The Killing Blow (15 page)

 
As he ran, Ordell hunched over and held his rifle like a spear. A shotgun blast ripped through some trees to his left, telling him exactly where that second Indian was. Ordell grinned to himself and pointed the rifle barrel toward the ground.

After a few more steps, Ordell felt his rifle barrel scrape against wooden planks that had been hidden beneath a layer of leaves and branches. He leapt over the boards, pulled himself down low again and ran doubly fast.

“I saw him!” Three shouted as he sent another shotgun blast toward the spot where Ordell's head had popped up.

Howlett had seen him, too, but didn't bother taking a shot. Instead, he quickened his pace to try and catch up to Ordell rather than waste ammunition shooting at fleeting glimpses. He knew he was on the right track when he heard leaves rustling directly in front of him. The next thing he heard was a loud series of snaps, which was made by something much heavier than branches. In fact, it reminded him of a roof caving in.

Howlett was running at close to full speed when he heard a sickening thump followed by a loud scream.

Everything in Howlett's mind told him to stop running. His legs dug into the dirt, but his momentum carried him another few feet before sending him right over the edge of a pit roughly the size of a door.

Howlett let out a surprised curse as he felt his feet slide into the pit. He threw his rifle away and desperately scrambled with both hands to grab hold of anything at all that would stop his slide. One set of fingertips dug into the earth and wrapped around a clump of weeds. His other hand managed to clamp onto the ground itself and dig in with every bit of strength he had.

His eyes were clenched shut and his teeth were gnashing together as he waited to slip and fall. Although his boots were scraping against something below him, he wasn't about to slide another inch. He was grabbing onto the ground so tightly, it would have taken a team of oxen to pry him loose.

Now that he'd come to a stop, Howlett sucked in a few breaths to gather up the strength to pull himself out of the pit. Between breaths, he could hear a wet gurgling sound along with what sounded like a whimpering animal.

Howlett twisted to look behind and beneath him and saw Three lying at the bottom of the pit. The hole itself looked to be as deep as a grave. Considering the fact that the bottom was littered with sharpened stakes, a grave was exactly what it had become.

The Indian lay wedged among those stakes. A few of them were jabbing into his stomach and chest, but there had to be plenty more that were wedged in so deeply they couldn't even be seen.

“You all r—” Howlett cut himself off before asking one of the stupidest questions of his life. Forcing himself to look at Three's face instead of his grievous wounds, he asked, “Are you alive?”

Three sucked in a breath and let it out with another agonized groan. He tried to talk, but could only let out a gasp that trailed off into silence. The best thing Howlett could hope for was that the Indian was already dead.

Kicking against the tops of those spikes, Howlett pulled himself up and strained every muscle in his arms and shoulders in the process. As he was bringing his legs back over the edge, he heard someone rushing toward the pit.

“Slow up!” Howlett shouted. “It's a trap.”

The steps stopped immediately and were replaced by a slow, deliberate rustle. A few seconds later, Crow's face emerged from the bushes. The instant he saw Howlett, he rushed forward and helped the man back onto solid ground.

“Where's Three Eyes?” Crow asked.

Howlett glanced over his shoulder and said, “He's in there. He's dead.”

Crow looked anyway. His face darkened as he saw the body. When he looked back again, it seemed another ghost had taken residence behind his eyes. “Where did Ordell go?”

“I don't . . . I don't even know,” Howlett gasped.

“And the other white man?”

“If he's still alive, I wish him luck. He's sure as hell gonna need it.”

Clint didn't even bother trying to run through that thick tangle of trees and bushes. If Ordell was going to go through the trouble of announcing himself to a bunch of armed men intent on killing him, there was no reason to assume those trees weren't even more dangerous than the ones where Clint had almost been impaled.

Still, thinking like a hunter wasn't enough. Clint knew Ordell wasn't just a hunter. He was a hunter who reveled in the kill. That small detail was enough to give Clint an idea of where to look for his own prey.

