The Complete Western Legends Omnibus, page 9
“A lot better than yesterday,” he said proudly as Clare carefully watched him pace from one end of the cave to the other.
“You’ll be as good as new in a couple of days,” she announced. “The best thing now is to keep exercising your leg. You keep walking while I go out and gather some wood. By the time I get back you’ll be ready for a light meal and maybe a nap. And don’t sneak any more coffee while I’m gone. Speaking of coffee, how much of that story about the bear is true?”
“Don’t ask me,” Cort protested. “Ask the old mountain man—it’s his story.”
Laughing, Clare stepped out of the cave in search of firewood.
It was only a matter of minutes before she breathlessly hurried back to tell Cort what she had seen ...
“Dust, Cort ... A lot of dust, and it’s heading toward the Five Fingers. Cliffords must be planning something!”
Cort stepped up to the mouth of the cave, easily seeing the plume of dust being kicked up by a large number of swiftly moving horses. His five-day holiday was over.
“Show me how to get to the Five Fingers without bein’ seen,” he commanded.
“It’s two and a half miles, and some of it is rough country for walking. I don’t think you’re strong enough to make it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said gruffly, as he picked his Winchester up off the ground. “We’ve got to move fast. Leave everything here. Just take a full canteen with you and lead the way. Go as fast as you can. I’ll do my best to keep up. Come on, let’s make tracks.”
They started out well. Concealed by heavy brush, the old deer trail they followed sloped gently, offering few obstacles at first. Even so, Cort’s leg began to throb. After putting a fast mile and a half behind them, the trail petered out, leaving them to pick their way across a craggy mountainside.
Standing at the edge of the brush covered trail, they surveyed the open ground they would have to cover.
“It’d be tough for them to spot us, but just the same, we’d better wait ’til those riders enter the canyon before walkin’ out there,” Cort advised.
Clare’s response was only to say, “Drink some water, you need it.”
He took a gulp of water and swished it around in his mouth—then spit it out. “I like your coffee a lot better,” he grinned.
Despite her worry, she smiled and said, “You and the bear both.”
They sat and caught their breath while waiting for the eight riders to turn into Broken Rock Canyon. Cort paid special attention to one of them. He seemed to set himself off from the others, not leading or following. What worried Cort was the professional way he scanned the surrounding hills. Even though the two of them were well hidden, he told Clare not to move so much as an inch. A man who knew how to search would see movement. So they remained as still as the earth.
When at last all eight Double C riders were out of sight, Cort and Clare started off across difficult terrain that would eventually take them up over the eastern rim of Broken Rock Canyon, and then down a thin trail to the Five Fingers.
They skirted huge boulders, climbed sharp rocky inclines, and at times had to leap from ledge to ledge. The going was slow, and for Cort, very painful. He stumbled often, but always managed to keep on his feet. His leg had long since stopped throbbing. Now it was like a lead weight. Clare looked back over her shoulder, and it hurt her to see Cort struggle every time he took a step.
Then he fell.
Clare rushed to him, terrified that Cort’s wound had opened. She found him sprawled between two boulders, face up to the sun and sucking in air.
“Fall knocked the wind out,” he said hoarsely.
“You scared me half-to-death! I was sure you’d be bleeding again.”
“Nope. No blood. Looks like I’m okay,” he said between breaths. “You’re a damn good doctor ... leg’s just fine ... only it’s kinda weak.”
She handed Cort the canteen. “Be quiet and drink some of this.”
Cort rinsed his mouth, then took a small swallow. Raising himself up, he asked, “Almost there?”
The trail that leads down off the rim is just another hundred yards or so over that way,” she said, pointing to the northeast.
“Good,” he sighed. Then he gave Clare her instructions. “I want you to stay right here. If I go alone, I’m pretty sure I can make it close to the bottom of the canyon without bein’ seen.”
“You think you’re the only one with some Injun in you?” she demanded. “I can raise as little dust as you, I’ll bet.”
“Mebbe so, but now’s not the time to prove it. You’ll stay here, or so help me, I’ll cuff you one on the chin!” he said sternly.
