By the Neck Read online

  “Don’t know. Check behind me—the other side!” Then he brought his rifle butt down hard once more. Whoever he was beating ceased to flail.

  Pops got his answer as a match flared bright and quick about thirty feet ahead of him, far along the long left side of The Last Drop.

  “No!” he shouted and received a blast from a revolver in reply.

  Pops dove to his right, heard a tight, whistling sound overhead, and rolled back to face the shooter once more. Too far to trigger a shotgun blast and have it count. He ran forward, low, once more, the Greener gripped tight, her deadly end facing smack where the blast came from.

  He knew Rollie would have shot by now, but Pops wanted to make certain he was close to what he was aiming at. He’d seen plenty of times when a shot from too great a distance strayed and winged or killed a bystander. He didn’t like that. He was fairly certain nobody up to good things would be skulking around the bar at this late hour, pouring coal oil on its pilings, but it paid to be damn sure.

  “Pops?”

  It was Rollie, from far behind him. He couldn’t reply and risk giving away his location to the shooter. Didn’t bother him much. Rollie would do the same thing. Pops ran forward, cutting back and forth, covering the distance. The shooter was there, fumbling in the dark.

  Before Pops could get another step closer, the night lit bright as a match tasted its nectar—the drizzled fuel caught and bloomed bright, a racing line of jumping flames. It was a sickening sight, and the smell was nearly as grotesque.

  The only good thing about it was that Pops could see who was shooting at him, the same man who wielded the matches. The swarthy whip of a man bent low and backed away from the heat. His face turned from Pops, but not before Pops saw the wide grin and the tip of a pink tongue gripped between teeth as if the man were giggling and choking back a laugh.

  Gripped in the man’s left hand was a revolver aimed in Pops’ direction. Pops was a dozen feet away. He triggered Lil’ Miss Mess Maker and flame barked. The shot caught the swarthy grinner in the side of his gut and whipped him around in a dervish dance. His arms flailed as a burst of blood ribboned high as if he were painting the night with his own blood.

  “Dance, Fire Boy.”

  The man’s hurtling body spun its last and flopped to the ground, faceup, his legs kicking in jerks, one, then the other, as if he were learning to walk while lying on his back. The arm that had gripped the gun was a shredded mess, pocked with shot and blood and bone and shreds of cloth.

  Of the gun there was no sign. In the dirt somewhere. Pops didn’t care. This jackass was his least concern now. He bolted for the far end of the saloon, eyeing it quickly, and deciding no one else who intended him harm was lurking in the flickering night. Pops laid the Greener to the side against a stack of lumber he’d been stockpiling to build a storage shed, and scrambled up the back ramp.

  As he kicked in the door, smoke washed over him like a foul, humid summer breeze. He heard shouts then, no doubt of their neighbors. They were good people, even the ones he didn’t particularly care for—those who called him names to his face—and yet he knew they would hustle to fill buckets from the stream that flowed along the far side of the main street. A bucket brigade it was called.

  That would be a good and welcome thing. Yet the timber-and-tent structure that formed The Last Drop was likely doomed. Didn’t mean he couldn’t rescue what he might.

  The fire was a ripper and gaining fast, particularly once its greedy tongues licked the canvas siding and roof. He didn’t have much time, had to throw out back whatever he could and hope his luck would hold and he wouldn’t burn to death. What good would it do to risk his neck if the fire claimed his goods once they landed out there in the night?

  A figure appeared in the doorway. “Pops? You okay?” It was Rollie, coughing and lit from all sides and looking like a frenzied, haggard devil from beyond the grave. The man’s silver-black hair was wild, his long, usually curled and waxed mustache drooped, framing his long O of a mouth like demon whiskers.

  “Yeah! Help me. We’ll lose it all if we don’t get busy!” The effort of shouting those few words caused Pops to double up in a cough.

  With no more words said, the two men began to grab and throw anything they could.

