Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191) (24 page)

Mrs. Dayton brought Preacher more stew for supper, along with a cup of hot tea this time. He didn't know why Randall hadn't come back up to the attic to carry out another beating, but he was grateful for the respite.

The housekeeper had brought a blanket with her, too. After she finished feeding Preacher, she said, “Here, let me drape this around you.”

“That's all right, ma'am,” he told her. “I know I ain't got no shirt on, but it stays pretty warm up here.”

That was an understatement. During the day, depending on how brightly the sun was shining, the little windowless chamber right under the roof could get almost unbearably hot. When Preacher was strung up from the beam, sweat sometimes rolled off his torso.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Dayton insisted. “It's going to get pretty chilly tonight. I can feel it in my bones. You wouldn't argue with a woman's intuition, would you?”

“I learned a long time ago not to argue with a woman, period,” Preacher said as he summoned up a grin. “It's a plumb waste of time and energy.”

“That's right,” she said. She put the blanket around his shoulders and tucked the trailing ends into his lap.

“Careful, ma'am,” the guard warned her. “You shouldn't be gettin' that close to the old varmint.”

She gave him a scornful look as she straightened.

“The poor man is tied hand and foot,” she pointed out. “About the only thing he could do is bite me, and I hardly think that he's going to do that.”

“No, ma'am,” Preacher said. “I'm a heap too chivalrous to go around bitin' ladies . . . less'n they want me to, and at my age, that ain't too likely to happen.”

She laughed as she picked up the tray with his empty bowl and cup on it.

“I hope you can at least draw a little comfort from that blanket tonight,” she said.

“Yes'm, I'll try,” Preacher promised, although he still didn't think that he needed the blanket.

Then he moved his bound hands slightly and realized he was wrong about that.

Very wrong.

Mrs. Dayton nodded to him and went out. Preacher kept his face expressionless and let his head droop forward a little in an attitude of despair that was far from what he was really feeling.

With a little careful exploration, moving his fingers so slowly the guard wouldn't notice, Preacher was able to determine that a fold of fabric on the inside of the blanket had been pinned closed, forming a small pocket. Preacher felt a small, hard object inside that crude pocket. He wasn't sure what it was, but it had to be something Mrs. Dayton knew she shouldn't be giving him, otherwise she wouldn't have concealed it like this.

Carefully, Preacher removed the pins and dropped them between his legs onto the cot. The hidden object slid out into the palm of his hand. It was a small shaving razor, closed at the moment.

Was she trying to help him escape? That was sure what it seemed like. He didn't think she had smuggled the razor to him so he could shave off his whiskers.

The guard usually went out of the room with Mrs. Dayton, but this hombre had lingered. He leered at Preacher and said, “You think you're a tough old bird, don't you?”

“I been alive a hell of a long time,” the mountain man replied. “I must've been doin' somethin' right all these years.”

“Or maybe you're just a lucky son of a bitch.”

“I've had my share of luck,” Preacher admitted as he eased the razor out of its handle. “The thing of it is, you got to be prepared to take advantage of that luck when it comes along.”

“It's not coming along for you,” the man said, still sneering. “You're done, mister. The Colonel's tired of messin' with you. And when the Colonel gets tired of something, you know what he does with it? He gets rid of it! Haw, haw!”

“Is that so?” Preacher tested the razor's keenness with his thumb, and then pressed it against the ropes around his wrists. He began to saw back and forth with slow, short strokes. “Are you sayin' I ought to be worried?”

“No, it's too late for that. You ought to be prayin' instead of worryin'.”

Preacher's eyes narrowed.

“There's an old sayin' about how the Good Lord helps those who help themselves.”

“Yeah, but there's not a blasted thing you can do to help yourself, old man.”

The guard turned toward the door, and Preacher knew he was about to leave. He said, “Hold on, hold on.”

Looking annoyed now, the guard glanced around and asked, “What do you want?”

