Lone Star 05 (17 page)

He pushed even harder for the next forty-eight hours. But when he pulled up at dawn on the second day—his sixth out of Holbrook—and looked back from a piney ridge in the far northeast corner of the territory, he saw them again. And they were closer this time. It was like a nightmare, but he pressed on.

This chase went on for a full week until finally, exhausted, the kid decided to make a stand and face the riders. Or better—he would lay in wait and ambush them, taking as many with him as he could. So he waited. When he saw them he was relieved. Of the original number, only five remained. He liked the odds much better now, though they weren't the best.

As they rode closer, Starbuck calmed his pounding heart and controlled his breathing as best he could, and did not move. Already he had his rifle, an old Springfield, at the ready, with his Gibbs and a loaded revolver beside him.
Come on, you bastards,
he said to himself.
Come get me if you can. I'll take a few of you down with me to hell, that's for sure.

The battle was short and savage. When the first two riders had passed the point where he lay, the kid shot the third man. The man went down with a bullet through the lungs. Then, in quick succession, the kid shot the fourth and fifth men, knocking them cleanly from their saddles. The first two posse members circled around and unsheathed their rifles. They were plenty mad. They knew who he was and they wanted to pay him back for his shooting of the old man, and now of their friends. As they wheeled and raked the area with gunfire, Starbuck let loose a bullet that crashed into the leader, a tall, broad man with bushy muttonchop whiskers—probably a military man from the last war.

The whiskered man fought on, answering the kid's fire with a barrage of his own. But the boy held his aim steady and finished off the man, who hurtled from his horse as if thrown from a mountain peak.

That left one man, who was pumping bullets furiously into the earth around the kid. The rider aimed for the source of the rifle fire that had killed his companions, but he was frightened now, and alone. He leaped from his horse and dove for cover. One of the kid's slugs tore at the man's shirt but drew no blood. Like a scared rabbit, but determined not to give in to this killer, the man burrowed in for the fight. But he did not expect the kid to fool him.

Instead of waiting for the pitched battle to begin, Thomas Starbuck jumped up from his covered spot and picked his way through the stunted trees to outflank his opponent. He moved quickly, as silently as an Apache, until he could see the man's back exposed to him. The man wore a coarse brown shirt stained with sweat. He tried to keep still but shifted nervously, waiting for the kid to open fire and reestablish his location. He didn't know that the kid was lining up his gunsights on his back.

As he had when he'd killed the banker, Starbuck grinned. If his intended target had seen that smirking face, he would have known the boy meant business. As it was, the kid backshot the posse man, that cruel smile still pasted to his face. The bullet rocked the man forward and there was a spreading maroon pool that soaked through the sweaty shirt. The kid went to the man to make sure he was dead. He wasn't quite. The ragged breathing indicated, though, the he hadn't much longer to live. In a merciful mood, the kid put a bullet through the man's brain.

Five more dead men, five hundred dollars in his possession. That had been one hell of a fine day—one of his very best. But the memory of that time and others choked him now as he shook himself out of his dream. There was nothing heroic about the situation he was in at the moment.

He was staring into the barely glowing remains of the fire when he heard Jessie and Thad Hill returning. They were acting queerly, he thought, as if something had happened between them. He knew then what it was. His eyes squinted at them as his mouth curled into a lopsided, sly smile. “Can't fool me. I'm a big boy. I know what men and women do.”

“Shut up,” said Thad. He stepped toward the kid, his fists clenched.

Starbuck spat onto the ground near Thad's boots. There was a killing fire in his green eyes, as if he were inviting Thad to hit him.

“Thad, don't pay any attention to him,” Jessie urged. “He's just trying to get you riled enough to do something foolish.”

“The kid's got a dangerous mouth.” It took all of Thad's self-control not to slap the young man's grinning, evil face—a face that represented so much menace. But Jessie was right; now was not the time. The kid would get his—in court. The only problem would be keeping him alive until then.

