Massacre Canyon (18 page)

Simon Ford and Jesse Clinton were in the saloon when a man rode up outside on a lathered horse, swung down from the saddle, and hurried into the building. He came straight to the table in the back where Ford and Clinton were sitting. He was the man with the face like an ax blade, Clinton's segundo Lew Hooke.

Without sitting down, Hooke said, “I followed the buggy all the way to the ferry over the Gila River. They crossed over, and then Jensen took an ax to the ferry rope.”

“He was making it look good for Kroll,” Ford said. He pushed away the glass of bourbon he'd been nursing. The waiting was over, and he was glad. “He wanted Kroll to think he did that to keep the posse from following them, but the posse had already turned back, hadn't it?”

“As soon as they came up to the spot where Jensen left the prison superintendent,” Hooke reported. In the several days Ford had known him, he had never seen Hooke smile even faintly, and that didn't change now.

Clinton, on the other hand, seldom stopped grinning. That's what he was doing as he said, “Pretty smart fella, that Smoke Jensen. His mistake was letting you find out about his plan, Simon.”

Ford managed not to grimace when Clinton used his first name. The gunman seemed to think they were friends of some sort now, just because he and his men were working for Ford. That wasn't the way Ford saw it at all. He could never be friends with a man who was probably an outlaw himself.

But he needed Clinton and the others, so he had to tolerate the man's familiarity. He had promised that Clinton and his men could have all the rewards for the Kroll brothers and their gang, which would add up to a small fortune. Ford didn't want any of the bounty money for himself.

He just wanted to see justice done.

“Are you sure Jensen didn't spot you trailing them?” Clinton asked Hooke.

“I was careful,” Hooke said. “Stayed 'way off to the east and watched them through field glasses. It wasn't too hard. They were in a buggy. Jensen got into the prison by pretending to be a priest.”

“A priest?” Clinton repeated. He guffawed and slapped his thigh. “I like this man Jensen. He's got audacity.”

“He's a stubborn fool,” Ford snapped.

“Maybe . . . but he got Mordecai Kroll out of Yuma Prison, didn't he?”

That plan had been risky enough that Ford wouldn't have been surprised if it failed. Clearly, though, Jensen had pulled it off, and now he was on the way to the Kroll gang's hideout.

Soon, Ford would be, too, with his newly acquired allies.

“What do we do now?” Lew Hooke asked.

“Matt Jensen and the old man will follow Jensen and Kroll,” Ford said, somewhat irritated that he had to go over this again. Hooke was a good tracker and a dependable man, according to Clinton, but he wasn't too bright. “We'll follow them, and sooner or later they'll lead us to the hideout.”

“I've got a man watching the livery stable,” Clinton added. “He'll let us know when Matt and Preacher ride out. That'll probably be pretty soon, so you'd better round up the other men and tell them to be ready to ride at a moment's notice, Lew.”

Hooke nodded but didn't turn to leave just yet.

Ford pushed himself to his feet, leaving the bourbon undrunk on the table.

“I'll go see to my horse,” he said. “All my gear is packed already.”

He walked out of the saloon, glad for the opportunity to spend a final few minutes alone, away from the unpleasant company of the hired guns. Soon enough, he would be spending all his days and nights with them.

But the goal at the end would be worth it, he told himself: Rudolph and Mordecai Kroll and all their men, either dead or on their way to prison and ultimately the gallows.

Yes, very much worth it, indeed.

 

 

Hooke jerked his head toward the bat wings where Ford had just stalked outside and said, “He's crazy, isn't he?”

“Loco as he can be,” Clinton agreed. “He's been chasing the Kroll brothers for so long that they've crawled into his ear and burrowed into his brain like devil worms. But he's going to help us get rich.”

Hooke said, “I don't see why we even have to take him along. We can follow the other Jensen and the old man without Ford's help. We can just leave him here.” He paused, and then added, “Better yet, kill him and leave him in the desert somewhere.”

“No, I believe in following my hunches, and I've got one that tells me it might come in handy to have him along, sooner or later. He's like a dog that's been trained to attack, Lew. When the time comes, we'll point him at the Krolls and turn him loose.”

