Authors: Along Came Jones
The
absurdity of his statement prodded Deanna's fixation away from the gun aimed at
her. "What?" Agape, she glanced at the iceman and threw up her
shoulders. "He must have hit his head real hard."
"It's
true, Victor, I swear. She found out what I was doing for you and insisted on a
cut to keep her mouth shut. I tagged her all the way here to get it back."
"Do
I look like an idiot?" Deanna asked the stranger. "If I had 3 million
dollars, would I escape to Buffalo Butte, Montana?"
Victor
smiled at her, but she'd seen corpses at funerals look warmer. His dark hair
was even frosted at the temples. On some men, it was distinguished. On this
guy, it was creepy All he needed was a cape and fangs.
"Put
the gun down, Miss Manetti. Thanks to your companions, I have no transportation
and only two colleagues left. And from what I see here—" he gave C. R. a
disdainful look—"I need you on my side."
Jay
Voorhees lay bleeding and exhausted in the tall pasture grass, just ten
yards from the the old building that had been converted into a corncrib.
"I can't do it, buddy."
Buddy.
Shep
assessed the situation from the building, his mouth a grim, bloodless line. The
air was laden with the smell of burning fuel, electronics, and sage and
mesquite that drifted north from the rubble of the helicopter the wounded man
had destroyed. It assailed Shep's nostrils with every breath as he wrestled
with his conscience—risk getting shot himself to help Voorhees to safety or let
the man lie in the bed of his own making.
So
unnecessary, he fumed in anger and frustration. Taking out the chopper and its
pilot had not been a priority. With Majors' testimony, the government had all
they needed to extradite and charge Victor Dusault for his criminal acts. All
Shep, Tick, and Voorhees had to do was protect Majors and Deanna until the
authorities Charlie contacted arrived.
A
burst of bullets whizzed through the tall winter-burned grass, blindly
searching out the fallen agent for revenge. Shep fired a few rounds around the
corner to stave them off. Four gunmen scattered when the chopper had touched
down. Under the persuasion of Ticker's and Shep's rifles, the men took up
positions on the east side of town, now at a disadvantage in the blinding light
of the sinking sun.
"Leave
me, Jones. Protect Majors and the girl," the agent called out.
That
was mighty noble since it was the only alternative Voorhees's spectacular
heroics left them. Now, with the assassins' transportation cut off, they became
cornered animals, far more dangerous than before. And Shep was one man down.
The
man never learned. Rage clamored, leave the jerk and back Ticker up, keeping
the thugs away from the house. Logic dictated it, but conscience argued louder.
Shep
watched as Voorhees struggled to pull off his belt and make a tourniquet around
his leg. He deserved to lie there... but it wasn't up to Shep to judge and sentence.
Deep down, he knew that that right belonged to a higher power. Walk away from
the least of these and he might as well walk away from God, a quiet voice
reminded him. Judge him and be judged likewise. Refuse to forgive and be
refused forgiveness. If Shep honestly had forgiven Voorhees, then he'd do the
right thing.
All
right, Lord, I
get the point. Just watch my back for me.
Shep's
concession barely formed before a solution to the problem came to him. His back
needn't be exposed at all.
"Hang
tight, partner!" He should have thought of it before, but he'd been too
set on rationalizing what was wrong instead of yielding to what was right.
"I'll be right back."
An
exchange of gunfire from up the street where Ticker was stationed speeding him
even faster, Shep returned a few minutes later with a length of rope. There
should be two men standing guard—one on the house and one on the trailer at the
other end of the street. Instead, Tick kept an eye on both while Shep played
rescue.
"Grab
this and loop it around your arm," he shouted to Voorhees working the
lariat bigger and bigger. When it felt right, he let it go. The circle of rope
shrank as it sailed through a hail of bullets, falling short. With an oath of
frustration, Shep reined it in.
The
next time he tossed it, it was weighted with a chunk of brick from the
crumbling foundation. It landed just short of Voorhees's reach, but the wounded
man dragged himself to it. After fastening it to his arm and then a couple of
twists around his wrist, he gave Shep a go-ahead nod. Shep hauled on the rope,
hand over hand, dragging Jay to him. The waving grass parted like water, tall
enough to hide what they were up to because the shooters were still peppering
the spot where the agent had been.
