Authors: Johanna Lindsey
E
xpecting trouble, Casey didn’t get much sleep that first night on the way back to Sanderson. Damian didn’t either, so they took turns keeping watch throughout the night. But no one showed up to insist they leave the area and soon-to-be Mayor Curruthers alone.
Damian sent off his telegram and checked into the hotel to await his reply and catch up on lost sleep. Casey was still too keyed up to retire. She sauntered into the noisier of the two saloons on the main street, had at least one drink at the bar first, then asked to join one of the three poker games in progress.
She picked the table that looked like it was having more fun than conducting any serious gambling, with three easygoing fellows who were doing a lot of joking and talking while they played, which was what she wanted to do, at least the talking part. And they took right to her, as if they’d known her for years, even to teasing her about her age and if she really knew how to play.
She let a good thirty minutes pass, during which time she lost consistently, before she introduced her first casual question. “Any of you fellas hear of Jack Curruthers, the man who’s running for mayor over in Culthers?”
“Not much. Why?” John Wescot asked.
John had introduced himself as the only dentist in town and guaranteed that he’d make it a painless experience if Casey should happen to require his services. She had managed to keep from snorting while she declined.
“I’ve heard he’s a bandy rooster trying to fill shoes too big for him.” Bucky Alcott said.
Bucky was an old range cook for one of the local ranches. Until he’d mentioned that, it hadn’t occurred to Casey that it was a Saturday night—which was why the saloons were so full, what with ranch hands coming into town for a bit of typical weekend hell-raising
“I was just there,” Casey replied, again in a casual way, as she studied her cards from the current hand. “Heard it said more’n once that his men are
leaning
on folks to get them to vote for him.”
“Now why don’t that surprise me none?” Pete Drummond remarked, shaking his head.
Pete was somewhat of a tenderfoot, having come West only two years ago, though he had adapted fairly well, even to speaking the lingo, which was a case of butchering the language he undoubtedly could speak with perfect diction if he chose to, but he didn’t choose to. He sold firearms for a living and had opened a store here in Sanderson.
“Then you know Jack?” Casey asked Pete.
“No, but I seen him when he passed through here on his way to Culthers. Little fella acted like he owned the town—the whole dern state, for that matter. Never met anyone that blatantly arrogant.”
“Do you know who the men are that he has working for him over in Culthers?”
“Might be Jed Paisley and his boys,” the dentist said with a thoughtful frown. “They were working on the Hastings spread for a while, ’bout halfway ’tween here and Culthers, but I heard they complained that was too tame for them and they moved on.”
“You’re probably right, John. My sister was up that way a few weeks ago and mentioned she saw Jed and one of his boys in Culthers—and wearing suits, no less. Imagine that hombre in a suit?” Pete said.
“Who exactly is Jed Paisley?” Casey asked.
“Well, it’s all rumor, you understand, nothing ever proven, but they say he used to run with the Ortega gang down Mexico way, terrorizing the peasants and killing just for the fun of it.” Pete was warming up to the subject. “That was for a couple o’ years, before he tried his hand at lawful employment, working for the ranches around these parts. He did kill a fella last year right here in this saloon. Was a stupid excuse for killing, if you ask me, but he got away with it just the same.”
Casey was too curious to ignore that one. “What was the reason?”
“From the way I heard it, the victim was doing Jed a kindness to try and save him embarrassment by whispering to him that he’d
forgotten to button up after coming back from the john. Instead Jed took it as an insult that the fella had even noticed and shot him dead.”
Casey shook her head. “A mite touchy.”
“No, mighty touchy. Jed’s not a nice sort by any means. Didn’t none of us miss him when he stopped coming here.” Pete’s emphatic nod punctuated his words.
“I had to pull one of his teeth once,” John put in. “Don’t think I ever sweated so much. He had his hand on his gun the whole time.”
“I suppose his
boys
are cut from the same cloth?” Casey asked.