Preacher felt some of the strands of rope part. He said, “If this is gonna be my last night on earth, the way you're actin' like, I, uh . . . well, I don't really want to spend it by myself.”

The razor cut through another strand.

“What the devil do you want out of me?” the guard demanded. “I'm not gonna sit around and sing hymns with you, if that's what you've got in mind!”

“Hell, no!” Preacher exclaimed, and he hoped his voice was loud enough to cover the small sound the rope made when he tensed his arms and broke the last strands binding his wrists. While he was tied he had kept working his fingers a little from time to time so his hands wouldn't go completely numb, and that effort paid off now because he was able to grasp the razor's handle. He went on, “I was hopin' you'd go to the saloon and bring back one of the gals who work there.”

“You want me to fetch you a whore? An old buzzard like you?” The guard threw his head back and laughed. “Why, you crazy old coot! What do you think you could do with a whore?”

“More than you,” Preacher said he lunged up off the cot and slashed the razor across the guard's throat. Blood spurted out of the gaping wound in a grisly fountain.

The gunman's eyes bulged out in shock, pain, and horror. He made a gurgling sound, but he wasn't able to scream. As he reeled back, he clawed at the gun on his hip. He got his hand on the revolver's butt, but wasn't able to draw it before Preacher grabbed him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides. They swayed there, both men struggling desperately even though they moved very little, as blood continued to bubble from the guard's severed arteries and veins. It flowed down between them and coated Preacher's bare chest like a crimson beard.

After a moment, the guard's efforts weakened. From a distance of a few inches, Preacher watched as life faded from the man's eyes. He didn't let go, though, until he was sure the guard was dead. Then he carefully lowered the man onto the cot. The heavy thump of a body falling on the floor might attract attention downstairs, and Preacher didn't want that.

A wave of dizziness and weakness went through him as he bent to cut the ropes around his ankles with the razor. He had to put his free hand on the cot to steady himself.

“You ain't as young as you used to be, old son,” he muttered to himself.

When his arms and legs were free, he straightened and looked down at himself with distaste. He was covered with blood and looked like a particularly stringy carcass ready to be strung up in a butcher's shop.

That couldn't be helped. He closed the razor and tucked it in the waistband of his trousers. Then he pulled the guard's revolver from its holster and checked the cylinder. There were five rounds, with the hammer resting on an empty chamber. The gunman had been smart in that respect, even though he was dumb as a rock in others. Preacher took another half-dozen cartridges from the loops on the man's gun belt and clutched them in his left hand, since he didn't have any other way to carry them.

A creaking stair step made him whirl around in that direction. The gun in his hand came up, ready to fire with his finger tense on the trigger.

Mrs. Dayton gasped and flinched back, her eyes widening as she found herself staring down the barrel of the weapon.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered as she stood there in the opening at the top of the stairs. “So much blood.”

“None of it's mine,” Preacher said as he lowered the revolver. “I put that razor you hid in the blanket to good use.”

A shudder went through her as she glanced at the dead guard on the cot. She averted her eyes and said, “When the guard didn't follow me downstairs I knew something had happened. I came back to tell you that you have to get out of here. The Colonel plans to have you killed tonight!”

“I ain't surprised. I'm obliged to you for your help, but I sure didn't expect it.”

She drew in a deep, ragged breath and said, “I . . . I just couldn't let it go on. I was outside the door of the library when I heard him tell Randall and that other man to get rid of you and dispose of the body after I went to bed tonight. There have been so many things he's done over the years . . . such terrible things . . . and I always turned a blind eye to them because he was kind to me and I . . . I had grown to care for him. But it's finally too much. To have a woman and her child kidnapped . . . to bear the ultimate responsibility for her death and for that baby growing up without a mother . . . you see, I had a child once . . . I doubt if Hudson even remembers . . . and then to order you killed like that, so coldly, so casually . . . it was just one murder too many. . . .”

