Black Hills (9781101559116) (39 page)

“Lambert's already started moving in on it, scaring off the riders, rustling the stock, diverting the water, and anything else he can think of. Now they're surrounding it to keep anyone from going off and finding help, but they need more guns.”

Cormac could hear their saddle leather squeaking as they dismounted and began unsaddling and stalling their horses. The hostler must have been out getting supper; it was that time of day.

“I wintered there about five years ago,” the voice continued. “It was the Circle T then, but now it's owned by a mighty tough lady who's harder to run off than Lambert thought. It's the largest spread in that part of the country, but the previous owner got in the way of a bullet and got himself killed, and his only son's got no guts. He couldn't handle the hands, and they started rustlin' the stock. It was fast turning into a rawhide outfit until this lady bought it up and changed the name to the L-Bar N.

“Coldwell says this little gal has more than enough guts to go around, although from what he says, I shouldn't say little. He says she's 'bout as tall as he is. He told me that the first day she rode in the gate she called them all together and upset their apple cart by giving them their walkin' papers. She was holding a Colt revolvin' shotgun at the time,” he said with a laugh. “All those guys went out of there with their tails between their legs for getting run off by a woman. That was three years ago, and she's already turned the place around.”

Cormac again cautioned Lop Ear and Horse to silence with his hands still cupped over their muzzles. Not wanting to attract attention, he stood very still, listening to the sound of them forking hay into the mangers. The other rider spoke up.

“If she was tough enough to turn the place around, what made Lambert think she would be easy to run off?”

“Coldwell and me was talkin' about that. He can't figure that out either, but he thinks Lambert would have gone after it anyway; he wants revenge for her firing him and making him look bad. He was one of the hands that she put the run on, and he was fit to be tied. And he wants the ranch; it's the best spread around. And I think he wants the woman. Even Coldwell thinks he's got his cap set for her, too. He says this Nayle lady is a real looker, an Irish gal . . . tall and mighty shapely with fire red hair.

All grown up, she was probably downright beautiful. He remembered her of a morning, standing straight and tall in her cotton gown and robe, smiling at him over her shoulder from the stove through her mussed, tumbled-down, long red hair. She had a graceful nose sprinkled lightly with freckles, and green eyes that sparkled when she smiled, an amazingly white-teethed smile guaranteed to sit any man back on his haunches. Then he remembered the fierce hatred in those beautiful green eyes.
Damn it, damn it, damn it!

How did she come to own a spread in Colorado? There was a question looking for an answer, and what happened to the Schwartzes? Well, how she got there was not of any particular importance, nor was her not being able to stand the sight of him. She was there, and she needed help. Cormac Lynch would just have to go see about that.

He would love to see her again, but could he handle it? Or the withering look that would be in her eyes? Or the words she would say? If she even spoke to him. Maybe he could find out what was going on, take care of it, and leave without her learning it was him, and without having to meet her face to face.

“Hey, who the hell are you?” asked the rider closest to him when he stepped out of the stall. “What's the idea of eavesdropping on our conversation? You could have said something to let us know you were there.”

Both men stepped out of the stalls, hands close to their guns, expecting trouble and not sure what to do about him.

“I would appreciate it if you boys would just re-saddle your horses and take a little ride with me,” Cormac told them.

The newcomers looked at each other.

“What the hell are you talking about, and why would we go anywhere with you? We just got here. We ain't riding anywhere tonight. We're going to get a good supper and have a few drinks. And I'll ask you just one more time, who are you?”

Cormac ignored the question.

“You are absolutely right; I did overhear your conversation. And I don't believe you should be going up to Colorado to help outnumber some lady who just wants to be left alone to run her ranch.”

They looked at each other again, then grabbed for their guns. Cormac was still wearing both guns as well as the one in his waist that he had been carrying since starting the drive, so he just naturally pulled the two holstered six-guns out, cocked them, and pointed them so each of the men was looking into a bore. They were faster than most, their guns had just cleared their holsters. They decided pulling their guns might not have been as much of a good idea as they had originally thought it to be and froze dead still. Their skin lightened a couple of shades, and one got a sudden case of religion.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed.

“I do not believe he's going to help you, friend,” Cormac told him. “Now, just finish taking your guns out of your holsters and drop them carefully into that pile of hay beside you.”

“Who the hell are you? Everybody knows what Holliday looks like, and Tomlinson from Texas is just a little guy, but as far as that goes, I doubt if even they can get into action that quick, and I've never heard of anyone who looks like you so who the hell are you?”

“Who I am is nothing you need fret about. I'm just an old tater picker. Now, let's all get saddled up and go for a ride.”

“Look, mister, I don't know who you are or what you intend to do here, but we mean you no harm.”

“No, of course you don't. You were just taking out your guns to clean them . . . here in the stable. Now, if either of those guns come up any higher, my thumbs are going to slip right off these hammers in fright.” Their guns, that had been slowly rising, stopped rising. Cormac put a smile on his face and took it off again.

“I won't tell you again. Throw your guns in the hay . . . carefully. We wouldn't want one of them to go off and accidentally shoot somebody, now would we?”

They did as instructed, and then, also as instructed, re-saddled their horses and Lop Ear and put the pack back on Horse. Their horses were not happy about leaving again so soon and registered their disappointment by resisting leaving the stable, but a couple slaps with Cormac's reins on their backsides convinced them of the folly of that idea. With comments that “he couldn't get away with this,” they rode quietly out of the stable, Horse trotting behind.

So now they got me being faster than Doc Holliday, huh?
Cormac shook his head.
Not hardly . . . but I'm goin' to have to quit lookin' in the mirror. I'm liable to scare myself plumb to death.

