The Violent Peace (11 page)

“It was a mistake getting rid of Harry, Mrs. Binns,” he called. “But it was easy. His likeness will be a whole lot easier to finish,”

Feet thudded to the floor and bedsprings creaked. A moment later, the door was jerked open and Mona was there, her face ravaged by tears as she glared at Steele.

“Leave me something of him,” she pleaded hoarsely.

“Where did they go?” he asked, sliding the photograph backwards and forwards between a finger and thumb.

Mona sagged against the door jamb, emotionally and physically drained. “Up in the mountains. Fuller's Folly.”

Steele eyed her with curiosity as she advanced into the room, holding out her dirt-grimed hands for the photograph.

“What's that, and where?”

She sighed. “A fort. Like a foreign castle. Forty miles up the trail. Built by some loco Englishman called Colonel Fuller.”

“Easy to find?”

A vestige of the old hatred for Steele gleamed in her eyes. “I hope so, for you. They'll kill you for sure.”

Steele put the photograph in her splayed hands and she looked at it a moment before pressing it against her breasts, as if it was the man himself she held. “Maybe,” he replied. “Or I'll kill them. I won't ask you to wish me luck. Just tell me where there's a saddle.”

Mona seemed not to hear him, then blinked and nodded. “In the barn, over to the side of the yard.”

“I’m grateful,” Steele said, moving to the door. He opened it and halted to look back over his shoulder at her. “I'm sorry I killed Harry,” he said. “Least I can do is help you bury him. He's outside in the hearse.”

Mona tried to raise saliva into her mouth, but could not create enough to spit at him. She treated him to a glare of naked hatred. “I don't want anything from you, mister.”

“Guess I can understand that, Mrs. Binns,” he replied softly, and stepped out into the warm night.

He found an old but serviceable saddle in the barn and dragged it outside. Mona was at the end of the building, thrusting a spade into the ground. Steele recalled what hard work it had been to dig a grave for his father. He unhitched the strongest looking horse from the hearse and saddled him. The woman continued to dig the grave without respite.

“Why did you marry the wrong brother, Mrs. Binns?” he asked when he was mounted.

She flicked matted hair out of her eyes and stopped digging for a moment. “Everyone makes mistakes, mister. I know you made at least one.”

“Yeah,” Steele agreed. “And plenty more, I guess.”

Mona's tone became spiteful. “But never one as big as your Ma and Pa.”

In the instant she spoke the last word, Steele came close to raising the presentation rifle and killing the woman. But then reason prevailed and he made allowances for her state of mind. “It's conceivable,” he said, wheeled the horse and heeled it into a fast gallop out of the yard.

JENNIE had covered almost half the distance back to Foothill when she heard two riders galloping towards her. It was a warm night and even though she had taken off the heavy hooded cloak, she was sweating freely. But she would not admit to herself that the greater cause of her discomfort was fear rather than exertion – and she continually rebuked her imagination for conjuring up wraithlike movements among the timber and rock outcrops flanking the trail.

It was not quite so frightening when the trail cut across a flat, featureless area on which her own shadow was the only splash of black against black. But immediately she heard the distant clatter of hooves the fear returned - and was increased by the knowledge that she had nowhere to hide. All she could do was stop and peer ahead into the night, hoping she knew the riders: or that they were strangers who meant her no harm.

For a long time after they crested a rise and rode hard towards her they were merely dark silhouettes. She chewed hard on her lip and the cloak became crumpled and damp with sweat as she kneaded the material with her hands. Then moonlight struck a star and the pent-up breath sighed from her lungs.

“Lawmen, for Christ sake!” she gasped as Lovell and Bishop brought their mounts to a dust-raising halt in front of her. “I thought for a while you were just more trouble.”

Lovell eyed her pretty face and slim body appraisingly. “You in trouble then, Lady?” he asked coolly.

Jennie was apprehensive of his cruel eyes, but forced a grin to her features as she rubbed her flat stomach. “Not that kind, mister, He had other things on his mind.”

“Like what?” Lovell asked sourly.

