The Vengeance Seeker 4 Page 2

  He turned slowly and started back. Two weeks, Jardine had told him. Three, maybe four days on the outside. He would give himself that much time and no longer. He reached the bed and sat down gratefully, his head swimming, as weak as a colt in springtime.

  He waited for a short while, then started back to the window a second time.

  Two

  Reno was furious. When his boys found no posse on their tails, they had insisted on stopping in this tank town. For four days now they had been taking on firewater and whores—and that was four days too many for Reno.

  He mounted the hotel stairs to the second floor and knocked sharply on the first door he came to. “Ike!” he called through the door. “We’re moving out—now!”

  Reno heard the bedspring creak and what sounded like a tired groan. He rapped on the door a second time, louder.

  A woman’s voice came through the door, laced with sleep and irritation. “Ike, he is asleep!” she protested.

  Without a pause Reno lowered his shoulder and pushed open the door. Ike stared blearily at him from out of a thickly bearded face as Reno strode across the room toward him. Ike’s woman—too well larded for Reno’s taste—looked the way all whores looked to him in the harsh morning light.

  “What’s the idea?” demanded Ike.

  “I told you. We’re moving out.”

  “So move out! I got my share. I’m staying here.”

  That was not what Reno had in mind. And Ike was liable to ruin his whole plan if the others followed his example. Reno reached down, grabbed one of Ike’s legs and pulled the man off the bed. Ike landed heavily on the back of his head. The whore snatched up the bedclothes to cover her nakedness, her dark frightened eyes watching Reno.

  His face distorted with sudden outrage, Ike scrambled to his feet and came at Reno. Reno waited until the man was close enough and then slapped him with his open palm, catching the side of his face with such force that it spun the man almost completely around.

  Ike’s gunbelt and holster were hanging on the bedpost within arm’s length. It was the liquor still left in Ike—plus the fact that his woman was witnessing his humiliation—that made him lunge for the forty-five.

  “Don’t go for it, Ike,” Reno said coldly.

  But Ike was too wild to listen. He pulled the six-gun free of its holster and fired wildly at Reno. Reno ducked, and in one fluid motion drew his own weapon and fired.

  A neat hole appeared in Ike’s matted chest. The man was dead before he finished sliding to the floor.

  Holstering his weapon, Reno glanced at Ike’s woman. She was weeping softly, her head bent, her lips moving in a silent prayer.

  There was a sudden flurry of footsteps behind him. Turning, Reno saw Tom Gibson and Wes Tomlin, both of them in their long johns, but each carrying a six-gun. Murdo Mackenzie, fully dressed, was right behind them.

  “Now that you two are out of bed,” Reno commented mildly, “get dressed. We’re leaving this place. Pronto!”

  “Hey! What happened?” Tom Gibson asked. The kid’s eyes were wide as he stared past Reno at Ike’s body. There was a mess on the floor under Ike and the wound in his chest was no longer neat.

  “He didn’t want to get up this early,” Reno replied.

  Young Gibson looked at Reno in disbelief, then swallowed nervously when he saw the look in Reno’s eyes. “Oh ... sure. Sure, Reno.”

  Murdo spoke up then. “Yeah. Let’s shake the dust of this town. It was beginning to stink some anyway.”

  Wes Tomlin nudged Gibson. “Come on, kid. Let’s get a move on.”

  As the men turned and left to go back to their rooms, the owner of Silver City’s only hotel—a squat man with a bald dome—came hurrying up the stairs and, still puffing, entered the room.

  “I heard shots!” he cried. Then he looked past Reno and caught sight of Ike’s body. His face went pale. He looked back at Reno. “What happened?”

  “I shot him,” said Reno. “But he shot at me first, so it was self-defense.” He glanced over at the woman still cowering on the bed. “That right, slut?”

  The girl nodded quickly.

  Reno reached into one of Ike’s saddlebags and gave the man twenty dollars in silver. “That should take care of the burial,” he told the hotel owner.

  The little man brightened considerably. Five dollars would have been plenty.