T
he kid, being too young to be in the saloon, was leaning against an overhang post out in front. Cormac instructed him to have Jake direct the banker to release the men's money when they were ready to leave town, send his to the First National Bank in Denver, and the rest to the Ocean 3 along with word that he was quittin'.

The old Carob Place turned out to be a dilapidated barn and aging cabin with eight horses tied behind it, apparently to shield them from the sight of approaching riders, but the only approach to the cabin was by passing over the hill in front of it, which gave all visitors a bird's-eye view of the entire spread, including the rear of the cabin and any horses tied there. Well, he never did hear anyone say bad guys were smart guys.

Cormac and his two new friends left their horses tied to a bush about forty yards from the cabin, and after cautioning his companions about what he would do if they made any noise, Cormac escorted them to the front door and motioned them to go in first. As they unlatched the door, he gave them a hard shove, crashing them into the room and knocking over the table, and then stepped in behind with a gun in each hand. As they had said, there were eight people waiting: two were lying on bunks, one sitting on a stool in the corner by the stove, one making coffee, and four sitting at the table, two of which had crashed into a pile on the floor, along with the table.

The bad guy on the stool had his gun apart for cleaning, and the two on the bunks had hung theirs on the bedpost. The coffeemaker threw the pot at him and went for his gun, as did the two that had been sitting at the table and had managed to get to their feet as it crashed. Cormac sidestepped the coffee pot and shot its thrower first; he got the other two as they cleared leather; one with each gun, like in the dime novel about the two-gun kid. Maybe he should write a book, and call it
The Two-Gun Kid
,
The Two-Gun Dakota Kid
,
The Dakota Two-Gun Kid
. . . Aah! . . . Maybe he shouldn't.

Three were down and were going to stay down; unlike the storybook gunmen, Cormac didn't waste time intentionally wounding or trying to shoot guns out of people's hands. That's nonsense. If somebody needs shootin', they need shootin'; do it and get it over with and don't leave that person around to shoot you later.

With three down, that left seven. Slowly and carefully, they all got to their feet with their hands in the air, except John. On the ride from town, the one doing all the talking had been called John. Now, John, still clinging to the idea that Cormac couldn't get away with this, untangled himself from the other arms and legs in the pile and came up with a gun concealed behind him. He should have kept it behind him; when he started to point it at Cormac, Cormac shot him. And then there were six.

As the sound of gunfire died, he swung his guns at the closest two, cocking them as he turned. It had the desired effect.

“Wait, mister, please!” the closer of the two exclaimed. “For God's sake, man! I don't even know who you are!”

Cormac had not intended to shoot them unless they did something foolish, but he had to get their attention. Now he had it.

Making a show of slowly taking a deep breath and exhaling, Cormac looked around the room, also slowly, bringing his eyes back to the two still under his guns. The room was thick with silence and gunsmoke. He just as slowly lowered his guns slightly, still cocked.

Cormac gave it a slow five count, then said, “You're right. You don't know me. Okay. I won't shoot anyone else right now, if you'll do as I tell you.”

There were nods of agreement from all around the room.

“One at a time, carefully take off your guns and put them in the corner by the stove.”

Apparently, they had become believers, for they did as they were told. When all were disarmed, he directed them to sit on the floor at the other end of the cabin.

“I'm going to give you boys a chance to not get killed.” He paused, and then added, “Today.” They looked at him expectantly while he slowly looked at each of them in turn, doing his best to look ferocious. He seemed to be doing everything slowly, but it was working, so what the hell . . . never fold a winning hand.

“I heard tell from John there, that you were all going up to Colorado to help run some lady off her ranch. Now I just don't believe that to be a good idea. I don't believe that's something you ought be doin'. What I think you ought be doing is staying as far away from Colorado as you can. I believe the air in Colorado would be very unhealthful for you. Would any of you care to disagree with that idea?”

There was a lot of head shaking: so far, so good.

“Do you fellas suppose if I let you go, you can manage to stay away from Colorado?”

Six heads were nodding. Cormac looked at each of them again, slowly, of course.

“All right then. I'm not going to shoot anybody else, but let's us make sure we understand each other. I'm going to ride up that way, and y'all better be somewheres else. If I run into any of you anywhere in Colorado, I'll shoot on sight, no questions asked. In town or out on the range, it won't matter a lick. I'm just going to haul off with this big old Army Colt and start banging away. I may end up in prison or getting hanged for it, but that won't matter none, you'll still be dead. Any questions?”

There weren't.

An empty burlap gunnysack on the floor by the woodpile was handy, so he filled it with their guns and gathered their rifles, all the while keeping a close eye for any shenanigans. He needn't have worried; they were being good little boys and girl. Girl? He looked again. Darned if one wasn't. It hadn't consciously registered in his mind, but even the oversize loose shirt couldn't completely hide the fact that one was most definitely a girl.

An average-sized woman of about twenty with average looks, not unappealing, wearing a fringed loose buckskin shirt, neither tall, nor short, nor attractive, nor repelling. Cormac had heard that girls sometimes rode with outlaw gangs wanting to be equals, or getting paid for their pleasures, but this was his first experience with it. It took him by surprise.

He motioned at her with his Colt. “Who are you?”

“What do you care?”

The Colt clicked as Cormac eared back the hammer.

“Okay, okay, Martha Jane Cannary Burke, from Missoura by way of Montana.” She wasn't frightened, just commonsensical. Her voice was even and pleasant enough.

That's who he had thought she was. Cormac had just recently heard about her, and something about her description was familiar. He smiled at her. “Are you riding with this bunch?”