Seven Days to Hell Page 3

  “You’re crazy!”

  Sam didn’t answer, he just kept playing with the knife, throwing the sun-dazzle into Spud’s eyes.

  “You can’t get away with this!”

  “I’m getting away with it, Spud. The law’s out of town so there’s no help for you there. Your fellow citizens are famously minding their own business, so they won’t interfere. You can’t stop me. So what’s it to be, Spud? Talk? Or get peeled?”

  Sam’s free hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of Spud Barker’s greasy hair, holding his head upright for the knife.

  The sudden action caused Spud to cry out in fear. He started wriggling.

  “Hold still, Spud, you’ll do yourself a mischief,” Sam warned. He touched the other’s taut neck not with the sharp end of the blade but rather with the squared-off edge running along the top of the knife.

  Spud stopped wriggling.

  “There’s more than one way to peel a potato. I’m going to scalp you, Spud.”

  Too undone by terror to speak, Spud could only make a croaking gasp by way of protest.

  “Scalping won’t kill you. It’ll put you in a world of hurt but it won’t kill you,” Sam said brightly. “Every now and then you run into a fellow that’s been scalped. More than you might think. They get left for dead and don’t die. Scalped man usually keeps his head covered all the time with a hat or head scarf or whatever. For good reason: The top of the head is a mess of scars from crown to ears. It ain’t pretty.

  “Back when I was fighting Sioux up on the North Range I got to be a pretty fair hand at taking scalps. They made a practice of lifting the hair of our people, men and women both, so we scouts figured turnabout was fair play. Now this Green River blade is no scalping knife but it’ll do the job right handily—”

  “No, no! . . . Don’t!”

  “Ah, you can speak after all, Spud. Thought the cat got your tongue, you were so quiet for a while. Long as you can talk, why not tell me where Vard is and save yourself a heap of grief?”

  “I can’t tell what I don’t know!”

  “Shh! Not so loud. You’ll startle me. If my hand slips I might put out your eye by mistake. Lord knows you’ll have misery enough without adding to your troubles.”

  “Oh, why won’t you believe me when I tell you I don’t know where Vard is? Why, why?”

  “Because you’re a liar, Spud.”

  “I’m not lying—”

  “What else would a liar say?” Sam asked reasonably.

  “But so would a man telling the truth!” Spud insisted.

  “Vard would have given up and thrown you over as soon as I started leaning on him, but you’re too dumb to do it to him first,” Sam said.

  “Vard will kill me if I talk,” Spud whispered, wringing his hands. “Not that I know where he is,” he added quickly.

  “If that’s your song, you’re stuck with it. Too bad for you,” Sam said, touching the knife blade tip to the right-hand corner of Spud’s forehead where the hairline met.

  “Now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he went on. “First, I’ll mark out the area to be cut along the hairline, down around the ears and then across the back of the neck at the collar. Done right, I can just sort of slip the flat of the knife under the top layers of skin, working it in deep, back toward the crown. Work loose a nice flap of scalp big enough to get a good grip on and, with a bit of luck, I’ll peel the whole scalp right off the top of the skull all in one piece!”

  Sam pressed the knife blade tip a bit harder against Spud’s flesh, pricking it. A tear-sized, ruby droplet beaded at the surface.

  Spud Barker shrieked. He went limp, eyes closed, head bowed. Sam thought the man had fainted but Spud was still on his feet. He slapped Spud’s jowly cheeks several times, trying to rouse him.

  “Oww! That hurts,” Spud complained.

  “You won’t even notice it once the scalping starts,” Sam said.

  “To hell with that, I’ll talk!”

  “Ah, now you’re showing good sense.”

  “First you’ve got to promise me something.”

  “You’re sorely trying my patience, Spud. We’re not horse trading here. Tell me where I can find Vard and you won’t get scalped. That’s the only deal on tap today.”

  “No conditions here, no strings attached. This is something you’ll want,” Spud Barker said, gripping Sam’s arm—not his knife arm. “You’ve got to kill Loman Vard first chance you get.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Sam said, taking Spud’s hand off his arm. No need to tell him that Sam meant to take Vard alive. Vard was a storehouse of information about outlaw alliances and criminal conspiracies in Texas and throughout the Southwest. Sam Heller would squeeze him dry of all he knew before sending him on to swing on a rope in Hangtree.

