Massacre Canyon (14 page)

The Dragoon was a cap-and-ball revolver that fired a heavy .44 caliber round. A tongue of flame lashed from the muzzle as the gun roared.

Billy had started to take a step toward Mattie, but he staggered back as the ball struck his right arm exactly at the elbow. The shot was pure luck; Mattie couldn't have aimed it like that.

But the ball pulverized bone and practically blew Billy's arm off, anyway. He howled in agony as his hand and forearm flopped loosely, held on only by a few strands of muscle and flesh.

“Kill 'em both!” Frederickson bellowed as he lunged for one of the rifles they had dropped on the ground.

Preacher put two slugs from his right-hand Colt into Frederickson's chest before the West Virginian could reach the rifles. He triggered the left-hand gun at Wiley and Thurlow as they went after the Winchesters, too.

At the same time Preacher lunged to his right so that his shoulder hit Mattie. The collision knocked her off her feet and sent her sprawling on the ground, which was exactly what Preacher wanted. At least she was more out of the line of fire down there.

He stood over her and let the twin Colts buck and roar in his hands. The remaining two Frederickson boys got their hands on the rifles and jerked them from the ground. Bullets ripped from the repeaters and whined around Preacher as nearly continuous muzzle flashes tore the night asunder.

The old mountain man had been under fire and faced odds like this countless times in his life. He shifted subtly to throw off the aim of his enemies and drove a slug into Wiley's midsection. That made the oldest son double over and collapse.

A second later, one of Preacher's bullets smashed through Thurlow's right lung and knocked him to the ground. He gasped for air, but the bubbling whistle that came from him testified that he was about to drown in his own blood.

Preacher was worried about Mattie, but he had to check on the Fredericksons first. The old man was dead. Preacher had drilled him twice through the heart. Wiley and Thurlow were both still alive, but not for long. As he was seeing how badly they were hurt, Preacher heard the death rattle in each man's throat.

That left Billy, who writhed and whimpered on the ground nearby. A dark pool of blood surrounded him as it pumped from his mangled arm. But he was strong enough to say piteously, “Mattie . . . Mattie . . .”

Preacher thumbed fresh cartridges into his Colts, holstered them, and went to the girl's side. He knelt and took hold of her shoulders.

“Mattie, are you all right?” he asked as he lifted her into a sitting position. He didn't see any blood on her nightdress, but it was hard to tell in this light.

She seemed too stunned to talk. She clutched at his arms and trembled. He pulled her against him and awkwardly patted her back. Despite his long life, comforting an upset female was something he had never really learned how to do effectively.

“Mattie . . .” Billy wailed.

That made her shudder even more. Preacher tightened his arms around her.

After a few moments, she was able to take a deep breath and say, “I . . . I'm all right, Mr. Preacher.”

“Just Preacher,” he said. “Forget about the mister.”

“Are they all dead?”

“Except for Billy and Arly. He's tied up.”

“Is . . . is Billy dying?”

Preacher wasn't going to lie to her. He said, “I reckon so. He's lost too much blood to live.”

“I want to talk to him.”

That seemed reasonable enough. Preacher picked up the Dragoon Colt she had dropped when he knocked her down and tucked it behind his gun belt. He helped her to her feet. She was none too steady, but with his help she made it over to where Billy lay dying.

“Mattie . . .”

“I'm here,” she told him as she leaned on Preacher.

“I . . . I'm sorry,” he gasped. “I know what we done . . . was wrong.... I tried to stop it.... I just never could . . . stand up to my pa and . . . my brothers.”

“This was one time you should have, Billy,” she said. “You really should have.”

“I know. . . . I know. . . .” He grimaced and spasmed as a fresh wave of pain must have gone through him. “I . . . I'd die easier . . . if you'd forgive me . . . if I knew that . . . you didn't hate me. . . .”

“Billy,” she said softly.

“Mattie . . . ?”

“Go to hell. Your family's waiting for you.”

Billy gasped. His back arched slightly. When his body sank back to the ground, he was gone, with his wife's condemnation the last thing he heard on this earth.