Even though Clinton was still smiling, his voice held a hard undercurrent that made it clear he was the boss here and gave the orders, not Hooke.

“Then once the Krolls and their bunch are wiped out, we can kill Ford and the Jensens and the old man, and nobody will ever know they weren't gunned down in the fighting. We collect the bounties, but more importantly, we take all the loot the Krolls have cached, too. Nobody'll know that, either. It'll just be a shame that everybody who knew where the money was hidden got killed before the law could question 'em.”

“I've said it before, Jesse, but I'll say it again. You are one smart hombre.”

The cocky grin flashed across Clinton's face again as he said, “And handsome, too!”

 

 

Matt tried not to stare at Darcy Garnett, but it wasn't easy. Preacher didn't go to that much bother. He just looked at Darcy like she was the strangest thing he had ever seen.

Finally, Matt said, “I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Garnett. Preacher and I are going to do a little prospecting.”

“Yeah,” Preacher said dryly. “We got the gold fever.”

“Please,” Darcy said, still smiling. “I think it should be obvious that I know a lot more than you want to give me credit for. Lying about the situation isn't going to get you anywhere.”

“I don't much cotton to being called a liar,” Matt said.

“Then tell the truth,” Darcy shot back at him. “There's only one reason you'd be here in Yuma on the same day that the alarm bells ring up at the prison. Your brother Smoke broke Mordecai Kroll out of there earlier this afternoon, didn't he? There's been no official explanation of all the commotion up there, but that's bound to be what happened. Now the two of you are going to take up their trail.” She paused. “Do you really think that three men can defeat the entire Kroll gang? Or four, if you succeed in rescuing Luke Jensen. You'll be outnumbered ten to one.”

“We make a habit of dealing with things as they come to us,” Matt replied. “Now let me ask you a question, Miss Garnett?”

“It's all right if you call me Darcy.”

Matt ignored that and said, “For the sake of argument, let's say that you're right about all these crazy guesses you've made.”

“They're not guesses. It's information I've uncovered thanks to my journalistic efforts.”

“Doesn't matter what you call it. Let's say you're right. If you are . . . if Preacher and I are about to ride off to God knows where, hoping to find the hideout of one of the worst outlaw gangs in the whole country, what in the world makes you think we'd be willing to take a woman with us?”

“Not a woman,” Darcy snapped. “A reporter.”

Matt took a deep breath and controlled his temper.

“All right, then. A reporter. We'd have to be looking out for you rather than taking care of the business that brought us there.
If
there was any truth to that wild yarn you've been spinning.”

“I can take care of myself.” Darcy gestured at the clothes she wore. “You can see that I'm dressed appropriately for riding.”

Preacher snorted and said, “For ridin' in one of them danged Wild West shows, maybe.”

Matt shook his head and turned to pull the cinch on his saddle tight. He said, “Sorry, Miss Garnett. You've wasted your time. Preacher and I don't have anything else to say to you.”

“You're missing a wonderful opportunity,” Darcy persisted. “I can make you famous by writing about you.”

That statement was so ludicrous Matt had to look at her again and say, “What in the world makes you think I want to be famous?”

Then he nodded to Preacher, put his foot in the stirrup, and swung up on the horse's back. He took the reins of one of the pack animals. Preacher mounted up as well and led the other packhorse. They rode out of the livery stable, leaving Darcy behind to glare after them.

“If that don't beat all,” Preacher muttered as they started along Yuma's main street. “Did you ever hear such a loco idea in all your borned days, Matt?”

“You mean letting that reporter gal come along with us?” Matt laughed quietly and shook his head. “It's pretty crazy, all right . . . but most folks would say that what we're planning to do shows that we've lost our minds, too.”

“They just don't know what we can do once we put our minds to it.”

Matt grew more solemn as he went on. “What I can't figure out is how she knew about it in the first place. And she knew
all
about it, too, not just hints or rumors.”

“Smoke wouldn't have told her,” Preacher said, “and I don't figure Frémont would have, either. If I had to guess, I'd say the most likely fella to have done it would be that deputy US marshal who was so put out about the whole thing.”