The girl shot a glance at Bishop, much preferring his youthful good looks and the expression of mild curiosity which cloaked them. But the deputy offered no greeting. Jennie shrugged and returned her attention to the man in the frock coat.

“Lousy bastard made me drive him out to the Binns' place on a hearse for Christ sake.”

Bishop shot a glance at Lovell, and saw the Washington detective slide hurriedly from his saddle. Jennie took a step backwards, but Lovell's long arms reached out and his hands clawed over her shoulders, fingernails digging hard into her flesh through the material of her dress.

“Who?”

Jennie winced. “Who what?”

“Who did you drive out to the farm?”
Lovell demanded.

“You're hurting me, mister,” Jennie complained.

Lovell shook the girl violently, rocking her head back and forth. “Answer the question or you'll get hurt a lot worse.”

Tears squeezed out, of Jennie's eyes. Up close, Lovell's face seemed to hold all the evil in the world. She swallowed hard and tried to speak, but Lovell shook her again, rattling her teeth together.

“Let her go, Lovell,” Bishop instructed softly.

Lovell froze for a split-second and from the stare he fixed upon Jennie's face, she was certain he was going to kill her. But suddenly he hurled her away from him. She stumbled backwards and fell hard to the ground. Lovell whirled, jerking the revolver from its holster. His murderous eyes locked upon Bishop's surprised eyes.

“You giving me orders, deputy?” the city detective demanded shrilly.

Bishop swallowed his shock, knowing that if he had made the mistake of pointing a gun at the man, Lovell would have shot him. “I'm telling you to treat people decent,” he replied softly.

“Decent people get treated decently,” Lovell snarled. “Any woman comes out here with a man ain't decent.”

Jennie clambered painfully to her feet. “What you calling me, mister?” she shrieked. “I didn't come out here because—”

Lovell showed his speed again, side-stepping and pivoting. The revolver swung and smashed viciously across Jennie's face. She fell again, a scream exploding from her throat as blood erupted from a long gash on her cheek. Bishop's right hand streaked for his gun, but he was not fast enough. He halted the movement, abruptly as Lovell's revolver raked around to cover him again.

“Anyone stands in my way, he gets to lie down,” the Washington detective hissed. “And not get up.”

For a sliver of time, it seemed as if the young deputy intended to complete the act of drawing. Lovell's eyes were blazing with fury and his knuckle was white around the trigger. Then the tension drained out of Bishop. He swung a leg over his saddle and dropped to the ground Lovell's expression became scornful as he watched the deputy move towards the injured girl, then stoop and help her up into a sitting position.

Jennie sobbed and the fear was bright behind her tears as she looked across at Lovell. “What he do that for?”

“He just likes hurting things,” Bishop replied softly, grimacing as he saw the jagged flesh of the wound. “What was the name of the man you took out to the Binns place, miss?”

“He said it was Steele,” she replied, and looked again at Lovell as the detective made a sound of anger deep in his throat. “I think he killed Mrs. Binns, Or she killed him – I should be so lucky to have my wishes come true.”

Lovell slid the gun back into his stomach holster and swung up into the saddle, Bishop allowed Jennie's trembling form to rest back on the ground again. Then he stood up and mounted. “Apologies, miss,” he said. “We'd escort you back to town, but we got things to do.”

Lovell wheeled his horse first, and galloped away. Bishop touched his hat and took off in pursuit. Jennie struggled to her feet and used the sleeve of her dress to wipe the blood from her cheek.

“There's just no gentlemen left in the lousy world,” she muttered angrily, then turned and continued the long trek back to town.

Light still spilled from the open doorway of the rundown house in the valley, not extending to the open grave at the end of the bullet-splintered barn. But there was enough moonlight to show up the rectangular pit and mound of fresh earth beside it. Mona emerged from the house, the shotgun cradled in the crook of her arm, and moved wearily towards the new grave. Her gait was slow, but when, she heard distant hoofbeats, she lengthened her stride. She halted at the lip of the pit and discovered fresh tears to squeeze from her red-rimmed eyes as she stared down at the casket containing the body of her lover.

She continued to stand in the same manner for a long, time, until Lovell and Bishop galloped their lathered mounts into the yard. Then she made a sudden movement and the shotgun discharged both its barrels. The lawmen struggled to calm their rearing animals.