“Oh, yes,” Pete volunteered. “There were five of them in all. Running into one or two of them wasn’t so bad, since they didn’t exactly go out of their way to make trouble, just never ignored it if’n it came their way. But when all five of them were together, and drinking to boot, well, someone usually always got hurt. And the dern sheriff was too afraid of them to do anything about it.”
“So is it a safe guess that they’re all fast guns?” Casey needed clarification.
John shrugged. “Can’t rightly say. ‘Accurate’ is more like it.”
“Mason is fast.” Bucky spoke up now. “I saw him demonstrate his draw once when he was tryin’ to impress Miss Annie, back when he was a-courtin’ her. But like John said, Jed could definitely hit whatever he had a mind to aim at. Couple of kids stirred up a wasp’s nest one Sunday when Jed was passin’ near it, and damned if he didn’t shoot them poor wasps instead of just gettin’ out of the way, even reloaded to fin
ish every single one of them off. Most folks said the kids were lucky he didn’t shoot them instead, and most other folks were inclined to agree. Fact is, if they hadn’t run like hell, he mighta.”
“Do you know anything about the other three?” Casey asked.
“The youngest is Jethro, who’s also Jed’s younger brother. He came out here to join Jed a few years back. He’s a little bully who glories in his brother’s reputation and takes advantage of it, but he’d be nothin’ on his own.”
John chimed in again. “Elroy Bencher, now, likes to push his weight around without resorting to actual gunplay. He considers himself unbeatable when it comes to using his fists. Fact is, he was forever trying to get someone to try to go a round or two with him, but we don’t raise stupid folks around here. The one man who did give Elroy a go for it got his spine broke in the fight and hasn’t walked since.”
Casey grimaced. “And the last one?”
Pete shook his head. “No one knows much of anything about Candiman, which makes him the more dangerous, if you ask me. He’s quiet, too quiet, and always watching.”
“Funny name,” Casey remarked.
“It’s what he calls himself. His friends just call him Candy, and when they’re all together, you’re sure to see at least one of them toss him a piece of candy. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him not sucking on something sweet.”
“I’d love to get him in my chair.” John chuckled. “That’s if he’d leave his guns outside the office.”
They all were chuckling over that; then Pete finally thought to ask, “Why all the questions, Kid?”
Casey gave the simplest explanation that didn’t require details. “I had a little run-in with Curruthers and his bunch when I was there, but since business is going to take me back, just wanted to know if I had anything in particular to worry about.”
“I’d stay away from the lot of them if I were you,” John suggested.
“Wouldn’t even go back to Culthers if it were me,” Bucky added.
“Be glad you escaped in one piece the first time, Kid. Don’t tempt your luck a second time,” was Pete’s comment.
Good, well-meaning advice from nice, friendly folks, for which Casey thanked them before parting company. It was too bad she couldn’t take their advice, though. But then, she wasn’t
that
worried about Jack’s hired guns, only a little worried. After all, they didn’t even wear their guns, probably because it was bad for Jack’s political image. But without them, how dangerous could they really be?
T
he ambush occurred about an hour out of Sanderson the next morning. The first shot came from a clump of trees on their left that skirted a very steep ravine. The second came from the bottleneck up ahead that was caused by a pile of boulders the narrow trail passed through. It wasn’t the only way to get to Culthers, just the quickest route—and, at the moment, blocked.
But then, they weren’t being asked simply to turn around and find another route. Those were some serious bullets, serious enough to cause Casey to quickly seek cover and shout for Damian to do the same. Unfortunately, they chose opposites sides of the path, Casey diving behind one of the larger boulders on the right, while Damian headed into the trees on the left.
That prevented any discussion of strategy, but Damian didn’t appear to need any advice. He was already returning fire. Casey retrieved her rifle and did the same. She was expecting shots to be coming from five different locations, but could spot only two—which didn’t mean much,
since she didn’t have a clear view of the entire area.
She hadn’t been expecting an ambush in broad daylight, though. A night raid, yes, but during the day, when there would be a good chance of spotting who was doing the shooting? Of course, if the shooters didn’t plan on leaving any witnesses behind, then night or day wouldn’t matter.
