Hired Guns Read online

  Heath didn’t answer right away. Then: “It sounded like him. But I’m havin’ trouble wrappin’ my head around it. Him climbing on a horse, coming all that way for . . . well, for us. Even after we did what we did.”

  “For you,” Belinda corrected. “For his son. No matter what you’d done.”

  Heath was quiet again, until he said, “It’s hard to picture him doing that. I don’t quite know what to think. But I’m glad he made it through that ambush okay.”

  “So am I,” Belinda said. “I can’t lie, I want desperately to be saved somehow. I want both of us to be safe and still have the future together we dreamed about. But, no matter what, I don’t want those things to come at the cost of anybody else’s life.”

  Heath ached with wanting to hold her, to comfort her. But all he could do was say, “I hear you, gal. But I’m sorry to say it ain’t in our hands how any of that turns out.”

  * * *

  Paul Grimsby finished closing and latching the outside door of the Elkhorn Saloon’s front entrance, blocking the wind howling increasingly stronger out in the street and halting the irritating way it was causing the batwings to slap back and forth.

  “There,” he announced, turning back to the main barroom of the establishment. “Crazy weather! Hot enough to fry an egg out on the rocks of those badlands earlier today and now that wind is colder than a mother-in-law’s kiss.”

  Sprawled back in a chair pulled up to a table in the middle of the room, Hacksaw Ferris grunted around a lopsided grin.

  “What would you know about a mother-in-law’s kiss, cold or otherwise, you backdoor rascal? In order to have a mother-in-law, you’d first have to have a bride—and what gal would ever marry the likes of you?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Grimsby replied as he sauntered back to hitch up his own chair at the table. “Been many a filly over the years who was ready to fluff up a bed, hang lace curtains, and go to settin’ up housekeepin’ with yours truly if I’d’ve popped the question.”

  “Haw! Long as you keep mixin’ loco weed with your liquor, I reckon you’re apt to go right on havin’ such far-fetched dreams,” Ferris said, reaching for a half full whiskey bottle in front of him. From it, he poured generous slugs of amber liquid into a nearby pair of glasses, then placed the bottle upright again. “Stick to who-hit-John all by its lonesome, maybe with some beer now and then, you’ll keep a lot clearer head. Once your skull quits poundin’ the next morning, that is.”

  “Sound advice, no doubt,” allowed Grimsby. “If I had a nickel for every time I heard it, I’d be a very wealthy man.” He took a sip of his whiskey and then lowered it, chuckling. “And if I had another nickel for every time I failed to follow it, I’d be even wealthier.”

  Both men guffawed dutifully at the admission. The half-drained bottle of whiskey standing between them was obviously not the first they had shared this night.

  The clock on the wall behind the bar showed a few minutes past two. All around Ferris and Grimsby, amidst a generous array of empty whiskey bottles, other members of their gang were sprawled in corners, on benches, one fellow atop the pool table—each enjoying some well-oiled slumber in the wake of the celebrating they had decided was warranted. The ragged sound of their snoring rivaled the low rumble of the slowly approaching thunder outside.

  “Speakin’ of pounding skulls,” Ferris said, his gaze sweeping over the scene, “it looks like there’s gonna be quite a contest come mornin’ as far as who’s gonna be sufferin’ the worst one. But they’d better be quick about shakin’ off the effects and have themselves in shape for the big trade tomorrow, or I’ll be doin’ me some skull-bustin’ that’ll make their hangovers seem like cases of the sniffles.”

  “Aw, they’ll come out of it okay. They always do,” said Grimsby. “Lookin’ forward to that trade. Bein’ able to hand over the Jensen hombre and that pain-in-the-ass Tom Eagle, puttin’ ’em right in the hands of the he-bull Parker Dixon hisself—that’s what gave ’em good cause to celebrate. And us, too, Hack, no matter snot-nosed Roland’s pukey little remarks about bein’ premature.”

  “I know that,” Ferris grumbled. “Roland can go stand in a corner for all I care. I just got a twinge of guilt, I guess, for holdin’ a shindig like this with Dog DeMarist havin’ so recently bit the dust out there in those badlands. I liked Ol’ Dog. I’m gonna miss him.”