  “Vard will know I’ve talked, and if you don’t kill him he’ll kill me.”

  “You’ll be safe enough, Spud.”

  Spud Barker nervously gnawed on a knuckle. “Vard’s hard enough to kill man-to-man, but he won’t be alone. He surrounds himself with top guns: Big Taw, the tinhorn they call Acey-Deucy, Kurt Angle, and his cousin—they’re a pair of right bastards—Ginger Culhane, the Mex. Everyone a killer and that’s not the half of them. Are you sure you can take him? What can you do? One lone man . . .”

  “Chuck Ramsey had a five-man gang of stone killers siding him. They went down in a couple minutes shooting at Hansen’s Pass,” Sam said. “With a rifle you don’t have to work close.”

  “I know you’re a sharpshooter, you can pick off Vard at a distance. You don’t even have to show yourself. That must be nice,” Spud said, not trying to hide the envy in his voice.

  Color was coming back to his cheeks as he took heart. “You side Johnny Cross, a one-man army all by himself! If you could bring him in on this thing, Heller.”

  “Better if Johnny doesn’t get involved . . . better for you,” Sam said. “Don’t forget that bit with Terry Moran. If Johnny finds out you had a hand in that, he’ll skin you alive.

  “Which is what I’m going to do to you, Spud, if you don’t quit stalling and steer me to Loman Vard—and quick!”

  “All right, I’ll tell you. Between you and Johnny Cross, Vard is finished. If you don’t get him Cross surely will.”

  Sam Heller heaved a sigh of relief when Spud Barker wasn’t looking. He’d been afraid he’d really have to start scalping to get him to talk.

  Spud Barker opened his mouth to speak but before he could do so a voice demanded:

  “Let-Spud-go!”

  THREE

  Sam Heller stood with his knife at Spud Barker’s throat. That’s the position in which he’d been surprised by three gunmen.

  Careless, Sam thought with bitter self-disgust. Stupid. He’d made a slip, one he might pay for with his life.

  In the run-up toward making his move against Vard via Spud Barker, Sam had gone some thirty hours without sleep, with little water and less food. That was one of the drawbacks to playing a lone hand: Too often he found himself in the position of a one-man-band, trying to do too much with too little.

  Keeping the knife at Spud’s throat, Sam edged around to one side so he was partially facing the gunmen. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the street outside the alley mouth.

  Sam recognized them. He had a mighty-minded memory for faces and names where man-hunting was concerned, and he’d amassed plenty of information during the near two years he’d been plying his trade here in North Central Texas.

  The triggermen were Haze Birnam, Chris Latrobe, and Walt Palenky, stalwarts of the Vard-Barker coalition who were more closely allied with Barker than Vard. Which might explain why they were in town instead of out in the field with Vard—unfortunately for Sam.

  Birnam, Latrobe, and Palenky, hardcases all:

  Haze Birnam was a strongback brawler who switched to guns when he found out he could kill more people faster with a six-shooter than with his fists. “Burn ’Em Down Birnam,” some called him. He
was built like a bear but said to be cat-quick.

  Chris Latrobe had straw-colored hair, close-set beady eyes that tended to look cross-eyed, and a long turnip nose. Thin and shrunken chested, he suffered frequent colds and had a permanent runny nose.

  Walt Palenky looked like an Indian with his thick black hair, long slitted eyes, high cheekbones, and flattened nose. But his roots were Slavic, of East European descent; he was a bit slow witted with oxlike stolidity.

  Birnam, Latrobe, and Palenky. They each had a gun in hand except for Latrobe, who wielded two guns. They had the drop on Sam Heller. Not even the fastest gun can beat a gun that’s already drawn.

  “Looks like we got here just in time to save you from a close shave, Spud,” Latrobe said, sniffling. His nose was red and his upper lip glistened with wetness.

  “Drop that knife if you want to live, stranger,” Haze Birnam said.

  “Tell your friends to back off if you don’t want a cut throat, Spud,” Sam said.

