Authors: Lyle Brandt
That took his thoughts back once again to Faith, but Slade couldn’t afford distractions at the moment. Every step he took toward Rafferty, his men, and the distillery they had committed murder to conceal was one more step toward
danger and away from what he’d come to think of as his home, the place where he’d built a new life for himself.
Almost.
With Faith, he feared, there was no going back. She’d made that plain enough by now.
A sudden rustling sound in front of him made Slade freeze in his tracks. It had been louder than the breeze and moving toward him, though the wind was at his back. An animal should smell him coming and retreat, but this noise kept advancing at a steady pace.
Maybe a lookout, then.
Slade gripped his lever-action shotgun, chosen as a better close-range weapon in the dark, and hoped he wouldn’t have to fire when he was still at least a half mile from the house. Giving himself away that early in the game would ruin any chance of reaching Rafferty, much less mounting surveillance on the place. But if he kept his wits about him, found another way to handle it…
Slade had a knife, but springing out and stabbing one of Rafferty’s employees would be murder, plain and simple. If he’d had a warrant, it would be a different story, but the legal paper would’ve granted him a front-door entry without asking anyone’s permission, much less jumping them in darkness, slitting throats.
Another way, then.
Slade stood waiting while the new arrival in the cornfield neared him, traveling along the next row to his right. His ears picked out the sound of horse’s hooves on soil now, and he craned his neck to spot the shadow of a mounted rider drawing nearer. As the gap between them closed, Slade braced himself, shotgun reversed and held to serve him as a quarterstaff.
A final nervous moment, and he leaped from hiding, crashing through the stalks of corn and striking at his
faceless adversary in the dark. Slade’s first blow struck the startled rider’s chest, unseating him. He landed hard, fighting to catch his breath and reach his six-gun all at once, but Slade was faster, swinging once more with the shotgun’s butt to render his opponent limp and senseless.
Through it all, the rider’s horse stood by and waited without bolting. Slade removed a coil of rope from his unconscious adversary’s saddle, cut enough to hogtie him, and got it done in seconds flat. The lookout’s neckerchief served as a gag to silence him when he awoke. Slade planned on being finished with his business long before the shooter could undo the knots securing his arms and legs, but took his Colt and rifle, just in case.
He moved on through the darkness toward his goal.
Rafferty paced his study in the ranch house, whiskey glass in hand, restless, unable to sit still. He had removed a Winchester Model 1892 rifle from the study’s gun cabinet, confirmed that its magazine held fifteen .44-40 rounds plus one in the chamber, and left the weapon lying handy on his desk. Beside the rifle, ready to be tucked inside his belt as needed, lay a .38-caliber Colt M1892 revolver, commonly called the new Army and Navy model. With the Apache pistol in his pocket, Rafferty believed he was prepared for anything.
So, why was he afraid?
He didn’t like admitting that, not even silently to himself. It set a precedent that might betray him, when a situation called for special strength. If anyone suspected that he had a yellow streak, however well concealed, it might turn out to be a fatal flaw.
A dozen men and guns galore should be enough to rid him of a single lawman who had overstepped his bounds.
If not, perhaps he ought to take the Colt and and use it on himself, bring all the anxious waiting to an end.
Disgusted by the thought, Rafferty drained his whiskey, moved to pour another, then stopped short at the sound of shouting from the yard outside. A heartbeat later, gunfire echoed from the darkness and he dropped his glass, which rebounded from the woven rug beneath his feet. More shots exploded as he rushed back toward the desk, snatching his weapons, conscious of a tremor in his hands.
One of his gunmen burst into the study without knocking, hesitated as if bracing for a tongue-lashing at the intrusion, then told Rafferty, “There’s somebody outside, Boss! Somebody who don’t belong, I mean.”
“You’ve seen him?” Rafferty demanded.
“Me? Uh, no sir. Couple of the others seen him though and started shootin’. That’s what all the racket is about.”
“Show me!”
All thought of hiding, giving up, was driven from his thoughts by the invasion of his property. Raw anger made Rafferty’s pulse throb in his ears, and if his fear still lingered, nagging at him from a corner of his mind, at least he had it mastered for the moment.