The words spilled erratically from her mouth, and Preacher knew she was edging toward hysteria. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, but didn't pull away from his bloodstained grip.

“You done the right thing,” he told her. “I'm sorry the Colonel maybe ain't the same man he once was, but you got to look at things the way they are, and he's got to be stopped.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Right now, though, I want you to leave. Get away while you can, before they kill you.”

“Not without the little boy,” Preacher said.

She stared at him for a second before saying, “You want to take Little Hawk with you?”

“I got to,” Preacher said. “That's what I come all this way for, to take that young'un back to his family. His ma may be gone, but he's got a pa and a grandpa and plenty o' aunts and uncles and cousins who love him and want him back safe and sound.”

“You can't. It's too dangerous. If the guards see you trying to escape, they'll shoot. And if you have Little Hawk with you . . .” She shook her head. “I can't give him up.”

Preacher could tell by the light in her eyes that she might be a little loco, too. Not kill-crazy like the Colonel, but she was acting almost like that baby was hers. He wondered if something happened to the child she had mentioned earlier. That seemed pretty likely to him.

“I don't want to argue with you,” he said, “but I ain't leavin' without the kid.” He took hold of her arm, hoping that she wouldn't scream, and turned her toward the door. “Let's go—”

What he heard then rendered the argument pointless. Heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs.

Somebody was on their way to kill him, Preacher knew.

After his conversation with Smoke in the alley next to the Emerald Palace, Matt returned to the saloon and found Randall still at the billiard table.

“Your horse was all right?” the big gunman asked without looking up from the shot he was lining up.

“Yeah, just fine,” Matt replied. “He gets a little skittish sometimes, especially in strange places.”

Randall made the shot and carelessly tossed the cue stick onto the table.

“Let's go take care of that job,” he said.

“Are you sure it's late enough?” Matt asked.

Randall gave him a chilly stare and said, “Are you questioning my orders, Stevens?”

“Not at all,” Matt said. “I just know the Colonel wanted us to wait until his housekeeper was asleep.” He shrugged. “For all I know, she might be. Maybe she goes to bed with the chickens.”

Randall's eyes narrowed in thought. After a moment, he said, “I don't guess it would hurt anything to wait a while longer, just to be sure. I'm tired of shooting pool, though.”

“Maybe you should get you one of those painted gals and take her upstairs?” Matt said. He closed one eye in a suggestive wink. “When I've got an unpleasant chore coming up, sometimes that helps take the edge off it.”

“Who said this chore was unpleasant?” Randall asked. “Anyway, I'm not in the mood for a girl, but I reckon I could use a drink.”

“Sounds good,” Matt said with a smile. “I'm buying.”

“I won't argue with that.”

They walked over to the bar. Matt signaled the bartender to bring them two beers. He intended to nurse his mug along as much as he could. The more time Smoke had to reach Standing Rock's camp and set up a diversion with the Assiniboine warriors, the better.

“You've been with the Colonel a long time, haven't you?” he asked. If he could get Randall talking, it might help.

“Since the war,” Randall replied. “Antietam was the first action we saw together. That was a long, bloody day.”

“So I've heard.”

Randall grunted and said, “Yeah, that was before your time, too. You didn't miss much except a lot of killing and dying. It really bothered the Colonel. He was a good man. A kind man.”

That hardly seemed possible to Matt, but he said, “War can change a man, I've been told.”

“Yeah. Not me, though.” Randall's smile was like ice. “Killing never bothered me all that much. As for dying . . . well, I haven't done that yet.”

“How did the Colonel get the money to set up this deal with the railroad?” Matt asked. “He must have been successful in some other business.”

“Not really. He comes from money. His family's rich. Got more money than they'll ever need.”

Matt frowned.

“Then why go to so much trouble to take over this basin and bring in the railroad?”

“Well . . .” Randall lifted his mug and swallowed the rest of his beer. He wiped the back of his other hand across his mouth and smiled humorlessly. “You can never have enough money, can you?”