But she supposed, after everything she had learned about Jed Paisley and his cronies last night, she should have expected this. And since this could have occurred before they’d even reached Sanderson—there’d been plenty of time and opportunity—Jed had obviously waited before doing anything, just in case Casey and Damian had decided to move on instead of returning to Culthers. Jack must have given orders to stop them
only
if they were on their way back.
She sent off a couple of rounds into the trees, about twenty feet from where Damian had taken cover. That spot held the closest shooter to Damian, and therefore was the one she was most worried about. Of course, if she hadn’t been worried about someone sneaking up on him, she might have been more cautious of the same thing happening to her…
“Hello there, Kid. Shoulda took our advice and headed back to wherever ya hails from.”
She recognized that voice behind her instantly. John Wescot, the Sanderson dentist. It just didn’t make any sense to her that he would be here and aiming a rifle at her back—she’d recognized the sound of one being readied for firing, too, a minute before he spoke.
But when she started to turn around, to confirm his identity with her own eyes, since her mind was not accepting it, she got a “Don’t move—’cept to set that rifle down real slowlike.”
She did. The rifle was too cumbersome for any quick moves, anyway, and he hadn’t mentioned disposing of her six-shooter, possibly because her poncho had kept him from noticing it. Yet. Not everyone wore a gun strapped to his thigh—leastways, not “boys” as young as he thought her to be.
“You’re lucky it’s us and not ol’ Jed,” he went on to tell her in his nonchalant tone. “Fact is, he’s much worse’n we let on. He likes to torture his victims before he kills ’em. Finds something amusing ’bout it. Me, I get paid to kill, I just do it quick and clean. No need for extra suffering. It’s just a job, after all. So where would ya like it, in the head or the heart? Both are pretty quick in my experience, so shouldn’t hurt all that much.”
Casey couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He spoke of death as if it were merely a small inconvenience. And how the hell would
he
know if it hurt or not?
“Answer me one question, if you will,” she said, managing the same casual tone he was using. “Did you get hired for this job before or after I joined you last night?”
“It was after you left us. Fact is, we enjoyed yer company, Kid. Ain’t often we get to brag about our friends like that,” he said with a chuckle. “It was purely fun. And if it’s any consolation to you, Bucky didn’t feel too good about
takin’ the job, seein’ as how we got to know you and you’re such a young un. But a job’s a job. It’s nothing personal, you understand.”
Oh, she understood perfectly. Hired killers usually did take that attitude, to absolve themselves of any guilt that
might
trouble them. Of course, most of them didn’t have a conscience to begin with, so guilt never entered their small minds one way or another.
She asked another question, more to stall for time than out of any real curiosity. “You aren’t really a dentist, are you?”
“Hell, no,” he practically snorted. “What would I want a fool job like that for when this kinda work pays so much better? Now you answer my question, ‘cause time’s a-wastin’. Where ya want the bullet?”
“Between the eyes will suit me—if you’ve got the guts to look in them first.”
“Sassy-mouthed for such a young un, ain’tcha? All righty, turn around, but do it
real
slow, Kid. Don’t want this to get messy.”
Messy for whom? For her, of course. Either he had nerves of steel, or he really didn’t think he’d have any trouble from her, and her guess would be the latter. And it was John Wescot standing there. What she still found so incredible was her own gullibility, that these men had managed to fool her so easily into thinking they were just harmless townsfolk out having a good time on a Saturday night.
“Satisfied?” he said as he took more careful aim with his rifle. “Now it’s time—”
Casey dropped to the ground as she drew her weapon. But even as fast as she was couldn’t
compensate for a rifle ready to be fired. All she did was mess up John’s aim some. She got a bullet off, but the explosion in her head at the same time kept her from seeing if she was at least going to take him to the grave along with her.
D
amian couldn’t see behind the boulder that Casey had claimed as hers, but he could see over it. And when he heard two shots fired almost simultaneously and saw two puffs of smoke float up above that same boulder, his heart seemed to drop into his belly.
