The Complete Western Legends Omnibus, page 13
Cort looked at the old man’s tortured eyes, then at the house. The message was clear. Wassin had come and gone, leaving behind a residue of death. Gently, Cort leaned the old man up against a wall and then, gritting his teeth, went inside.
The unmistakable presence of death drew Cort directly to the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway. His insides seemed to shrivel up within him as he looked at Alice Dunbar, her body resting beneath a blood-red sheet and Ella ... Ella Frank, her face shattered—lost to life forever.
He stood in that doorway for a long, long time. Like George Dunbar, Cort found it difficult to breathe. But suddenly Cort sucked in a lungful of air and, when he exhaled, a vow came surging out of the deepest corners of his soul ... “Wassin—you’ll pay for what you’ve done here today. You’ll pay. And Cliffords—you’ll pay for bringing Wassin here. By God, you’ll pay!”
Chapter Seventeen
It was high noon and blazing hot when Cort Lacey bellied to the edge of a bluff overlooking William Cliffords’ Double C.
The sight below was a strange one. Instead of seeing the workings of a busy cattle ranch, Cort looked down upon an armed camp. Standing guard around the main house were four riflemen, one at each side of the building. Four other men, in groups of two, were on horseback patrolling the perimeter of the ranch house grounds.
Cort studied the layout below ’til his eyes ached, yet he couldn’t figure a way to get into Cliffords’ house without being seen.
From noon through the hottest part of the day, Cort lay motionless on that bluff and studied every inch of ground, every bit of cover, and every movement of Cliffords’ eight bodyguards, ’til eventually, patterns began to appear.
For one thing, the four riflemen who surrounded the ranch house often sat down, tilting their hats over their eyes for protection against the glare of the sun. More importantly, these four men on foot paid virtually no attention at all to the two groups of horsemen who rode rounds at the edge of the Double C headquarters. And as for the horsemen, there were times when they, too, were out of each other’s line of sight.
If he couldn’t get directly at Cliffords, he’d do the next best thing—go after his bodyguards. Done boldly and with a hefty measure of bluffing, there was a chance Cliffords might begin doubting his safety, and panic ... and a man in a panic makes mistakes ...
Cort concentrated on two of the mounted guards. If he remembered correctly, on their last tour of the grounds, they had swung wide, getting the benefit of shade from a large, old oak tree. He watched them on their next round and they did exactly the same thing.
Careful not to raise any dust, Cort worked himself down off the bluff, and then, running as fast as his riding boots would allow, took off for the deep, cool shadows of the towering old oak.
There was little chance the ranch house sentries would spot him because the tree and William Cliffords’ home were fairly distant from one another. Nonetheless, Cort had to hurry, for the next-group of mounted guards would be swinging into view at almost any instant.
Cort picked up two good-sized rocks, which he hurriedly stuffed inside his shirt, and then climbed the tree.
Less than a minute after Cort had settled on a sturdy bough about twenty feet off the ground, two guards came riding in Cort’s general direction. But these were not the two men Cort was after. As expected, they rode a smaller perimeter, not coming within fifty feet of the shady oak. Cort waited.
Since noon, he had occupied his mind with the cold, calculating thoughts of a hunter—studying the terrain and the habits of the animal to be hunted. But now, his plan made, the trap set, there was nothing left to fill his head except the ugly memory of death in George Dunbar’s bedroom. It was a memory burned clearly and indelibly into his brain ... never, ever, to be forgotten. Murder was offensive enough, but to kill two women—old ladies at that—went beyond the bounds of any western code ... at least any that Cort knew.
Chokingly, through clenched teeth, Cort asked himself, “What kind of scum is it gun shoots an old lady, then shoots her in the face? In the face!”
Once again, within Cort Lacey there raged a white-hot flame of hatred ... for Wassin—and for the man who put Wassin to work—William Cliffords. There, on the bough of an oak tree, he seethed with a silent, almost unendurable anger. But this would do no good. His emotions might cause him to act rashly. To succeed at saving Five Fingers, avenging the deaths of Ella Frank and Alice Dunbar, and to somehow remain alive, himself, Cort knew, deep in the back of his restless, vengeance-ridden mind, that he’d have to have a cool head and a steady hand.