  Reno slung Ike’s heavy saddlebags over his shoulder, grabbed the dead man’s gunbelt and holster and went on downstairs to the livery stable to see to the horses.

  They made camp that night beside a small stream well inside Devil’s Canyon. After they had all eaten, Murdo approached Reno. Reno had noticed the furtive discussion Murdo had held with the others while they were setting up the camp and the ominous quiet that had fallen over them since. It was about Ike’s share, Reno had no doubt.

  Reno was squatting before the fire, a steaming cup of coffee warming his hands as he carefully sipped it. He glanced up as Murdo Mackenzie came to a halt next to him. Murdo was a big man with a long black handlebar mustache who favored an enormous Walker Colt for a sidearm. He stood looking down at Reno.

  “Well?” Reno demanded.

  “It’s about Ike’s share.”

  Reno nodded and looked back at his coffee. “I get his share. You already got yours. Ike almost blew my head off. I figure I earned it.”

  “That ain’t the way we see it. With Ike gone we should all get a slice of what he left.”

  Reno flung what coffee remained in his cup onto the fire and stood up. He looked closely at the big man. His eyes were flinty and cold. It was Ike Pryor who had brought him into the bunch, and Reno searched the man’s expression for any sign that it was his friendship with the dead man that was causing him to make this bold a play. But there was no hint of that in the man’s face.

  Murdo was simply looking out for number one. And that Reno could understand perfectly.

  “Sorry, Murdo,” Reno said. “That ain’t the way I see it, and I’m the one running this here show—less’n you want to take Ike’s share away from me.”

  The man smiled then, a cold, mirthless grimace, and took a step back. “Hell, Reno. Nothing like that. You got me all wrong. Just wanted you to know how we felt.”

  “That’s fine. And thanks for letting me know. I never would have figured you guys would be interested in Ike’s share.” He smiled then. “Tell you what. If you want a bigger share—why not kill Tomlin or Gibson—or both of them—and take their shares?”

  “That’s crazy talk,” said Murdo. “You shouldn’t ought to talk like that. We got to stick together.”

  Reno shrugged. “Then stick together—at least until we get to Lawson. Then we go our separate ways.”

  “Where you going?” Murdo asked.

  “What the hell business is that of yours?”

  Reno turned away from the big man then and walked over to his gear and sleeping blanket under a rock overhang by the side of the cliff. He saw no reason why he should tell Murdo—or any of them—that he was breaking up the bunch for good, that this was his last raise. For one thing, he didn’t trust Murdo, and he thought Tomlin was a fool. He liked Tom Gibson well enough, but the kid was not yet dry behind the ears.

  When Reno reached his gear, he turned around and called out to Wes Tomlin. “Take the next watch, Wes,” he told the man. “You spell him, Murdo.”

  “Why we got to keep watch, Reno?” Tomlin whined. “They ain’t nobody coming after us.”

  “Don’t ask so many questions, Wes. Just do as I tell you. When I tell you.”

  With some satisfaction Reno watched Tomlin hustle back to his gear to get his carbine, then start up the slope to relieve Tom Gibson. When he was gone, Reno unholstered his forty-five, tucked it under the blanket roll he used for a pillow, and pulled his slicker over him—his eyes on Murdo all the while.

  Murdo had been watching him as well. Now, as Reno appeared to relax, Murdo moved off to his sleeping blanket on the other side of the fire. Re
no watched him and decided he had better keep an eye on the man from now on. Murdo Mackenzie was a bad one. The good thing about it was he couldn’t keep it hid. No wonder the sonofabitch lost so much at poker back there.

  Reno rolled over onto his elbows and built himself a cigarette but was asleep before he had finished smoking it.

  Reno sat up. One of the horses was whinnying frantically. Then he heard Tom Gibson’s cry of alarm. At once Reno was on his feet, his six-gun cocked and ready. The horses were being stampeded and as Reno started to race toward them, a six-gun blazed and a white finger of fire lanced toward him from out of the darkness. As the bullet ricocheted off the cliff wall behind him, Reno fired back at a spot just ahead of the flash. Then he went down on one knee and began fanning his six-gun. It was not accuracy he wanted at that moment—just firepower.

