The Last Chance Ranch (18 page)

He crept up the porch, nearly tripping on Juanita's gardening tools, and flattened himself up against the clapboard siding. A quick peek through the window showed him nothing out of place, but the front door was open just a crack. Temper used the toe of his boot to push it wider, wincing at the tiny creak that whined up from the hinges.

The smell of kerosene rolled out like a living thing, stinging his eyes and driving him back a step. He steadied himself and stepped inside, doing his best to ignore his sense of smell and concentrate on his eyes and ears. He moved silently down the hall, checking and dismissing each room as he passed. He held his gun out in front of him like a holy talisman and hoped desperately that his own thundering heartbeat didn't keep him from hearing something important.

He got all the way to the end of the hall without encountering a soul. The door to Ben's bedroom was ajar. Temper edged forward and peered, and a little gasp forced its way out of his throat. Ben was lying on the floor in a heap, blood pooling around his head. He wasn't moving.

"Oh Lord,” Temper murmured, pushing into the room. Dropping to his knees, glancing continuously from Ben to the open door, he grabbed the older man's shoulder and gave it a shake. “Boss? Come on, boss, wake up.” He rolled the man over onto his back and laid his head on his chest. It seemed like a full day went by, and then he registered the rise and fall with a grateful sigh. Still clutching his gun, Temper patted the pale face with increasing urgency. “Come on, boss,” he repeated. “You can sleep later. We gotta get out of here. Crazy man gonna burn the damn house down around us."

Finally,
finally
, those deep-set, green eyes fluttered open. They blinked up at him in confusion, not looking quite right to Temper, but it would have to do. “On your feet, boss,” he urged, hauling the man up. Ben swayed and his knees buckled, only Temper's grip keeping him from landing back on the floor. But the rancher clenched his jaw and planted his feet wide, and in less than a minute he was clear-eyed and moving forward with only a little help. No doubt about it, Ben Johnson was one tough piece of business.

They made their way back down the hall, eyes burning from the kerosene fumes. Temper was focused on the open front door like it was the pearly gate to heaven, but before they got there it was blocked by the devil himself.

Obie stumbled out behind the mare and crashed to his knees, taking in big whoops of air that didn't seem to make it to his lungs. His eyes were swollen nearly shut, his skin felt tight and too small for his face. Snot ran freely down his face, and he coughed up nasty globs of black phlegm and spit them into the dirt. Behind him, part of the roof gave way with a splintering crash and a sizzle of sparks. A hand holding a tin mug appeared before his face, and he gratefully gulped the cool water down. He looked up to find Miguel squatting next to him, his brown eyes wide with concern. Obie had to clear his throat and spit three or four times before he could get the words out. “How many left?"

"You got most of them out, you and Larry and Dex."

Obie grabbed him by the shirt and gave him a weak shake. “How many still inside, damn you?"

"Just one,” Miguel said, and his face was grim. “The Bastard."

Groaning, Obie looked over his shoulder at the collapsing remains of the barn. The Bastard was all the way in the back, in the last stall on the right. Reaching him would be damn near impossible, and wrangling him would be even more dangerous as the beast was a menace at the best of times. And Obie was just about shot. His chest rattled and wheezed like an old man's, his hands were burned and sore, and his shoulder ached from where he'd caught a flying hoof from Porter's big roan. For all he knew, the massive stallion had already gone down from the smoke.

But Ben loved that damn horse.

Obie gave a sigh that sounded a lot like a sob and dragged himself to his feet. Miguel was clinging to his arm as he staggered back toward the barn. “No, Obie, too late. Too late for him now, don't go back in.” Obie patted his hand and then pushed it off his arm.

Once more,
he thought as he took a deep breath and plunged back in.
Just once more.

He made it all the way back to the Bastard's stall and yanked open the door. The huge stallion plunged out, wheeling and rearing wildly. Obie fell back against the wall, away from the flailing hooves. Gripping the rope in his blistered hand, he watched the Bastard thrash and wondered how in the world he was going to get him out. He took a hesitant step toward the monster horse.

