Written in Time (41 page)

Jack turned his horse on the familiar track toward the house, filled with trepidation. Vengeance had or would have little to do with the intent to kill Fowler, merely practicality. With Fowler dead, there would be no one left with a blood vendetta against the family.
 

Alan was packed aboard the Lakewood Industries jet which would bring him to a private airfield not far from Reno. He would then be spirited, by vehicle, to the time transfer location in the mountains near Atlas, Nevada. The Lakewood Industries time base was fewer than twenty miles from the sparsely guarded facility used by Horizon Enterprises, a single mountain peak masking its presence.
 

Once arrived, Lester Matthews would personally oversee Alan’s one-way trip ninety-six years into the past, kill him, abandon the body and return to the present.
 

Standing outside the hangar from which one of her small fleet of business jets would soon emerge, Bethany Kaminsky gave Matthews his final instructions, her voice raised against the roaring intake of the jet engines. “Remember to kill him with that special gun.”
 

“The revolver.” He let his sportcoat come open, revealing the wooden-gripped butt of the handgun. “Use the .45 Colt caliber Smith & Wesson revolver so if Naile’s body is found the bullet won’t be looked at as being—what’s that word you used?”
 

“Anomalous, Lester. Anomalous. And when you get back, work up some plans for me on how we could have some terrible accident wipe out every living member of Alan’s family. Maybe if they have a bodyless funeral for him a few months from now, maybe then. I want all the descendants of David Naile and Elizabeth Naile killed, but artfully.”
 

“Wipe out the whole fuckin’ family. You’re really into this vendetta thing, aren’t you, Bethany? Blood vendetta. You woulda made one helluva mob boss during the twenties and thirties.”
 

Bethany took that as a compliment.
 

“Just figure out how to do it.” She glanced at the Rolex on her left wrist. “Morton Hardesty is expecting me, and if screwing him is the way to perfect this time-travel thing to the nth degree, little Morty can pop me until that poor excuse for a dick of his wears out. You’ll be having more fun than I will, Lester. Guaranteed. I’m gone.
 

But remember, before you kill Alan, tell him in graphic detail what we’re planning for his wife and family and parents and all of them. Give him a moment for it to sink in, then let him have it good.” Bethany shifted the purse strap on her left shoulder and started walking back to her Mercedes. There was a scuff on the toe of her left pump, and she muttered, “Damn” as she walked on.
 

Dawn was a palpable promise along the ragged edge of granite horizon by the time Ellen, the Bledsoe girl in tow, settled into the concealment of broad, flat rocks and focused her binoculars on the scene below her, the place from which the flashes of light had originated. She’d wanted to get closer, would have if she’d had only herself to worry about. With Helen along, she couldn’t risk it.
 

Even without the benefit of binoculars, Ellen could easily discern the anachronistic nature of what lay in the rock depression on the other side of the mountain from the time transfer point used by Horizon Enterprises. A few four-wheel ATVs, a double-cab Ford pickup truck with a long bed, electrical generators. All of those had been readily apparent. But with the binoculars, she could see that the men guarding the facility’s perimeter carried modern M-16 rifles and that submachine gun Jack had always drooled over, an H-K something or other. There wasn’t a Winchester lever action in the bunch. No Colt Single Actions were slung on their hips, either; rather, she saw modern looking semiautomatic pistols.
 

Their clothing, as well, was from the future she had left behind. No cowboy hats, but the ever-ubiquitous baseball cap. Their jeans didn’t look to be riveted denim, but the designer kind. Combat rather than cowboy boots were the norm when it came to footgear, those or track shoes.
 

“Shit.”
 

“Miz Ellen!”
 

“Sorry,” Ellen responded. “But, be quiet, Helen. We don’t want those men down there to know we’re up here spying on them. So, be very, very silent.” If she’d been in the mood for levity, she could have added that they were “hunting wabbit,” but the Bledsoe girl might have taken her seriously.
 

Video surveillance cameras dotted the fence line. The men with the M-16s carried walkie-talkies as well.
 

“Miz Ellen?” Helen whispered.
 