  He got off five shots in all. When there was no return fire, he raced across the dark ground to where they had line-tethered their horses. Gibson and Tomlin joined him. Then it was Murdo alone who was gone—and with him their mounts and their saddlebags containing their shares of the bank haul. All the sonofabitch had left them was their gear and saddles. They would have to cache the saddles and go after Murdo on foot—as hopeless as that sounded.

  “My fault,” Reno said quietly, as he listened to the fading thunder of their horses galloping down the canyon. “I should have shot the sonofabitch soon’s I figured he was going bad.”

  “I guess maybe you shouldn’ta shot his friend,” said Gibson.

  Reno looked at Gibson. The kid’s thin face was pale in the moonlight and he looked every bit as young as that remark sounded. “Get ready to move out,” Reno snapped. “We’re going after Murdo—and that means we start walking. Now.”

  Wes Tomlin was right, Reno realized as he stood up. Judging from this bloodstain and the others along the trail, he must have caught Murdo a good one. Not far back they had found Murdo’s hat. A man doesn’t leave his hat unless he’s too far gone to think clear.

  They had been pressing on since well before dawn, trying as best they could to ignore the steadily rising sun. But now its scalding eye had driven them in among the rocks to seek shade. And that was where Wes had noticed this really large bloodstain.

  As Reno settled into a shady spot among the rocks and placed his blanket roll beside him on the ground, he said, “You two still want to go back, you can.”

  Gibson and Tomlin looked at Reno and frowned unhappily. Reno mopped his forehead with his bandanna and waited. Tomlin’s narrow face was scarlet. Wes was one of those fellows who never tanned—or burned even—but always showed a beet-red face after any kind of exertion. Both had been whining continuously since they took after Murdo on foot.

  “You think Murdo’s hurt bad, Reno?” Tomlin asked hopefully.

  “He’s hurt bad. He’ll be looking for help pretty damn soon.”

  Tomlin frowned. “Where the hell would he find help around here?”

  “There’s a ranch on the other side of this divide,” Reno told him. “I reckon he’ll maybe stop there. I saw the place when I rode through here a couple of years ago.”

  Reno reclined full-length on the rocky ground and rested the back of his head upon the blanket roll. Then he placed his hat over his face and got himself comfortable. They’d get moving again as soon as the sun dropped below the rim of the canyon walls—about one or two o’clock.

  It was close to sundown when they came out onto a narrow ledge overlooking the lush upland valley spread out below them. The Wind River Range was to the west, the Bighorns to the east and the Absarokas straight ahead. Directly beneath them a branch of the Big Horn wound through the valley, a cluster of poor-mouth ranch buildings nestled in its bend. There didn’t seem to be many cattle grazing in the lush pastureland, Reno noticed.

  They left the ledge and started down a narrow side trail to the valley floor. They were within a hundred feet of the valley with the ranch clearly in view when they heard a shot that seemed to come from the ranch.

  Ducking behind covering rocks, Reno and the others saw a man running from the ranch house toward one of his barns. Behind him, leaning against the doorjamb, Murdo Mackenzie took careful aim with his Walker Colt and fired. The rancher staggered but kept moving and disappeared into the barn. Suddenly a woman burst past Murdo out of the cabin.

  Limping grotesquely, but moving quickly enough, Murdo caught up with the woman, grabbed her long dark hair and yanked her viciously back; then he backhanded her, knocking her sprawling to the ground. Before she could scramble to her feet, he pounced on her again, slapping her twice across the face. Reno could see the girl’s head snap around with each blow. The woman tried to crawl away. But Murdo grabbed one of her wrists and dragged her back across the yard and into the cabin.

  When the door slammed shut behind them, Reno turned to Wes and Tom. There was a smile on his face. “I’ll bet you two ain’t still thinking of going back now. Okay. Murdo will most likely be pretty busy for a while. And that should give us all the time we need to cross that flat to the cottonwoods in front of the cabin.”

  Both men nodded and moved silently behind Reno as he led them down the trail to the valley floor. The thought of them catching up to their money had done wonders for their blistered feet.