A massive crack sounded from above. He barely had time to throw his arms over his head before the last of the roof came down.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Temper felt every muscle of Ben's body become tight as a bowstring, every bit of flesh hard as marble. The Mexican stood between them and the door, his face twisted into a smirk. And his eyes... there was madness there, the kind of madness you saw in an animal wounded beyond all reason. Temper raised his pistol, intending to put the wretched thing out of his misery. Ben caught his arm in an iron grip.

"Don't,” he warned. “Spark'll send the whole place up."

Reluctantly, Temper lowered the weapon and put it back in his holster. The Mexican smiled wider, with his mouthful of black and missing teeth. In one hand he held the oversized knife he was so fond of flashing. In the other, he held a box of matches.

"Where you goin',
gringo
? You can't leave before the party's over, eh?” Vargas rattled the matchbox, cocking his head at the sound and looking even more like a deranged animal.

"It's over,” Ben growled, pushing away from Temper's supporting grip. “Over for you."

"Me? No, I don't think so. You got no ranch left. Horses, men, all gone. All burned. Now you get to join them."

Ben's face blanched, and Temper was quick to jump in. “No, boss. Barn's gone, but they was gettin’ the horses out, and the bunkhouse is fine. Porter's got them mill boys in hand."

Vargas's face twisted, and the rage was an ugly thing that made Temper's flesh crawl. “Night's young,
cabron
. Maybe after I kill you, I go back and try again, eh? Hard work, putting out a fire. Men sleep real deep after that."

"You won't get a chance.” Ben's words were low, not meant to carry to the Mexican. He was through talking to this lunatic. He squared his shoulders and took a step forward, his intentions clear.

"Come on,
cabron
,” Vargas taunted, sinking into a crouch and waving his knife. “Stick you or burn you, don't matter none to me."

Temper didn't like this much at all. He knew Ben's head must be ringing like a church bell. Unarmed, going up against a crazy man with a knife? No, Temper didn't like it at all.

Temper wasn't much of a fighter. Throughout his life he'd mostly managed to keep himself out of conflicts with his words, with his faith and his easy-going manner. None of that would help him now. Neither would his gun. He cast around the hallway, hoping to find something to use against the Mexican. His eyes fell on the little wooden table outside the kitchen door. It never held much, just a little tin cup with water that Rosie liked to fill with flowers.

A blur of movement and the two men fell on each other like wolves. Temper moved past them and snatched up the table by one spindly leg, sending the cup and flowers flying. He spun, hefting his weapon over his shoulder, ready to bring it down on the Mexican's head and bust his damned skull.

He needn't have bothered. Ben had Vargas flat on his back, knife hand pinned to the floor. Temper watched, impressed, as his boss landed punch after hard punch while Vargas writhed and howled beneath him. Feeling a little silly, he set the table back in its place and leaned against the wall to wait for the end.

Ben let up on the beating and squeezed Vargas's wrist until the bones cracked. The Mexican let loose with a scream, which Ben ignored. He snatched the knife from his weakened hand and tossed it away, then picked up the box of matches and slipped them in his pocket. “You pathetic son of a whore. You ain't even worth killin'.” Ben rose to his feet, swaying a little before gaining his balance. “Let's go,” he said to Temper in passing.

For his part, Temper couldn't believe it. No way were they walking away, leaving this man, this murderer, alive, in Ben's home no less. “Boss!” he protested. Ben fixed him with a glare that could have only one meaning. Temper got the message. With one last wary look at the groaning Mexican, he followed his boss down the hall and out the door.

Ben stopped on the porch, scratching at the dried blood on the back of his head. His gaze traveled down the hill to the smoking heap of embers that used to be the barn and he sighed deeply. That was all the self-pity he allowed himself. “Let's get to work."

Temper stepped down off the porch and took a step, but he was still uneasy about leaving the Mexican at his back. “Boss, I really don't like—” He glanced back over his shoulder and a single, guttural sound of warning forced up out of his throat.

It was all Ben needed. Quick as any rattlesnake, he stomped his boot down hard on the porch. Juanita's rake jumped up into his hand, and he spun around. Vargas pretty much ran right into it. He stood there for a long moment, a look of profound surprise replacing his usual cruel sneer.