“Yes, honey?” Ellen put down the binoculars and gazed at her weary young charge. “What are we looking at? Is that what you want to ask me?”
 

“I ain’t never seen—”
 

“Now, your aunt the schoolteacher and my daughter— what have they told you about double negatives?”
 

“Don’t never use none, Miz Ellen. I know.”
 

Ellen sighed audibly. “What we’re looking at is a whole bunch of men and machinery and stuff that doesn’t belong here. Its likely purpose is to cause a whole lot of trouble for a whole lot of people. Unless I miss my guess, darling, the people who paid to put that fence up and have those armed men patrolling around it aren’t much different from Jess Fowler’s men who kidnapped you. Just better paid, equipped and dressed. And,” Ellen added, punctuating her remark by pouching the binoculars, “that is why you and I, young lady, are going to be extremely quiet and sneak out of here right now, get to our horses and ride like the devil’s chasing us. For all intents and purposes, he just might be.”
 

One hand prodding gently at Helen Bledsoe’s elbow, the other on a Colt revolver, Ellen started back the way they’d come.
 

“I’m alright, Daddy. I’m just kind of tired.”
 

On his knees beside his daughter’s bed, Jack bent his head and touched his lips to her forehead. He looked up at Peggy. She’d almost opened fire on him as he’d approached the house, walking the done-in Barbie the last few hundred yards. When, lowering her rifle, she’d called out and run to him, he’d swept her into his arms and hugged her for a moment.
 

“Where’s—” Jack had begun.
 

“Lizzie was shot. She’ll be fine. She’s—”
 

Jack started running at the first word from Peggy’s lips. Vaulting the steps, he nearly smashed through the door leading from the porch.
 

Lizzie opened her eyes the instant he barged into her bedroom.
 

Jack looked once more at his daughter. She seemed pale. “How much blood—”
 

“I transfused her. She’ll be fine, Jack.”
 

Jack nodded. Looking at his daughter, thinking how close he had come to losing her, getting out more than a few halting words without the choked-back tears flowing as well was all but impossible.
 

“Fine doctor I am, Jack, but why don’t you just step out onto the porch and have a cigarette, and I’ll look after your horse.”
 

“No. You relax. Come outside if it’s safe for Lizzie. Tell me what happened while I tend to Barbie.” Jack looked down once again at his daughter and kissed her forehead as he stood. Lizzie closed her eyes, a thin smile on her lips.
 

Jack washed up and changed shirts, not bothering with anything beyond that and a tetanus booster. He’d smoked several cigarettes, eating nothing, waiting while the exhausted Peggy showered and dressed. Leaving the two women alone was dangerous, especially before Ellen reached the house, but leaving Jess Fowler alive any longer than necessary seemed somehow vastly more dangerous, insanely so.
 

With a replenished supply of ammunition in his saddlebags and cartridge belts, the two spare revolvers tucked into his waistband, Jack saddled a horse. There were three from which to choose, aside from the exhausted Barbie. Both of Lizzie’s horses were palominos. One of them, the smaller of the two, was called Victoria, the larger male was called Garbonzo. Jack chose, instead, the little gray with black stockings, mane and tail, the one both Lizzie and David had agreed should be called Trixie.
 

As soon as Peggy emerged from the house, changed into a clean blue dress, her hair still wet, Jack swung up into the saddle. “Did you check on Lizzie?”
 

“She’s fine, Jack. No fever. She’ll be okay.”
 

“Ellen should be here soon. Helen Bledsoe’s going to need a tetanus shot. Make up some kind of a lie about what it is. She’s got a lot of cuts that’ll require attention. Ellen and I don’t think she was raped, but you should check discreetly. Remember, she’s got superficial wounds that’ll need tending.”
 

“So do you, Jack.”
 

“I’ll be back in a few hours. If I’m not back, well, the medical attention would have been wasted. Let’s say we have an appointment for later today, Doctor.” He smiled. He’d sat with his right leg crossed over the neck of his horse, his hat cocked back on his head. He shifted his leg down and lowered his hat over his eyes.
 

“Do you still like being a cowboy, Jack?”
 