“Simon Ford,” Matt mused. Smoke had told them about the lawman interrupting his meeting with the governor in Prescott. “I suppose Miss Garnett could have wormed the story out of him.”

“I don't reckon she'd have had to work very hard at it. She struck me as the sort of gal who knows how to twist a man right around her little finger any time she wants to.”

Matt grunted and said, “She didn't twist me around her little finger, did she?”

“Nope. But for a second there, when she looked at you with them big brown eyes, didn't you want to give her whatever she wanted?”

Matt didn't answer for a moment. Then he laughed and said, “Yeah, I did, Preacher. I hate to admit it, but I sure did.”

“That's one advantage to bein' old and decrepit like me. Pretty gals can't get under your skin like they do with a young fella.”

“Is that true?”

“Well . . .” Preacher sighed. “Well, no, I guess it ain't, not really.”

They rode on, heading north out of Yuma and putting the settlement behind them.

 

 

Darcy wanted to stamp her foot as she watched the two men ride away. She wanted to cry. She wasn't going to do either of those things, because that was just what people would expect of her because she was a woman.

Instead, she looked around the livery stable. When she didn't see anyone, she went over to the door between the stable and the office and pounded on it with a fist. When the man who ran the place didn't answer the summons quickly enough, she knocked again, harder this time.

The door jerked open and the proprietor said angrily, “All right, damn it, what's the big—” He stopped short at the sight of Darcy standing there in her riding outfit. After a second, he went on, “Uh, sorry, ma'am. What can I do for you?”

“You're right, I
am
in a big hurry,” she said. “I need to buy a good horse.”

“Um, you mean you need to rent one?” the liveryman asked with a frown.

“No, I meant exactly what I said. I don't know when or if I'll even get back to Yuma, so I don't want you waiting for me to return your horse. That's why I want to buy a good saddle mount.”

Still frowning, the liveryman scratched his jaw and asked, “Goin' a long way, are you, ma'am?”

“I won't know until I get there,” Darcy said.

But she knew one thing. If that infuriating Matt Jensen thought she was going to give up that easily, he had a lot to learn about Darcy Garnett!

After an initial fit of stubbornness—prompted more by a sheer contrary nature more than anything else, Smoke suspected—Mordecai Kroll told him that they needed to head east.

Smoke untied Mordecai's legs long enough to get him into the saddle, then lashed the outlaw's ankles together again under the horse's belly. When that was done, he freed Mordecai's hands and let him bring his arms around in front of him again. Then Smoke tied his wrists together and tied those bonds to the saddle horn with a short piece of rope.

Mordecai complained the entire time, but didn't try to make a move of any sort, probably because Smoke never let his guard down even for an instant. Once Mordecai was ready to ride, Smoke roped the four extra horses together so he could lead them. Two of the animals were loaded with supplies.

“You expect me to wear this prison getup the whole way?” Mordecai asked.

“Why not? We're not going to be visiting any towns, so nobody will see you.”

“Because it's humiliatin', that's why! If you want me to cooperate with you, Jensen, you got to treat me like a human bein'. You know, decentlike.”

Smoke thought for a second about all the people Mordecai hadn't treated decentlike during his career as an owlhoot. Then he put that aside as unprofitable for the moment and said, “There are some extra duds in one of those packs. Maybe later there'll be a chance for you to change clothes.”

“That sun's gonna be mighty hot on my head now. You could at least get me a hat.”

“You're right,” Smoke said with a nod. He went over to the buggy, which he planned to leave here in the canyon, and reached into the back to get the hat he had tossed in there earlier, the one he had worn in his disguise as a priest. He carried it over to Mordecai and told him, “Lean down some.”

“You can't be serious. You're really gonna make me wear that priest hat?”

“I'm not going to make you wear anything,” Smoke said. “It's up to you if you want to let your brain fry in the sun.”

“Oh, all right,” Mordecai grumbled. He leaned down from the saddle, as much as the bonds on his wrists would let him. Smoke reached up and clapped the hat on his head.

As Mordecai straightened, Smoke said, “There you go. That'll give you some protection from the sun, anyway.”

