Holt's Gamble (46 page)

"C'mon," he whispered to Matthew.

* * *

Asa McKendry drew his horse to a stop beside the others and slid awkwardly off the animal. He pulled the rifle from its sheath noiselessly. His breath came in harsh rolling gasps, but he forced himself forward on legs that felt like river mud. His eyes focused only on the splinters of light coming from the barnlike building in front of him.

It was too late for him, he mused, stumbling ahead. Too late to recover the mistakes he'd made in his life. Too late to win his children back. But not too late to help them. He'd get Kierin out of there. Whether he survived it or not made no difference.

* * *

On the far side of the warehouse, Clay found what he was looking for. An L-shaped beam protruded from the center of the roof, beneath a squat triangular portico. Behind the block and tackle that dangled, suspended from the beam, was a rough wooden door leading to the loft. A sturdy wooden ladder was built against the wall.

As Clay's foot struck the first rung of the ladder, he heard the raised voices of a man and a woman. Adrenaline pumped through him at the sound of it.

Kierin.

He still couldn't make out her words, but he recognized the inflection. Her voice urged him on.
Hold on, Princess, I'm coming.

Matthew was right behind him by the time he reached the loft door. Carefully lifting the wooden latch, Clay prayed the door wouldn't squeak when he opened it. That thought went right out of his head at the sound of Kierin's gut-wrenching scream. Caution gone, Clay threw open the door and charged into the loft.

At the same moment, the front door crashed open and the explosive roar of a discharged rifle thundered through the cavernous room. Clay slid to his knees at the edge of the loft just as a swarthy black-haired man flew backward from the force of the gunshot and landed in a lifeless heap on the straw-strewn floor. Clay saw another taller man duck low and roll behind a crate while drawing his gun.

At the wide-flung entry door, Asa lowered his smoking rifle disgustedly. "Ye bastard, Talbot!" his voice boomed on the heels of the shot. "I'll kill ye with my bare hands."

"Papa!" Kierin screamed in warning, but it was too late. Talbot's own pistol screamed in retort. Asa slammed back against the door and crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding chest.

"No-o-o-o!"
Kierin shrieked, and hurled herself at her father's murderer. She struck him from behind, causing Talbot's knees to buckle. The gun flew from his hand and landed a few feet away with a noisy clatter.

Then he landed on her—hard. The air rushed from her lungs in a painful whoosh. With her face pressed into the cold straw floor, she gasped for breath. She heard Talbot swear and roll his excruciating weight off her. Reflexively, she drew her knees up to her chest, in the vain search for air. Her chest ached and hammered and she writhed against the floor, trying to prime her deprived lungs.

Dimly, over the roar in her own ears, she heard another sound—a fierce growl, more animal than human—and caught the fleeting glimpse of buckskin and flashing gunmetal. The banshee dropped out of the loft above them, landing on Talbot with a bone-rattling thud. The two rolled across the floor, locked in a desperate, pummeling struggle.

Kierin coughed, then gasped as her breath returned in fitful choking puffs. Finally, her lungs sucked in deep draughts of life-giving air. Strength returned to her limbs. Spitting straw from her mouth, she rolled onto her side and, using her knees for leverage, struggled to sit up.

Shock raced through her as she caught sight of the men wrestling with each other. Her eyes fell to the long-legged man in buckskin whose face was hidden from her as the two men tumbled over and over. Yet she knew there was no mistaking the lean, powerful body which had become as familiar to her as her own.

Clay. Oh, Clay it's you.
She saw the flash of the gun Clay held tightly in his grip. Talbot ended up on top of Clay, fighting for possession of the weapon. He slammed Clay's wrist against the floor and simultaneously sent his right fist crashing into Clay's face. The gun sailed free and landed beneath a crate, out of reach.

Clay's fist returned the blow in kind, and sent Talbot rocking back off balance. Rolling the other man off him and grabbing him by the shirtfront, Clay savagely punished Talbot's jaw with another blow and the man flew backward, his face bloodied and battered.