  Most of their bar stock was stacked in that room, the storeroom, which also doubled as their sleeping quarters, but it was their personal gear they grabbed hold of first. Each man had nested deep in his own war bags and separate wooden locker his own personal items—scant mementos, letters, carvings, books, tintypes, and most important to each, buckskin sacks of money they had earned.

  It was all they had to protect them from the vile shadows of the world and keep their own future safe. They hoisted the wooden lockers, helping each other lug them to the back door and toss out into the night when Geoff the Scot, the Pulaskis, and Bone and his boy appeared, backed with a handful of others, all in their nightclothes, and all with their arms held out, ready to grab whatever was passed their way, to haul it to safety.

  And that’s how it happened. For the next few, frenzied minutes, the townies of Boar Gulch, the mayor included, helped their own.

  Case after case of rye whiskey, bourbon, and wine were passed out the back door as the night sky filled with bright daggers of flame. Howls of pain rose from people whose hair and clothes were set upon by falling embers.

  “We have to get out of here!” shouted Rollie, grabbing Pops’ arm.

  “One more case!” shouted Pops as he snatched blindly in the smoke-filled hell that had been their home and business.

  “No! Now!” Rollie grabbed his pard about the shoulders and pitched and dragged him toward the back door.

  All told, the rescue of their possessions and stock lasted but a few minutes. And The Last Drop succumbed to flames in little more than that amount of time.

  The people outside kept up a constant line of work, passing goods from one person to the next to get everything well away from the flames. The building was situated far enough from others on each side that the only danger was of falling sparks that spiraled into the night on columns of heat-driven smoke.

  The night sky was bright and filled with the winking embers and the shouts of people as they looked on and wondered if their own lives would ever be affected in such a manner.

  More miners ran to town, having heard the commotion and seen the bright flames in the sky, ran to the aid of those ferrying buckets sloshing and slopping, from one person to the next, to douse the flames. They knew they could not save The Last Drop, but maybe they could prevent the fire from spreading. Others ran circles around the building, stomping racers of flames that found whatever dry materials they could to trace their consuming power to other structures, other lives.

  Rollie and Pops joined the bucket brigade and coughed and spat and hoped no one beyond the vile two who did this would be hurt. Among the townsfolk that night, there was an odd but good affinity for their fellow Gulchers in the choking smoke and blackened, spark-filled air. As quickly as the flames began, the collective efforts of the residents tamped down the beastly brute of a fire to a mewling, simpering beast.

  Dawn was slow to show itself, as the fire had been defeated hours before its first gray shades appeared.

  “There’s only one thing I want to do right about now and it’s not see what has become of The Last Drop in the full light of morning.” Pops sighed and rubbed a sore shoulder.

  “I tell you what,” said Rollie. “If ever I am tempted to complain about my lot in life, I will shut my mouth. Tonight reminded me that come what may, people who have it a lot worse off than me have something I tend to forget about. Their lives.” And I’m endangering them, he thought.

  Rollie knew the fire was started with intention, and he knew he was the target. Long before he paused to lean on his shovel, he had decided that his presence in town was causing a whole lot of people a whole lot of grief, and worse. If anyone came to harm because of him, he’d never forgive himself. H
e’d realized it before. The risk had been as vivid and real, but somehow the fire this night was a kick to the face. It was time for action. Even if that meant calling an end to his time in Boar Gulch.

  He didn’t want to leave Pops with the headache of cleaning the mess and rebuilding the bar, but....

  “Hold right there,” said Pops, coming up alongside him. “You’re thinking something foolish, I can tell. You got that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The one that tells me you’re about to do something foolish.”

  “Talking with you is like herding snakes sometimes, you know that?”

  “Don’t get testy with me. I can’t rebuild this place by myself.”

  “I been thinking about that.”

  “Yeah, I know you have. See?”

  “Before I decide to do much of anything, I have to tend to the one man alive—here, at least—who can answer questions about this mess,” Rollie nodded toward the smoldering pile that had been their saloon.

  “I thought you killed him?”

  “Not yet. I left him trussed up across the street by the big rock.”

