Lynch Law Page 9

  He looked down, and the grass was pressed in the shape of a boot. He filled his lungs with air and jumped out of the passageway, running toward the nearest big boulder, expecting a bullet to smash into him at any moment, but seconds later found himself huffing and puffing behind a huge boulder.

  He saw white dots in front of his eyes, and his chest ached. It was the most he’d exerted himself in months. He told himself he ought to return to his people and get back into shape, but they didn’t have any whiskey, and the old chiefs always were telling him what to do. He didn’t want to go back to his people. He wanted to live like a white man.

  Stone evidently had come this way. Looked like he kept going, and was on the far side of the canyon by now. Otherwise he would’ve shot Red Feather dead, because Red Feather knew how slow he’d been.

  Red Feather poked his head out from behind the boulder. The canyon was silent and still. He bent down to study Stone’s tracks. The tracks weren’t hard to decipher. Stone hadn’t even tried to cover them up.

  Red Feather stepped forward, following Stone’s tracks. He knew Stone didn’t have much ammunition. It was possible Red Feather would find him passed out somewhere in the canyon.

  Red Feather approached a boulder eight feet tall and shaped like a giant potato. He walked past it, following the tracks. His once-acute hearing had been dulled after years in the white man’s towns, and he didn’t hear the footfall behind him, or the rustle of clothing. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an arm clamped around his chest and something sharp entered his throat.

  Red Feather gasped, and everything went black before his eyes as Stone slit his throat from ear to ear. The Indian fell to a heap on the ground, and Stone glanced back to the passageway, to see if anyone else was coming. Below him lay great treasure. Red Feather had a knife, rifle, pistol, and plenty of ammunition.

  He stripped the bandoliers of ammunition from Red Feather’s shoulders and dropped them over his own shoulders. He picked up the pistol, knife, and rifle. The rifle wasn’t new, and no soldier would ever permit his rifle to become so dirty, but otherwise it seemed to be in good condition.

  Stone turned and ran deeper into the canyon, as Red Feather lay behind him, bleeding in the late-afternoon sun.

  “Where’d that injun go?” Dawson asked Atwell. “He’s been gone for a long time. Maybe you’d better send some men to look for him.”

  “I’m sure he’s all right,” Atwell replied. “He’s one smart injun.”

  Atwell rode forward to pass the orders to the men, and Dawson took out a cigar. Stone should’ve been found by now, but was nowhere in sight, and now the injun had disappeared.

  Dawson looked toward the horizon, and the day was coming to an end. It they didn’t get Stone before dark, they probably wouldn’t catch him at all. Stone had killed his son and made a fool out of him at every turn.

  Meanwhile, Atwell gathered his men around him.

  “Anybody seen that injun?” he asked.

  Tom Reece pointed toward the mountains. “I seen him a little while ago over there.”

  Atwell drew his pistol and fired three shots in the air, making the horses skittish. He waited a few minutes, then fired three more shots. Red Feather didn’t fire back. “Spread out and look for him,” Atwell said.

  Stone heard the first three shots, and then three additional shots followed by a long silence. Evidently they were signaling one another on the other side of the mountain.

  He continued to make his way around the base of the mountain, looking for a passageway out. The air became cooler and he heard the gurgling of water. Rushing forward, clawing branches away from his eyes, he came to a stream not more than a foot wide.

  ‘Thank God,” he said, dropping to his knees beside it. He lowered his lips, kissed the water, and drank.

  The sun touched the horizon. Burkers and Finch, two of Dawson’s men, approached the rocks, their rifles in their hands.

  Both were tired of searching for Stone and the Indian. After a few hours, every rock looked alike, and they were hungry. The chuck wagon hadn’t caught up to them yet.

  They looked at the passageway, but didn’t see it. The shadows were too long now, the day becoming too dusky. Then they passed on. They wanted to return to their bunkhouse, have a meal, and go to bed. To hell with Stone. They were getting tired of the chase.

  Dawson sat on the ground and realized Stone had gotten away. Meanwhile, his son needed burying. He looked at the rock cliffs, knowing Stone was waiting for him to leave. But he wasn’t going to leave. His men would stay here until hell froze over or John Stone came out of hiding.