  “All of us are,” Grimsby told him. “And Dog would be the first one to tell you not to feel guilty or hold back just because his time came due. You know he would.”

  Ferris continued to glare down into his glass for another minute before a corner of his mouth abruptly lifted in a wry smile. “Yeah, Ol’ Dog was always quick to look for a reason to celebrate, no denyin’ that.” After tossing down its remains, he brought the emptied glass back down to the tabletop with a loud thump. “Reckon it’s time for me and you to grab a few hours of shut-eye ourselves, so we’re in shape for the doin’s tomorrow.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Grimsby, draining his own glass.

  Ferris’s gaze swung across the room to the stairs that led up to the second floor. “But if I take to sawin’ logs for a spell, I got a concern about one of these hungover horned toads wakin’ up with a notion to sneak in a visit to that little gal up there. I’ve seen the way they all look at her, even though I put her strictly off limits.”

  “Kinda hard to blame ’em for looking,” said Grimsby. “She’s a little young for my tastes, but you got to admit she’s showing all the parts of a full-growed woman.”

  “That’s no excuse,” Ferris growled. “It’s important she stays unsullied for when we trot her out in front of her old man tomorrow.”

  “I get that.”

  “Who’ve you got up there guardin’ that upstairs hallway?”

  “I got Pinkeye Scarns at the back end. Got to admit, him I wouldn’t trust around a woman no farther than I can throw this building,” said Grimsby. “But up front, closest to the door of the room where we stowed the girl and her boyfriend, I put Clarence Horn. Horn is as solid as a rock. You tell him how you want something, that’s the way you’ll get it.”

  Ferris nodded. “Good. I trust Horn. Now I can rest easy for some shut-eye. Got me a cot in that office behind the bar, I’m gonna sack out there. Suggest you find a spot and do the same. See you again an hour or so past sunup.”

  Chapter 36

  “Well? You’ve had your up-close look. Bring to mind anything else on how you want to go about this?” Tom Eagle wanted to know.

  “Matter of fact, I think so,” answered Luke, continuing to study the tall, well-lighted building across the street. A battered slab of wood painted with the word ELKHORN was suspended on short chains above the front door. The steadily gusting wind that whipped down Hard Rock’s main drag was buffeting this sign mercilessly, the overworked lengths of chain clinking and squawking above the howl of the gusts.

  “Those second floor windows,” Luke said, pointing. “There’s one for each of the rooms you said we’d find up there, three to a side.”

  “Uh-huh,” agreed Eagle. “But they’re about fifteen up from the ground. So what are you gettin’ at?”

  “Fifteen feet from the ground,” Luke echoed, “but only about three feet down from the edge of that flat roof right above.”

  The bounty hunter and the former sheriff were crouched in a pool of deep shadows that filled the mouth of a narrow alley diagonally across the street from the Elkhorn Saloon. The others were strung out behind them, keeping still and quiet.

  Though no rain was falling yet, the sky overhead was roiling with purple-black clouds out of which regularly issued pitchforks of brilliant lightning and ominous rumbles of thunder.

  “If a couple of men made it to that roof,” Luke continued, “they could drop ropes over the side and have pretty easy access to any of those rooms—in particular, in case I’m not making myself clear, the middle one on each side. Since we’re likely to find the youngsters in one of those rooms, that
would put one of us right in there with them and another just across the hall.”

  “Just bust through those windows, you mean?”

  “That would be the quickest way.”

  Eagle frowned. “You think the storm will be loud enough to hide the noise of that?”

  “Not counting on the storm,” Luke replied. “I’ve got in mind a bigger distraction, one that would panic those holed-up rats, especially any of the ones caught upstairs. Something they wouldn’t immediately recognize as an attempt to get the kids and therefore something that would delay the start of any shooting. Whoever ended up in the room with Belinda and Heath could use that delay to get them to the window and down to the ground using the same rope dropped from the roof earlier. Betty Barlow could be waiting down below with horses to get all three of’em clear, hopefully ahead of the fireworks that are bound to come next.”