“Maybe some men can't,” Matt answered honestly without thinking about it.

“I wouldn't let the Colonel hear you talking like that. More money means more power, and those are the only two things that mean anything to him.”

Matt was even more disgusted now. Colonel Ritchie had unleashed a killing spree out of sheer greed. As far as Matt was concerned, the man was an animal.

No, worse than an animal, Matt corrected himself. With rare exceptions, animals killed only for food or to protect themselves or their young. That was a matter of sheer survival. Greed had no place in nature . . . except in man.

Randall shoved the empty mug across the bar and said, “Let's go. We've waited long enough to get this done. You're going to give me a hand, Stevens. That'll be a good way to break you in, now that you're working for the Colonel.”

“Lead the way,” Matt said, hoping his voice didn't sound as hollow as he felt inside.

Matt still thought taking the Colonel hostage might be a good idea, but when they got to the big house, Randall went straight to the staircase and started up.

“Shouldn't we tell the Colonel we're here?” Matt suggested.

Randall paused on the second step and looked back at him.

“The Colonel gave an order, and he expects it to be carried out. There's no need to tell him that we're going to do what he told us to do in the first place. Now come on and stop stalling.” Randall got a curious look on his face. “Unless you don't want to work for the Colonel after all if it means doing things like this.”

“I never said that,” Matt replied without hesitation. He bounded past Randall on the stairs. “Come on, let's go take care of the old coot.”

“That's more like it,” Randall said behind him.

Matt grimaced since Randall couldn't see him. His brain worked quickly. If there was no other guard in the attic room where Preacher was being held, he ought to be able to get the drop on Randall. He could free Preacher, and then the old mountain man could hold a gun on Randall while Matt tied and gagged him. Then they would have to get Little Hawk and find a way out.

Their chances that way would be slim, but certainly better than nothing.

They reached the third floor with Matt in the lead. He hung back so that Randall could go first up the narrow staircase leading to the attic. But Randall nodded toward the door and said, “Go ahead.”

Matt couldn't think of a way to refuse without arousing the hired killer's suspicions, so he opened the door. Light from the candle in Preacher's prison reached into the stairwell since there was no door at the top, just an opening for one, but it left the stairs shadowy.

Matt took a deep breath and started up. He was halfway there when he realized that he smelled something odd. It was a metallic odor, like sheared copper, and it set his teeth on edge and caused his nerves to draw taut. He had smelled that odor before, and he didn't like it.

It was the smell of freshly spilled blood, and a lot of it.

Matt's step faltered for a second when he spotted the edge of the dark red puddle dripping over the top step.

“Something wrong?” Randall asked, close behind him.

“Nope,” Matt said. “Not a thing.”

“Keep going, then. I want to get this over with.”

Cold horror pawed at Matt's vitals like a dead but somehow animated hand. Nobody who lost that much blood could still be alive, and since the room just above him was where he had last seen Preacher . . .

Matt's head rose above the level of the top step so he could see into the room. A body was propped up on the cot, but it didn't belong to the mountain man. It was one of the guards, and the front of his shirt was sodden with blood that had spilled from the slash in his throat.

That was Preacher's work. Matt was sure of it. But where
was
Preacher?

He had to be waiting up there, hiding around the corner by the opening so that he couldn't be seen by anyone on the stairs. Realizing that, Matt knew he had to get Randall up there in a hurry, before the gunman had time to think. He made himself sound startled—that didn't take much of an effort—as he exclaimed, “Randall, there's something wrong! Come on!”

He drew his gun and charged the rest of the way up the stairs, taking a big step over the pool of blood so he wouldn't slip in it. Randall was right behind him, booted feet thudding heavily on the stairs. Randall said, “Careful, Stevens, you damned fool! It could be a trap!”

From the corner of his eye Matt saw Preacher in the corner with the housekeeper huddled behind him. The old mountain man had the guard's gun in his hand. As Randall reached the top of the stairs, Preacher thrust the revolver at him and said, “Don't stop now, mister. Step right on in here and say howdy to a man whose hands ain't tied no more!”