Cort, his leg a little more limber than before, quickly covered the distance to the rim, and then disappeared down the trail on the other side.
Clare pouted, but stayed put. She found some shade on the western side of a boulder and took a sip of water. It struck her, suddenly, that Cort ought to have the canteen, not her.
That’s when she heard an explosion that could have only come from the floor of the canyon.
Chapter Twelve
“Harris!” Wassin had called just after leaving the Double C, “When we draw up in front of the Five Fingers, I want you to do all the talkin’. You speak up loud and clear. Tell those folks we want Sam Lacey—that we won’t hurt him. Tell ’em he’ll be safe so long as William Cliffords is alive. If Lacey won’t turn himself over to us, we’ll blow their place to pieces, and end up killin’ him and the rest of ’em anyway. You tell ’em that and tell ’em good!”
Lou Harris beamed. “You tellin’ me I’m leadin’ this outfit? That I’m talkin’ for the whole lot of us, Mr. Wassin?” he asked excitedly.
“That’s what I’m tellin’ you, Lou,” Wassin answered with a not so genuine smile on his face.
“You’ll see I’m good at this bossin’ business. I surely do know how to throw a scare into people. You’ll see.”
“I know you’ll do a good job,” Wassin patronized. And in a condescending tone that he was unable to conceal—and that Harris was unable to understand—Wassin gave his dupe further instructions. “If Sam Lacey won’t come out, light a stick of dynamite and throw it at the front door of their barn. If he still won’t come out, throw a second stick down their well. Then a third stick you can toss up to the roof of their house. And don’t worry about anybody shootin’ you from inside the house. Me and the other boys will keep you covered.”
“I ain’t worried, Mr. Wassin. And thanks for givin’ me a chance to prove how good I am.”
“Anytime, Lou ... anytime,” Wassin said, barely hiding the contempt he felt for this forlorn fool.
There was no sign of any Five Fingers people in the quiet canyon. The eight invading riders, all bunched together except for Wassin, who was off to their western side, drew closer to the ranch house. Then, when they were but fifty feet from the front door, Thaddeus Clark’s voice rang out, “That’s far enough!”
Only Lou Harris the man in charge, had little fear. He continued to come on toward the house. Rusty Howell, from an upstairs window fired a shot through Harris’ hat. That stopped his forward movement, but not his mouth.
“Listen to me!” Lou Harris yelled. “We’re here for Sam Lacey. If he comes out peaceable-like, no harm will come to him, or to any of the rest of you. You have my word on that. But if he don’t come out, they’ll be hell to pay. You’ll do the payin’ and we’ll do the bookkeepin’.” Lou grinned—he liked the way the words were rolling off his tongue. “Are you comin’ out Lacey, or are you gonna force us to kill your friends?”
After a short pause Harris snorted, “I don’t see you, Lacey?” The fact was, though, he really didn’t want to see him. If Lacey and the Five Fingers capitulated too quickly, he would just become Cliffords’ messenger-boy once again.
Inside the ranch house, Sam Lacey felt his blood pumping wildly. To do as ordered by the Double C men meant putting his brother in harm’s way. It was obvious Cliffords had discovered Cort’s identity. Why else would they want him as a hostage, except to bait a trap for his kid brother?
Sam couldn’t allow himself to be the cause of Cort’s death. But could he allow himself to be the cause of Cassie Clark’s death or Linda Sloan’s? What about Thaddeus, young Mark, Steve and Rusty? Was it fair to expect them to risk their lives for Cort?
“Damn, damn, damn,” he kept whispering under his breath. “If I stay, my friends die. If I leave, my brother’ll be killed. Lord help me, I just don’t know what to do. Can a man figure what’s right or wrong? Damn, damn, it’s all wrong!”
And so the blood continued to boil in his veins.
“Now me and the boys, we got plenty of time,” Harris crowed. “But you folks, you better start sayin’ good-bye to each other if Sam Lacey don’t come a’dancin’ out that door.”
Sam had heard enough. He had thought enough too. After looking at his options, he knew what had to be done. His kid brother, Cort, was a loner, with a knowledge of guns and the men who use them. It was best to give himself up to Cliffords, and hope Cort could figure something out. Better this way, than to have the spilled blood of his friends soak the land that was already saturated with their sweat.