  “You make it all sound mighty slick.” A flutter of lightning showed Eagle’s eyes regarding Luke intently. “I think I got a hunch what’s comin’, but go ahead and tell me. What’s gonna provide this big distraction you figure will throw the rats into such an obliging panic?”

  Luke grinned as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the burned-out Palace Saloon they were crouched next to. “My old friend fire,” he said. “It worked pretty good for me against that coyote pack once, I think there’s enough luck left in it for another round.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, the rescuers had regrouped in a grove of trees two dozen yards behind the Elkhorn Saloon. Stabs of lightning cast everything in stuttering bursts of illumination as wind whipped branches wildly back and forth above the heads of the group. Three horses tied to the trunks of the trees skittered and chuffed nervously.

  Turley and Baker and the rest of the horses were not here. Those horses were tied at the back of the alley than ran alongside the Palace. The old prospectors had taken up positions out front of the Elkhorn, in shadows just back from each corner of the saloon. Armed with double-barreled shotguns, they were primed to shred the front windows with twelve gauge loads and then follow them in with intent to sweep clean the whole barroom.

  At the rear, while Luke, Eagle, and MacGregor looked on, Whit Barlow and his daughter Betty were advancing toward the building, twirling the widening loops of lassos as they walked. Each had their eyes lifted to a point on the corners of the roof where a rather ornate cornice design featured molded knobs over which they meant to drop their loops. Almost simultaneously, as if at some unseen signal, father and daughter threw their lassos and each snugly captured their target. After a couple of final tugs to make sure the catch would hold, the pair left the ropes hanging and turned to hurry back to the grove.

  “There are your stairways to the top,” Barlow said somewhat breathlessly to Luke and Eagle.

  Luke nodded. “The lightning flashes will enable you to see well enough to track our progress. Once we get the ropes re-attached somewhere, you’ll spot us dropping them down over the sides at the center windows. As soon as you see that, make your move on the real stairway—the one inside.”

  “I jimmied the lock on that back door so you’ll have no trouble getting through it,” Eagle said, sweeping his gaze over Barlow and MacGregor. “Once inside, there’s a small landing at the bottom of a steep stairwell. You won’t have much room so you’ll need to be careful not to make too much noise with your equipment. I suspect there’ll be a guard in the hall at the top of the stairs.”

  The equipment he referred to sat on the grass at the men’s feet, a gallon jug of kerosene and two open pails filled with bits of kindling wood and straw.

  “The next tricky part will be, once you’ve got flames lickin’ up the walls real good, to squeeze past ’em and make it partway up the stairs so you’re ready for when the excitin’ part kicks in.”

  “Relieved to hear that,” MacGregor said sarcastically. “I was afraid I was going to get bored waiting on those stairs with nothing to do but keep the pesky flames swatted off my backside.”

  “The wind and thunder that will help cover any sounds we make on the roof or those back stairs,” Luke said, “is going to work against us when it comes to hearing the ruckus that’ll break out as soon as somebody realizes there’s a fire. So we’ll have to listen close in order to use that as the key for our next moves. That’s when Eagle and I will go down and in through the windows. You two”—indicating Barlow and MacGregor—“are bound to be sighted when those hall guards come to the stairwell to investigate the fire. You’ll have to shoot your way up from there and the sound of your gunfire will signal Turley and Baker to go to work from the street. Watch for Eagle and me to join you in the hallway as soon as the kids are down, then the four of us will make our way out the front.”

  “You make that trip out the front sound mighty easy,” remarked Barlow.

  “It’s not likely to be any more intense than in that hallway. The two old-timers will be covering us from the street and their shotguns ought to have the way partly cleared by the time we start down to the barroom,” Luke reminded him. Then his gaze shifted to Betty. “And as soon as you spot Belinda and Heath being lowered from one of the windows, you bring the horses up in order to get them—and yourself—away from here. No matter what you hear behind you, don’t slow down or stop. Ride as hard as you can straight back to camp and wait for us there.”

  “I know my job,” the young girl assured him.