Jack laughed. “With most of the important, significant things in life, there’s precious little choice, isn’t there? We had no choice in coming here, and I have no choice but to go after Fowler and his men, too, if I have to. They nearly wiped out our entire family. If they had, they would have gone after David and Clarence when they got back from San Francisco. Without Fowler, his range detectives will look for greener pastures—and by ‘greener’ I’m referring to money. But, do I like being a cowboy?
 

“When I was a little boy,” he went on, “I wanted to be a cowboy, like most boys from my generation. I grew up on westerns. I always admired the men who were fast on the draw. When I got older, I learned that it wasn’t speed so much as accuracy. But, did I ever think I’d become one of those gunmen? No. And am I happy about the fact that I did? Precious little choice. I wouldn’t mind you saying a prayer for me. See ya.”
 

Jack Naile wheeled the little gray around on her hind legs. She sprang into a trot, away from the ranch, toward Atlas and Fowler’s ranch house, which lay between.
 

***

Fowler and three of his range detectives were riding hard. With faded-out high grass on either side of the track, the road they traversed was analogous to a twentieth-century driveway, but a long one. From where Jack observed deep within the treeline on the slope opposite, Fowler’s comparatively palatial ranch house was more than a mile distant.
 

One of the three range detectives spurred his mount ahead, dismounted hurriedly and barely had the gate open in time to jump aside as Fowler and the other two gunmen goaded their horses through the opening, then turned onto the road, riding toward Atlas.
 

The gateman vaulted into the saddle, urged his horse ahead, bent low and closed the gate, then galloped into the dust cloud that was the wake of Jess Fowler and the others. Each man wore two pistols and had a rifle in his saddle scabbard. One of the men had a Greener shotgun in a scabbard across the horn of his saddle.
 

If they stuck to the road, the perennial movie western option presented itself to Jack: he could head ‘em off at the pass. But in this case, that would be where the road into town hairpinned around the outlet of a steep, rocky defile leading down out of the mountains.
 

Jack walked quickly back to his horse, slipped the Marlin into his saddle scabbard and mounted. He took out his watch, glanced at it and marked the time. “Alright, Trixie. Let’s get this over with.” He tugged on the reins, wheeled her around and started his cross-country run.
 

The distance he had to traverse was less than two miles. Fowler and his men would have to cover a little over twice that before reaching the same spot. They had an open road; Jack had to negotiate broken ground littered with rocks and deadfall trees. The little gray was sure-footed and Jack felt that he had a good chance of reaching the spot where the road turned before Fowler and his men could.
 

Another commonly encountered western-movie term came to mind as Jack rode, urging the horse onward but letting her pick her own way. The word was bushwhack. That was what he was about to do—bushwhack Fowler’s men. Fowler, if the opportunity presented itself, would not be so disposed of. Jack intended to face Fowler and kill him, even if that meant risking his own life. There were some things in life that needed doing in one certain way and no other. Long-distancing Fowler would be a last-ditch option.
 

On one level of consciousness, Jack was counting seconds, then seconds into minutes, comparing his riding time to what he anticipated as that of Fowler and the range detectives. A fast horse could top forty-five miles per hour for a short distance on level ground. Trixie was fast, the distance was short, but the terrain to be crossed was awful.
 

Jack estimated that Fowler and the three men with him would cover their four to five miles in twelve minutes or so. He had to cover half that distance at two-thirds the speed in order to have time to dismount, find a spot and be ready with his rifle. He checked his watch as he reined in. Nine minutes had passed. Dropping from the saddle, he looped and knotted Trixie’s rein to the trunk of a pine, grabbed his rifle and the cartridge belt of .45-70s, then ran toward the defile.
 

Whatever natural forces had formed the jumble of jutting gray and sand-colored rock he could not guess, but it was unmistakably some sort of violent upheaval. He found a deep niche a little under fifty yards from the road, settled into it and raised the tang sight on his rifle, set the diopter to fifty yards and slowed his breathing as he levered the first round into the Marlin’s chamber. He lowered the hammer, then plucked a fifth round from the bandolier, running it through the receiver’s loading gate.