“Gal, you had it all wrong,” Preacher told her. “You're plenty strong enough to make it back in Deadwood, no matter what the folks there do.”

“I . . . I don't know. I'll think about it.”

Before Preacher could say anything else, he heard a rush of footsteps behind him. He twisted, keeping his left hand on Mattie's arm to steady her, and palmed out the right-hand Colt. He saw the shape charging him and knew that Arly had worked his way free. The last of the Fredericksons had found an ax somewhere, and he had it raised over his head to deliver a killing blow as he shouted in rage.

Preacher blew a .45 slug through his brain.

Momentum kept Arly going for a couple of steps, although he dropped the ax and it fell behind him. Then he pitched forward and lay still on the ground, nearly at Preacher's feet.

“Dadgum it,” Preacher said. “I thought I tied him up better'n that. Maybe I really am gettin' too old for this sort o' rowdy-dow.”

 

 

Mattie didn't want to stay anywhere near the corpse-littered mining camp and Preacher certainly couldn't blame her for feeling that way. So once she had gone back into the cabin, gotten dressed, and gathered up everything she wanted to take with her, he dragged the bodies back into the crude structure.

“It would be all right with me if you set fire to the place,” she said.

“I gave the idea some thought myself,” Preacher said. “I surely did. But the fire might spread, and they's other claims up and down this crick. Wouldn't want to cause trouble for any of those folks.” He paused. “I'm a mite surprised none of 'em have showed up to see what all the shootin' was about.”

“I'm not,” Mattie said. “They had to have heard rumors about what was going on here, and they never came to do anything about
that.”

“I reckon you've got a point there, girl.”

He whistled for Dog, who came bounding out of the woods. Mattie flinched a little from the big cur, but Preacher said, “He won't hurt you,” and called Dog over. At his urging, Mattie petted the animal and wound up hugging Dog around the neck while he eagerly licked her face.

“Dog's got mighty good judgment. He don't never have anything to do with anybody except good folks, so that ought to tell you somethin' right there,” Preacher said.

She smiled up at him and said, “You've made your point, Preacher. I'll go back to Deadwood with you . . . but it won't be easy.”

“Most things worth doin' ain't.”

They rode the mules back to where he had left Horse. He switched over to the gray stallion and led the way back into Deadwood. It was almost midnight when they arrived, but the saloons were still open and doing a brisk business, including the O.K.

“There's a back door,” Mattie said. “Can we go around that way so I don't have to walk through the barroom?”

“Sure. Whatever you want, gal.”

They went along an alley next to the saloon and dismounted at the back of the building. The rear door was locked, but Mattie knocked on it, explaining, “My mother is nearly always in her office at this time of night, toting up the day's receipts. She can hear the knocking from there.”

Mattie was right. A moment later a key rattled in the lock and the door swung open a few inches. Elizabeth Langston said, “Who—”

“Mama,” Mattie interrupted her in a choked voice.

Elizabeth threw the door the rest of the way open, caught hold of Mattie, and pulled her into a tight embrace. She said, “Oh!”, and the simple exclamation showed just how overcome by emotion she really was.

Preacher stood there holding the reins of Horse and the two mules while mother and daughter enjoyed their reunion. After a long moment, Elizabeth looked over Mattie's shoulder without letting her go and said to Preacher, “You brought her home to me.

“And . . . and those men?”

“They won't never trouble you or the gal again.”

She mouthed the words
Thank you
at him, and he could tell how heartfelt they were.

Mattie had started to cry. Between sniffles, she said, “I . . . I was such a fool, Mama—”

“Hush,” Elizabeth told her. “There's no need to talk about it anymore. What's done is done, and we're going to put it behind us and never talk about it or even think about it again.”

Preacher thought that would be a pretty tall order. He had a hunch these two still had some tough times ahead of them. But as he had told Mattie, they were strong enough to deal with whatever came.

He was just glad he wouldn't have to handle that part of it. He was better at things that required tracking and shooting and knife-fighting. The wilderness of the human heart was still largely unknown country to him, despite his age, and he figured it always would be.

Elizabeth finally let go of Mattie and told her, “Go on upstairs to our rooms. I'll be there in a minute. I just have to talk to Preacher first.”