Cort’s mind and body were a field of battle, as his reason made war on his emotions. Cold, hard, professional reason was the eventual victor. And none too soon. The two riders Cort had been waiting for came round the Double C bunkhouse into view at a distance of only two hundred yards. And circling out toward the oak tree.
Gripping one rock in each hand, Cort tensed. He hoped the two mounted sentries would be riding close together when they rode under him.
They were.
Cort heard the sound of their voices. Soon he could make out the words. One of them was complaining that “Double C gun wages is nothin’ to be sniffed at, but the boss, he acts like his money buys the hat on your head and everythin’ below it, including the ground you stand on. I was listenin’ to Nash and Wilson last night,” he went on, “and they feel the same way.”
“Sure,” the other man agreed, “It’s one thing to get paid fer fightin’ and killin’ when its somethin’ a body can believe in—like the fightin’ I did fer Jeff Davis. But hell ... ”
The second man’s exclamation was cut short as Cort came hurtling down from the tree branch above, striking the two men on their heads, knocking them unconscious.
Cort, hand on the grip of his Colt, swiveled toward the ranch house. Nothing stirred. The guard who might have sounded the alarm still sat casually back against the frame of the house, hat over his eyes, obviously asleep. Even if he hadn’t been asleep, it was doubtful the sound of the two men falling would have carried so far in the heavy, sunbaked summer air.
Hoisting them across their saddles, belly down, Cort led their mounts quickly and silently to his own picketed horse, hidden well beyond the perimeter of the ranch house grounds.
A long ride lay before them, so, before mounting up, Cort took the precaution of tying up his two prisoners. Then, lead reins in hand, he took his Double C captives due south.
Hours later, Cort and his now conscious companions came to a halt. They stopped at a rarely used tank which held only a small amount of bitter, brackish water. Twisting in his saddle, Cort faced the two men and said, “Welcome to your new home. Hope you like it.”
“Let us down, huh?” the smaller of the two men pleaded.
“Yeah,” the husky one piped up, “ma belly wasn’t made fer ridin’ side-saddle. How ’bout it?”
“Sure, fellers,” Cort answered amiably. “Be glad to help you out.” With that, Cort dismounted and hauled the two hog-tied men off their horses.
Once they were sitting on the ground—tied to a tree—Cort fed them some of the brackish water. The big man gurgled, coughed, and then spat out the foul tasting liquid.
“Christ!” he rasped. “You ain’t gotta poison me and my buddy. If you’re gonna kill us, mista, just shoot us and be done with it.”
Cort laughed. “You know damn well I ain’t gonna kill you. If I was, you’da been buzzard breakfast a long time ago.”
“Hey, Bob,” chirped the smaller Double C man, “I’ll bet this hombre’s that Cort Lacey feller Cliffords is so damned choked about.”
“You think fast, don’t you?” the man named Bob said sarcastically. Scowling at the slow-wittedness of his partner, he added, “Of course he’s Lacey ... who else would he be, you sorry answer to a mother’s hope.”
The other man screwed a look onto his face that was part hurt and part hatred, but all he could manage to say was, “You don’t have to talk about my ma like that, Bob!”
Bob was ready to tell his partner a few choice items about his sisters, aunts, and cousins, when Cort said, “If you guys keep on jabberin’, I’m liable to change my mind and put you both in shallow graves.”
The Double C men fell silent.
Cort continued: “I don’t have a lot of time. Just listen. You ought to consider yourselves lucky. No matter what Cliffords tries to do and no matter what I try to do, from now on, you’re out of the action. It’d be pretty dumb for you to try to get out of those ropes after I’ve gone. You could do it, but as it stands right now, you fellers have a better chance of livin’ longer than anybody else in the valley. If you’re smart, you’ll just sit tight, enjoy the scenery, and stay alive. You understand?”
They nodded their heads.
