Blood for Blood Read online

  “No, I reckon not,” the lawman replied. “When we start up, keep your eyes open. Do you know how to use a rifle?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never fired one in my life.”

  John Henry grunted and pulled Deputy Baird’s pistol from behind his belt. He held it out to Mallette. “Take this, then. But don’t use it unless you have to.”

  “You think we’ll run into trouble?”

  “I don’t know what we’ll run into, but whatever it is, I want to be ready for it.”

  They had reached the bottom of the ridge. The skull-like protuberance loomed above them. John Henry started up the trail, keeping Iron Heart to a steady walk.

  Behind him, Mallette started to say something. John Henry held out a hand, motioning sharply for his companion to be quiet. The hoofbeats of their horses sounded loud enough without adding any talking to them.

  The early morning air was already getting hot. It was going to be another scorcher.

  Even with the trail meandering back and forth, it didn’t take long for the two riders to reach the top. John Henry reined in and let Mallette come up alongside him. They saw several buildings about half a mile off.

  Unless John Henry missed his guess, they had found the Silver Skull Ranch.

  Someone had found them, too. A handful of riders suddenly burst out from behind the nearby rock. John Henry could have reached for his gun and put up a fight, but instead he sat motionless in the saddle and waited.

  “Saxon!” Mallette said in alarm.

  “Just wait,” John Henry told him. “This is what I figured would happen.”

  “Well, I sure as hell hope you figured right,” Mallette said as the hard-faced riders surrounded them and leveled guns at them.

  Chapter Nine

  One of the riders edged his horse ahead of the others. He wore a brown hat, brown vest, butternut shirt, and denim trousers. The hat brim shaded a rough-hewn but handsome face. Tight blond curls showed under the hat. The gun he held was rock-steady.

  Oddly, he wore a glove of what looked like soft buckskin on his left hand, although his right hand—his gun hand—was bare. “Who are you gents,” he demanded, “and what are you doing here?”

  John Henry kept his own hands in plain sight, not wanting to give any of the men an excuse to get trigger-happy. He drawled, “We could ask the same thing of you, amigo.”

  “Yeah, but there are more of us than there are of you. And we’ve got the drop on you. So that gives us the right to ask the questions.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” John Henry admitted. “My name’s Saxon. This is Nick Mallette.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mallette protested. “Maybe I wanted to use an alias.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” John Henry said. “If these fellas are who I think they are, we’ve got to trust them, anyway.”

  That comment drew an amused chuckle from the blond man, but the others remained grim and menacing.

  “Just who do you think we are, Saxon?”

  “I think you’re from the Silver Skull Ranch . . . which makes you outlaws, same as us.”

  “So you’re on the run, are you?”

  “We broke out of the jail in Kiowa City last night.”

  The leader’s smile disappeared and his face hardened at John Henry’s words. “You didn’t happen to kill that damned sheriff on your way out of town, did you?” he asked harshly.

  “Rasmussen?” John Henry shook his head. “No, we didn’t have to kill anybody . . . in Kiowa City. But I’ve got a murder charge hanging over me down in Texas, and Nick here has a date with a hangrope in Missouri.”

  Under his breath, Mallette said, “I sure hope these fellows aren’t bounty hunters.”

  The blond man smiled again. “Not hardly, Mallette. Your friend’s hunch was right. The law wants us, too . . . but we don’t have to worry about that as long as we’re here, and as long as the boss goes along with it, neither do you.”

  John Henry said, “You’re not the boss?”

  The man didn’t answer directly. “Come on. We’ll take you to the ranch house. Just keep your hands away from your guns. You don’t want to make anybody nervous.”

  The gunmen fanned out on both flanks as John Henry and Mallette rode toward the ranch buildings. As they got closer, John Henry saw that the barn, corrals, and bunkhouse appeared to be well cared for. So was the low, sprawling main house. Out on the mostly treeless plains, it must have cost a pretty penny to freight in enough lumber to construct all those buildings.