Mona's body crumpled over the edge of the grave and thudded on to the lid of the casket. There was a massive crater where her breast had once been. Blood bubbled up to fill it, then overflowed the sides. The shotgun stock splashed into the pool of thick, scarlet liquid.

The two lawmen brought their horses under control and walked the nervous animals over to the edge of the grave. They looked down at the ghastly sight, Lovell dispassionately, Bishop with horror.

“They reckoned she was pretty cozy with her brother-in-law,” Lovell said.

“A man like you wouldn't understand a love like that,” Bishop rasped, turning away from the gruesome mutilation of the dead woman.

“I understand something about this,” Lovell muttered.

“What's that?”

“It's one more death Adam Steele has to answer for,” Lovell snarled, his eyes raking the surface of the yard. “Hey … there's some horse tracks over there.”

He led the way to the corner of the house.

"You're not wrong,” Bishop said wryly. “Looks like there was a stampede through here,” Lovell mused, his cruel eyes rising from the churned-up ground to peer across the pastureland spreading westwards from the rear of the house.

“Horse soldiers, Lovell,” Bishop explained. “It's not only Adam and us playing tag out here.”

Lovell stared at the deputy suspiciously. 'What do you know that I don't?”
he demanded.

“What I found out by using my tongue instead of my gun,” Bishop replied, and this time it was he who was first to heel his horse forward, chasing out over the upgrade of the valley side.

Lovell's features formed into a sneer as he set off in pursuit.

ED Binns yawned, then grimaced as he swept his dull eyes over the sleeping forms of his three partners. He stood up and stretched his arms above his head, seeking to ease the ache in his muscles. Then be glanced over the campsite and the surrounding terrain, the whole bathed in blue-tinted moonlight. Carstairs, Logan and Monahan slept, fully dressed, on the grassy bank of a fast-flowing stream. Binns' sentry position was in the shadows of an ancient silver birch tree with gnarled branches spreading out in every direction. The horses were ground hobbled on the far side of the camp, ready saddled in case a fast getaway was forced upon the wanted men.

To the north, on the other side of the stream, the country fell away in a series of broken steps almost denuded of vegetation until it leveled out into a vast expanse of forest. In all other directions, the terrain was gently undulating, carpeted with lush grass and featured here and there stands of timber or clumps of thick brush.

It was from a stand of mixed timber that Lieutenant Carey and the troopers under his command watched the actions of the bored sentry. They saw him make a circuit of the camp, scratching his armpit as he dragged his feet. Then they watched as he halted and pulled a watch from his vest pocket. They were too far away to see the smile of relief which spread across his unintelligent features.

Adam Steele, his face and clothes dripping with water, was close enough to see Binns' pleasure that his stint of guard duty was over. He was crouched among the reeds under the bank of the stream, his body braced against the tug of the rushing water, the Colt Hartford resting across his shoulder well clear of the surface. He had waded across, and taken up his position beneath the overhanging branches of the birch, while Binns was making his inspection tour of the camp.

Now he heard the whispered conversation of the men.

“Snap out of it, Jack,” Binns hissed. “Your turn.”

Logan groaned, sat up suddenly and raised his wooden club. Then he recognized Binns and groaned again. “All quiet?”

“’cepting for the frigging river,” Binns muttered, flopping down on to the blanket still warm from Logan's body.

Logan stood up,
tugging at the crotch of his pants, and glanced distastefully at the white water of the stream. “Crazy idea,” he complained to himself as he ambled over to the tree and sat down, leaning his back against the trunk. “Ain't nobody but us in this neck of the woods.”

He didn't sound convinced of the fact, and clutched the club in both hands across his bulbous stomach. After a minute or so, his eyelids began to droop.

Steele snaked his body up on to the bank of the stream, the rush of water masking any slight sound he made. He glanced up at the sky and gave a small nod of satisfaction as he saw scattered clouds scudding together to form a heavy bank in the west. The star-dotted area between the leading edge of the cloud and the bright-near-sphere of the moon narrowed as he watched.