“Anytime you're ready to talk sense, to tell the truth, Thomas, I'll listen.” Jessie was reaching out, trying another tack with the young killer. She too was worried about keeping him alive until she could learn for certain if Mueller had put him up to this deadly deception. And if so, why.

The kid's features—what you could see through the dust and grime—were stony, with a flicker of hatred shining in his eyes. Silently he regarded them both, looking ready to explode, but saying nothing. He realized he had them off guard for now, and that neither one would kill him. He'd play his remaining cards tight, bluffing all the way.

“Thad, you ought to get some sleep,” Jessie said, turning from the kid.

“Not while this killer is awake,” said the bounty hunter.

Thad Hill was near the end of his tether; he hated the kid for the trouble he had caused Jessie, and wanted to punish the boy somehow. It was only out of consideration for Jessie that he did not plant his boot in the kid's face. He controlled himself, however, and amended his harsh statement. “I can't sleep anyway,” he said.

Jessie squeezed the bounty hunter's arm lovingly. She set about rebuilding the fire and soon had a small flame eagerly licking against the blackness of the night and throwing off some welcome warmth. Then she boiled a pot of coffee, which she and Thad drank.

The kid glared at them a while longer, but then fell asleep. Even his hatred for his captors could not keep him awake.

Thad Hill cleaned his and Jessie's guns, his hands restless for some task besides throttling the loudmouthed young killer. Each weapon was already in superb working order and barely showed a speck of dust, but Thad never tired of caring for these deadly instruments. They were a part of him, a part of his life. He thought of Ki, who treated everything he encountered as a part of the process of life. Weapons, people, mountains. The bounty hunter saw some sense in that.

He wondered again if Ki and Jessie had ever been to bed with each other. The thought of another man possessing her body drove him half mad. Hell, it shouldn't matter a damn if she'd slept with the Eleventh Cavalry, she was just a woman, he reminded himself.

It didn't work. He glanced up at her. She was nodding, leaning back against a rock, about to succumb to the exhaustion that plagued them all. No, this girl was special, no two ways about that. She was indeed a thoroughbred.

When Scott and Ki returned to report that all was quiet, Thad took his turn at watch, along with Ki. The men let Jessie sleep.

 

Thad alerted the others. Ki and Scott took the news without flinching. Jessie, for a moment, regretted the danger she had got the others into. And Thomas Starbuck, showing typical glee in the discomfort of his captors, laughed aloud.

“So Mueller and the others are on their way. Can't say as I'm surprised. He wanted me for himself awful bad.” He stood awkwardly, his chestnut hair falling in a rude fringe over his eyes. “He was gonna pay them Mormons big money for me.”

“I told you to shut up, kid,” said Thad, cinching the saddle on his horse as the others prepared their mounts. The kid just laughed again.

When they rode out, the marshal took control of the kid, helping him into the saddle and leading the horse into a deep defile. They rode down a hundred feet before leveling off and snaking into a high-walled canyon through which ran a sluggish stream. Picking up the pace, they tried to put distance between them and their pursuers. The marshal announced that they would head for a group of foothills to the northwest where they could set up an adequate defense. Until then, all they had to do was ride.

It was almost noon whey they arrived at their destination. There was no telling how soon the men Thad had sighted would be upon them. If they were lucky, it would be before sundown. After dark, the odds were evened out some; the posse couldn't be seen, nor could the pursued, making for accidents that could benefit either side. Jessie and the others wanted the fight to come in the light of day—and they wanted to be the hell on their way after it was over.

They set up their defense, the three men and Jessie each taking a secure spot not too far from the others, yet not close enough to risk drawing a miss that would hit another. Thad and the marshal took the flanks, Jessie and Ki the center.

Ki only reluctantly accepted the loan of an extra rifle from Thad. “My arrows will be sufficient,” he claimed.

“Take it anyhow,” Thad insisted. “It'll make me feel better. You get caught here and your arrows are gone—well, then you're a goner too.”