  Maybe that was why the ranch’s original owner had gone broke and abandoned it. He might have spent all his money on the buildings and neglected his stock.

  John Henry saw at least a dozen horses in one of the corrals. Quite a few men were staying at the Silver Skull.

  That supported the theory that Simon Garrett and his gang had made their headquarters there while carrying out their campaign of terror against the men he held responsible for his brother’s death.

  A figure came out onto the ranch house’s porch to watch their arrival. Long, thick waves of auburn hair fell around the woman’s shoulders, leaving no doubt about her gender despite the fact that she wore denim trousers and a man’s shirt. The way she filled out those clothes made it pretty plain, too.

  A thin rawhide thong, laced through a piece of leather with studs of silver and turquoise, was fastened around her neck as a bit of colorful decoration.

  She had a gunbelt strapped around her sleekly curved hips, as well, something you didn’t see on many women, even out on the frontier.

  Hooking her thumbs in the gun belt, the woman spread her feet a little and stood in a mannish stance, waiting for them. As the group of riders came up to the porch and reined in, she called, “Who are these men, Simon?”

  John Henry managed not to react, even though his first impulse was to glance over at the blond gunman beside him. He had come looking for Simon Garrett, but maybe Garrett had found him instead.

  Of course, the man might be somebody else named Simon . . . but John Henry had a hunch that wasn’t the case.

  “They say their names are Saxon and Mallette,” the man replied. “They came riding up the trail, bold as brass.”

  “That’s because someone told us that if we were in trouble and needed a place to go to ground, we ought to look for the Silver Skull,” John Henry said.

  “Is that right?” the auburn-haired woman said. “Who told you that?”

  Mallette said, “I didn’t catch his name. We were playing cards together over in Salina, I believe it was. He wore an eyepatch, if that helps. And he only had three fingers on his left hand.”

  John Henry’s first impression had been that the woman was handsome, but not really pretty. He changed his mind when she smiled at the description Mallette gave her. It transformed her face into something beautiful.

  “Three-Finger Pete,” she said. “An old friend. If he trusted you enough to tell you about this place, I suppose you must be all right. Before you get down from those horses, though . . . what are you on the run from?”

  “Killings in Texas and Missouri,” John Henry said.

  “They claim to have busted out of the Kiowa City jail last night,” Simon put in.

  Without hesitation, the woman asked the same question as Simon. “Did you kill Sheriff Rasmussen?”

  “No. Didn’t kill anybody in Kiowa City.” John Henry shrugged. “Well, that’s not exactly true. I had to gun an old enemy of mine in the Paradise Saloon. That’s what landed me in jail to start with, even though that shooting was self-defense.”

  “Who did you kill?”

  “Jimmy Deverill.”

  John Henry saw the reaction on the woman’s face and heard the breath that Simon drew in sharply beside him. They knew who Deverill was, all right.

  “He double-crossed me in a whiskey running deal down in Indian Territory,” John Henry went on. “He knew I’d be gunning for him if our trails ever crossed again, so as soon as he saw me and re
alized who I was, he slapped leather.”

  “Deverill was supposed to be fast,” Simon said.

  “He was. Just not fast enough.”

  The woman smiled again. “You may have the rest of the crew from the Anvil gunning for you now.”

  “Actually, a couple of them were there in the saloon when I killed Deverill.” John Henry added dryly, “To tell you the truth, they didn’t seem all that broken up about it. They even let me buy them a drink afterward.”

  That brought a hearty laugh from the woman. “All right. You can light and stay a while, I suppose. And I’m glad you didn’t kill Sheriff Rasmussen. He’s on our list to take care of, isn’t he, Simon?”

  The blond gunman just grunted.

  John Henry had no further doubt that the gunman was Simon Garrett. “You must have a powerful hate for that lawman.”

  “Among others.”

  With that, the woman turned and disappeared back into the house.

  * * *

  With Garrett and several of the other gunmen accompanying them, John Henry and Mallette led their horses into the corral and unsaddled them. The other men put away their horses, too. Iron Heart made it clear with a few nips of his teeth that the other animals would be wise to leave him alone.