Slade had come for him—who else would dare?—and now he could eliminate the lawman, just as he would dump a sharp stone from his boot. Get rid of him, and then be on about the business of preparing for the next lot, and the ones who’d follow after that.
For just a moment, rushing off to battle, Rafferty imagined that he was invincible.
He lost that feeling in a hurry, once he left the house and darkness lowered over him, reducing vision and reminding him how small he really was, how vulnerable to a stray shot in the night. Rafferty edged along the porch, staying away
from lighted windows, flinching each time that a shot rang out, a muzzle-flash sparking in shadows.
“Where in hell is he?” Rafferty demanded of the hand who’d fetched him.
“Over by the barn, I think. Leastways, that what they said.”
“Who’s
they
?”
“Whoever seen him. Wanna come and look, Boss?”
“You go on,” said Rafferty. “I’ll circle round the back.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“Won’t be necessary. Just do like I told you.”
“Sure. Okay.”
Alone once more, Rafferty turned and started for the stable he’d had built at the same time the barn had been converted into a distillery. The only thought remaining to him now was saddling the fastest horse he had and getting back to town.
Slade wasn’t sure exactly where the first shot came from. He’d left his mare in the cornfield, proceeding on foot toward the barn with a quarter moon overhead screened by thin clouds. When he had almost reached the hulking structure, someone shouted from the shadows, “Hey! Somebody’s over there!”
The rifle shot came close behind that warning, launching Slade into a sprint that let him reach the barn before one shot became a crackle of incoming fire. He knelt and risked a low-down glance around the corner that concealed him, spotted half a dozen muzzle flashes in the dark all aimed in his direction, and retreated out of range.
Not what he’d had in mind at all, hoping to get a closer look around the place without sparking a fight. He hadn’t seen the still yet, much less got a line on Rafferty, and now the hunters stalking him made both prospects unlikely.
They had been expecting him, that much was clear. Or, rather, they had been expecting
someone.
In the dark, Slade knew no one had seen his face yet, or his badge. Even the lookout he’d left tied up in the cornfield had been taken by surprise, with no chance to identify his ambusher. Slade felt a sudden kind of freedom, knowing he could get away with damn near anything, as long as no one made him for a lawman.
He could even up the score for Tanner and Luke Naylor. He could lay waste to the moonshine ring without a second thought to following procedure. Who would ever know, besides himself?
But first, he had to stay alive. Survival, always, was the top priority.
Slade moved along the west wall of the barn, smelling the mash cooking inside, and found a side door with a simple latch but no padlock. He slipped inside, gunshots still peppering the corner where his enemies had seen him last, the shooters working up their nerve to rush him. Standing in the barn, the giant still in front of him, Slade saw its copper mass burnished by lamplight. Unattended at the moment, still it cooked around the clock, turning out liquid gold for Rafferty.
Poison for reservation dwellers. Death for lawmen who investigated.
Slade took the nearest of two lamps, left burning in the barn, and placed it near the metal drum set up to catch Rafferty’s ’shine as it came dripping from the coil. Retreating half a dozen paces then, he raised his shotgun, aimed, and fired.
Slade’s buckshot pellets smashed the lamp, punctured the drum of alcohol, and in a fraction of a second sent a fireball wafting toward the high-peaked ceiling of the barn. He was already at the exit when the drum of alcohol exploded, spraying liquid fire around the walls and floor,
prompting more shouts from Rafferty’s collected gunmen in the yard outside.
Trying to save the barn and still should keep most of them busy while he ran through darkness toward the ranch house, seeking Rafferty. With any luck, the shooters might believe he was inside and frying, maybe even blame themselves for sparking the inferno with a careless shot.
Stick to the fire,
he thought.
But if they followed him, they would regret it. Some unto their dying day.
Rafferty buckled the flank cinch on his saddle, gave the rig a tug, then hauled himself aboard the restless grullo stallion, reaching back to double-check his rifle in its scabbard. One more second to adjust the Colt revolver tucked beneath his belt, to stop its muzzle jabbing at his groin, and Rafferty was off, spurring the animal around behind his house and toward the road that would eventually take him back to Stateline.