"Looks
pretty bad," Shep said as he helped his comrade out of the rope.
"Think you can hold the fort down here?" The agent's trousers had
been torn, exposing what looked like a slice of raw veins where the bullet had
torn into the thigh. The cinch of the belt had slowed the seepage a lot,
judging from the blood-soaked material surrounding it.
"Yeah,
thanks." Sitting against the building for back support, Voorhees put a
fresh clip in the automatic weapon he'd dragged with him.
Shep
hitched the tourniquet tighter, in case his suspicion of a nicked artery was
right, then rose. "Got enough ammo to make them think twice about sneaking
up behind you?" Maybe he should ask if the wounded man thought he could
maintain consciousness.
Another
exchange erupted, a single shot followed by a hail of bullets. Then came a
single shot, a calculated pause, then another.
"I
got this end. Now get out of here," Voorhees said.
"Right,"
Shep said. "Plan B—hold them off until the cavalry comes."
Leaving
the wounded agent behind, Shep hurried toward the hotel, pausing only to be
certain the coast was clear in each alley between the buildings, before moving
to the next. Plan A—taking the horses to the safety of the Double M—fell
through when the helicopter touched down.
Even
though Voorhees had taken out the chopper, the horses did no good when Shep
couldn't get Deanna to them. They'd be like sitting ducks in a shooting gallery
between the house and the livery Using the horses as cover, which Shep would
consider only as a last resort to save Deanna, defeated their purpose. Big
cover equals big target equals no transportation.
"Coming
up," he warned as he entered the back of the hotel lobby and ran around
the desk to the wide steps leading to the second floor.
There
was nothing to do but wait for the police and make certain Dusault's men didn't
cross the open area between the house and the buildings opposite the stables.
At least they had plenty of ammunition. It was made for big game hunting, but
it would stop a man as quick as Old Bull. Deanna was safe as long as she
listened to what he'd told her and stayed put.
"Where's
Mr. Secret Agent man?" Ticker asked over his shoulder as Shep emerged from
the staircase.
"Watching
our rear I hope. He took one in the leg. Pretty nasty."
Another
report of gunfire came from the general store across the street. From the
direction of the livery a few doors away from the hotel, a horse screamed amid
the splintering sound of wood.
"Good
thing you closed the barn doors. That mare is raising thunder."
"Heh,"
Ticker snorted. "She helped me get one of them gun-totin' buzzards. He
took a notion to make a break to this side o' the street. 'Bout halfway across,
she musta kicked off that door you just fixed. Mr. Buzzard flew back to his
cover. I blew that fancy bullet spitter right out of his hand."
The
older man pointed with no small amount of delight to where the weapon lay in
the street. "Winged him in the foot before he reached the store."
Lost in triumphant review of the moment, Ticker savored the taste of his
ever-present wad of tobacco and swallowed. "What with Charlie sending the
police, I didn't see no need of killin' less I had to."
The
seasoned hunter had the eye of an eagle and an aim just as sharp. Shep could
envision the grizzled old man firing one unhurried shot, shifting his tobacco
from one cheek to the other, taking aim, then firing another.
"What
about Gretsky, the tech guy in the trailer?"
Ticker
chuckled. "Every time that four-eyed cuckoo tried to pop his head out, I
put another hole in his clock."
Shep
gave in to a wry smile. "Well, try not to enjoy yourself too much."
When
being in the Marshals was all new, Shep had been the same way. Problem was,
he'd survived long enough to grow weary of it. There was a connection between
time served and enjoyment. As time went up, the other went down. Of course, as
in Voorhees's case, ambition threw off the curve.
Another
sharp crack of splintering wood echoed down the empty street from the livery.
Alarm stiffened Shep's spine. Patch would be nervous but fine. Molly probably
had shivered out of her saddle by now. But the mare from the Double M was just
broken and not at all accustomed to gunfire.
"I'd
better go down and see what I can do with that mare before she hurts
herself."
Ticker
held up his hand, signaling Shep to wait. Cocking the gun as he raised it to
his shoulder, he pulled the trigger and grinned. "The cuckoo again."
"Hold
your fire!"