Clay swayed on his knees, searching the ground for his gun. With his back to Belson, Clay didn't see the man taking a bead on him from behind the stack of wooden boxes.

"Clay, watch out!"
shouted a warning voice from above them. Clay ducked, rolling to the ground and the shot went wild, slapping into a barrel of molasses. Thick brown liquid exploded from the hole and oozed down the side of the barrel.

Behind the crate, Belson was frantically reloading his pistol while trying to retreat from his position. A bloodcurdling war-whoop rent the air as Matthew dropped from the loft down onto the man's back.

Belson's surprised yelp was cut short by a blow from the heavy handle of Matthew's hunting knife. The big man let out a grunt and sank like a stone to the floor.

The savage boy looked, at that moment, more like an Indian than her brother—with his long hair and quilled buckskins—but a rush of joy swept through Kierin at the sight of him. "Matthew!"

The boy tossed a brief victorious smile in her direction, then returned his attention to the men. In the middle of the floor, Talbot had gotten to his feet and was circling Clay. Kierin inhaled sharply when she saw the glittering knife blade in his hand. Unarmed, Clay hopped backward, arms outstretched for balance, barely avoiding the deadly swipe of Talbot's knife. Matthew edged toward them, the large knife poised to throw.

"No, Matthew," Clay growled low, spotting him too. "I want the bastard." His face was slick with sweat and blood, his expression—fierce and deadly.

Matthew lowered his arm apprehensively. "Then take this, so it's even," he said, tossing the knife to him.

Clay caught the weapon easily and flicked it in Talbot's direction. "Okay, you son of a bitch," he said, his breath coming hard and ragged. "Let's end this." He swiped the blade at Talbot's chest, slicing his shirt and drawing blood.

Talbot drew in a hissing breath. Eyes narrowed, he swallowed hard. Blood flowed freely from his nose and mouth, spattering his crisp white shirt. "My pleasure, Holt." His blade snaked out again, grazing Clay in the arm. A crimson stain seeped through the buff-colored buckskin sleeve.

The two circled each other like stalking cats—watchful, poised to strike, neither giving ground to the other.

"I should have killed you years ago, when I had the chance," Talbot snarled.

"You were as much of a coward then as you are now," Clay taunted, feinting forward with his blade.

Talbot jumped back, eluding the thrust.

"Did it make you feel like a big man to kill my wife, Talbot?" Violence simmered in his voice.

Talbot's eyes widened with taunting innocence. "That was a mistake."

"A mistake?"

"She was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"She was in her
home,
God damn you!" Holt lunged, but Talbot evaded him again, throwing him slightly off balance. He felt the sting of Talbot's blade as it sliced his arm again. He ignored the pain. He knew he was letting his emotions get in the way of what he had to do.

"Not that it matters now," Talbot continued, with a hint of a smile, "but we thought she'd gone with you. It was an accident."

It didn't matter. Not for a second. "This wasn't any accident, though, was it, Talbot? Taking Kierin? Making her beg you for her life?"

Talbot smiled. Blood tinged his teeth red. "No. Quite the opposite, in fact. How does it feel to know you've lost both of your women to me, Holt?"

"Not a prayer of that, you bastard." Tired of the game of cat and mouse, Clay kicked Talbot's wrist with a stinging jab of his foot, knocking the blade from his hand.

Talbot only had time to stagger back a step before Clay launched himself at him, knocking him into a stack of crates that splintered beneath their combined weight. Talbot caught Clay's right arm with both of his, holding the deadly blade away from his face. They rolled off the crates and onto the floor, locked in a struggle they both knew only one would survive.

Clay saw the revolver at the same moment Talbot did. The gunmetal glinted in the lantern light. Wedged beneath the crate where it had been knocked in the scuffle, it was within the grasp of both men, but only Talbot had a hand free enough to grab for it. Talbot's fingers closed around the stock and drew the gun between them.

Hysteria rose in Kierin's throat. "Clay, watch out—" she screamed. She saw him drop his knife to focus all his strength and attention on the more lethal weapon. They rolled behind a barrel, out of sight.