“One thing more,” Cort stated. “When I jumped you, you were talkin’ about William Cliffords. Didn’t seem as if you liked workin’ for him ...”
The skinny one cut in, “None of the men like him.”
“Bob?” Cort asked.
“The kid’s tellin’ the truth,” the husky man corroborated. “Some of ’em like his money, but not a one of ’em has any respect fer the man—not since he holed up in his house like a scared rabbit.”
A thought suddenly flashed to the other Double C rider and he yelped, “The men, they’ll think we ran away!”
Bob scowled. He didn’t have much, but did have pride. To have his friends think he turned yellow ...
Cort eased their minds when he said, “I’m sendin’ a note to Cliffords—tacked to one of your saddles. When your horses come back without you, nobody’ll think you ran off.”
Bob looked hard at his little partner, then turned to Cort. “I suppose you’ve got to keep us roped. Could be that’s best on the chance somebody should come along and find us. But until we’re set free or begin to starve, you’ve got our word, mister, that we won’t try to get loose.”
Twenty minutes later, Cort and two riderless horses left the tank. Pinned to one of the saddles was a note that read: William Cliffords—No one can protect you. Not even Wassin. Pull out or die. The message was signed: Cort Lacey.
Cort led the horses for over an hour, blotting out their tracks as well as his own. When, at last, he felt it was safe to stop wiping out the trail, he released the horses, sure that they would head for home, and then he veered off toward the bluff overlooking Cliffords’ Double C Ranch. It was a good lookout and maybe a good place for someone to die.
Chapter Eighteen
In the black of night, William Cliffords paced the darkened interior of his ranch house, worrying about the disappearance of his two bodyguards. At his order, a search for the missing men had taken place, but to no avail.
Cliffords suspected what had really happened to those men. He was only waiting for a sign to confirm his suspicion. It came late at night in the form of two riderless horses.
Cliffords watched with deep sunken, slightly crazed eyes, as two mustangs loped to the corral. Wilson, he saw, plucked something from one of the saddles and was walking toward the house.
The Double C boss wasted no time. He walked directly to a half-filled bottle of rye standing behind nearly a dozen empties, and poured himself a double. Only a week and a half ago, Cliffords had looked down his nose at drinking men like Big Al. But that was a long week and a half ago.
Ignoring Wilson’s insistent knocking, Cliffords took a second shot of rye. When the liquor’s warm blanket of confidence wrapped itself securely around him, Cliffords yelled stoutly, “What’s all that damned poundin’ about?”
From the other side of the door, Wilson shouted, “Bob and Denny’s horses just came back ... without Bob and Denny.”
“I can see that! So what?”
“There’s a note, Mr. Cliffords. It was left on Bob’s saddle,” Wilson answered tightly, irritated at his boss’ obvious lack of interest in the fate of the two men.
“A note?” Cliffords repeated feebly. There was a long pause, during which Cliffords helped himself to another shot of rye. “Okay,” he said thickly after his drink settled. “Show me the note.”
Opening the door, Wilson thought he was walking into a darkened saloon. The smell of liquor was that strong. A moment later, Cliffords turned up the flame of a kerosene lamp. Expecting to see Cliffords cringing in fear at the sight of his own shadow, the hired gunman was surprised to lay eyes on a man seemingly afraid of nothing. The liquor, evidently, was a big help. Wilson, though, had been around long enough to know that eighty-six proof courage gets men killed almost as fast as lightning will do the job.
He handed Cort Lacey’s message into the sweaty hands for which it was intended. Cliffords remained motionless ’til he finished reading the note, then, as casually as he could, he poured himself four fingers worth of whiskey—just enough to barely overcome the panic bubbling inside his gut.