  John Henry carried his saddle into the barn that adjoined the corral and placed it on an empty sawhorse. As the others came in, he asked Garrett, “What’s the lady’s name?”

  “Her name is Lottie, but don’t get any fancy ideas about her, Saxon.”

  “Your personal property, is she?”

  That drew a genuine-sounding laugh from Garrett. “Lottie Dalmas isn’t anybody’s property, mister. The reason I told you not to get any ideas about her is because she’s liable to nail your cojones to a post if you try anything. That gun she carries isn’t for show. She’s damned good with it. And did you notice that rawhide necklace she wears?”

  “I did,” John Henry admitted.

  “It’s attached to a sheath with a bowie knife in it that hangs down her back. You can’t see the handle because of her hair, but she can get it out in a hurry. She’s good with it, too.”

  John Henry remembered the condition of Lucas Winslow’s body when it was found. “I’ll remember that.”

  “You’d be wise to.” Garrett stuck out his hand and shook with John Henry and Mallette. “I’m Simon Garrett, by the way. This is Roy Currier, Billy Stoppard, and Lance Hillman.” Garrett nodded to each of the other three outlaws in turn.

  Mallette said, “Howdy, fellas.”

  “I’ll introduce you to everybody else later on,” Garrett continued. “Come on, I’ll show you where you can bunk.”

  As the men walked toward the long, low bunkhouse, John Henry said, “So this place belongs to Lottie?”

  “That’s right. Me and the boys who ride with me have been staying here for a while, but she has other hombres passing through from time to time, like the two of you. The price is fair. It’s based on a percentage of the loot from any jobs you pull while you’re here, or you can pay for your room and board like regular renters if you want.”

  Mallette said, “What if you’re, ah, low on funds when you get here?”

  “Lottie will front you your keep for a while,” Garrett said with a shrug. “But you’ll have to do some jobs to pay her back.”

  “I don’t know about Nick here, but I could use some work,” John Henry said. “How about it, Garrett? Could you find a place for a couple good men in your bunch?”

  “If you really gunned Jimmy Deverill, I might be able to use you.”

  “I can give you my word on that.” John Henry’s tone made it clear he wouldn’t take kindly to having that word questioned.

  Garrett jerked his chin toward Mallette. “I don’t know about Slick here, though. He doesn’t look like the sort of hombre who usually rides with us.”

  “It’s Nick . . . and I’ll do whatever you want, Mr. Garrett,” Mallette said. “I really need a place to lie low for a while.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Garrett said. They had reached the bunkhouse. He opened the door and nodded them into the shadowy interior.

  John Henry placed his saddlebags and Winchester on the empty bunk he picked out. Mallette didn’t really have anything other than the clothes on his back and the gun John Henry had given him, so he dropped his hat on the thin, blanket-covered mattress of another empty bunk.

  Half a dozen men were already in the bunkhouse. One of them who was stretched out on a bunk swung his legs to the floor and stood up. He kept rising for what seemed like a long time. When he was upright, he towered a good six and a half feet above the rough planks of the floor. His lined and pitted face looked like it had been hacked out of a tree trunk. It was topped by a shock of hair the color and consistency of straw.

  The tall man’s body was lean but corded with muscle. He frowned as he stared at Mallette, and after a moment he rumbled in a gravelly voice, “Don’t I know you?”

  Mallette licked his lips nervously and shook his head.

  “I, ah, don’t think we’ve met, friend. I believe I’d remember you if we had.”

  The giant’s frown deepened. “Are you sayin’ I’m too ugly to forget?” he demanded.

  “No, not at all, not at all,” Mallette replied hastily. “You’re very impressive-looking. Distinctive. Memorable.”

  “Ugly! I know it.” The man took a step toward Mallette. “Everybody here knows it. You might as well say it.”

  “Take it easy, Sven,” Garrett said. He added, “This is Sven Gunderson.”

