The Loner: Dead Man’s Gold (8 page)

A few minutes later, Father Jardine walked slowly toward the church. He had to detour around the body of Sheriff Lipscomb, which still lay facedown in the street. No one had yet dared to venture out and retrieve it.

Father Jardine swallowed as he came to a stop and looked at the door, which still stood open a few inches even though the hand holding the gun had been withdrawn. “Hello?” he called tentatively. “Hello in there? It’s Father Jardine.”

The gravelly voice came from the dim interior. “What do you want, padre? You were supposed to send Morgan down here, or we’re gonna kill the girl.”

Father Jardine sounded utterly miserable as he said, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Morgan is…gone.”

“Gone! What the hell do you mean by that?”

“He…he got on his horse and rode away. He said he wasn’t going to get himself killed over a woman he met only two days ago.”

It was true that The Kid had swung up onto the buckskin’s saddle and galloped out of Las Cruces, heading west toward the Rio Grande. The church didn’t have any windows in the wall facing the street, only the double doors, but just in case the men inside had found some way to keep an eye on him, he wanted it to look like he was lighting a shuck out of there. He had explained all that to Father Jardine before he rode out, along with what he wanted the priest to do.

Someone inside the church pushed the door open even more. An ugly, beard-stubbled face glared out at Father Jardine over the barrel of a gun. The man stayed back far enough so that if anybody outside was trying to draw a bead on him, they wouldn’t be able to, but Father Jardine could see him.

“Morgan left? Ran out just like that?”

“I’m afraid that’s right. So you see, it won’t do you any good to threaten Dr. Dare now. You can let her go, along with Father Horatio.”

“Let her go?” the man repeated. “You see that dead lawdog layin’ in the street, padre? My pards and me are gonna be on the run! The girl’s goin’ with us, just to make sure nobody hereabouts gets any ideas about puttin’ together a posse to come after us.”

“No one will molest you,” Father Jardine said. He held out his hands imploringly. “You’ll be allowed to leave Las Cruces, if you’ll just release Dr. Dare and Father Horatio.”

The man laughed. It was a rough, unpleasant sound. “Who’s gonna stop us if we take ’em with us?” he demanded. “Who’s gonna get in our way?”

Father Jardine had no answer for that. But he had to keep the man talking anyway. He glanced up…then quickly began praying in a loud voice, so that the killer inside the church would think that he had just been casting his eyes toward Heaven, instead of what he was actually doing.

Which was looking at the roof and waiting for Kid Morgan to show up.

The Kid had circled wide around the settlement, then approached the church directly from the rear. There were no windows back there, either, so he doubted that the three gunmen holed up in the church would see him coming. He was sort of counting on that, in fact. They had probably barred the back door after sneaking in that way.

The church had
vigas
, ceiling beams that protruded out from the adobe wall just below the red tile roof. The Kid uncoiled his lariat and shook out a loop. He wasn’t much of a hand with a rope, but he had been practicing. If Father Jardine could keep the killers occupied, maybe it wouldn’t take too many tosses of the lariat to snag something that would hold his weight, The Kid thought.

As a matter of fact, the loop caught on one of the vigas on the third throw. The Kid pulled the lariat tight, hauling down hard on it to check how sturdy the beam was. It didn’t budge. He took off his hat and boots and dropped them on the ground next to the buckskin. Then he carefully pulled himself up so that he was standing on the saddle. Might as well not climb any farther than he had to, he told himself.

The adobe walls of the church looked smooth, even close up, but there was just enough texture to them to give his feet some purchase through his socks. He hung on to the rope and planted a foot against the wall, then braced himself and stepped off the saddle with the other foot. The strain on the muscles in his arms and shoulders was painful, but he gritted his teeth and walked up the wall, pulling himself hand over hand up the rope at the same time.

It took him several minutes to reach the roof. He hoped Father Jardine had the gift of gab and could keep those killers distracted. He hoped as well that the men wouldn’t shoot the priest. Surely they weren’t loco enough to gun down a man of God.

But they had invaded a church and taken a woman and another priest prisoner, The Kid reminded himself, and had followed that outrage by murdering a lawman in cold blood. Given that evidence, he had to assume those hombres were capable of just about anything.

