West Of Dodge (Ss) (1996) (23 page)

Jim Thorne had recognized him for what he was at first sight. Deceptively shy, good-looking, and not yet twenty, Lonnie Mason had seemed a quiet, inoffensive boy to Angela. Jim Thorne had seen at once that the man was a killer.

Several times he had stopped by the ranch, talked with Angela, and in his eyes a veiled taunt for Jim. He had heard of Jim Thorne, for while Thorne had killed but one man, he had been a Ranger in Texas, and he had won a reputation there. And a reputation was bait for Lonnie.

It had come unexpectedly. Some stage company stock had drifted, and Thorne had gone with Fred Barlow to find it. They had come upon Lonnie and another man with a calf down and an iron hot ... a Barlow calf.

Lonnie had grabbed for his gun, incredibly fast, but Jim Thorne had not forgotten what he had learned on the Neuces. Lonnie went down, shot through the heart, and one of the stranger's bullets cut Barlow's belt before Thome's guns saved the rheumatic elder man's life.

Angela was profoundly shocked. Jim would never forget the horror in her eyes when he rode into the ranch yard with the bodies over their saddles, en route to the sheriff.

She would listen to his explanations, but they never seemed to get through to her. It was incredible that Lonnie had been a thief, ridiculous that he might be a killer. Jim Thorne had simply been too quick to shoot. She had known this would happen if he continued to wear a gun. Fred Barlow had tried to explain, but all she could remember was that her husband had killed two men, one of them that soft-voiced boy with the girlish face.

They argued about it several times and Jim had become angry. He said things he should not have said. He declared she was no fit wife for a western man. To go back east if that was how she felt. It was said in anger, and he had been appalled to return one day to find her gone.

Low clouds, heavy with their weight of rain, hung above Haystack when he skirted the mountain and rode into Rain Canyon. Taking the high trail above the roar of runoff water, he cut back into the hills. The dun was mountain-bred and used to this. Thunder rolled down the canyons, crashing from wall to wall like gigantic boulders rolling down a vast marble corridor. Ponderous echoes tumbled among the stern-walled mountains.

The pines were no longer green, but black with rain. The dun plodded on, and squinting his eyes against the slanting rain, he stared ahead, watching for the saddle he must cross to West Foric.

When Jim Thorne reached the saddle, the rain was sweeping across in torrents. On either side loomed the towering peaks of more than ten thousand feet each. The saddle was itself over eight thousand feet, and at this point was almost bare of timber, rain blackening the boulders and falling in an almost solid wall of water.

Pushing on, Jim watched the lightning leaping from peak to peak, and striking the rocky slopes with thunderous crashes. Rain pounded on his shoulders until they were bruised and sore, and several times the dun tried to turn away from the pelting rain, but Jim forced the horse to move on, and soon the saddle was crossed and they began the descent.

From an open place in the timber, Jim Thorne looked over toward Halfmoon. The country between was an amazing spider web of broken canyons and towering peaks. It was a geological nightmare, the red rocks streaked with rain and the pines standing in somber lines, their sum barrels like racked guns against the dull slate gray of the sky and the surrounding rock. He pushed on, and the dun had an easier trail now, picking its way surefooted down the mountain.

The Ottens would have slower going of it, for they must go around, and knowing the country less well, they would be picking their way with care. Suddenly he saw a deep crack in the earth on his right. Swinging the dun, he walked the horse down through the pines and found* the narrow trail that led to the canyon bottom.

Below him there was a tumbling mass of roaring white water, along the edge of which the trail skirted like an eyebrow. The dun snorted, edged away, and then, at his gentle but persistent urging, put a tentative hoof on the trail, starting down. A half hour later the trail left the gorge and slanted up across the mountain, and then around through a small park between the hills, and when he drew up again he was in thick pines above Halfmoon.

Finding several pines close together that offered shelter from the downpour, Jim Thorne slid to the ground, and removing the bit, hung on the nose bag with a bait of grain. Leaving the dun munching the grain, he worked his way along through the trees and looked down on the high mountain park.