Struggling to her feet, she yanked furiously at the bonds on her wrists. If only she could
do
something. Across the room, her frustrated gaze met Matthew's. His helpless expression was a mirror of her own.

The deafening crack of gunfire sent her heart leaping to her throat. She went stock-still, unable to move or even breathe. Seconds passed, but the silence stretched like minutes. Woodenly, she took one step closer, then another "Clay?" Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

Nothing. Silence, except for the slamming of her heart in her ears.

There... the rattle of splintered wood. Someone moved.

"C-Clay?" she called again, louder this time. An arm covered in buff-colored buckskin came up to brace against the barrel. A cry of joy tore from her throat as Clay straightened and stepped out into the room. His arms met and enfolded her as she collided with his solid strength.

"Oh, Clay, I was so afraid!" Tears of joy streamed down her face.

His body was taut and his hand trembled as he soothed his fingers over her hair but he murmured, "Shh, I'm all right, now. He's dead. It's all over now." He reached down behind her and untied her hands.

Kierin flung her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. His answering kiss met the sweet urgency of hers and his arms tightened around her with a fierce possessiveness.

When they pulled back to look at each other, Matthew appeared beside them, head down with sudden embarrassment.

"Oh, Matthew—" Kierin cried, shifting her embrace to include him. "I thought you were dead! Look how you've grown. But how did you find me?" She looked back and forth between him and Clay. "How... how did you two...?"

"It's a long story." He and Matthew exchanged conspiratorial smiles.

"A very long story," Matthew agreed.

"What the hell is going on here?" called a deep voice from the doorway.

Clay whirled around, tucking Kierin and Matthew protectively behind him. Four men pointed guns at them from the open door. The one who'd spoken stepped over Asa's inert body and came closer. Thick gray hair peeked out from beneath his flat crowned hat and his barrel-chested body was exaggerated by a bulky sheepskin coat.

"Who are you?" Clay demanded.

"U.S. Marshal Clinton Richardson," the man replied evenly, his gaze taking in the sprawled bodies of El Dragón and Talbot lying nearby. "Who the hell are they?"

"That one's John Talbot," Kierin replied, stepping out from behind Clay. "And o-over there, a whoremonger from Mexico named El Dragón." She swallowed back the lump of pain as she looked at her father's body. Her whole body began to quake in delayed reaction. "They k-killed my father and were trying to kidnap me." She looked up at Clay. "I-I'd be on my way to Mexico by now if it weren't for Clay and my brother."

Richardson whistled and lowered his gun a bit. "El Dragón, huh? We've been after that bastard for years. You sure it's him?"

"That's his boat docked out front," Clay said. "The big guy with the lump on his head outside will verify everything I'm saying... with a little persuasion."

One of Richardson's men hauled Cain through the door by his arm. The giant scowled thunderously at Clay. "You mean him?" the marshal asked.

Clay nodded. "There's another one nursing a headache over behind those crates. He was a witness to most of it."

"And what's your name, mister?" Richardson inquired.

"Holt. Clay Holt."

Richardson tipped the brim of his hat back with the barrel of his gun. "Well, Mr. Holt, if you've told me the truth, and it sounds like you have, it shouldn't take long to get to the bottom of this. If these two don't want the Vigilance Committee after their necks, they'll talk."

"While you're at it," Clay added, "there's a woman named Suzanne back at Talbot's house, locked up with enough food to last her a month. She was involved in this, too."

Richardson nodded and gestured to his men to start picking up the bodies. He frowned at Clay for a moment, then said, "You three best come back to my office with me 'til we get this all untangled. I think I'm gonna need a cup of coffee." Sizing up the blood on Clay he added, "And the doc's gonna want to take a look at those cuts."

One hour later, after the doctor had stitched and swabbed Clay's wounds, he and Kierin rose to meet the marshal as he walked back into his outer office. The man held spent nearly a half hour interrogating Cain, Belson, and Suzanne, and had returned wearing a scowl on his face. He dropped into his rolling desk chair and started sifting through a mound of paperwork on his desk.