Clint stuck to the one spot where most trackers wouldn't think to look for a man like Ordell. That spot was the trail that led back to the river and it was out there on an open stretch of road that Clint caught sight of the very man he'd been looking for.

Emerging from the trees like a badger, Ordell was hunched over to half his size and scuttling forward in a quick waddle. The smile on his face made it seem like he was in the middle of a game of hide-and-seek.

Half a second before Clint could do anything, Ordell turned and squeezed off a round from his rifle. Knowing all too well what that rifle could do in the right hands, Clint jumped to one side and then dove behind a tree. The shot cut through the air over Clint's shoulder, coming amazingly close to drawing blood.

“That you again, Clint? I was hoping you weren't the one that landed in that pit.”

Clint leaned from behind the tree and saw Ordell scurry into the bushes. “What is it you want to accomplish, Ordell?” Clint shouted. “You don't really think you'll make it past all these men, do you?”

“I'd say I got a better'n average chance. 'Specially since there's at least one less man to worry about. Just listen to him scream, Clint. When a man's at the bottom of a pit full a spikes, it's hard for him to sound much like a man anymore. Sounds more like a woman to me. Maybe he caught a spike or two in a tender place.”

Clint ducked back and forth behind his tree, taking quick looks for Ordell without staying exposed for too long. Sure enough, he could hear the screaming Ordell was talking about. And, sure enough, he couldn't tell who it was that had gotten hurt. One thing he knew for certain was that the man was hurt awfully bad.

“Come on, Clint. Come after me,” Ordell taunted as if reading Clint's mind. “Come after me so you can brag to those bleeding men how you snagged the big prize.”

Clint could still hear the screaming, but now he could hear Howlett's voice as well.

“Slow up!” Howlett shouted. “It's a trap.”

When he spoke again, Ordell already sounded as if he were farther away. “Come on, Clint! Let's finish this up proper!”

At times, Clint had wondered what the hell would cause a man to kill the way Ordell had killed. The fact that Ordell had committed those terrible things of which he was accused wasn't even a question any longer. But there was no more time to think about what made a man do what Ordell did. All Clint thought about now was making the man stop.

Pulling in a breath, Clint jumped out from his cover with the rifle pointed directly in front of him. Keeping the pained screams behind him, he fired at the first thing that moved in front of him.

He fired, levered in another round and fired again. Clint stuck to the road and fired at anything big enough to make a noise or move a branch. His hands worked at a blistering pace until it seemed that the rifle in his hands wouldn't be able to keep up.

Clint could feel the heat pouring from the rifle's barrel as he fired and fired until the last round had blazed into the trees. After tossing the rifle away and drawing his Colt, he stood his ground and waited for another target.

Once the thunder of those gunshots had cleared, Clint couldn't hear anything else but the dwindling cries of whoever had been hurt. At that moment, Clint made his choice and decided to help who he could help instead of playing more of Ordell's game.

He kept his Colt ready as he made his way through the trees. Clint had no trouble finding the spot where the others were, since there was plenty of motion and noise to draw his attention. Before he got close, Clint made sure to announce his arrival by speaking loudly and clearly.

“Hold your fire. It's Clint Adams.”

Even after that, Clint was nearly cut down the moment he stepped into Howlett's and Crow's sight.

“Where's Ordell?” Howlett asked. “Did you see him?”

“I saw him for a second or so, but that's it.”

“Then why the hell didn't you go after him? If that ass-hole gets away, all of this will be for shit!”

“It sounded like you needed some help,” Clint said. “Since it's too late to get Ordell right now, I suggest you take whatever help you can get. Who's hurt?”

Howlett was lying against a tree with his legs stretched out in front of him. “Never mind that!” he snarled. “Ordell's right around here! I saw him with my own eyes. I won't have Three dead for nothin' by letting that murdering crazy man skip out of here!”