  John Henry had heard a hint of a Scandanavian accent in the big man’s voice, although it was faint enough to indicate that Gunderson had spent most, if not all, of his life in America. Probably out on the frontier, where a lot of immigrants from Sweden and Norway had found new homes.

  Gunderson stepped closer to Mallette and lifted a hand to poke the gambler in the chest with a long, blunt forefinger. Mallette took a step back.

  “Maybe I don’t know you,” Gunderson rumbled, “but I’ve run into plenty of men like you. You wear your fancy suits and think you’re better than everybody else.”

  “I don’t think I’m better than anybody, I swear,” Mallette said as he lifted his hands and held the palms out toward Gunderson.

  The giant suddenly seized Mallette’s wrists, moving with unexpected speed for such a big man. “Soft hands!” he roared. “I knew it. You’re a gambler. A damned tinhorn gambler, always goin’ around cheatin’ people like me and takin’ our hard-earned money!”

  “No, no, I swear—”

  John Henry glanced around at the other men in the bunkhouse, including Simon Garrett. They were all watching with interest, but none of them made a move to interfere.

  It was possible Gunderson did this every time a new man showed up at the Silver Skull, just to establish his dominance right away, John Henry thought. Every group had its pecking order.

  John Henry didn’t want to be at the bottom of that order. That was what would happen if Gunderson prodded Mallette into a fight and then beat the hell out of him. Since John Henry and Mallette had come in together, such humiliation would reflect badly on John Henry, too.

  Besides, he just didn’t like bullies.

  He stepped up behind Gunderson and tapped the giant on the shoulder. “Hey.”

  Gunderson let go of Mallette’s wrists, swung around ponderously, and glared at John Henry with an expression as dark and ominous as a storm cloud about to break. “What the hell do you want?”

  “If you’ve got a problem with my partner there, you’ve got a problem with me,” John Henry said.

  “Oh? Is that right?” A broad grin creased Gunderson’s face, and even though John Henry would have doubted that it was possible, the expression made the man even uglier. “What do you figure on doin’ about it?”

  “This.” John Henry launched a punch at Gunderson’s head.

  Chapter Ten

  John Henry put a lot of power behin
d the punch. The blow landed solidly on the big man’s jaw. It should have put Gunderson on the floor.

  But he just stood there. His head had barely moved, and the grin on his face wasn’t the least bit shaken.

  John Henry uttered a heartfelt, “Ahhh, hell!”

  The giant let out a bellow as his hands shot out and grabbed John Henry by the shoulders. The grip felt like a pair of bear traps snapping shut.

  His feet came off the floor, and before he knew what was happening he found himself flying through the air. He came down hard on one of the bunks and bounced off to land on the floor. The bunk was probably all that saved him from at least one broken bone. The impact was still enough to drive the air from his lungs and leave him gasping.

  The sound of Gunderson’s feet stomping across the floor toward him was like a buffalo stampede. That warning penetrated John Henry’s stunned mind and galvanized him into action.

  He rolled desperately to the side as one of the huge man’s massive, booted feet crashed down on the space where John Henry’s head had been an instant earlier. It would have crushed his skull like an eggshell if he hadn’t gotten out of the way.

  He reached up, grabbed Gunderson’s leg, and heaved. That trick had always upended an opponent.

  Gunderson just stood there for a moment, unmoving as a mountain, leering down at him. Then he lifted his foot to kick John Henry in the face.

  Once again, John Henry rolled out of the way of that massive boot just in time. He came up on hands and knees and scrambled a couple yards before climbing to his feet.

  He could have drawn his gun and blown a hole through his hulking opponent, but at that moment he wasn’t sure if a bullet would even slow down the runaway freight train that was Sven Gunderson, let alone stop him. Besides, he had started this bare-knuckles brawl, and he had to finish it the same way if the men in the bunkhouse were ever going to respect him.

  Gunderson charged, swinging wild punches with the hammer-like fists at the end of his tree trunk arms. He was surprisingly fast, but had no technique whatsoever.