Mattie smiled and nodded.

“All right, Mama. I'll be there.”

“I know you will. And that makes me happier than I've been in a long time.”

When Mattie was gone, the older woman faced Preacher, who held up a hand, palm toward her.

“If you're fixin' to start talkin' about payin' me wages or givin' me some sort o' ree-ward, you might as well get it outta your head. I done what I did 'cause you and me are old friends, and 'cause if anybody needed killin', it was them there Fredericksons.”

Elizabeth shook her head and said, “I won't insult you by offering that, Preacher. But I'd be pleased to . . . give you some good memories to wash away all the violence.”

Preacher chuckled.

“I won't say I ain't tempted, even at my advanced age, but I reckon I'd better say no thank you to that, too. I'd sort of like to keep things the way they are betwixt us.”

“I can understand that,” she said with a nod. “But you need to come into the office for a minute, anyway. I have something for you.”

“I done told you—”

“It's a telegram,” she said. “From your friend Smoke. He sent it in care of me because he knew you were headed in this direction. He asked that I make sure you got it if I saw you.”

“Dadgum it,” Preacher said. Telegrams from Smoke always meant trouble. “Must be that blasted Indian Ring actin' up again.”

Several times in recent years, he, Smoke, and Matt had had to join forces in order to combat the schemes of the Indian Ring, a group of corrupt politicians, industrialists, and financiers out to loot the tribes of as much as they could.

“I wouldn't know about that,” Elizabeth said. “I didn't read the telegram that he sent to you.”

“I better have a look,” Preacher said.

A minute later they were in Elizabeth's office. Preacher tore open the envelope she gave him and read the message printed on the folded flimsy inside. His eyes took on a dangerous squint.

“I've seen that look before,” Elizabeth said. “You're going to have to kill somebody, aren't you?”

“A lot of somebodies, more'n likely,” Preacher said.

Territorial Capitol, Prescott, Arizona

 

The governor of Arizona Territory frowned and said, “What you're asking us to do, Mr. Jensen, is irregular. Highly irregular.”

“I know that, sir,” Smoke said, “but my brother's life is at stake. I wouldn't have brought this proposal to you unless it was very important to me.”

The district attorney of Apache County, who had prosecuted Mordecai Kroll and won a conviction in the case,
harummphed
.

“Important to you because this bounty hunter is your brother,” he said. “But the life of one man doesn't count for much when weighed against the needs of justice.”

The governor frowned and said, “Let's not be harsh, Claude. I can understand how Mr. Jensen feels.”

“Thank you, sir,” Smoke said.

“But just because I can sympathize with your problem doesn't mean that I can grant your request. The Arizona Territory simply isn't in the habit of allowing convicted murderers and outlaws to escape from custody.”

“Especially not when he's been sentenced to hang like Kroll has,” the lawyer added sharply.

Smoke regarded the elderly man sitting across the desk from him. At first glance, John Charles Frémont seemed an odd choice for a territorial governor. Famous from one end of the nation to the other as “the Pathfinder,” Frémont had been a soldier, a politician, and most notably an explorer, mapping for the first time much of the country west of the Mississippi. He should have been enjoying a well-deserved retirement.

Smoke had heard the Frémont family had suffered financial reverses, though, and had survived mainly on the income derived from the books and magazine articles written by Frémont's wife, Jessie, about his exploits, some of which she had shared with him. Smoke figured the governor's salary came in handy, as well as giving the family a place to live.

Frémont's background also gave Smoke a hole card that he hadn't played yet and wouldn't unless he needed to. Instead, he said, “Kroll won't be escaping, not really, because he'll have somebody going with him. Me. I'm going to bust him out of Yuma.”

“That's insane!” the district attorney exclaimed. “A few men have escaped from Yuma and been brought back. No one has ever staged a successful rescue.”

“Well . . .” Smoke smiled. “I reckon I'll have some help.”

Frémont leaned forward in his chair. A look of interest appeared on his face.

“You want us to help you make the breakout look genuine,” he said.