  Dawson shouted, “Atwell!”

  Jesse Atwell, at the base of the mountain, heard his boss’s voice. He wheeled his horse around and galloped toward him, climbing down from the saddle before the horse had come to a full stop.

  “Stone’s around here someplace,” Dawson said. “He’ll have to come out sooner or later, so leave half your men here to wait for him, and the rest of us’ll go back to the ranch. And make sure you tell the men who stay that my offer still stands. It’s a hundred dollars to the one who kills him, but two hundred dollars if he’s brought back alive.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was dark when Hank Dawson and his men brought their horses to a halt in front of Dawson’s ranch house. Dawson walked toward the front door, where a lamp burned behind the window. He didn’t bother with his horse; he just let it stand there snorting. A cowboy grabbed the reins and led the horse to the stable.

  The veranda shook as Dawson walked across it and opened the front door. The hallway was dim, and Dawson hung his hat on the peg. One of his gunfighters sat in a chair near the stairs.

  Dawson climbed the stairs, and the planks of wood creaked underneath his weight. A carpeted corridor was at the top of the stairs, and Dawson walked down it, toward his son’s bedroom.

  He came to the door of the bedroom and paused, to prepare himself for the shock he knew would come. Wayne was on his bed, his promising young life finished.

  Dawson opened the door, and a sickly sweet odor struck his nostrils. A dark form lay on top of the bed. His boy was dead, and nothing could bring him back.

  Dawson swerved away from the bed and opened the windows, to get the stink out. He’d have to bury Wayne first thing in the morning, because of the heat. He lit a lamp on a dresser and carried it to the bed, forcing himself to look at the corpse of his son.

  It was gray and stiff as a board. The cheeks had sunk in and the lips were blue. Wayne had been full of life just a short time ago. He loved to ride horses and go hunting, and now was a rotting corpse.

  Hank Dawson placed the lamp on the night table, and sat on a chair near the bed. The bedroom was large, with stuffed heads of an antelope, bear, and mountain sheep on the walls. At the far end of the room was the rocking horse that Wayne had played on as a child.

  Wayne loved horses all his life. He owned twenty fine horses personally. Hank would buy his son anything he wanted. Hank knew he spoiled Wayne, but why not?

  Hank Dawson had been poor as a child. His father owned a little dirt farm in Illinois, and there was never enough of anything. All Hank Dawson had was a skinny mongrel dog. They were so poor they couldn’t afford to feed the dog, so it had to survive on its wits, killing squirrels and rats. Once the dog tried to kill a skunk, and came home stinking. Everyone thought that was funny, but the dog almost died.

  Dawson’s mind returned to the bad smell in the room. He’d always thought Wayne would come to his funeral, and instead he was going to Wayne’s.

  Wayne was the only person Hank Dawson ever loved. He hadn’t liked the boy’s mother much; she nagged too much, but he took care of her when Wayne was four years old. Rat poison in her dinner, followed by a fast funeral in the backyard.

  The boy hadn’t missed her; he’d always loved his daddy best. Hank bought him whatever he wanted: horses, guns, women, and whiskey. Let the kid have a good time, because life was short and there was no hereafter exce
pt in the minds of stupid idiots.

  Wayne had been a terror as a child. He hollered at the maids and cowboys, and all the Dawson employees had been ordered to do whatever young Wayne said, ever since he was five years old. It was funny, seeing grown people jumping at the whims of a five-year-old. They actually were afraid of him.

  Everybody had been afraid of Wayne Dawson, and Hank had liked that. It meant no one would ever harm the boy, and the boy loved to fight. He was big and strong and whipped everybody. People stayed out of his way, and he took several gunmen wherever he went. Yesterday, at the restaurant, had been a fluke. He’d only been with two men because it was a busy day at the ranch and most of the hands were working.

  The boy had been a good worker. Could hold his own with the strongest cowboys, but didn’t like work much, preferring hunting, drinking, gambling, and whoring.

  Hank Dawson had thought he’d live forever through his son, his son’s son, and so on into the future. He’d been thinking lately of who should marry Wayne. Most of the families in the area would be happy to wed their daughters to the son of Hank Dawson. The boy could have his pick.