Lieutenant Carey was also watching the sky, viewing it through a tracery of leaves at the edge of the timber.

“We going to go and get them, sir?” the sergeant whispered, leaning forward to stroke the nose of his horse.

“Now's as good a time as any, I think,” Carey replied, dropping his gaze to the campsite at the foot of the slope, some three hundred feet away. “Be pitch black before long - hey, what's that?”

The sergeant and those troopers who had a view of the camp, craned forward to see what had caught the lieutenant's attention.

Steele had raised himself on to all fours, then into a stooped shoulders crouch. He moved forward on a curved course, putting the trunk of the tree between himself and the dozing Logan. At the tree, he straightened and side-stepped around it. Logan sensed, rather than heard, the intruder. He opened his eyes wide and looked up, his mouth dropping open to shout a warning to the others. But the rifle was already flashing down towards him. Steele abruptly changed the direction of the blow and the barrel lashed across Logan's exposed throat. A low gasp erupted from the man. Then his head smashed back against the tree trunk and he slumped forward into, unconsciousness.

Steele grasped one limp arm and dragged Logan's unresponsive form towards the bank of the stream.

It was this act which Carey saw, and he continued to watch in stunned silence for another few moments, until Steele and his prisoner disappeared over the bank. Then he quickly turned his head around to stare at the sergeant, and jerked his rifle from the saddle boot.

“Let's go, for Christ sake!” he rasped, thudding his heels into the flanks of his horse.

He burst clear of the trees and the troopers needed no order from the sergeant to follow him. The downward slope gave added impetus to the charge and it was the vibrations of the ground under the thundering hoofbeats, rather than the sound, which roused the sleeping men.

“It's the frigging army again!” Binns yelled, leaping to his feet and grabbing his rifle as he stared in awe at the troopers streaming towards the camp.

“Stay and watch if you like!” Monahan rasped, springing up, rifle in hand, and racing in pursuit of Carstairs, who was first to swing up into his saddle.

“Where the hell's Logan?” Binns roared, breaking into a run that was fast enough to overhaul Monahan.

“More pressing problems, old son,” Carstairs replied, ducking as the charging troopers sent a volley of shots high over the campsite. His heels dug hard into the flanks of his mount and the animal snorted and flung itself into a full gallop from a standing start.

He snapped out a revolver and fired over his shoulder. Binns and Monahan swung into their saddles at the same time, held back a second to fire at the soldiers, then galloped off in the wake of the Englishman.

The corporal cartwheeled from his horse, blood pumping from his throat. A trooper watched the flailing arms and legs of the dead man in horror, then snarled and sent a bullet low towards the trio ahead. It bit a fragment of flesh out of Binns' right ear and the injured man shouted aloud, more from surprise than pain.

“High, for effect!” Carey raged. “We need them alive.”

“What about the other one, sir?” the sergeant asked breathlessly, veering his horse in close to the galloping mount, of the angry lieutenant.

“Later, sergeant!” Carey snapped, trying to urge more speed from his horse as the wanted men were lost to sight over the crest of a low hillock.

On the far side of the rise, Carstairs led Monahan and Binns diagonally down a gentle slope and into a gully with sheer sides and a rocky bed. The hoofbeats of their horses resounded tumultuously, directing the troopers towards the mouth of the gully even though they could not see their quarry.

The gully cut a tortuous course through the centre of a hill, then widened out into a broad ravine with many other gullies leading off it. The ground underfoot was uneven, scattered with small rocks and larger boulders left by some primeval natural upheaval. The three men left no tracks as they turned sharply into one of the side gullies. And suddenly, as if their horses had spread wings and soared into thin air, the sound of the hoofbeats ceased.

So that when Carey burst out into the ravine he was greeted by an empty silence. Conscious of the danger to horses and men from the scattered rocks in addition to bullets from sharpshooters firing from cover, he signaled a halt.

“Looks like we lost them, sir,” the sergeant said, spitting.

“Men just don't disappear, sergeant!” Carey snapped, raking his eyes over the many escape routes from the ravines. “Good chance a lot of these clefts are dead ends. Split the men into groups of four. Move slow and easy - and I want at least one of those civilians left alive.”