Father Jardine had known the risks, though, and had been willing to go along with The Kid’s plan if it meant that they might be able to save Annabelle’s life. The Kid didn’t see any other way to do that.

He reached up, grabbed one of the roof tiles, and hauled himself up until he could get a foot onto the viga where the rope was attached. He pushed himself the rest of the way onto the roof and sprawled flat on the tiles, which were hot from the sun. It was uncomfortable, he was out of breath, and his muscles trembled from the effort he had just put them through. He rested for a minute or so then crawled toward the roof’s peak.

The bell tower was at the front of the church. That was his destination. He crawled part of the way, then stood up and catfooted toward it, making as little noise as possible. He heard Father Jardine praying loudly in the street in front of the building. The priest was playing his part to the hilt, The Kid thought with a grim smile. The three gunmen would be less likely to hear him moving around up there with Father Jardine carrying on like that.

The tower stuck up about five feet from the roof, then was open on all four sides except for the wooden pillars that supported its red tiled roof over it. When The Kid reached the tower, he looked over the wall and saw the big, heavy bell hanging from a crossbeam. A thick rope was connected to a metal ring on top of the bell and then ran through a pulley arrangement and dangled toward the ground, so that the local priest or whoever he designated for the task could stand down there and ring the bell by pulling on the rope.

There was a narrow ledge inside the tower. A man could stand on it and clean the bell. A ladder led down from the ledge. That was The Kid’s path into the church.

He pulled himself up and over the wall, then dropped carefully onto the ledge. He didn’t want to fall, and he didn’t want to lose his balance and have to grab the rope or the bell to steady himself. That would cause the bell to ring, and the clamor would warn the gunmen that somebody was up there. The Kid climbed down the ladder toward the little room at the base of the tower.

He paused as he heard the front door slam and then angry voices floated upward.

“Damn it, Lew, what’re we gonna do now? You said Morgan’d come down here to save the girl!”

“I figured he would,” replied the gravelly voice that belonged to the killer called Lew Jackson. “I didn’t know he was such a gutless coward.”

The Kid’s jaw tightened. Jackson could think whatever he wanted; soon, he would know different.

The third man said, “Why the hell did you have to go and shoot Lipscomb? If they catch us, they’ll hang us for killin’ a lawman!”

“Like they weren’t gonna hang you for killin’ that woman back in Texas?” Jackson shot back. “And you, Chuck, you killed two guards when you busted out of jail in Kansas. Let’s face it, we’ve all had the hangman waitin’ for us for a long time, and he ain’t got us yet. He won’t this time, either.”

“I still don’t see why we had to try to even the score for Culhane and them other two, to start with,” one of the men complained.

“Because they would’ve done it for us,” Jackson insisted.

“You can believe that if you want to, Lew, but I ain’t convinced of it.”

The third man said, “It’s too late to argue about that part of it now. What are we gonna do to get out of here?”

“Kill the girl and the priest,” Jackson said. “Then we’ll set the church on fire. That’ll keep the townsfolk busy while we’re makin’ our getaway.”

“The church is adobe. It ain’t gonna burn.”

“The insides of it will, especially if we throw some kerosene around. I saw a can of it they use for the lanterns. It’s over there in that little room under the bell tower. Go get it, Chuck.”

The Kid looked down. Sure enough, among several items being stored in the room below him was a large can of kerosene. He grimaced as he heard footsteps approaching the open door of the room.

“Bring the girl over here,” Jackson ordered as Chuck stepped through the doorway underneath The Kid.

He didn’t have time to climb the rest of the way down the ladder. All he could do was draw his gun and let go of the ladder, falling the rest of the way.

He landed on Chuck, who let out a startled yell as The Kid’s weight unexpectedly crashed into him. The collision drove Chuck to the floor. The Kid chopped down at his head with the heavy revolver and felt it crunch satisfyingly against the gunman’s skull.

Then he rolled into the doorway as Jackson and the other man shouted in alarm and opened fire on him. Bullets whipped through the air above him and knocked chunks from the adobe walls on both sides of the door.