There was the old cabin as he had remembered it, a long, low building with a stable and corrals some fifty yards away. He squatted on his heels against the bole of a tree and built a smoke. The rain had dwindled away to a fine mist, and he waited in the growing dusk, watching the trail.

It was almost dark when he saw them coming. Six riders and several stolen horses loaded down with packs. They had taken time out to loot the stage station before firing it. With his field glasses he studied their faces, looking first at Angela. She looked white and drawn, but defiant. One of the men pulled her down off of the horse and took her inside. The others stripped the horses of their saddles and turned them into a corral.

There was but one door to the cabin, and no windows. There were portholes for defense, but they offered no view of the interior. There was only one means of entering the cabin, and that was right through the front door.

He sat down on the edge of the hill and studied the scene with cold, careful eyes. He knew what he was going to do. It was what he had to do--go in through that door. And quickly . . .

Angela Thorne rubbed her wrists and stared around the long room.

Along both sides of the opposite end were tiers of bunks, two high, and wide. Several were filled with tumbled, unwashed bedding. A bench was tipped over at the far end, and there were muddy boots, bits of old bridles, a partially braided lariat, and various odds and ends lying about. The air was hot and close, and smelled of stale sweat.

Frazer was bending over the fire, warming up some beans in a greasy pot. Dave Otten, a darkly handsome man with a wave of hair above his brow, had pulled off his boots. He grinned at her from the nearest bunk, his hands clasped behind his head.

It had been Dave who had grabbed her when she refused to reply to his opening remarks, and Barlow had struck his hand away.

One of the others had knocked Barlow down and started kicking him. Dave had left her and walked over and joined the kicking. It had been slow, methodical, utterly brutal. Ed Hunter had come to the door at her scream, and had wheeled and rushed for the stable. . . . Ben Otten had walked to the door, lifted a gun, and deliberately shot him down.

Then he had walked outside, and a moment later there was another shot.

By that time Barlow was lying on the plank floor, his face a bloody wreck, all life gone.

They forced her up on a horse. Through the open door of the station she could see two of them shoveling embers out of the stove, dumping them on the floor and piling them* under the curtains. Jude set the stock loose as the roof of the building, despite the rain, went up in a rush of flame. On the way back to his horse he picked up a burning shingle and tossed it into the stagecoach.

Dave Otten laughed as he watched the flames. He was still laughing as they set out on the trail that led into the mountains.

Now Ben Otten slowly rolled a smoke and watched his brother stretch out on the bunk. "Dave," he said slowly, "you get them horses saddled come daybreak. We're takin' out."

Dave rolled up on his elbow. "Ain't no need, Ben," he protested. "Who'd figure it was us? Anyway, what could they prove?"

Jude rolled his tobacco in his jaws and spat expertly at the fire. "Folks won't need to prove nothin'," he said. "They'll know it was us, an' they'll come. Ben's right."

"If you are wise," Angela said suddenly, "you'll give me a horse and let me go right now. My husband will be coming after you."

Dave turned his head and looked at her with lazy eyes. "Never figured you for married."

"You'd better let me go," she repeated quietly.

Ben Otten lighted his cigarette. "We ain't worried by no one man. But folks get riled up when you mess with their womenfolks. It's them in Whitewater that worries me."

She sat very still. Ben Otten was the shrewd one. If only she could make him see ... "My husband will know where I am. By now he has found the station burned. He will know what happened."

Dave chuckled, that lazy, frightening chuckle. "Ain't likely. Left him, didn't you? I heard some talk betwixt you an' Barlow. Didn't know what it meant until you said you was married."

"I left him a note."

Ben Otten was watching her. He seemed to be convinced she was not lying. "Better hope he don't roller you."

In desperation she said, "He can take care of himself. He was a Ranger in Texas."

Otten's back stiffened and he turned on her. "What was his name?"

She lifted her chin. "Jim Thorne."