Leaning his Winchester against the parlor wall, Sam got up and walked to the front door. A second before he planned to yell out his surrender to the waiting Double C men, Steve Sloan and Thaddeus Clark rushed ahead of Sam and blocked the door.
“You can’t go out there!” Steve gasped.
“I appreciate your feelin’, Steve, but there’s nothin’ else I can do except keep ’em from shootin’ up our home. I got to go.”
“We’ve known each other a long time, Sam,” Thaddeus said calmly, “and I know what you would do if it was me they were demandin’ as a hostage. You’d tell those rascals out there to go to hell. And you’d tell me that we came here together with the idea of sharin’ everything equal ... the cost of the ranch, the work, the fightin’ to protect the place, and the dyin’ to protect it too. We got to share equal—even the dyin’.”
“Thaddeus, it’s my brother Cliffords is after. He’s just using us to get at him. It’s not really your fight,” Sam countered.
“He’s after Cort ’cause he tried to help us. As a matter of fact,” Thaddeus said lightly, “Cort’s sort of a part owner of this place too, though he owes twelve year’s work.”
The shrill voice of Lou Harris stopped all talk within the house.
“Maybe you folks think we’re just horsin’ around. Well, I’m gonna show you that we ain’t!”
After several attempts at lighting a stick of dynamite with wet matches, Harris turned to one of “his” nearby riders and asked for a lighted cigarette.
Harris took a long, showy drag on the quirly, looked meaningfully at the dynamite, and then lit and threw the explosive which landed at the foot of the barn door.
Startled by the blast, and cut by flying debris, the animals shrieked in a terrifying harmony of fear.
Lou Harris laughed.
The Five Fingers people, their guns aimed nowhere in particular, were frozen in disbelief. “Why take it out on dumb animals?” their anguished faces seemed to ask.
Their trigger-finger paralysis was only slowly wearing off, when Lou Harris, exalting in his new power, shouted at the top of his lungs, “That’s only the beginning if Sam Lacey doesn’t come out of that house! My next target is your well. You folks think about what you’re gonna drink tomorrow—that is if you’re figurin’ on bein’ alive tomorrow—and then send Lacey out on the double!”
“Thaddeus,” Sam pleaded, “you just put me in your position. Now put yourself in mine. What if all of us might die, and you, and you alone, could stop the fightin’ by just walkin’ out there. I know what you would do. You’d walk. Don’t try to stop me. I’m doin’ the right thing ... and besides,” Sam added without much conviction, “Cort will get me out of Cliffords’ hands. I’m sure of it.”
Despite all his bluster, Lou Harris was dreading the sight of Sam Lacey standing hands up in the ranch house doorway. There were still things he wanted to do—like blow up the well, and kill a few Five Fingers folks with a well-aimed toss of dynamite. If he was to show just how tough he was he’d have to act faster than Sam Lacey could surrender.
So without waiting more than a few split seconds since his last warning, Harris lit a second stick of dynamite, cocked his arm, and shouted, “You had your chance!”
In the instant Harris’ arm came forward, Sam Lacey yelled from the house, “I’m comin’ out! Don’t do nothin’ to our well!”
But Harris wasn’t planning to stop. His arm came up over his head and his wrist was about to whip the explosive toward the well, when a shot zinged across the canyon. It found its mark in the dynamite-clutching hand of Lou Harris.
Offering little resistance, Cort Lacey’s rifle-bullet slashed through the back of Harris’ hand, came out through his palm, then clashed head-on with the dynamite he had been gripping.
It was in rapid succession that Harris not only lost his hand’s grip on the dynamite, but his arm’s grip on his hand, his shoulder’s grip on his arm, and his neck’s grip on his head. Virtually all of Lou Harris’ upper torso was blasted to dust.
He had company in death. Not more than a few yards from Harris’ twisted corpse, another Double C rider lay dead. His mistake was in being too near his leader.
