Trackdown (9781101619384) (30 page)

“Dep’ty,” Cobb said, “Mr. Monroe sent me down here to let you know there’s somethin’ you need to see.”

Since returning to Redemption on the day of the bank robbery, when his efforts to pursue the outlaws had failed, Perry Monroe had stayed close to his store. Mordecai knew that Monroe must be worried sick about Eden and figured he was trying to distract himself with work.

“What is it, Benjy?” Mordecai asked as he got to his feet. “Trouble at the store?”

Cobb shook his head.

“Nope. Some fellas just rode into town, and Mr. Monroe said that he didn’t like the looks of ’em.”

Mordecai suppressed the urge to utter a curse. The last thing they needed right now was more troublemakers riding into Redemption. Things were just starting to settle down a mite.

Grabbing his hat, Mordecai headed for the door. Cobb stepped aside, and Fleming followed him. The three men went out onto the boardwalk in front of the marshal’s office. Cobb pointed and said, “Down yonder at the Prairie Queen.”

“What am I lookin’ at?” Mordecai asked. “I don’t see nothin’ except some horses tied up at the hitch rack.”

“The fellas that rode those horses into town went on inside the saloon. Hard-lookin’ men they were, Dep’ty, and strangers, every one of ’em.”

“No law against strangers ridin’ into town,” Mordecai said, although a feeling of unease had begun to stir inside him. Was the settlement about to be raided again by another outlaw gang?

Or were these men after something—or someone—else?

Only one way to find out, Mordecai told himself. Hitching up his gun belt, he told Fleming and Cobb, “I’ll go up there and check it out.”

“Do…do you want us to come with you?” Cobb asked.

“Nah, this is my job, not yours.”

Both men looked relieved at Mordecai’s answer.

He left them there, walked up the street, and crossed over to Redemption’s new saloon.

When he went in, he found that an odd hush hung over the place, no doubt due to the great interest with which the customers were regarding the six men who stood at the bar drinking beers that Glenn Morley had just drawn for them. The bartender looked worried, too. Mordecai didn’t see Annabelle Hudson. She was probably upstairs, he thought.

As he approached the strangers, one of them turned to face him. The man was tall and lean, well dressed in a black frock coat and black hat. His face was narrow and clean-shaven, although a blue black shadow of a beard lingered on his cheeks, jaw, and chin. His gaze touched the star pinned to Mordecai’s shirt, and one corner of his mouth quirked in a faint smile.

“Marshal,” he said. “Just the man I was looking for.”

“Deputy,” Mordecai corrected him. “Name’s Flint. Marshal Harvey’s out of town right now, but he’ll be back any time.”

Mordecai wished that was the case. In truth, he didn’t know when Bill would be back…if ever.

“Well, you’ll do just fine, Deputy Flint,” the man said. “I just need to ask a question, and I figure someone in authority will probably know.”

“What sort of question is that?”

“Where would I find Walter Shelton?”

That was exactly what Mordecai didn’t want to hear. This man, and those with him, bore the stamp of professional gunmen. Either Shelton had sent for them, hiring them to go after the Gentrys, or the Gentrys were responsible for the hard cases being here and planned to use them to strike first at Shelton.

Mordecai figured the first possibility was the most likely. Burk Gentry and his sons were the sort of men to do their own gunfighting. From what Mordecai had seen, Shelton was, too, but he was badly outnumbered by the Gentrys and could use some men to back him up.

Either way, these strangers were trouble, and nothing but.

“You know the name, Deputy?” the spokesman prodded. “Walter Shelton?”

“I know who he is,” Mordecai snapped, unable to hold in the irritation he felt. “What do you want him for?”

“That’s not the law’s business.”

“Reckon the law’s business is what I decide it is.”

Mordecai saw several of the men glance at each other and smile. One of them even chuckled. He felt his face growing warm with anger. They weren’t worried about him. They thought he was just a broke-down old cripple with a bad wing. Maybe they were right about that, but he was still wearing a star.

The leader must have decided that it would be easier to cooperate rather than argue. He said, “Shelton sent for us to do a job. We have mutual friends in Wichita.”

“You mind tellin’ me your name, mister?”

“Not at all. It’s Jack Roland.”

Mordecai had heard of Jack Roland, but he tried not to let that knowledge show on his face. Roland was a gunman, all right, with a reputation that said he would hire out for any sort of dirty job as long as the money was right. Mordecai had no doubt that the other men ranged along the bar were the same sort.

“If you don’t know where to find Shelton, Deputy, I’m sure I can find somebody who does.”

“You passed his house already,” Mordecai said harshly. “You rode by it on your way into town. Big house that looks more like it ought to be back East instead of in Kansas.”

Roland nodded and said, “I saw it and wondered if that was where he lived. But I wanted to be sure.” He smiled. “Anyway, we were thirsty. It’s been a long, fast ride from Wichita, and the boys and I needed to cut the dust.” He turned to his companions. “Drink up, and then we’ll go see Mr. Shelton.”

Mordecai stood there. After a moment Jack Roland looked over at him again.

“Is there anything else, Deputy?”

Mordecai shook his head and said, “No, I reckon not.”

“I didn’t think so.”

The smug tone in the man’s voice almost pushed Mordecai over the brink. But he knew he was no match for six hardened killers, even on his best day, and if he tried to throw down on them, the resulting gunplay might injure or kill innocent folks. Even though turning away from the bar and heading for the door of the saloon cost him a considerable effort, it was the right thing to do. He had to let this lie until he figured out what to do about it.

Well, there was one good thing about this development, he told himself with a touch of grim amusement as he pushed throught the batwings.

With everything that was liable to be happening pretty soon, the mayor wouldn’t have time to worry about Gregor Smolenski anymore.