“And make me look like a damned fool,” Mordecai muttered.

“You didn't need a hat for that,” Smoke said.

He swung up onto his horse, got hold of the lead rope attached to the other animals, and used his boot heels to prod his mount into motion. Mordecai did likewise and fell in beside him.

 

 

When they camped that night, Smoke tried again to get some idea of where they were headed, but Mordecai continued to play it cagey.

“You just worry about keepin' a posse from catchin' us,” the outlaw said. “I'll get us where we're goin'.”

Smoke was glad to hear that comment. It meant Mordecai was still convinced Smoke was following Rudolph's orders. He didn't suspect that Matt and Preacher would be trailing them.

To preserve that illusion of pursuit, Smoke found an isolated canyon for their camp and built only a small, almost smokeless fire that he put out before it got dark. He used the flames to boil coffee and fry some bacon. Together with biscuits he had brought from Yuma, it made a serviceable supper.

He had left Mordecai's wrists tied together after freeing them from the saddle horn so the outlaw could feed himself. Mordecai's ankles were bound again to keep him from trying to make a run for it . . . although where he would go out here in these godforsaken badlands was a question Smoke couldn't answer.

When they had finished eating, Mordecai set his tin cup and plate aside and said, “You're gonna have to help me into the bushes, Jensen. Either that, or cut me loose so I can get there myself.” He smirked. “If you don't, I'm gonna start stinkin' pretty bad by the time we get where we're goin'.”

“You're not exactly a fragrant flower now, Kroll,” Smoke said dryly. “I'll untie your ankles so you can get up and walk. Your hands stay tied.”

“Whatever you say,” Mordecai replied with a shrug.

Smoke drew his Colt and held it ready in his right hand while he knelt at Mordecai's feet and used his left to untie the ropes.

“You act like you think I'm gonna try to kick you or something,” Mordecai said.

“Just don't want you to get too tempted,” Smoke told him. With the bonds loosened, he straightened and stepped back, still covering Mordecai with the gun.

Mordecai laughed and said, “I swear, you're a touchy sort. Don't trust a fella at all, do you?”

“Some I do. Mostly, no.”

Mordecai leaned forward and rested his hands on the ground to brace himself as he worked his feet and legs around so he could stand up. He said, “You ought to trust me. We're on the same side, after all.”

“How in blazes do you figure that?”

“Well, we're bound for the same destination, anyway. You reckon I really care what happens to your brother as long as I'm free? If Rudolph wants to stick to the deal he made with you, that's just fine with me. All I care about is not gettin' my neck stretched.”

He started to heave himself to his feet. As he did, he snatched the empty plate from the ground and threw it as hard as he could. It spun through the air straight toward Smoke's face.

Smoke flung up a hand to try to block it, but the plate was moving too fast. It smacked into his forehead and caromed off, staggering him. Smoke triggered a shot as Mordecai lunged at him, but the blow to the head threw his aim off and the bullet whipped past the outlaw's shoulder.

A split second later, Mordecai Kroll crashed into him and knocked him off his feet.

Smoke went over backwards. When he landed, a rock dug painfully into him between the shoulder blades. Mordecai clubbed his hands together and swung them. The blow slammed into the side of Smoke's face and drove his head to the side.

Mordecai tried to rip the gun out of Smoke's hand. Smoke was stunned, but instinct made him tighten his grip on the revolver. His brain was working just well enough to tell him that he needed a second or two to recover. He heaved his body up off the ground and threw Mordecai to the side.

Mordecai caught himself on his bound hands and swung one leg toward Smoke in a vicious roundhouse kick. The heel of his prison shoe caught Smoke on the wrist and knocked the gun out of his hand. The Colt flew through the air and landed a good fifteen feet away from either man.

That made it more of a fair fight, one in which Smoke should have prevailed easily because of his superior strength and the fact that his hands weren't tied.

But Mordecai fought with a sheer, crazed determination that made him stronger and faster than he should have been. Smoke had once battled a fierce Yaqui warrior whose natural fighting abilities had been enhanced temporarily by his use of peyote. Smoke had barely survived that encounter, and now desperation was driving Mordecai Kroll to a similar deadly level.