A fork clattered on the hearthstone. Frazer put down the pot and got up. He didn't look well. "Ben, that's him. That's the feller I was tellin' you about. He kilt Lonnie Mason."

Nobody spoke, but somehow they were impressed. Despite her fears she felt a wild hope. If they would only let her go! Let her ride away before Jim could get here ... for she suddenly realized with a queer sense of guilt that he would come, he would not hesitate.

She saw his face clearly then, cool, quiet, thoughtful.

The tiny laugh wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the little wry smiles, the tenderness in his big, hard hands.

"He done a good job." That was Silent Otten. The oldest one except for Ben, the one who never talked. "Lonnie was a dirty little killer."

"But fast," Frazer said. "He was fast. An' Baker was with him."

He squatted again by the fire.

Ben Otten drew on his cigarette. "Maybe she's right," he said. "Maybe we better let her go."

Dave came off the bunk, his eyes ugly. "You crazy?" His voice was hoarse. "She's mine, not yours! I ain't a-lettin' her go."

Ben turned his black eyes toward Dave and for a long minute he looked at him. "You forgettin' who got us into this mess?" he asked softly. "It was you, Dave. If'n you'd kept your hands off her, we'd still be safe here, an' no trouble. I'm gettin' so I don't like you much, Dave. It was you make us leave Mobettie, too. You an' women."

"She'd tell off on us," Jude Otten said. "Come daybreak we better get shed of her. They'd never prove nothin' then."

Ben Otten frowned irritably. The idea of anybody proving anything angered him. They would not try to prove. They would decide, and there would be a necktie party. He drew on the last of his smoke. No chance for--

The door opened and the lamp guttered, then the door closed and they all saw the tall man standing inside. He had rain-wet leather chaps on, and crossed belts. Under his slicker something bulked large. With his left hand he lifted his hat just a little, and Angela felt a queer little leap in her throat.

"You boys played hob," Jim Thorne said quietly.

"It was you that played hob," Ben said, "comin' here."

"Got the difference." Jim Thome's voice was quiet. But as he spoke the muzzle of the sawed-off four-shot Roper tilted up. "You boys like buckshot?"

Frazer was on his knees. He came in range of the gun. So did Ben and Jude. Frazer looked sick and Jude sat very quiet, his hands carefully in view.

"So what happens?" Ben asked quietly.

"I'm takin' my wife home," Thorne said quietly. "The rest is between you boys an' the town."

"You're takin' nobody." Dave rolled over and sat up, and his .44 was in his hand. "Drop that shotgun."

Jim Thorne smiled a little. He shook his head.

Ben Otten's eyes seemed to flatten and the lids grew tight. "Dave, put that gun down," he said.

Dave chuckled. "Don't be a fool, Ben. This here's a showdown."

"Three for one," Thorne said quietly. "I'll take that."

"Put down that gun, Dave." Ben's voice was low and strange.

Dave laughed. "You don't like me much, Ben. Remember?"

"Dave!" Frazer's voice was shrill. "Put it down!"

Angela sat very still, yet suddenly, watching Dave, she knew he was not going to put down the gun. He would risk the death of his brothers and of Frazer--he was going to shoot.

Ben knew it, too. It was in his face, the way the skin had drawn tight across his cheekbones.

Jim Thorne spoke calmly. "I've seen a man soak up a lot of forty-four lead, Dave, but I never saw a man take much from a shotgun. I've got four shots without reloadin', and pistols to follow. You want to buy that?"

"I'll buy it." Dave was still smiling, his lips forcing it now.

Angela was behind and to the left of Ben, a little out of range. She was opposite Dave. And beside her, scarcely an arm's length away, was Silent.

Angela's fingers lifted. That gun ... if she . . . and then Silent slid the six-gun into his hand. "Put your gun down, Dave," he said. "You'd get us all kilt."

Dave's eyes flickered, and hate blazed suddenly in their depths. He swung toward Angela. "Like h--!" He started to rise and thrust the gun toward her, and Silent Otten shot his brother through the body.