Despite the fog of his quickly clouding brain, or perhaps because of it, Cliffords was able to see a terrible vision, all the more frightening because he had had similar dreams: One by one, his guards would be plucked out of their saddles ’til only riderless horses patrolled the grounds. The four men who stood watch around his house would suddenly vanish into thin air, leaving only a promise of death where once they stood. He, himself, would climb to the ranch house roof where not even Cort Lacey could get at him. He would be safe, and the whole valley would be his. The Five Fingers and all the other little ranches would be burned to the ground with Thaddeus Clark, Rusty Howell, Sam Lacey, and all the rest of them inside their homes, as they went up in flames. But something would happen. Still, something horrible would happen. Cort Lacey would come. Even to the roof-top he would come. And in the end, Cliffords could see himself falling off the roof ... hurtling down, tumbling feet over head, then head over feet, but never reaching the ground, just falling, falling ...
“Mr. Cliffords?” Wilson asked tentatively.
Cliffords heard his name being called from a great distance. It took a while, but, by pure force of will, he got hold of his wandering sanity. There was something in his hand—a note. He read it again. A sharp-edged fear raked his insides, yet not for an instant did he think of running. If he lacked faith in everything else, he believed in what money could buy. While he realized full well that Lacey was good, he thought Wassin had to be better—because Wassin had ten thousand reasons to be better.
He finally spoke to Wilson who was standing a few feet away with a puzzled look on his face. A forced calmness masked much of Cliffords’ inner turmoil as he said, “Cort Lacey is somewhere nearby and Wassin must kill him. Send for Wassin.”
A quarter moon and a hazy sky meant little light, but from his hiding place atop the bluff, Cort could hear the two captured horses return, the hard rapping on what was probably the front door of the main house, and now three riders hesitantly making their way out beyond the ranch house grounds.
Cort had a pretty good idea as to where those three Double C men were going. But what if he were wrong? A mistake in judgement now would mean the end of everything. He had to be sure.
After silently sliding down the far side of the bluff, Cort gathered up the reins of his horse and set out to follow the men who had just left the Double C.
He tracked them ’til dawn, always staying a good half-mile behind. But when the smell of woodsmoke drifted his way, he spurred his horse and quickly closed the gap. Sure enough, they had stopped to boil some coffee, and now sat hunched around the fire, trying to rid themselves of their early morning chill.
The faint noise Cort made crawling to within a few yards of their camp was buried beneath the crackling of the fire. But had there been no fire, he could still have approached undetected. The Double C men were doing a lot of talking.
“Damn!” one of them joked. “This coffee tastes like horse-piss.”
“No,” another one said lightly, “It’s too dark to be horse-piss. Unless a’course it’s colored with mud.”
“At least I don’t know what horse-piss tastes like,” the third man said in feeble defense of his coffee-making ability.
The other two roared with laughter and, a few seconds later, the third man was laughing right along with them.
“Okay, okay,” the would-be coffee maker wheezed. And then as he caught his breath added, “All this foolin’s not helpin’ us find that feller Wassin.”
The good humor of the men instantly faded. Being rousted out of their beds at three in the morning was bad enough, but, what was worse, they felt they were being sent out on the wrong mission. They shouldn’t be out beating the brush for Wassin, they ought to be searching for their two friends, Bob and Denny. But when the habit of following orders becomes second nature, it’s awfully hard to stop and say to your boss, “This is wrong. What about loyalty to your men? You should try to find the guys who were protecting you. They might need your help now.”
The thought was there, only never expressed. And somehow, all three of them knew that by following William Cliffords’ orders they were degrading themselves as men. It was this knowledge that turned them sour, making one of the men angrily throw the contents of his cup into the fire. With a scowl darkening his face, he growled, “Let’s find this bastard Wassin. If Cliffords wants him, he can have him. Come on.”
The sounds the three men made breaking camp easily covered Cort’s retreat to his picketed horse. He had heard all he needed to know. Cort mounted up, pointing his horse back toward the Double C. He wanted to be ready.
It had turned into a blazing hot scorcher of a day. Heat waves rose in a blur from the valley floor. And three sweating, frustrated Double C men cursed the sun and their own ill luck, for, no matter where they searched, no trace of Wassin could be found anywhere. The time had clearly come for a conference.
Finding shade beneath a stand of half-dead cottonwoods, the three men ground-tied their horses, then sat themselves down in a tight circle to pass a hooch-filled canteen. The accusations started to flow soon thereafter.