Mordecai lunged at him again, but this time Smoke was ready and got a leg up in time to plant his boot heel in Mordecai's stomach. He levered the outlaw up and over him. Mordecai landed hard and rolled across the rocky ground, but he was up almost instantly. As Smoke reached his feet, Mordecai charged him, swinging his bound, clubbed hands again.

Smoke blocked the blow and hammered a punch of his own into Mordecai's chest. Smoke had plenty of natural fighting prowess of his own. His fist landed with enough power to drive Mordecai back several steps.

Wanting to end this battle quickly, Smoke sent a looping left at Mordecai's head. Mordecai ducked under the punch, lowered his head, and rammed it into Smoke's chest. He tried to lift a knee into Smoke's groin, but Smoke twisted and took the vicious blow on his thigh.

That was enough to knock him off balance. Mordecai bulled into him again. Both men fell as their legs tangled up with each other.

Somehow Mordecai twisted and writhed so that he was behind Smoke. His arms rose and fell, and when they came down he had gotten them around Smoke's neck. The way Mordecai's arms were bound together, they made a natural noose. He tightened them on Smoke's throat as he dug a knee into his opponent's back.

Smoke tried to gulp down some air, but he didn't get much into his lungs before Mordecai's brutal grip cut off his breath. He knew he could hold out for a few moments, but unless he broke Mordecai's hold on him, in all likelihood he would pass out from lack of air.

If he lost consciousness, it would all be over. Smoke's life, the chances of rescuing Luke, everything.

Because Mordecai would kill him—Smoke had no doubt about that. If he had to, he would take a rock and bash Smoke's skull until his brains ran out on the rocky ground. Probably, Mordecai would take great pleasure in doing that.

Mordecai's knee in Smoke's back pinned him to the ground. The outlaw hauled back on Smoke's neck, bending him backwards until it felt like Smoke's spine was about to snap. Smoke sank an elbow in Mordecai's midsection, but he didn't seem to even feel it.

Smoke groped out to the side, found a fist-sized rock, and closed his hand around it. He struck up and back, aiming the blow blindly behind him.

The rock connected with something, most likely Mordecai's head because he grunted in pain and his grip loosened just slightly. Smoke struck again and again, and as Mordecai groaned and cursed, the pressure on Smoke's neck lessened even more. Smoke twisted his shoulders and tucked his chin down and pulled loose from the chokehold.

He got his knees under him, heaved upright, and turned to slam a backhanded blow into Mordecai's jaw. Smoke gasped for breath, but he didn't let that slow him down as he dropped the rock and threw another punch that landed cleanly on Mordecai's left cheekbone. The skin split under Smoke's knuckles. Mordecai landed on his back and lay there with his chest heaving. All the fight had been knocked out of him.

Blood trickled from the cut on his cheek Smoke's fist had just opened up, and also from a scratch on the other side of his forehead where the rock had hit him. He gasped, “No more . . . no more, Jensen . . .”

Smoke climbed to his feet and went over to pick up the Colt. He kept an eye on Mordecai the whole time, just in case the outlaw was shamming and tried something else.

It appeared that Mordecai was genuinely beaten, however. Smoke leveled the gun at him and asked, “Why'd you jump me like that? You knew the odds had to be against you?”

“Yeah, but . . . but I almost beat you anyway . . . didn't I?” Mordecai asked. Even in his battered condition, he was able to summon up a grin.

“But I got you out of prison and I'm taking you back to your brother,” Smoke said. “That's got to be what you want. Why try to kill me?”

“If a rattler strikes at you . . . or a scorpion stings you . . . would you ask it why?”

Lying there on the ground, Mordecai started to laugh. Smoke had to force himself not to pull the trigger and put a bullet through the man's diseased brain. After a long moment, he holstered the gun, reached down and took hold of Mordecai, and hauled him to his feet.

Wherever the gang's hideout was, they couldn't get there too soon to suit Smoke. Traveling with Mordecai Kroll was a little like taking a trip with a rabid coyote.