The Last Chance Ranch (17 page)

A quick splash at the pump and a trip to the tack room later, and they were saddled up and on their way. As usual, Larry found plenty of ways to communicate his thoughts without speaking a word. He passed the trip with a detailed pantomime of Lonnie and Juanita's courtship that had Temper laughing so hard he could barely stay in the saddle.

They reached town in the gray dusk and handed over their horses to old William at the town stable. Saddlebags over their shoulders, they knocked the dust from their boots and went into the saloon. There weren't many folks inside, just the mill boys and a handful of townies. The ranchers and farmers from the outlying spreads wouldn't come in until Friday night when most of the week's work was done, and they got a break from early morning chores.

The Bar J hands cast a quick glance at the mill workers, met a few scowls with warning looks of their own, and settled in at the bar. Larry had to have noticed James Arcady's eyes on him, but if it bothered him he surely didn't show it. Temper dropped some money on the bar and they sipped their drinks—beer for Larry and the usual soda for himself—in easy silence.

Temper was feeling fine tonight, his body pleasantly tired from hard work and fresh air, his mind peaceful and content. And the company couldn't have been better. He almost felt giddy, like he figured it would be with a beer or two buzzing in his head. The urge to touch his lover was damn near irresistible. He wanted to ghost his fingers over Larry's scraped and callused knuckles, slide his hand up over his muscled, hairy forearm. Larry caught his gaze, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. He drained his beer in a long gulp, wiped the foam from his upper lip and twitched his head toward the door. Temper hid a grin behind one hand as he waved to Stanley for a room key. His britches felt too tight, making him walk like he'd spent a few days in the saddle. Stopping at the door to wait for his lover, he caught a glimpse of Arcady over Larry's shoulder.

The man had one eye swollen and turned black and was watching them with an expression that looked a whole lot like fear.

And then Larry squeezed by him in the doorway, filling Temper's nose with the smell of soap and horse and man, and God help him, but Temper forgot about every damn thing else and followed his lover like a mooncalf, around the back of the saloon and up the rickety stairs to their room.

They slept naked and tangled together in the chilly room, sweat drying on their limbs under the thin quilt. Temper was dreaming of a vast, flat plain, a dream he'd had before. He rode for miles as fast as his horse would gallop, hooves beating against the cracked earth, raising puffs of dirt with every stride. On the horizon he could see the barest wisp of smoke, and he knew it was rising from the chimney of a little house. Inside the house was everything he'd been searching for, all his grown days. The dream had changed though, because finally,
finally
, he was getting closer, closing the distance at last. His goal was coming into view. The hoof beats grew louder, sharper—

He snapped awake, fumbling to turn up the lamp. Beside him, Larry bolted upright with a snort.

The knocking at the door continued. Temper all but fell out of bed, swearing as he stubbed his toe hard on the bedside table. He yanked his trousers on, paused, and then pulled his pistol out of its holster and held it loosely at his side. A glance behind him showed Larry also had his gun at the ready, though he hadn't bothered with clothes. At a nod from his lover, Temper cracked open the door.

James Arcady stood in the hall, blinking hard. The bruise on his eye stood out against his chalky face. Temper had just enough time to notice the dark stain on his fancy embroidered shirt before the man toppled forward into his arms.

"Jesus!” Temper stumbled under the weight of him. Larry jumped to help, and together they wrestled Arcady onto the bed. With the lamp turned up all the way, the man looked even worse. He had blood in his teeth, and pink foam was oozing out one side of his mouth. He took one wheezing, tortured breath after another, and the left side of his chest didn't hardly move at all. “Oh Lord,” Temper murmured. “You best go get the doc."

Arcady was having none of it. He caught at Larry's wrist before the younger hand could more than twitch toward the door, hanging on with the desperate strength of a driven man. “Stop ‘em,” he gasped. “I couldn't."

"What happened?"

"Damn Mexican... he's crazy, stuck me... gotta stop him!"

The man's urgency was scaring the daylights out of Temper. “Stop what, James?"

"Took some boys... to the ranch... he's gonna burn it...."

Fear sliced through Temper like a blade, from his heart straight down to his groin. He looked at Larry and found him wide-eyed and pale as wax, and for a long second they stared at each other, frozen in shock. Arcady, his strength fading fast, gave Larry's arm a shake and looked up at him with pleading eyes. When he spoke, they had to lean in close to hear his shaking whisper.