Lying on his belly, The Kid triggered two shots and saw one of the men go stumbling backward as the slugs hammered into him. The Kid had no way of knowing if it was Jackson or the other man. The survivor stopped shooting and ducked away as The Kid snapped a shot at him. Crouching, the man ran between two pews toward the other side of the sanctuary.

The Kid scrambled to his feet and looked around for Annabelle and Father Horatio. He spotted them lying on the floor near the altar. Their captors had tied and gagged them, but other than that, they appeared to be unharmed.

A shot blasted and a bullet burned through the air next to The Kid’s ear as he started toward the prisoners. He had to duck between two of the pews himself. Another slug chewed splinters from the top of one of the long benches.

“Morgan, you son of a bitch!” The voice had such a rough rasp to it that it almost made The Kid’s ears hurt to listen to it. That would be Lew Jackson, he thought, remembering the way the unlucky Sheriff Lipscomb had addressed the man. “Why wouldn’t you face us like a man?”

“Because you didn’t deserve it!” The Kid called back. “Anybody who would threaten a woman and a priest is lower than a dog!”

“Yeah, well, I’ll kill ’em both after I’ve blowed a hole in your mangy hide! What do you think about that?”

The Kid figured Jackson was on the move. That was why the man was yelling, to cover up the sounds of his movements. The Kid slid underneath the pews and started crawling toward the front of the church.

He heard frantic, muffled cries coming from Annabelle and Father Horatio and suddenly realized that Jackson might try to hurt them to lure him out into the open. He rolled into the aisle and surged to his feet just in time to see that Jackson had gotten that can of kerosene from the tower room and was splashing it on the floor around the altar, including the two prisoners.

“Jackson!” The Kid shouted as the sharp reek of the fuel bit into his nose.

Jackson whirled around and flung the half-empty can at him. The Kid ducked to keep it from braining him. That gave Jackson the chance to yank his gun out and blaze away. The Kid flung himself forward, diving to the floor as he triggered a round at the killer.

Annabelle screamed through her gag, and the next second The Kid heard a terrible
whoosh
! He scrambled to his feet and saw that Jackson had managed to light the kerosene. Blue and yellow flames raced across the floor. They had already reached Father Horatio, who writhed and shrieked as the fire ignited his kerosene-soaked robe and engulfed him.

The Kid dashed toward Annabelle catching only a glimpse of Jackson. He emptied his gun at the fleeing figure, then dropped it and reached down to grab Annabelle and snatch her up just before the flames reached her. Wrapping his arms around her, he ran clear of the kerosene.

Jackson was gone. The Kid didn’t know what had happened to the killer and didn’t care. All that mattered at the moment was getting Annabelle out of the church. Her clothes were covered with kerosene, and it would only take a spark to set them ablaze.

He burst out the front door of the church. Father Jardine was waiting there anxiously. “Dear God in Heaven!” the priest exclaimed. “Is she—”

“She’s all right,” The Kid said. He set the half-conscious Annabelle on her feet. “Hold her up.” He pulled the Bowie knife from the sheath on his left hip and cut the cords that bound her feet together. “Now get her away from here!” he told Father Jardine. “The church is on fire, and she’s soaked in kerosene! Get those clothes off of her!”

“But…but I can’t…it wouldn’t be…”

“No time for modesty, padre. Move!”

With an arm around Annabelle’s waist, Father Jardine helped her stumble down the street, away from the church. Smoke came from inside the building. The Kid ran back in and grabbed his Colt from the floor. There was nothing he could do for Father Horatio, who was now just a burned husk. The man he’d shot was dead, and so was Chuck, he saw when he checked on the man in the room at the base of the bell tower. That blow from the gun had crushed Chuck’s skull.

That left Jackson, and there was no sign of the gravel-voiced man. He must have decided that it made more sense to cut his losses and get away from there.

Coughing from the smoke, The Kid hurried back outside and found the street thronged with people. “Get a bucket brigade going and wet down these other buildings!” he shouted at them. “Keep that fire from spreading!”

Father Jardine came up to him. “Where’s Father Horatio?”

The Kid just shook his head. Father Jardine covered his face with his hands for a moment and groaned.

Before the priest could start praying again, The Kid asked, “Where’s Annabelle?”