he goes out scouting.”

Rain's eyes widened a bit with a glimmer of hope. “He's been eating?”

“Sure he has. Next time you come into camp, watch where you're stepping. It took me a good while to set up them sticks just right to let me know when someone gets close.”

“If I could see your traps,” Rain asked, “wouldn't that make them useless?”

Howlett furrowed his brow for a moment and then started waving his hand as if he were swatting at a horsefly. “Goddamnit, just help me set them things up again!”

“I brought a message from Clint.”

“Really? Why didn't he come and talk to me himself instead of just walking away like he did?”

“Because this way Ordell has to watch two camps instead of just one.”

Once more, Howlett's brow furrowed. This time, he seemed to be more pleased with the results. “That's pretty smart. Did you think of that on yer own?”

“No. He said you would be complaining about him not telling you where he went.”

“What's the message, smart-ass?”

 
An hour later, Howlett met up with Clint at a spot less than a mile from Ordell's old cabin. The grizzled man had already gotten used to walking around with his splint and he moved close to his old speed with just a limp to show for it.

Clint waited at the agreed-upon spot with his Colt strapped around his waist as always. Beyond that, he carried his rifle in one hand and a knife strapped to the outside of his boot. When he saw Howlett coming, he asked, “Where's Crow?”

“Hell if I know. That Injun's been worked up for the last day. I think he's wound up tighter than a cheap watch.”

“Then maybe it's best for him to keep his distance.”

“You and I think the same way,” Howlett said. “I'd rather split up the reward money for bringing in that killer with you than I would a red man.”

“That's not exactly what I meant.”

“Still, it's something for you to think about.”

“Were you followed?” Clint asked.

Howlett let out a ragged breath and went through a long process, which ended with him sitting on the edge of a stump. “Who can tell?” he grunted. “I'm too damn tired to care anymore. All I know is that I'm ready for whenever that chicken shit Ordell decides to show his face again.”

“You sure woke up on the right side of the bed this morning.”

“Bed of rocks is more like it, and I'm damn ready to get back to a real bed. What do you think about my offer as far as the reward money goes?”

“Let's just try to get Ordell,” Clint said. “After that, we can discuss what to do when it's over.”

“Make up yer mind quick,” Howlett grumbled as he started walking away. “That ain't the sort of offer that keeps for very long. Why'd you want to see me, anyways?”

“Ordell's hurt. If we're going to close in on him, now's the best time.”

“He's hurt?” Howlett asked as he straightened up to pay attention. “Are you sure about that?”

Clint nodded. “I fired the shot myself. It was yesterday during our little dustup with him and those traps.”

“How bad was he hurt?”

“I don't know for sure. He still got away from me, so it's nothing too serious. Even so, I know I drew blood because there was plenty of it left behind. I was aiming high, so it's got to be on his head or shoulder. Even though it may not have put him down, any wound will stir him up. And when someone gets stirred up—”

“They make mistakes,” Howlett said. “Good thinking. If we work together, we might just be able to catch up to him when he's still good and mad.”

“Which is why I wanted to have a word with you. Perhaps if we start beating the bushes, we can flush him out and take him down. It's definitely better to get this done sooner rather than later. The longer we stay out here, the more we're playing his game.”

“I agree. I sure as hell don't want to give him time to set up more of those traps.”

“You've got to be able to find Crow,” Clint said. “All of us need to work together to get this job done.”

“To hell with that Injun. Let's get started and if he finds us, he can take part. I doubt you'll be able to talk much sense into that one anyways.”

“Fine. You head to the south and I'll head to the north. If we both circle in toward the west, we should meet up.”

“Hopefully, we'll catch Ordell in between us.”

“It's a start.”

“And a damn good one,” Howlett said. “It's a pleasure working with ya rather than against ya, Adams.”

“Hopefully we can swap hunting stories over a beer when this is done.”

“If we both make it through this, the drinks are on me.” With that, Howlett pulled in a breath and got moving to the south. He quickly disappeared as the narrow trail took a turn behind a tall old tree.

Clint watched him go and then started walking in the opposite direction. The trail was a sorry excuse for a path and deteriorated more into dirt tracks between tree stumps. Clint walked for less than twenty minutes before he heard someone moving alongside of him. There were so many trees in that direction that he couldn't tell if it was a man or animal, but whatever it was, it seemed to keep pace with him.

Raising his rifle to his shoulder, Clint aimed in the direction where he'd last heard the sounds and waited.

Crow exploded from the bushes a few yards from where Clint had been aiming. The Indian moved so quickly that Clint wasn't able to adjust his aim before one of Crow's tomahawks was at his throat.