The tines were embedded so deeply into his neck and face that there was hardly any bleeding. At first. A few seconds after Ben yanked the rake loose, blood coursed down Vargas's olive skin and spurted out of the deep hole in his neck. His mouth worked, but no sound made it out. Eyes wide, he clawed at his collar even as it went red and wet, even as he crashed to his knees and his blood soaked into the weathered planks of the porch. Despite his great dislike for the man, Temper started praying. It was an awful way to die, and he hoped to never see its like again.

For his part, Ben didn't seem particularly moved. His face was blank, nearly bored, as he watched the Mexican die.

After a thirty-second eternity, Vargas's body fell forward and lay still. Ben nudged it with the toe of his boot, shot a mouthful of spit on the ground and turned away. “Let's get to work."

Temper shivered. One final glance at the dead Captain Vargas and he fell into step behind his boss.

He didn't follow too close, though. Right now, he felt safer at a distance.

The closer they got to the fire, the more it became clear that something was terribly wrong. True, the barn was a loss, but the hands weren't even trying to douse the remaining flames. Instead they were clustered together watching it burn. Larry detached himself from the group and flung himself into Temper's arms, tear tracks cutting through the soot caked on his face.

Lonnie was crouched in the dirt, cradling his face in both big hands while Juanita stroked his hair and murmured in his ear. Billy and Dex stood together, not talking or touching, but close enough to share each other's breath. Ben looked from face to face and found nothing but misery staring back. “What? Did we lose a horse?"

Rising to his feet, Lonnie ran a hand over his face and gave a wet sniffle. “Boss,” he said, and then started over. “Ben. We got all the horses out except for one. The Bastard... he was all the way in the back...."

"Damn.” Ben's face creased with the loss. He rested his hands on his hips, shook his head and dropped his gaze to the dirt. “Well, damn."

"That's not the worst,” Lonnie said softly. Juanita abruptly buried her face in her shawl and turned away. “Ben, it's Obie."

Suddenly aware of the absence, Ben spun around in search of the one face he only now realized he hadn't seen. “Obie. Obediah!"

"Boss—"

Ben ignored him, ignored them all. “Obediah!” he shouted, striding first one way, then the other. He stalked to the bunkhouse door, shoving the door open and searching the dark room with squinted eyes. “Where is he?” he bellowed, walking right up to Lonnie and shoving him hard. The big man actually staggered back a step, weak with weariness and sorrow.

"He went in—"

"No!"

"He went in after the horse, Ben. He was tired and hurtin', but he went back in. The roof came down. Ben, he's gone."

Temper turned his face into Larry's smoky, sweaty hair. After all that had happened today, this last, most painful blow was just too much to take.

For the briefest of moments, Ben's face crumpled, every line and wrinkle screaming
grief, grief, grief.
And then he hardened into rage and gave Lonnie another shove.

"You're a damn liar!"

Lonnie fell back with every push, submissive in the face of Ben's wrath. He was crying helplessly, shedding the tears that Ben couldn't seem to let fall.

Finally, Ben's anger hit its peak. “Where is he? Where the hell is Obie, you son of a bitch?” He drew back his fist and swung at Lonnie's jaw, but the big man caught his hand and held tight.

"Enough,” he said softly. Again Ben swung, and Lonnie captured the other fist, bringing them together and wrapping them in his own huge hands. To Temper, it looked like they were praying.

Ben struggled fruitlessly against that unbreakable grip. When at last he broke, Temper thought it was the most awful thing he'd ever witnessed. Ben dropped hard to his knees, as though all his bones had turned to dust, and collapsed against Lonnie's legs. The big man held him close as Ben sobbed into the dirty fabric covering his thighs.

In Temper's arms, Larry silently shook with loss.

With all the distressed horses calling out all around them, it took a long moment for the sound of one animal to stand out. Larry lifted his head sharply from Temper's shoulder, a frown creasing his face as he stared hard at the engulfed barn. Following his gaze, Temper eventually made out a dark shape nearly obscured behind the smoke and waves of heat rising out of the rubble.

Larry pulled away and took off running, Temper hot on his heels. Heat prickled at their skin as they circled the wreckage, following the whinnies that were growing louder and more demanding. They came round the back, and damned if the Bastard wasn't standing there, head held high, tail twitching and flicking in agitation. Temper took a step forward, but Larry held him back. Underneath the big stallion, lying motionless between its splayed legs, was Obie.