  Luke grinned. “I know you do. And if you ride like you throw a lasso, you’ll do it just fine.”

  “That’s right,” added Eagle. “If not for you and your pa, it might’ve taken me all winter to make those rope tosses.”

  Luke cocked an eyebrow at him. “Well, now that they’ve been made, I hope you’re faster than that at climbing up one of them.”

  “You want to make it a race?” came the challenge.

  Luke waved him off. “I’ll settle for making it to the roof without either one of us breaking our necks. Come on.”

  * * *

  Scaling the corner of the building, Luke discovered, was somewhat less difficult than he expected. Not easy by any means, but his raw physical strength combined with the niches he was able to find in the structure that provided adequate toeholds made the ascent steady and even fairly rapid.

  Even so, he was breathing hard by the time he pulled himself up over the edge, and despite the cold wind lashing him, there was sweat dripping down inside his shirt. He rolled out onto the flat roof and lay there for just a moment, knowing he couldn’t afford the luxury of completely catching his breath.

  Pushing up into a crouch, Luke looked around and saw that Eagle, too, had made it up over the edge. When Eagle glanced in his direction, the pair exchanged silent nods of acknowledgment and then quickly turned to the task of pulling up the dangling ropes.

  With the coiled rope over his shoulder and still in a half-crouch, Luke catfooted toward the middle of the roof where a sturdy brick chimney—presumably rising from a large central stove or fireplace below—thrust up obligingly. Eagle chose the same target for re-fastening his rope, and one after the other, they dropped their loops over it.

  The two men regarded each other for just a moment as lightning flickered overhead.

  “We’re not leaving here without your daughter,” Luke said.

  “My sentiments exactly,” replied Eagle.

  Then they backed away in opposite directions and seconds later were dropping their ropes over the sides of the building.

  Chapter 37

  Luke knelt at the edge of the roof, just back from the ornate cornice. His mind raced. He wished he didn’t have this lag time, the waiting for Barlow and MacGregor to set their fire. Time in which to think, to question the changes he’d made to the original plan. All the shooting that was bound to ensue with the kids in the heart of the building and therefore right in the middle of it had seemed far too risky. What they had underway now was definitely less so . . . if the timing was right and if each ind
ividual component clicked the way it was supposed to.

  Luke listened intently, hoping hard to hear the first shout of alarm, willing the flames that would produce such a response to spread rapidly.

  It seemed to be taking Barlow and MacGregor a long time . . .

  Luke realized he was gripping the rope so hard that his right hand was starting to cramp around it. He switched to his left and shook the right, loosening it, flexing the fingers to work out the stiffness.

  Then, finally, he heard it. Faintly at first, muted by the howling wind and the intervening layers of roof and ceiling and walls. A frantic voice, words unintelligible. Then louder, accompanied by the thump of running feet and fists pounding on doors. And then the words that told it all: “Fire! Fire!”

  Luke lunged from his kneeling position. He dropped momentarily onto his rump, swinging his legs over the side. Then, twisting his body so that he was facing inward toward the building, he pushed back over the edge and began lowering himself hand over hand down the rope. His feet kicked away from the structure in short hops as he dropped down.

  When he was level with the window, he kicked away a little harder and shifted his body pendulum-like so that he was centered on the rectangular opening. He steadied himself there briefly, feet planted on the sill below the pattern of four glass panes separated into equal-sized sections by strips of flimsy wood dividers. Then he straightened his legs in the hardest kick so far, swinging his body five feet out and away. When the arc of the swing ended and he started to go in reverse, back toward the window, he lifted his feet and thrust his boot heels straight ahead.

  As expected, the barrier of cheap glass and flimsy wood offered barely any resistance. The wood splintered and broke, the panes of glass shattered and fell clattering, partly into the room, partly down the outside of the building. Luke’s forward momentum was barely slowed. He sailed into the darkened room and tumbled, swatting away a tangle of filmy curtains and dropping immediately into a short roll. He felt a few stabs of pain in his left shoulder, the one he lowered to take the weight of the roll, as shards of broken glass sliced in. But he could tell instantly that the cuts were nothing serious.