  Once through the cottonwoods they halted. The cabin was in front of them, the two barns to their right—and there was no sign of the wounded rancher.

  “Wes,” Reno said, “you and Tom go around to the back of the ranch house. One of you shoot through a window if you can find one—otherwise, fire into the air. That’s all the diversion I’ll need.”

  Wes nodded and the two men slipped back into the cottonwoods as Reno crouched down behind a bush and leaned back against a tree trunk to wait. He took out his Colt and reloaded it carefully with fresh cartridges. Then he hefted it idly and listened for the first shot.

  He was beginning to curse softly to himself, certain Wes and Gibson had lost their nerve, when he heard the sound of a window breaking. A shot followed. Two more shots came quickly after that. By then Reno was on his feet racing across the yard. A thunderous roar—Murdo’s Walker Colt—came from within the cabin. The sound of a piece of furniture overturning and a woman’s scream was followed by another tremendous blast from Murdo’s Colt.

  Without breaking stride, Reno kicked through the flimsy cabin door and burst into the cabin. Murdo was crouched behind an overturned chair, facing the shattered rear window. On a bed to the left of him, the woman—naked from the waist up—was coiled like a fetus with her head buried in a pillow. At Reno’s entrance Murdo turned and started to swing his big Colt toward Reno.

  Reno fired from his hip. The bullet smashed into Murdo’s left shoulder, knocking him back over the chair. Under the force of Murdo’s thrust backward, the chair splintered and collapsed. The Colt, still firmly clutched in Murdo’s right hand, pulsed and roared again, sending its charge into the ceiling.

  Before Murdo could fire at Reno a second time, Reno aimed deliberately and planted two slugs in Murdo’s chest. Each one nudged Murdo’s heavy body a few inches further along the floor. The Walker Colt sounded heavy as an anvil when it struck the floorboards beside the dead man.

  Brushing aside the acrid clouds of smoke that filled the small cabin, Reno walked over to the bed where the girl was cowering. Taking her bare shoulder by the hand, he pulled her roughly around so that he could see her face. She was white with terror and her face was streaked with tears. But Reno was astonished to find that he knew her.

  And the rancher’s wife recognized him as well. “Reno!” she said softly. “Johnny Reno!”

  He nodded.

  Hastily, she snatched up a portion of the bed sheet to hold over her breasts.

  “I think I know you,” he told her, holstering his six-gun. “But where was it?”

  She scooted up so that she was sitting with her back to the headboard and swiftly brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “In El Paso, Reno,” she told him. �
�I used to work in Sal’s house.”

  He nodded. Yes, that was where, all right. She had never been his choice. She had been too young and stringy then. But she had filled out some since.

  Gibson and Tomlin bolted into the cabin, their Colts still out. When they saw Murdo on the floor, they looked across the room at Reno and holstered their weapons.

  “Looks like you get Murdo’s share,” Wes said.

  Reno smiled. “Looks like it. Drag the sonofabitch outside and bury him. Try and find a manure pile.” Reno looked at the woman. “Was that your husband Murdo shot?”

  She nodded.

  Reno glanced back at the two. “See if you can find the rancher. If he’s dead, bury him too.”

  The two men nodded. Each took a leg and backed out the open door, dragging Murdo’s body behind them. As soon as they were gone, Reno looked down at the woman.

  “You know my name. What’s yours?”

  “Rose.”

  Her eyes were dark, smoldering. The fear-induced pallor had been replaced with a hectic flush. At Fat Sal’s house and at many of the others Reno had frequented over the years, any unusual disturbance—a fight, especially—would often arouse a few of the girls to unusual peaks. It was as if the violence they witnessed primed them.

  Rose, it appeared, was now well primed.

  But Reno wasn’t having any. He left her and walked over to the splintered chair, intending to build a fire with it in the cabin’s fireplace. “Get dressed and make us something to eat, Rose,” he told her. “My men are pretty damn hungry. And some coffee, if you’ve got it.”

  She was anxious to please. “Sure, Reno. Sure.”