"Sorry... what I done to you... weren't right... didn't know....” Arcady coughed, sending a fine spray of blood over the lower half of his face. “My old man... done it to me, I was a boy."

Larry's face flashed through a whole range of feelings—shock, anger, sadness—and then he leaned in close, almost nose to nose with the dying man. Arcady's lips were moving, whispering, “sorry, sorry,” over and over again. Larry laid his hand on his pale, sweating forehead, and Temper knew it for what it was. A blessing. A benediction.

Forgiveness.

Arcady peered up with eyes that didn't seem to focus, but he must have seen what he needed to see. He sighed, and the tension left his face, leaving calm acceptance in its place. His grip on Larry's wrist loosened, and Larry took his hand in both of his and held it tight. Temper took hold of the other hand. They sat quietly. In less than a minute, the horrible, gasping breaths fell silent, and James Arcady died.

Precious seconds ticked away while they sat, nailed in place by shock. Temper was the first to shake it off. “Oh Jesus, we gotta get back to the ranch.” They scrambled for clothes, boots, and guns, left the room in a hurried tangle, and clattered down the stairs. Temper stopped short. “Get the horses. I'll meet you at the stable."

There wasn't a single light on, all up and down Main Street. Temper could see well enough in the moonlight as he ran across the street to the little church. Ignoring the front entrance, he ran around to the side that led to the old priest's living space and pounded on the door. “Father!” he hollered, beating the wood with his gloved fist, “Father Percy! It's Temper Free, from the Bar J! Need your help!"

A light came on in the rectory. Temper waited, still knocking impatiently, until the door cracked open, and Percy's thin face peered out.

Wasting no time, Temper poured out the particulars. “A man's dead, Father, name of James Arcady. Somebody stabbed him, said it was that Mexican captain. He's upstairs from the saloon. I need you to see to him and get the sheriff. Me and Larry are headed back to the ranch, Mexican's gonna burn it down.” Percy looked bewildered and opened his mouth, but Temper had no time to answer questions and was already running toward the stables. Larry had their horses saddled. They mounted up and took off at a purely dangerous pace, Temper forcefully reminded of his nightmare, of riding hard toward a goal that never got any closer. He prayed as he rode, prayed that neither horse would break a leg or throw a shoe, prayed that they'd get there in time and find all their friends and animals safe. He prayed that James Arcady's death hadn't been for nothing.

Obie blinked into the darkness of the bunkhouse and tried to figure out why he was suddenly awake. He listened hard, hearing nothing but the various snores and farts of the other hands as they slept, and figured he'd been dreaming or some such. He yawned and punched his pillow, stuffing it under his head and burrowing back under his blanket, already back on the brink of slumber.

Except the hair on his arms was standing up, and something niggling at the back of his brain wasn't going to let him go back to sleep. He sat up, this time not concentrating so hard on his ears. One deep breath and he had it.

"Smoke!” He threw aside his blanket and groped in the dark for his boots, thumping the sleeping body in the next bunk. “Everybody wake up, goddamnit! There's a fire!"

That had everybody springing up out of their beds. Obie ran out the door, still stamping to seat his boots proper, and found he couldn't see much of anything. Thick, black smoke filled the air, and through it, Obie could see an orange glow. He headed toward it, heart stuttering in his chest.

The goddamn barn was on fire.

He could hear timbers crackling and the panicked screams of horses, their heavy hooves beating against the doors of their stalls. “Oh Jesus,” he whispered. He took a step toward the barn, but felt a hand on his shoulder.

Miguel had appeared at his side, unseen through the heavy bank of smoke. He was looking at Obie expectantly, dark eyes wide with horror and the desire to take action. Obie grabbed him by the shirt and started giving orders. “Send somebody up the hill to get Ben and Lonnie. I want a man at the pump and everybody on bucket brigade. Building's a loss, get the horses out!” Miguel nodded once and disappeared.

Obie pulled out his kerchief and was about to tie it over his face when he heard a gunshot. “Hell, now what?” He took a step toward the bunkhouse but glanced at the barn and hesitated. And then Porter was moving past him, toward the sound of the shot, and Obie made his decision. If there was gunplay, Porter was the man to handle it. Obie covered his face and plunged into the burning barn.