There was about forty feet of open, flat area between him and that boulder, but that didn’t stop him from racing toward it. Bullets hit the ground at his feet, flew past his head; he didn’t notice or care that he made such a big target, nor did the shots have anything to do with the fact that he’d never run so fast in his life.
What he found when he got to the boulder was one body sprawled on the ground and another leaning back against another boulder, standing there at a slight angle—dead. Blood was splattered everywhere.
Casey was the one on the ground and Damian couldn’t stand it. She looked just as dead as the other body, lying on her back, her arms spread out, her gun still gripped in her right hand. He
couldn’t tell if she was breathing. And she was covered in blood, making it impossible for him to pinpoint immediately where her wound was.
It would have helped his peace of mind to realize that most of the blood wasn’t hers, but came from the man she’d shot in the chest at such close range. However, Damian couldn’t determine that as he dropped to his knees beside her to gather her gently into his arms.
At that moment the ambushers could have moved in to finish him off, for he was focused only on Casey as he rocked her in his arms and dealt with his anguish. But since the remaining gunmen couldn’t see what had happened behind the boulder, they continued to send their bullets in that direction, chipping away at the hard rock, once even sending dangerous slivers of it down on the ground around him. But they didn’t approach.
This was all his fault, Damian thought. He had brought her here. He had tempted her with more money than she’d ever earned on a single job before. If he had been reasonable in his offer, she would have had no problem turning him down and going her own way, but he hadn’t wanted to take that chance, so he hadn’t been reasonable. And now…
Her heat should have told him she wasn’t dead yet, but he was too upset to even think of that. Guilt and recriminations were too easy to wallow in, and he could barely breathe himself for the knot in his throat as he did his wallowing, not noticing that she was still breathing.
It took a pretty loud moan to finally break through his grief, a moan caused not from her
wound but because he was squeezing her too tight. He let out a shout of joy as he carefully laid her back down on the ground. Her eyes fluttered for the briefest moment, though didn’t quite open. Yet she was alive—alive and possibly bleeding to death.
The thought sent Damian into a new panic, to find her wound and get it stanched immediately. Poking around her didn’t stir her, but as soon as he touched her head, she moaned again and her eyes flew open—just in time to shoot the man sneaking up behind him.
Damian swung around to see the fellow fall forward, face-first. Casey was unconscious again by the time he glanced back at her, her still smoking gun dropping from her lax hand this time. He quickly stuffed it in his own belt before he examined her head again.
There was about a three-inch bloody path where the bullet had slid by just above her right temple. Her hair was missing from the line, scraped off as if she’d been scalped in that narrow area. The tip of her ear had been singed black from the heat also.
The wound was still bleeding, but only lightly. It was her continued unconsciousness that had him most worried now. Blows to the head could affect people in many different ways. He had been fortunate that his own recent head wound had caused him only headaches.
He needed to get her to a doctor. And he needed to make sure that she wouldn’t get shot again along the way. That meant seeing to the remaining ambushers first—or the last one, since he heard fire from only one weapon. Of
course, that didn’t mean much; there could be others. Finding where they’d left their horses would help to clarify the count, which was what he set out to do after tying his bandana around Casey’s head.
He crawled over and around the big rocks, sometimes on his belly, working his way toward the bottleneck up north. He figured the horses would be behind it, but when he reached the summit, no horses or sign that any had been hobbled there, so he worked his way back.
The gunfire had continued being directed to where he’d last been seen. But by the time he’d reached the bottleneck, it had stopped completely. Again, that didn’t mean much, since it could mean so many different things, but he nevertheless hurried to get back to Casey—only to find her gone.
The two bodies were still there, Casey and their weapons were not, and neither was her horse. Yet he
knew
she wouldn’t just leave him there. She’d have no reason to, unless she thought he was dead. But she’d verify if he was dead or not first—unless she had no recollection of him at all. And that was one of those peculiar effects he’d been worried about.
He had heard of head wounds that had caused someone to forget friends, even family, even a full lifetime of living. If she had regained consciousness and left the area, then what else was Damian to think? At the moment, she might not remember him at all.