 

 

Remembering all the times Randall's fists had smashed brutally into him, Preacher wanted to pull the trigger and blow the varmint's brains out. He wanted it so bad he could feel his muscles twitching a little with the desire for vengeance.

Instead, he held his fire. A shot would draw the other guards in and around the house, and that could ruin everything.

Matt had whirled around, and he covered Randall, too. The gunman's eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, and he growled, “You're a damned traitor, Stevens. I should've known better than to trust you.”

“The name's Jensen,” Matt said. “Matt Jensen.”

“And they call me Preacher,” the old mountain man said. “You been tryin' to get my name outta me all week, Randall, and now you finally got it.”

Matt said, “Preacher, I hope all that blood isn't yours.”

“None of it is,” Preacher told him. “I'm near fit as a fiddle now that I got a gun in my hand and this here polecat in my sights. Come on in, Randall. Don't you know it's impolite not to accept an invitation?”

Randall was poised there at the edge of the stairs. His right hand rested on the butt of his gun, but he hadn't tried to draw the revolver with two Colts pointing at him.

Now a smile spread slowly across his face.

“Jensen,” he said. “I've heard the name. Seems like there's another one of you. Is he around, too?”

“Never mind about that,” Matt told him. “Get on in here.”

“So you can tie me up and shove a gag in my mouth? I don't think so.”

With no more warning than that, Randall threw himself backwards down the stairs, whipping out his gun as he fell and blazing away at Matt as fast as he could pull the trigger.

 

 

Smoke reined the 'Palouse to a halt in the trees to the side of the mansion. Standing Rock and the rest of the Assiniboine warriors ought to be in position by now. When they were ready, they would charge down Hammerhead's main street, firing their rifles into the air and howling war cries and generally making it sound like the Battle of the Little Big Horn all over again. One fast charge, straight toward the Colonel's house, to draw out the guards and make them rush to defend against what would look and sound like an all-out frontal attack.

But when they reached the last cross street, the rescue party would split up and gallop along it in both directions, away from Main Street, before circling to close in on the mansion and the Colonel's hired killers in a classic pincer movement. Even if they were outnumbered, that flanking maneuver ought to give the Assiniboine at least a momentary advantage.

Smoke had made it clear to Standing Rock that they weren't to gun down any of the townspeople on their charge through the settlement. Standing Rock had agreed, reluctantly, and made sure that his men understood. Their battle was with Colonel Ritchie's hired killers, not with the innocent settlers who were unknowing pawns in the Colonel's grand scheme.

Smoke swung down from the saddle and left the 'Palouse's reins dangling. As soon as the shooting started and the Colonel's men rushed out, he was going to perform a little flanking move of his own, racing to the house behind them and getting inside to find Preacher and possibly Matt. If Randall had already returned to the mansion to carry out Preacher's execution, Matt would be with him to put a stop to those plans.

That was what Smoke hoped, anyway.

He stiffened as he heard shots ring out suddenly, but they didn't come from the far end of town like they were supposed to. Instead, they were slightly muffled, and Smoke could tell they came from
inside
the house. The guards on the verandah and the ones scattered around the grounds heard the gunfire, too, and jerked around toward the mansion, ready to charge inside and find out what was going on.

At that moment, more shots erupted, these coming from the other end of Main Street. Smoke heard the yips and cries and shouts that followed them instantly. The Assiniboine “attack” on the settlement was underway.

Some of the men started toward town, just as Smoke hoped they would. But others hung back, and one of them yelled, “Don't let those crazy redskins reach the house!

With that, he and several of his companions ran into the mansion.

Well, thought Smoke, the odds had just gotten a little longer. But that had never stopped him before, and with the lives of Preacher and Matt at stake, not to mention Little Hawk, it wasn't going to stop him now.

Smoke broke into a run toward the Colonel's house.