  Dawson had been about to sound out his son about these matters, so that together they could pick the lucky girl. It would’ve been a good night of drinking and laughing. Wayne had looked up to his father the way a puppy looks up to his master. The future had appeared so bright. Nothing could go wrong, or so it had seemed.

  Now all those dreams were shattered in one night with one bullet, and it was the fault of John Stone. If John Stone hadn’t ridden into town that day, Wayne would still be alive.

  Hank thought of John Stone as he’d seen him in the jail house the previous night. The man had a presence that Hank hadn’t liked the moment he’d set eyes on him. He’d watched as Stone had fought off his men, and it had been an impressive display of fighting ability. Hank Dawson didn’t like people who were extraordinary, because they made the most trouble.

  Dawson knew Stone was out there in the night, and sooner or later his men would find him. He’d blanket the country with riders, put them in all the towns, and wait for Stone to show his face. Stone didn’t even have a horse. He couldn’t get far, and sooner or later he’d be caught. Dawson would string him up by the heels and beat him to death.

  A breeze blew through the bedroom, rustling the hem of the bedspread underneath Wayne Dawson’s corpse. The light flickered in the lamp, casting weird shadows on the wall. Hank Dawson had a stomachache and his head hurt. His rear end felt sore from so many hours in the saddle.

  He had many things to do, but somehow couldn’t raise himself from the chair. All he could do was sit and gaze at the corpse of his son, and think about all that could have been if it hadn’t been for that goddamned John Stone.

  At the Delane Ranch, Craig and Cynthia were seated at opposite ends of their long dinner table. It was covered with a white tablecloth and a candelabra that held six glowing candles. Craig and Cynthia wore evening clothes, and raised their glasses of champagne.

  “To the Consortium!” Craig said.

  They were too far away to touch glasses, so they smiled and lifted the glasses to their lips, tasting the fine old French champagne that Craig had imported all the way from New York for special occasions, and tonight was a special occasion. He and Cynthia had reaffirmed their love and Cynthia agreed to stay on the ranch for at least another year.

  Craig lowered his glass and gazed at Cynthia, whose face glowed in the light of candles. Her eyes were catlike and her high cheekbones gave her face a dramatic cast. Craig thought she was absolutely stunning.

  The door opened and Bernice appeared, carrying a silver tray on which was a silver tureen filled with chicken consommé. She served the consommé to Craig and Cynthia, then backed out of the dining room.

  Cynthia tasted the consommé, and no one in New York City, even in the finest restaurant, would taste any better. Bernice was an excellent cook, and the staff grew plump chickens. It was nice to live luxuriously on the frontier.

  Cynthia decided to stay with Craig because the more she thought about it, the more she realized she no longer missed the gay social whirl of the city. A person could feel on the crest of a new wave on the frontier. They were creating a great new land.

  But something nagged her. She was unable to push John Stone out of her mind. Where was he?

  She recalled seeing John Stone pull out his guns and open fire in the restaurant. What kind of man could do such a thing? Cynthia still was amazed by how calmly and confidently Stone had stepped into danger, and why? To help a person he didn’t even know? Cynthia wished she could talk with Stone and find out what made him tick. He’d come all this way to find a woman, how strange.

  Craig finished his bowl of consommé and looked up at Cynthia, whose fingers were poised on her spoon, a faraway expression on her face.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  She smiled and gazed down the table at him. “How happy we’re going to be together.”

  Jesse Atwell sat on his heels beside the campfire and jabbed a long, thin branch into the red-hot coals. The end of the branch burst into flame, and Atwell drew it back to the cigarette between his lips. He inhaled and filled his lungs with the rich, tasty smoke.

  He took a few steps back from the fire and looked ahead at the mountains. The injun still hadn’t come back, and it was clear to everybody that John Stone must have killed him.

  Atwell reasoned there must be a hidden cave or other hiding spot someplace that his men had missed. He’d ordered them to search for such a spot, and that’s what they were doing. Atwell sat with Shorty by the fire, and Shorty whittled a piece of wood.