  Pops knew the spot. The long shelf of stone was a favorite location to swap lies and windies with other folks. He’d done that very thing the morning before, enjoying a pipe and a cup of coffee, talking with Bone and Nosey when the latter should have been working in the bar.

  “You want a hand with him?”

  “Sure. Maybe I can find out something useful before I hang him. I doubt it, but you never know.”

  “That’s you,” said Pops. “Always hopeful.”

  They walked across the road, but even in the dim light of a half-dozen lanterns and the pulsing glow from the embers of the charred ribs of their saloon, they saw no one tied up at the rock shelf. But they did see Nosey Parker seated on the stone and holding his head.

  “What happened?” said Rollie.

  Nosey looked up and they saw blood on the side of his face beneath his hand. “I was struck by an ungrateful rascal, that’s what’s happened!”

  “No, not to you. Where’s my prisoner?” Rollie stalked up and down before them, hoisting his lantern head height as if he might see beyond its meager light into the dark of the early morning.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you—and thank you for your concern.”

  Rollie leaned in and snatched a wad of Nosey’s shirtfront, pulling the journalist close. “You want concern from me, tell me where he got to.”

  His menacing growl caused several people nearby to pause and look their way. He didn’t care. “Now, which way?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. He said he wanted to help with the fire. That he’d been tied up by mistake.”

  “And you believed him?” said Pops, shaking his head.

  “Why wouldn’t I? There have been so many newcomers lately I thought in the confusion someone had mistaken him for a miscreant.”

  “Nosey,” said Pops, “you ever seen someone tied up accidentally? Did it ever occur to you that the fire was set by somebody? Nothing that went on here tonight was an accident.”

  “Oh, but.... Oh.” Nosey rubbed his tender head and looked at his feet.

  “I have to go find him, Pops,” said Rollie.

  “Not alone you don’t. Could be he’s watching us right now, you know.”

  “They why isn’t he shooting?” growled Rollie, sneering into the dark.

  “’Cause he’d get himself caught. I reckon he and his partner figured they’d be in and gone by the time the fire was roaring good.”

  Rollie nodded. “I understand, but I’ll take that chance. He likely would have gone to wherever they kept their horses.” He turned to Nosey. “Make yourself useful and go find the horse of the dead man. Me and Pops will get our own mounts ready.” He turned to Pops. “You armed enough?”

  “Yep. Could use some trousers, but I’ll get along. Let’s go.”

  They made their way to where they corralled their horses out back behind the bar and found them, spooked and crowding the back rail.

  While they saddled up, Pops said, “You think you were too harsh on Nosey back there?”

  Rollie said nothing for a moment while he adjusted his saddle on the blanket. “Nope. He’s a good kid, but he’s an idiot sometimes. No practical sense about him.”

  “He thought he was doing the right thing.”

  “Yep, and innocent people might be in danger now because of him. I should have shot the man when I had the chance.”

  “Who? Nosey?” Pops paused in tightening his cinch.

  “No, the—” Rollie looked up at his partner, saw that smile, and chuckled despite the situation. Leave it to Pops to crack wise at a dark moment.

  Rollie led Cap to the rail, tied him, and slipped through to rummage in their big, sloppy pile of gear rescued from the fire. He found his war bag and tugged out more ammunition and a pair of trousers.

  Pops was doing the same, and yanked on a canteen strap, toppling the side of the pile. “I’ll go fill this, then where to? You figure the man hit the trail or is sticking close, hoping to get at you again?”

  Rollie shrugged. “I was that desperate, I’d ride. But he came here with murder in mind, and he failed. My guess is he’ll hole up, maybe try again.”

  “Then we best get him first.”

  “Where are you men going?” said a voice behind them. It was the mayor. “You have work to do here. We can’t tend to your mess all night.”

  “Fine, Chauncey.” Rollie handed the little portly man his reins. “Then you find the escaped prisoner and I’ll sit here and stare at the embers.”