“I chased him as far as I could and he went straight into another batch of trees just like this one. Since his own cabin isn't far away, I'd say he's had more than enough time to booby-trap this whole damn place. Now, if you want to go running into that, be my guest. I heard someone get hurt and I know it's in one of those traps. Tell me where he is!”

Howlett let out a tired sigh and nodded toward the pit. “Three was the one making the noise, but he's done now.”

Clint leaned forward just enough to see the bloody tips of a few spikes. “Is he still in there?”

“Yeah, but like I said before, he's done. I was nearly in there with him.”

Crow stumbled into the little clearing and then hunched down on one knee as if he were paying his respects to the dead. One of the Indian's hands was pressed to his head and a small trickle of blood was coming from his temple.

“What about you?” Clint asked. “Are you all right?”

Without looking up, Crow replied, “I will be fine.”

“He tussled with Ordell,” Howlett explained. “Caught a nasty knock from the butt of the bastard's fancy rifle.”

“Can you move?” Clint asked.

“I twisted an ankle and nearly yanked an arm out of its socket, but I should be all right. I'd be a hell of a lot better if Ordell was dead right about now.”

“Ordell won't be going anywhere. After all the trouble he went through today, I doubt we'll have to wait too long before seeing him again.” Kneeling down beside Howlett, Clint placed a hand on the man's shoulder and could immediately feel where some of the bones were out of place. “Come on, let me help you back to your camp.”

“I don't need any help.”

Clint stepped back and watched the man try to get to his feet. Howlett managed to get halfway up before wincing and gritting his teeth in pain.

“You just gonna stand there?” Howlett grunted. “Or are you gonna help me?”

Howlett wasn't lame by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd twisted his knee and ankle in his fall. Even though he needed some help getting back to camp, his injuries weren't enough to drain the fight out of him. In fact, he seemed just as ready to fight Clint as he was to fight Ordell. Howlett kept right on fighting until he was dropped back into his own camp.

Landing with a thump, Howlett grunted and spat out a string of obscenities.

“You're welcome,” Clint said.

“Might as well put a bullet in my head if I can't run after that son of a bitch,” Howlett growled.

Clint was already busying himself pulling down thick branches. “You're going to be fine. You don't have anything that a splint and a bit of rest won't cure.”

“Really? And when am I supposed to rest? The bit of time before that animal comes after me again or the bit of time after he picks me off?”

Now that he had the lengths of wood he was after, Clint looked for some rope. He found some looped to the saddle of Three's horse. “That's just the pain talking. Here”—he took a bottle he'd found in one of Three's saddlebags and tossed it over to Howlett—“take a few drinks of this and calm down.”

Still glaring at Clint, Howlett pulled the cork from the bottle and tipped it back to his lips. After letting some of the firewater pour down his throat, he lifted the bottle to the sky in a quick salute. “That Indian may have been crazy, but he fought the good fight.”

“Speaking of Indians, where's your other partner?”

“He ain't here?” Howlett asked while looking around at the small camp. “Considering how long it took for you to get me back, I would've thought Crow had been here, had supper, taken a nap and gone back out again.”

“I thought I made good time, considering I was dragging a complaining sack of bones like you along with me.”

Howlett took another drink and grinned. “All things considered, it was a hell of a run. That's the closest we got to that crazy son of a bitch since we started.”

“We'll get another chance,” Clint said as he set down the wood and rope he'd collected. After forming a splint from the branches and tying it around Howlett's ankle, Clint started to wrap the rope around a spot above Howlett's knee, but got his hand swatted away.

“I can finish it up myself.” Howlett grunted. “Lord knows it ain't the first time I mended myself.”

Clint took the bottle from Howlett's hand so the man could tie off the top of the splint. Although he didn't usually prefer whiskey, Clint shrugged and took a sip from the bottle. After everything that had happened, the drink went a long way toward making him feel like he wasn't still running.