Bill howled, “Noooo!” as he saw Eden tumble off her feet. He opened up with his Colt. The revolver roared and bucked in his hand as he fired toward the cabin. The range was a little too far for a handgun, but the shots carried close enough to force the figure back inside.

With his heart slugging painfully, Bill stopped shooting and sprinted toward the spot where Eden had fallen. It wasn’t possible he could have followed her and her captors this far, stayed on their trail for so long, and come this close, only to have her snatched away from him now by an outlaw’s bullet.

Then, amazingly, she was on her feet again and racing toward him. Bill didn’t know how that was possible—he supposed the wound she had suffered was only a minor one—but he wasn’t going to turn his back on a miracle. He hurried to meet her, and she came into his embrace. He had never felt anything better in his life than closing his arms around her and hanging on tightly.

“You’re…you’re not hurt?” he managed to ask.

“I tripped and fell.”

They couldn’t say anything else because their mouths were pressed together in an urgent kiss.

That kiss lasted only a couple of heartbeats because they were still in a lot of trouble, even though they’d been reunited. More outlaws were spilling out of the other cabins, drawn by the gunshots, and Bill heard somebody yell, “There they are! Get ’em!”

He had emptied his gun at the man who was trying to shoot Eden, and there wasn’t likely to be enough time to reload. That left him with only one option.

He took hold of Eden’s hand and told her, “Run!”

They headed toward the mouth of the narrow passage that led through the ridge. Behind them, more shots rang out. Bullets whined through the air around them.

At first Bill thought the pounding he heard was his own pulse inside his head. Just as he realized it was really hoofbeats, a rider burst from the passage and galloped toward them. The rider let out a rebel yell.

Still holding tightly to Eden’s hand, Bill veered sharply to the side to get out of the way as Jesse Overstreet raced past them. The six-gun in the cowboy’s hand exploded again and again as he fired at the outlaws. Right behind Overstreet came Josiah Hartnett, and then one by one the other members of the posse emerged from the bottleneck and spread out. Rifles flared and cracked, horses lunged here and there, and men yelled curses.

Bill reached the boulder where he had taken cover a few minutes earlier. He steered Eden behind it. She slumped wearily against the big rock. For the first time, he noticed that her wrists were tied together in front of her.

He wanted to get her loose, but there wasn’t really time. The battle between the posse and the outlaws was still going on, and he needed to be in the thick of it.

“Stay here,” he told her as he thumbed fresh cartridges into the Colt’s cylinder.

She caught at his sleeve with both hands.

“You don’t have to go back out there,” she said.

“You know I do,” he told her as he snapped the revolver closed again.

Eden didn’t argue. Instead she said, “Yes, I suppose you do. Leave me your knife so I can cut these ropes?”

“Yeah, sure.” He passed the blade to her. “Be careful.”

“You, too.”

There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but for now, that laconic conversation would have to do. Gripping the Colt, he hurried back toward the cabins.

Some of the outlaws had managed to retreat into the stone dwellings and take cover, judging by the shots that came from them. Several of them had been caught out in the open by the unexpected arrival of the posse, though, and they had been cut down as they tried to flee.

Unfortunately, now that the surprise was over, the pendulum was starting to swing back the other way. The remaining outlaws were behind thick stone walls, with loopholes to fire through, and the men from the posse were out in the open. They had to scatter as gunfire raked them. A horse screamed and went down.

Bill was on foot, so he wasn’t as visible a target. He crouched and ran wide of the cabins. His limp was more pronounced now, as it always was when he had to exert himself.

He reached the brush corral, where the gang’s horses were milling around in confusion because of all the shooting. None of the outlaws could see him at all now. He continued to circle until he could approach the nearest of the cabins from the rear.

Loopholes were cut into the back wall, too, so defenders could fire in that direction if they needed to, but the men in the cabin didn’t seem to be aware that anyone was behind them. From the sound of the shots, Bill figured there were three men inside this cabin, all directing their fire out the front toward the posse.

He felt around on the wall until he found one of the little openings. What he was about to do was a little like murder, he thought, but the outlaws had brought it on themselves. He slid the Colt’s barrel through the loophole and started to fire, triggering off all six rounds as fast as he could cock the hammer and pull the trigger. He knew it would be pure luck if any of his shots struck the men inside on a straight line, but with those stone walls, the slugs would ricochet wickedly.

When his gun was empty, he pulled it out and dropped
to a knee. His ears rang from the thunderous roar of the volley.

As that ringing faded, though, he became aware that no more shots were coming from inside the cabin. A man groaned as if badly wounded.

Bill didn’t trust that, but it could be checked on later. For now, he needed to reload. He did so, working with practiced efficiency even in the dark, and then stole toward the center cabin, the one from which Eden had fled a short time earlier.

No shots came from in there. The other defenders seemed to be in the third cabin. As Bill approached it, a figure suddenly appeared at the far corner. He almost took a shot at the shadowy shape before he recognized Jesse Overstreet.

“Jesse!” Bill called to the young cowboy.

Overstreet paused and whispered, “Bill? Is that you?”

“Yeah. What’re you doin’ back here?”

“Same thing as you, I reckon.” Overstreet’s teeth gleamed for a second in the starlight as he flashed a reckless grin. “Came to smoke out some rats.”

He held up his flask of whiskey. He had stuffed a rag through the open neck.

“Thought I’d set this on fire and drop it down the chimney,” he went on.

“Good idea,” Bill said. “How’re you gonna get up there?”

“Hell, after climbin’ that ridge, I reckon I can clamber up on top of a little cabin like this.”

Overstreet proved that by feeling for fingerholds in the gaps between the blocks of stone. Bill holstered his gun and laced his hands together to form a step. That helped Overstreet get farther up the wall. A moment later the cowboy rolled onto the thatched roof.