“That's right. Mordecai Kroll can't suspect that it's not real. He has to believe in it before he'll take me to the hideout.”

“How do you know he won't just kill you as soon as you're clear of the prison?”

“I won't give him the chance,” Smoke replied. “That's why I said he's not really escaping. Once he's out of Yuma, he'll be my prisoner, just like he was Arizona's prisoner. He'll believe that I've agreed to his brother Rudolph's terms, and that I'm taking him to the hideout to exchange him for my brother Luke.”

Earlier, Smoke had shown the two officials the letter he had received from Rudolph Kroll. Arranging this meeting with Frémont and the Apache County district attorney hadn't been easy, and he knew this was probably the only chance he would get to convince them to go along with his plan.

The lawyer said, “I still think it's a big risk just to save the life of one man.”

“There's more riding on it than that, sir.” Smoke was ready to lay down another card, while still holding his trump in reserve. “Over the past few years, the Kroll gang has pulled off dozens of robberies and collected a small fortune in loot. The law hasn't been able to recover any of that money because nobody has any idea where the gang's stronghold is. But they're bound to have one, and chances are a lot of that money is still there. Mordecai's going to lead me right to it.”

“And when he does,” Frémont said, “you'll have lost your advantage and the Kroll brothers and their followers will kill you and your brother. That seems painfully obvious to me, Mr. Jensen.”

“I'm sure that's their plan,” Smoke agreed with a nod. “But I plan to have a couple of surprises for them. I have another brother, and an old friend who's like an uncle to me. They're going to trail us, and when I've freed Luke, they'll join forces with us to deal with the gang and recover that loot.”

“Four men?” exploded the district attorney. “You really expect four men to take on dozens of vicious outlaws and not get yourselves killed?”

“Well,” Smoke said mildly, “we'll try to work it so we don't have to fight all of them at once.”

Frémont leaned back again and laughed.

“I can admire your outrageous attitude, if nothing else, Mr. Jensen,” he said. “That's the same sort of spit-in-the-Devil's-eye daring that helped get me through my expeditions.”

“I know, sir,” Smoke said. “By the way, Preacher told me to remind you of the time you and he and Kit Carson rode into a Cheyenne village by yourselves to reclaim the horses they had stolen from you.”

Frémont's eyes grew wide with surprise at the mention of the old mountain man's name.

“Preacher!” he exclaimed. “You know Preacher?”

“He's that old friend I mentioned, the one who's like an uncle to me,” Smoke said.

“You mean he's still alive?” The governor sounded like he couldn't believe it.

“Alive and kicking,” Smoke said with a smile.

“Good Lord,” Frémont muttered. “You say he's going to follow you and help you defeat the Kroll gang?”

“That's the plan,” Smoke said.

The district attorney said impatiently, “You're talking about one man. What possible difference could one man make?”

“When he's the right man, all the difference in the world,” Frémont snapped. “Anyway, I believe you said you have another brother, Mr. Jensen. . . .”

“His name's Matt,” Smoke said. “A while back he got a special commendation from the governor of Colorado for rescuing a young woman and corralling some outlaws.”

Frémont nodded slowly and mused, “I think I heard something about that. You make a compelling argument, Mr. Jensen, but the odds would still be so high against you—”

“Like they were against you and Preacher and Kit Carson that day?”

“That was a different era,” the district attorney said.

“Boldness never goes out of fashion,” Frémont said. “I'm leaning toward granting your request, Mr. Jensen—”

The door of the governor's office opened abruptly and a man strode in. From behind him, Frémont's secretary said, “I'm sorry, governor, I told the marshal that you were in a meeting and couldn't be disturbed—”

“Meeting be damned,” the newcomer said. “What's this I hear about you letting Mordecai Kroll go?”

The district attorney was on his feet. He said, “Marshal Ford, this is inappropriate—”

“No, what's inappropriate is turning loose a blasted murderer who should've been stretching a rope by now!”

“I don't disagree with that sentiment, but all the legal angles of the case have to be given a chance to play themselves out.”

Frémont narrowed his eyes at his secretary and said, “I'd be very interested in knowing how you heard about this discussion, Marshal, since I assumed only the three people in this room were privy to the details.”