Tickers
head pivoted toward the man's voice at the opposite end of the street from the
trailer. "What in tarnation...?"
Despite
the command, an automatic hiccoughed two rounds, then stopped. The bullets
tearing into the age-hardened siding around the balcony door dug out chunks but
failed to penetrate it.
"I
said hold your fire, idiot!"
Tick
glanced at Shep and back to the house at the head of the street. "He ain't
talkin' to us."
Shep
hardly heard him. His stomach knotted at the sight of Deanna walking onto the
porch swinging a white pillowcase from side to side. Behind her was C. R.
Majors, but the voice of authority belonged to a man behind them and not yet
visible.
But
how? Shep leaned his head against the wooden doorframe.
How
didn't matter. What he did about it was all that counted.
God, help me.
It
was a lame plea, but it was all he could do while fighting to keep his fear for
Deanna's life from making jelly of mind and muscle.
For her sake, Lord, not
mine. Just show us what to do.
"Agent
Voorhees, I have your witnesses," the gunman shouted into the empty
street.
Ticker
sucked a breath through his teeth and gave Shep an apologetic look. "Maybe
I'm an idjit after all," he fretted. "I swear, I never seen a soul
slip by to the house. Maybe when I stopped to reload—"
"You
couldn't cover both ends of the street at once." Voorhees's heroics had
actually helped the other side. "Voorhees?"
Keep
the man talking. Find out what he wants. "Voorhees is hit bad," Shep
shouted down in answer. "Who am I talking to?" Reassess the
situation. Four men got out of the chopper before Voorhees played Rambo.
"Victor
Dusault. Are you Jones?"
The
boss man himself. Jay Voorhees could take some satisfaction in that, if he
lived long enough. "I'm Jones," Shep answered, calculating on another
track. Voorhees got one. Tick crippled one. "What have you got in mind,
Mr. Dusault?"
"Simple.
Throw out your guns and step into the street."
That
left two, counting Dusault.
"Voorhees
can't walk," Shep told him.
"Then
you'll have to bring him out. Mr. Jones."
Shep
grimaced. With Deanna in the formula, the overwhelming odds were in Dusault's
favor now—even if the authorities did come up on them. "Look, Jones,"
Dusault shouted. "I don't care about you and your ranch hand or the girl.
I want Majors, Voorhees, and the pickup."
Deanna
was Dusault's passport back to Canada... which meant, shooting her would be a
last resort.
Ticker
said something in a tobacco-thick mumble.
Shep
glanced at his partner, unable to help his annoyance. "What?" Surely
Tick wasn't complaining about his truck?
Tick
spit the whole wad of his tobacco out. "I said wait till they ask, then
tell 'em I was headed for the barn and you don't know what happened to
me." The older man slung his other rifle over his shoulder. "I'm
hurt... in the barn."
At
least one of them could think. If negotiation and compliance didn't work, there
would be backup. "I owe you, partner."
"I
expect to be best man," Tick told him. "And I ain't wearing no tuxedo
neither."
"So
what do you say, Jones?" Dusault shouted. "I think I'm being more
than fair."
Ticker's
smirk of distrust reflected Shep's. His throat too tight to express either
apology or gratitude, Shep clapped Tick on the shoulder. As Tick slipped into
the hall, quiet as a shadow, Shep looked up at the cobweb-draped ceiling.
Lord,
I feel about as worthless as a colicky calf but I'm going with what I know. You
sent Deanna to me to protect. What work You have begun in me, You will see
finished. . .somehow. My heart and my hands are Yours to command.
"Okay,
Dusault. But I'll need a few minutes to get Voorhees." Armed with faith
and determination, he started down the steps.
***
Deanna
stepped off the porch and into the street. Things hadn't changed much in the
last hundred or so years. Hopewell was a ghostly witness to the gold fever that
infected men with greed and criminal conscience. Now the weather-bleached
buildings watched through indifferent dusty glass eyes of their windows, as
twenty-first century counterparts faced off in the empty dirt ribbon of street.
It felt as if she'd slipped into a "Twilight Zone" version of the
O.K. Corral as she waited for Shep, Ticker, and Agent Voorhees to surrender
their guns and show themselves—except one of the gunslingers looked like
Dracula in Armani and the other a battered clown.