  Funny how things work out or don’t work out. The trio thought they had come along just in time to save Spud Barker’s neck. In reality they had arrived at the moment when Spud was about to betray Loman Vard and by extension themselves, along with the rest of the gang.

  Timing really is everything, Sam thought. For him, it was a case of bad timing.

  “Tell them, Spud,” Sam prompted.

  Here was something Spud didn’t have to fake . . . his fear was all too real. As well it might be, for he had a very good chance of being killed if his men opened fire.

  Which could be a problem. Gang chiefs who show yellow command little respect among their underlings.

  Ash-gray Spud tried to speak, choking on the first attempt, his mouth cotton-dry. “D-do what the man says, b-boys.”

  “Can’t do that, Spud,” Haze Birnam said, shaking his head. He was taking the play, Latrobe and Palenky deferring to him.

  “We stay put,” Birnam told the other two. “We got the whip hand here. Billy Yank dies if he cuts Spud and he knows it.”

  “Move wrong and Spud dies first,” Sam said.

  “Huh! Fat lot of good that’s gonna do you . . . you’ll be dead, too,” Birnam said with a sneer.

  “That way nobody wins. Put up your guns and I’ll let him go.”

  “Drop the knife and you can go.”

  “I need something more solid than that.”

  “No guarantees in this life, Bluebelly. You’re already on borrowed time.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “What I see is a man with a knife going against three men with guns,” Birnam taunted. “What’ll you bet I can drop you before you get that knife into play?”

  “Spud’s life.”

  “And yours—don’t forget that, Yank.”

  “It’s a standoff then,” Sam said.

  “That’s all right, we got plenty of time,” Birnam said.

  He was right. Time was on the side of the triggermen. The longer this went on, the less Sam’s chances got. Time for more of the gang to arrive and close the ring around Sam. Time for Marshal Skeates Finn and his crew to return from Hansen’s Pass.

  “Why don’t I just shoot him in the head and put an end to it, Haze?” Latrobe suggested.

  “Which one,” Birnam drawled, “the Yankee or Spud?”

  Walt Palenky looked startled. After a pause, Latrobe burst out laughing.

  “Damn you!” Spud Barker said.

  “Just joshing, Spud,” Haze Birnam said in a real mean way that seemed to say he was dead serious.

  “Maybe I could shoot the knife out of his hand,” Walt Palenky said.

  “You ain’t that good a shot, Walt,” Birnam scoffed. “You might hit poor ol’ Spud.”

  “Maybe he should try it at that,” Latrobe said brightly.

  Birnam laughed this time, Latrobe joining in to laugh at his own joke. Walt Palenky frowned, confused.

  Spud Barker found his voice at last. “I’m not forgetting this, you two.”

  “Ooh,” Latrobe said.

  “Hard words, Spud. You ain’t in no position to be making threats,” Birnam said, a loose smile playing around his lips, but cold eyed.

  “Keep your chin up, boss, we’ll get you out of this,” Palenky said, ever-loyal.

  “Maybe even alive,” Latrobe snickered.

  “Hell, let’s get to it,” Haze Birnam said, thumbing back the hammer of his gun with a sharp metallic click.

  When a man widely known as “Burn ’Em Down Birnam” commits to action, the crisis has arrived. Sam Heller acted accordingly.

  Sam sidestepped, putting him partly behind Spud Barker—at the same time he threw the knife.

  Sam Heller was an expert knife thrower and handler. He’d taken to the blade in boyhood days and had spent countless hours of practice at the art over the years. He could throw a knife by the blade or the handle with equal facility as long as the weapon was properly balanced, as was the Green River model.

  This cast was thrown by the handle.

  Much of the secret behind hitting the mark with a thrown knife depends on knowing how many turns and half-turns a particular knife will make en route to its target.

  Lightning-fast mental calculations had come to Sam with the ease of long years of expertise.

  The knife was a silver pinwheel spinning toward its man. It hit Haze Birnam square in the chest.

  As soon as the knife left Sam’s hand he was in motion, pulling with a cross-belly draw the .36 Navy Colt from where it nestled butt out in the waistband over his left hip. He was in too-cramped conditions to loose the mule’s leg from its holster rig on his right side.