“Thank you,” said Ki simply. He inspected the rifle and found it in perfect working order. He understood the care Thad took with his weapons, sensing a kinship with the rough-hewn bounty hunter. The fact that Jessie had taken a shine to him didn't hurt him in Ki's estimation.

Now Ki tested the bowstring and made certain the arrows in his polished quiver were all there and ready. Although he respected firearms and knew how to use them, Ki had been taught never to depend upon any one type of weapon; all weapons have limitations, and none are appropriate for all uses. In this case, the element of surprise that his silent, deadly arrows provided might prove advantageous.

The kid, meanwhile, was bound to a tree near the horses, and his mouth was tied shut with the marshal's bandanna. He struggled mightily against his bonds but could not do a damned thing. This enraged him even more. And he renewed his vow to get even for the humiliating treatment of the past two days. What he wouldn't give to get his hands on a gun right now—any kind of gun. He'd plant a bullet in their backs, each one of them. That would make him feel a lot better.

The sun reached its zenith, blazing brightly upon them and washing the landscape in a golden glare. From where Jessie was, she could see for miles, and she strained to catch the sight of the approaching riders. Her vision was excellent, and those emerald eyes had long been accustomed to picking up the slightest movement against the dense background of natural surroundings. She could see nothing, though—not yet.

An hour passed before they caught the first sign of the posse. Then, along the rim of a ridge about three miles from where they lay, Jessie and the others saw the riders limned against the brilliant sky. It was impossible to count their number, but it looked as if there were at least ten men. That was more than enough to make things uncomfortable, thought Jessie.

Then the distant figures disappeared into the undulating terrain. Between them and their quarry lay miles of rolling and pitted land—and they had to follow tracks that would not be clear enough to make it easy. They were at least two hours away, Marshal Scott estimated as he lit a two-penny cigar. He called out to the others, “Don't get bothered just yet, they're a good ways off. I give ‘em a couple of hours. Then we'll have our hands full.”

Another hour passed and the riders were sighted again, this time about a mile away. They were dead on the trail that would lead them to this hillside. Soon, very soon, the waiting would be over.

Long minutes later, the posse rode up boldly, heedless of the guns that bristled out from the shelf of rocks behind which the defenders lay. The leader was a fat man with a long, mournful face beneath a flat-crowned hat. He carried a long-barreled, powerful gun, at least a .50-caliber from the looks of it. His eyes were small and closely set against his bulbous nose. In all, he looked the sort who would rather blast a hole in your gut than talk to you. But—in the absence of the town marshal, who must have been “too busy” to come along—he made as if he wanted to negotiate, his hand upraised in a peaceful gesture.

“You folks up there!” he called. “We come to take back the prisoner Thomas Starbuck. We don't want trouble with you, but we aim to get what we came for.” His gravelly voice lifted uncomfortably, and he looked around at his men.

They were a hard-looking lot, wearing floppy hats and carrying, like the leader, big guns with deadly assurance. Their horses too were big-boned and in good condition. They had already proved that they meant business; the chase had been long and arduous and they looked none the worse for wear. Like the fat man, they squinted up the hill.

Jessie shouted, “No deal! We've got him and we keep him! He's going to get a fair trail in Prove—we don't want him hanged by a mob.”

“I ain't talking with no woman,” the posse man announced. “There's a marshal up there, let me talk to him.”

“That's me,” Scott called back. “I won't say nothing different than the lady.”

“You better think again, federal man. Me and my men have ridden a long ways and we ain't going back empty-handed. Make it easy on all of us and hand the boy over.”

“No sir. I have a legal right to hold this man. And since he's in my custody, I intend to deliver him to the proper authorities in Provo. You all would do best to clear out now, while you can. You don't frighten us, if that's what you think you're doing.”

The man's face cracked into a wide smile, and a laugh ripped out of his belly. It sounded grotesque, coming from him. His pig's eyes sparkled. “That's surely what we aim to do. And you'll be stupid not to heed what I say. Scared or brave, you're going to give us that boy—or else die trying to keep him.”