A slow grin spread across the red face of the non-com. And there was a muttering of approval from the troopers as they divided themselves into groups. The lieutenant had changed the orders - offering his men the chance to kill two of the fugitives. They turned their mounts towards the gully entrances, rifles cocked and ready to spit death.

It was Carey himself, riding slightly ahead of three troopers, who entered the cleft into which the quarry had disappeared. But neither the officer nor the enlisted men noted that one of the patches of heavy shadow against the rock face was, in fact, the mouth of a cave. Deep inside this, Binns made soft cooing noises to the horses as Carstairs and Monahan crouched down in front of him, sighting their rifles out into the gully.

The horse soldiers clattered by and Monahan let out pent-up breath in a soft sigh. Carstairs' eyes glinted at him warningly. Monahan grimaced and resumed his concentration across the cave. Less than a minute had gone by before the four blue uniformed men rode back the way they had come. Carey's voice floated into the cave, the confined space giving it a ghostly tone.

“Let's hope the bastards rode into one as short as this,” he said. “There's just no way out.”

Carstairs continued to aim towards the opening for as long as he could hear the thud of hooves against rock. Then he swung back on his haunches, rested his rifle on the ground and sat down. His teeth gleamed in a self-satisfied smirk as he looked at the others.

“What you reckon happened to Logan, Bill?” Binns asked, continuing to caress each horse in turn.

“Perhaps he had to piss at the wrong time, old son,” the Englishman replied, stretching out on the damp ground.

Monahan relaxed, resting his back against the cave wall. “Probably spotted the damn army and took it on the lam without warning us, the crud,” he said, disgruntled.

Binns considered both answers for a few moments, Then: “How we gonna hole up in this place?” he asked.

Carstairs' voice was sleepy. “I saw one of them go down. Before long, I think a detail of the troop will double back to check on him. After that, we can move out. Until then, I intend to catch up on my sleep which was so rudely interrupted.”

“Who's gonna keep watch?” Binns asked.

Monahan's chin was resting on his chest and he gave a low snore.

Carstairs yawned. “Frank seems to be asleep already, old son. Wake us if you see anything out there.”

Binns flung down the reins of the horses, snatched the rifle from his saddle boot and ambled reluctantly towards the mouth of the cave. It's Logan's turn, goddamnit!” he growled.

“Logan is apparently otherwise engaged, old son,” Carstairs pointed out drowsily.

Binns spat out of the cave mouth. It hit the rock as just another spot of moisture, for the cloud bank had now completely covered the sky and begun to drop the first wet promises of a downpour.

It was also raining on the dead corporal slumped on the slope above the campsite; on the mounted figure of Adam Steele; and the helpless form of Jack Logan.

Steele had used the lariat from Logan's own saddle to bind the unconscious man tying his arms close to his sides and clamping his legs together at the knees and ankles. Logan remained unconscious as Steele used the remainder of the rope to suspend his prisoner, upside-down, from a branch of the tree extending out over the rushing stream.

The rain was moving in from the west - the direction from which the stream ran - and Steele adjusted the rope so that Logan's head was only some six inches above the white water. Then, his heavily stubbed-face set in an expression of indifferent detachment, he retrieved his horse and mounted. He sat patiently, waiting for Logan to return to his full senses, and watching as the level of the water rose at least two inches. It was cold spume lashing against this face which accelerated Logan's plunge into horrified awareness. His eyes bulged from his blood red face as he stared across the angry water towards Steele.

The rain came down harder, driven by a keen wind. Logan opened his mouth to plead for mercy, but a distant thunderclap masked his words. Steele waited for the sound to die away. But he had to raise his voice to be heard above the spatter of rain and roar of rushing water.

“Sorry I can't hang around with you,” he said coldly. “But this, animal is a little skittish, Best to get him out of the area before the storm breaks.”

He jerked on the reins, turning the animal towards the west, then heeled him forward. He heard the start of Logan's terrified scream, but another crash of thunder blanketed the sound. The horse leapt forward into a gallop.

Logan snapped his mouth tight closed as water splashed into it.