  “Oh, well, no, I won’t prevent you from doing your job.”

  Rollie and Pops saddled and rode away from the mayor.

  “But I expect no less than a successful hunt, gentlemen!” Chauncey’s words rose in pitch the farther they rode from him.

  “Man works up more hot air than the fire did,” said Pops, reining up in front of Nosey in the street.

  “I haven’t found a horse at all over that way.” The journalist jerked a thumb southward. “But it’s dark.” He shrugged and rubbed his head. “I make no promises.”

  “Okay. Now search every tent, every home, every building in town. You don’t find him there, try the miners’ camps.” That was all Rollie offered before he rode off.

  Pops gave Nosey a quick smile and a one-finger salute off the brim of his hat, then caught up with Rollie. The two men rode in silence, angling in a switchback pattern up the east-flanking hill behind the main street.

  At the top Rollie reined up. “We get into the trees, I’ll take the south road, you double back and take the north end. If you see him, shoot first, even in the back if you have to. He’s ruthless, Pops. No need to play nice with him.”

  “Don’t worry about me. You best have eyes in back and on both sides, too.”

  Rollie nodded and chewed the inside of his cheek. Early gray light had begun. As soon as they disappeared into the trees, Rollie and Pops offered each other a quick nod. They split up without a glance back.

  Each knew that one or both of them might well end up dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rollie knew they had a thin chance at best of cutting the man’s sign, but they had to do something. He almost cursed Nosey aloud once more, but decided to keep his mouth shut. The horse’s steady footfalls clunking rock while he stepped with caution weren’t muffled enough on the needle-padded ground. The last thing he needed to do was invite a bullet by being loud and foolish.

  Rollie kept his Schofield drawn, and bending low, used the weak early light to help scour the ground and above at horse height for rubs, scrapes, bent branches, breaks. He saw no sign and realized how absurd this chase was. The man could have chosen any direction at all.

  North of him, riding low in his own saddle, and doing much the same as Rollie, Pops kept his unlit corncob pipe clamped in his teeth and his eyes on the ground, flicking up every few yards to scan branches
, looking for sign. He hated this time of day for such work. Made him feel too exposed. If he could begin to see shapes at this gloomy hour, then the man he was hunting could, too.

  A soft, quick sound like a fist hitting an open palm was all the warning Pops received before a hard weight dropped on him. As he piled out of the saddle, he knew what had happened—either a mountain lion had peeled him off his horse or the man they were hunting had done it.

  In the next moment, his nose told him the answer. The attacker smelled of the harsh, ghosted remains of raw fire, even to a man who had spent the previous few hours breathing in nothing but smoke. He rolled with the attack, landed smack on his shoulder, then lost his grip and dropped his Greener.

  Pops winced inside at the raw sound his beloved shotgun made as it clunked and clattered against unforgiving rock. Worry about that later, he told himself. Right now, fight for your life. And pray the man doesn’t have a knife on him. Or at least not drawn.

  That could be one advantage Pops would have on the man.

  He grunted, heard his foe do the same, heard the raspy, seething breaths of a tensed-up man unwilling to fight with anything less than full strength. That makes two of us, thought Pops, as he closed the fingers of his right hand around the thick handle of his sheath knife.

  “No!” barked the attacker, shoving and punching at Pops’ knife hand. He’d seen the knife and didn’t like the idea of having that blade slide into his guts.

  “Yes!” said Pops, finding it difficult to resist mixing a little discouragement into the scuffle. His horse sidestepped and thrashed, stomping in place before bolting southward.

  His attacker fought like an angry Apache, and Pops felt his own strength begin to falter. The man chopped down with a vicious swing and knocked the knife from Pops’ hand. The hilt clunked his boot, and Pops hoped it would stay there within reach while they grappled.

  Both men, faces inches apart, growled and huffed at each other. Pops could see him, and something about the man’s nose and eyes was familiar. He’d seen enough of the man’s face earlier at the fire to know he was a thin, angry soul with more muscle and bone than anything else.