The secretary swallowed hard and started to edge back out of the doorway. He froze when Frémont added, “Don't go anywhere, Horace.”

“It doesn't matter how I heard about it,” Marshal Ford said. “Is it true?”

“We're not going to release Mordecai Kroll,” the governor said. “What we're considering is making it appear as if Mr. Jensen here has broken him out of prison.”

Ford swung his baleful gaze toward Smoke and said, “Jensen?”

“That's right,” Smoke said coolly as he got to his feet. “Smoke Jensen.”

“The outlaw?”

“All the charges against me were dropped a long time ago.”

“The gunfighter, then.”

Smoke shrugged. He couldn't very well argue with that designation.

“Mr. Jensen,” Frémont said, “I don't believe you've met US Deputy Marshal Simon Ford.”

“Haven't had the pleasure,” Smoke murmured.

Ford was an inch or so taller than Smoke but built along leaner lines. His powerfully rugged face was dominated by a hawklike nose, piercing blue eyes, and a thin mustache that adorned his upper lip and hung down past the corners of his mouth. His hair was the color of mahogany. He wore a brown tweed suit and carried a black hat with a flat brim, a slightly rounded crown, and a thin silver band decorated with bits of turquoise. Smoke saw the pearl-handled butt of a holstered revolver under the right flap of the suit coat. A deputy US marshal's badge was pinned to Ford's dark gray vest.

“It's not a pleasure,” Ford snapped. “I'm a lawman, and I don't take any pleasure out of meeting gunmen unless I'm arresting them.”

“For the past year and a half, it's been Marshal Ford's special charge to track down the Kroll gang and bring them to justice,” Frémont explained.

“I've worn out a dozen good horses and half a dozen posses in that time, too,” Ford said.

“Then you ought to be happy there's a chance to round up the whole gang and recover some of the loot they stole,” Smoke said.

Ford snorted in disgust.

“It was bad enough that a damned bounty hunter brought in Mordecai Kroll instead of a bona fide representative of the law. But now to let him go in some hair-brained scheme hatched by a gunslinger—”

“Perhaps you should listen to the plan, Marshal,” Frémont suggested. “If you had asked, Mr. Jensen might have been agreeable to you sitting in on this meeting . . . instead of you having to bribe my secretary and who knows how many other minor government functionaries to spy for you and listen for any mention of the Kroll brothers.”

Horace gulped again and looked like he wanted to bolt. This time Frémont waved him away, and the secretary quickly disappeared.

“Why don't you sit down, Marshal?” Frémont invited. “Mr. Jensen, do you have any objection to filling Marshal Ford in on your plan?”

Smoke had objections, all right: He didn't know Simon Ford and didn't trust the man. But it seemed that if he wanted the authorities to go along with him, he didn't have much choice but to comply with the governor's request.

“All right,” Smoke said as he nodded.

Grudgingly, Ford sat down. So did Smoke, and for the next few minutes he sketched in the idea he'd had to save Luke, save his own life, and bring the Krolls to justice.

The marshal listened with an increasingly skeptical look on his face. When Smoke was finished, Ford shook his head and said, “It'll never work . . . but there might be an outside chance, under one condition.”

“What's that?” Frémont asked.

“I go along, too.”

Smoke didn't hesitate. He said, “That's impossible. Mordecai is bound to know you, Marshal—”

“He does,” the district attorney said. “Marshal Ford was in court every day.”

“But he won't know me except by reputation,” Smoke went on. “He'll know that I'm trying to help him because Luke's life is riding on it. And that's what'll make him trust me.”

Frémont said, “I agree with you, Mr. Jensen. And I also agree with Marshal Ford that the odds of this plan working are very slim indeed.”

Ford started to look satisfied.

Frémont dashed that reaction by continuing. “But the chance to break up the Kroll gang once and for all and recover however much we can of the money they've stolen over the years is simply too tempting. I'm going to order that the arrangements be made. And I sincerely hope that you have God and good luck on your side, Mr. Jensen, because I have a feeling you're going to need all the help you can get.”