  Sam kicked Spud Barker’s feet out from under him, sending him sprawling even as opening shots were fired—not by him but by Walt Palenky.

  Sam threw himself backward toward the ground, returning fire in midair at Palenky. Palenky’s gun was leveled and shooting, cutting empty air scant inches above Sam’s upturned face and chest as he fell.

  Sam put two shots into Palenky, one below the rib cage in midtorso, the other a few inches above the belt buckle. Palenky crumpled.

  It all happened in a handful of seconds.

  Sam hit the dirt, landing in the alley on his back. He fought to stay loose and not tighten up, but the impact was jarring. He took much of the fall on his upper back and shoulders, absorbing the impact. As soon as he hit he rolled to one side, away from where Spud Barker lay heaped.

  Haze Birnam, unsteady with a knife in his chest, let his gun fall from his hand. He groaned, sounding like a massive vault door with rusted hinges being forced open.

  Spud Barker huddled on his knees head down and rump raised. He looked like he was bowing down to some unseen heathen idol. His arms were crossed in the dirt, pillowing his head, face buried between them.

  He panicked when bullets tore up the turf beside him. Rising up to stand on his knees, he frantically waved his arms about, shouting, “Don’t! You’ll hit me!”

  A slug creased Spud, causing him to shriek like a mare gored by a longhorn. He flopped facedown and lay flat on the dirt, kicking and sobbing.

  Bullets from the same shooter now kicked up dirt from the ground where Sam had landed and would have hit him had he not rolled away an instant earlier.

  Chris Latrobe was the shooter, hammering out lead with a gun in each hand. His aim might have been more deadly accurate had he not become entangled with mortally wounded Haze Birnam.

  Dying on his feet, Birnam stumbled into Latrobe as the latter tried to nail Sam Heller to the ground with hot lead. Birnam groped for something to hold on to, to keep from falling down into death.

  Latrobe’s face was a mask of revulsion as he stepped backward to avoid the dying man’s lunge. The maddening obstacle kept him from cutting loose on Sam as Latrobe had planned.

  Birnam’s clutching hands pawed the air, still trying to grab on to Latrobe.

  Latrobe batted them away with the guns held in each fist. He finally managed to get clear of Haze Birnam
, giving him a shove that sent him toppling earthward. “Die, you son of a—!”

  Birnam fell facedown, the force of his own weight driving the knife still deeper into him, to the hilt. He gave a final shuddering spasm as he threw off the last of life.

  Latrobe forgot one thing: When he finally got clear of Birnam, he was no longer covered by him.

  Sam Heller took advantage of the opening to carefully draw a bead on Latrobe. Shooting accurately with a handgun is difficult when you’re on your back, so Sam took pains to make sure he was on target before firing.

  He pointed the Navy Colt at Latrobe and squeezed a couple of shots into it.

  Two bullet holes appeared on the left side of Latrobe’s chest. They were grouped tightly together, each shot a man-killer to the heart.

  Chris Latrobe fell hard with a thud that could be heard now that the guns were silent.

  Sam rose, standing upright. He stuck the Navy Colt into his belt on his left hip. He swore because the barrel was hot and he could feel it through his denims. “Not as hot as it’s going to get for those three Down Yonder,” he said to himself, forcing a laugh.

  FOUR

  Sam Heller shucked the mule’s leg out of its holster and held it leveled for action. Winchester Model 1866, lever-action repeating rifle with a sawed-off barrel and chopped stock shaped to a pistol grip. It felt good in his hands, right.

  The heavy artillery, he thought. Still, he hadn’t done too badly without it.

  Now, though, he was loaded for bear and ready for all comers—

  There were none. Birnam, Latrobe, and Palenky were done. Spud Barker had stopped crying and lay where he had fallen, twitching and moaning.

  Sam Heller reckoned he’d been luckier than he deserved. If the trio had simply shot him from behind instead of trying to brace him first, he’d be a dead man, his story come to a sudden end.

  But they’d wanted to have their fun toying with their intended victim, giving Sam the opening he’d needed to slip the noose.

  Still . . .

  Dumb luck, just pure dumb luck saved my skin, he marveled to himself. What a fool he’d been to go charging in like a wild bull on a rampage instead of taking proper precautions to stay alive!