His home had turned into a battleground, and he was glad to let his hired hands do the fighting. Why risk his life to stick around and watch it, when the men he paid to take risks for him were already on the job?
He’d covered thirty yards or so when an explosion rocked the property and made him rein in, looking back in the direction of his house and barn. It only took a second for the flames inside the barn to catch, their harsh light plainly visible around the large front door and through the loft’s wide-open loading bay. Outside the burning structure, men were running every which way in the yard, shouting to one another, pausing here and there to fire a shot at God knew what or whom.
Gripped by a sudden rush of panic, Rafferty faced back into the dark and snapped his grullo’s reins to get the stallion galloping along the access road and back to town. His mind was in chaotic turmoil, part of it intensely focused on escape, the rest reeling from shock of grim disaster ravaging his master plan. Wind in his face chilled Rafferty without refreshing him or cutting through the haze of dread that kept pace with his running animal.
All right, the still was gone, but he could always have a new one built. Same with the barn. The first priority was getting out from under federal scrutiny, wiping the slate and buying time to put his house in order, be prepared for when Judge Dennison dispatched another team of snoops to nose around.
And if he couldn’t manage that?
Then racing through the night to Stateline wouldn’t be the end of running, only the beginning. With a stack of murder warrants haunting him, there’d be no safe place left for Rafferty to hide. His hard work and the blood he’d shed would all have been for nothing. Wasted.
But he wouldn’t go without a fight. Whatever happened at the ranch, he still had Grady Sullivan and more men waiting for him back in town. A last chance to prevent the loss he’d suffered at the Rocking R tonight from overwhelming him.
A chance. But it would only work on one condition. Rafferty was sure of that, if nothing else.
Jack Slade would have to die.
The barn was burning fiercely now, its light revealing Flynn Rafferty’s gunmen as they tried to duck and hide, their giant shadows stretching out behind them. Slade crouched at the northwest corner of the ranch house, watching them run
helter-skelter through the yard, firing at random when they spotted a suspected target. Any minute now, he thought they might start shooting one another, and he left them to it.
Rafferty was not among the shooters Slade had seen so far, which likely meant that he was still inside the house, letting his hirelings fight his battle for him. Rather than attempt to enter through the front door, bathed in firelight from the yard and likely covered from inside, Slade jogged around behind the rambling structure, looking for another entrance. He found a door that granted access to the kitchen, and was pleased to feel the knob turn in his hand.
Slade entered cautiously, closing the door softly behind him so it wouldn’t draw attention from the circling gunmen, standing open. He considered latching it, as well, then changed his mind as he envisioned being trapped inside, denied a swift retreat by something he had done himself. Moving as quietly as possible, trusting the racket from outside to cover any passing noise he made, he crossed the kitchen, cleared a spacious formal dining room, and pressed on through the house, seeking its owner.
Slade was ready with the twelve-gauge when he left the dining room and stepped into a hallway running north-south through the center of the house. In front of him, a slender man stood frozen in surprise. Chinese, maybe the cook, since he was clutching a meat cleaver in one hand.
“You’ll want to drop that,” Slade suggested and relaxed a little as the cleaver hit the floor, piercing one of the boards and standing upright, quivering from impact.
“No shoot, please!”
“I don’t plan on it. Where’s your boss?” Slade asked.
“Gone off on horse, good-bye!”
“And when was this?”
“Five minutes, maybe.”
“Going where?” asked Slade.
A shrug. “He don’t tell me.”
Stateline. It had to be, unless…
“If I find out you’re lying to me—”
“Not lying! Check all house, you want to see.”
The cook’s apparent indignation sold it. Slade retreated, covering him just in case he made a lunge to reach the cleaver, then ran back the way he’d come, through the dining room and kitchen, out into the night.
Rafferty’s men had given up on hunting him, it seemed. Slade saw a couple of them standing guard, the others trying futilely to fight the fire with buckets full of water, flinging them against a solid wall of flame that mocked their puny efforts with its roar. He left them to it, ran around the house to keep its bulk between him and the shooters, trusting luck at last to cover him when he was in the open, dashing for the cornfield.