If hell was like this, Obie was going to church next Sunday. The heat was unbearable, singeing the hair in his nose with each breath even through the kerchief. His eyes dried out and he narrowed them to slits, ducking his head and groping his way to the first stall. Inside was his own little bay, dancing and rolling her eyes in terror. Obie grabbed a rope, looped it around her neck and threw open the stall door. He covered the bay's eyes with his kerchief as best he could and hauled on the lead. She fought him every step, desperate to return to the fire with the irrational desperation of a dumb beast. But Obie's blood was running high, his heart hammering eight to the dozen, and he dragged the mare out through sheer force of will. He slapped her flank hard at the door, and she bolted for the cooler night air.

Dex ran past him with a full, sloshing bucket. Obie stopped him long enough to dunk his kerchief and find out that he knew nothing about the gunshot, and then he plunged back into the barn.

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Temper started smelling smoke almost a mile away from the ranch. With a sick feeling in his gut, he urged his horse to gallop even faster. Larry rode grim-faced at his side, hair streaming behind him like a mane. There was a light on the horizon, an orange glow that looked like the sun rising, but Temper knew it was nothing so ordinary. By the time they passed under the Bar J sign they could hear the fire crackling, hear the men shouting as they ran back and forth with buckets.

Temper knew right away that the barn couldn't be saved, though it seemed the whole ranch was throwing water on it. Lonnie was stationed at the pump, massive arms working non-stop to fill bucket after bucket. Even Juanita, her hair hanging loose down her back and wearing a shawl over her nightdress, was passing buckets on the line. Temper glanced at the barn just as a dark shape filled the doorway, and then a horse plunged wildly into the night. Someone drove it with slaps and shouts into the nearest corral, where several animals were already clustered on the far side.

Larry leapt off his horse, slapping the reins hard on the top fence rail to wrap them, and headed straight for the barn. Temper wanted to help, but the thought of the Mexican running around the ranch unchecked made his blood run cold. He turned his horse loose in the corral and slid his pistol out of the holster. Bypassing the activity around the fire, he sprinted toward the bunkhouse and pulled up short at the sight that met his eyes. Seven figures were kneeling in a row alongside the wall. An eighth lay in a motionless heap at the feet of John Porter, who wheeled and brought up his gun as Temper approached.

"It's me,” he called, and Porter lowered his gun.

Temper moved in close and examined each scowling face. “Mill boys,” Porter growled. “They lit the barn, tried to do the same to the bunkhouse. While we were goddamn sleepin’ in it.” He lashed out with a pointed boot, drawing a howl from the nearest prisoner.

Temper grabbed another by the hair, twisting his neck until their eyes met. “Where is he? Where's the Mexican?"

"I ain't tellin’ you shit,” the man spat. Then he started screaming, on account of the bullet Porter put through his leg. When Temper turned to the next man in line, he didn't even have to ask.

"He went up the house! Gonna kill Johnson hisself."

Temper reeled away from him without another glance and ran back to the corral. Snatching up the reins of Larry's horse, he threw himself into the saddle and kicked the animal hard in the sides, tearing up the path toward the main house.

Obie couldn't stop coughing. He couldn't draw much of a deep breath either, and the smoke made it hard to keep his eyes open. Squinting hard, he made his way through the inferno by memory, crouched low and moving from stall to stall with the leather bridle clutched in his fist. By his count, he'd pulled five horses out. He'd bumped into at least one other man doing the same, so he figured that was at least two more out of danger. There were eight stalls on each side of the barn, and they'd all been occupied.

His chest seized up. He dropped to his knees and continued down the row on all fours, straining to hear the panicked sounds that let him know he was close to the next animal.

Seven down. Nine more to go.

Temper launched himself out of the saddle before the horse came to a stop. He was running at full speed, driven by worry for his boss, but at the foot of the porch steps he forced himself to stop and think. If Ben was in danger, charging in like a damn fool would likely get them both killed. He slid his gun out of its holster and carefully checked the bullets as he'd been taught, trying not to think very much about the way his hands were shaking. He had never killed a man before and truly hoped he wouldn't have to now, but that Vargas was an evil bastard and no mistake. If needs be, Temper would put him down and square it with the Lord later.