  The prairie was vast and the night dark. It wouldn’t be hard for Stone to escape now, but he wouldn’t get far on foot. The man had no food, unless he could live off the land like an injun. Atwell expected Dawson to hire more injuns in the morning. Then Stone might be found.

  Atwell and the others would have to be cautious. Stone was fighting for his life and was dangerous as a rattlesnake.

  Times had been easy for Atwell and his men before John Stone arrived. No one ever dared defy the men from the Circle Bar D, and they’d ridden roughshod across the land. Then Wayne had to get into a fight with John Stone.

  Atwell wasn’t bereft by the death of Wayne Dawson, because Wayne had humiliated Atwell on many occasions. None of the men had liked Wayne much, but stayed for the good money and easy work.

  Atwell wondered what would happen to the Circle Bar D now that Wayne was gone. There’d be a lot less damned foolishness probably. They’d get more of the real work done, without Wayne interfering, and Hank Dawson would get richer than he was already.

  “Somebody’s comin’,” said Shorty, whittling his stick.

  Atwell heard the sound of hoof beats, and a form materialized out of the night. It was Jack Mullins on horseback; he came to a stop in front of Atwell.

  “Cain’t find ’im,” Mullins said.

  “Keep lookin’,” Atwell replied.

  “The men’re gittin’ tired. We didn’t have hardly no sleep last night. How’s about some of us hittin’ the hay for a spell?”

  “Maybe later,” Atwell said, “but in the meanwhile, git back and keep lookin’.”

  “Oh, shit, come on, Atwell. Don’t be a hard ass.”

  “I said git back there and keep lookin’. Don’t forget that reward money. Maybe you’ll be the lucky cowpoke who’ll wind up with it.”

  Mullins took off his hat. “If we ain’t caught him now, we ain’t gonna catch him. There’s no tellin’ where he might be right now.”

  “He’s around here someplace. The man ain’t got wings. The boss’ll git hot under the collar if we don’t find him.”

  “Let the boss pick up his big ass and find ’im, if he thinks it’s so easy.”

  “Nobody said it’s easy. Git goin’.”

  Mullins wheeled his horse and rode toward the base of the mountains. Shorty chortled as he whi
ttled his stick of wood.

  “What’re you laughin’ at?” Atwell asked.

  “Funny how everything’s changed,” Shorty said. “Nobody would’ve dared talk like that when Wayne was alive, because he was always with us. But he ain’t around no more, and we can speak our peace.”

  “No you can’t,” Atwell said, “because I’m still here, and I won’t tolerate anybody criticizin’ the boss.”

  Shorty chortled again. “Come off it, Atwell. Ain’t nobody around here afraid of you.”

  Atwell puffed his cigarette. He wasn’t the fastest gun in the outfit and everybody knew it. But he was still the ramrod, and wanted to keep his job.

  “You wanna git fired, Shorty?”

  “Who’s gonna fire me?”

  “Me, and Dawson will back me. He always has.”

  “You fire me, and I’ll kill you, old man.”

  Atwell was older than most of the men at the Circle Bar D, but he was only thirty-eight, and that wasn’t so old.

  “Anytime you’re ready to kill me, make your play,” Atwell said. “I’ll be a-waitin’ for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it, old man. I will.”

  Stone dropped to one knee. He’d been searching the canyon and hadn’t found any caves, valleys, tunnels, or other ways out. His stomach was empty and numb, and he felt a lightness in his head. He thought he could go without food several days, as long as he had water, but after that he’d collapse. He had to resolve his food problem.

  He couldn’t get over the mountains; they were too steep and high. The only alternative was go out the same way he came in, and face Dawson’s cowboys.

  He was sure they were out there. Dawson wasn’t the kind of man who’d walk away from a feud, and Stone realized that’s what he was in, a feud. Dawson wanted to kill him and everything he stood for, and he had to fight back if he wanted to stay alive.

  It was dark and gloomy in the shadow of the canyon, but Stone had learned in the war that the night could be your best friend. High up on the mountains, wind whistled through the few trees. Stone crouched and peered ahead across the floor of the canyon, ready to dive to the ground at the sight of danger. He wished Tad McDermott were still alive. Together they’d have a better chance, covering each other, four hands were better than two.