After the explosion there was a pregnant second of hesitation from all sides. Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose. Five of the six remaining Double C men poured a volley into the ranch house. The Five Fingers folk responded with gunfire so withering that three of Cliffords’ hardcases were quickly shot out of their saddles, and two others skedaddled a mite bloody. The sixth man, Wassin, drifted out of rifle-range into some brush near the mouth of the canyon, and disappeared.
Chapter Thirteen
When Lou Harris left this world, only one shot had been fired. While the source of that shot remained unknown, there wasn’t a soul inside or outside the ranch house who doubted that Cort Lacey was somewhere in Broken Rock Canyon.
Wassin, for one, was completely convinced. By reputation alone, he knew the aim was too sure, the timing too delicate, for it to be anyone but Cort Lacey. And that was fine with him. Despite five dead men, Wassin considered his mission to Broken Rock Canyon a success. He had to find Lacey in order to kill him. Well, now, he was found ... almost.
Snake-like, Wassin began to edge back farther into the brush and along the canyon wall. Ever so slowly, he made his way toward the eastern slope. The hunt began. But the hunted was not unaware.
Despite the roar of gunfire and the confusion of Double C men and horses frantic to avoid death, Cort’s attention never strayed from the figure of Wassin at the far side of the canyon. At six hundred yards, however, Cort could not see who he was. But when he saw him pull his horse off into the brush with a cool, purposeful lope, Cort knew what he was. A professional killer. And Cort knew he’d need to be very careful, or he’d be a professional killer’s victim.
If he could depend on twelve-year-old memories, Cort had one advantage—he knew Broken Rock Canyon. On the other hand, he had one disadvantage—a left leg not entirely healed. It was time to ponder.
Settling himself down to a few minutes of deep thinking, Cort, all of a sudden, felt the cold chill of fear as he sensed the presence of someone close behind him. Very close. He silently cursed himself as seven kinds of fool for letting a second hired killer escape his attention. Then he remembered Clare. “Lord,” he whispered to himself as he turned, “I hope it’s her.” And there she stood, pretty as a summer sunrise, with her thin cotton blouse, wet with perspiration, clinging to every curve of her firm, round breasts.
About to cuss her out as eight kinds of a fool for sneaking up on him like that, Cort was stopped by the palm of her hand placed over his lips. She raised the canteen toward him, and said, “I thought you might be thirsty.” He was bone-dry.
After he drank, he briefly told her what all the shooting had been about. Rather casually, in the hope of playing down the danger, Cort added that one of the Double C men was hiding in the brush on the west side of the canyon.
“Why didn’t he turn-tail and run with the rest of his breed?” Clare wondered aloud. Her memory, however, jumped to supply the answer. “That man in the brush, Cort,” she said, her voice and face betraying her agitation, “is he the one who was riding off to the side of the other Double C men before they rode into the canyon?”
Cort was impressed and said, “You walk a silent trail and got good eyes too.” And as there seemed to be no real point anymore in keeping her in the dark, he calmly added, “Yeah, the feller in the brush is who you think he is.”
The easiness with which he told her that her worst fear was true helped Clare shed the momentary panic that had gripped her.
Cort couldn’t help but ask, “Where’d you learn to see the difference between an ordinary hired gun and a professional killer?”
The question startled her, but then, with a calm to match Cort’s she said, “I only knew I saw a difference between the one man and the pack. Watching you, Cort, seeing the muscles in your neck tense, that’s what told me that that man was dangerous. I didn’t know he was a professional killer until you just told me ... and now I’m a lot more scared than I was before.”
Cort would have taken more time to reassure her, but he had let too much time slip through his fingers already. Whoever was stalking him was still on the west side of the canyon, but moving, always moving, and getting closer to the moment when a clear, unobstructed bullet could find its mark in Cort’s body.
He gently took hold of Clare’s arm, smiled, and said, “Neither of us has time to be scared.”
For an instant, Clare’s mind flashed to a twelve-year-old memory. She stood by the spring with a heartsick young boy who had also taken hold of her arm. It was hard to believe that, that young boy and this wiry man were one and the same. Things had certainly changed. What changed most, was that twelve years ago she hadn’t wanted that boy’s hand on her arm. Now, she didn’t want him to let go.
