Bloody Sunday (20 page)

At close quarters like this, he couldn't bring the rifle into play. He tried to use the barrel as a club against the man who had tackled him, but the man ducked and blocked the blow with his shoulder.

At the same time, his fist dug painfully into Luke's guts, striking in an uppercut that knocked the air from his lungs. Despite that, he might have had a chance if a second man hadn't tackled him around the knees and brought him down. The first man wrenched the Winchester from his hands and slapped the stock against the side of Luke's head. Rockets exploded redly behind his eyes.

He felt hands snatch his revolvers from their holsters. He might have reached for his knife or the derringers, but fists and booted feet thudded into him and filled him with pain. He heard Glory screaming and tried to summon up the strength to throw off his attackers so he could go to her aid, but there were too many of them. They were all over him, smashing and kicking until a tide of blackness rose up to wash him into oblivion.

Just before he passed out, he heard the rasping growl of Whitey Singletary say, “Don't kill the bastard yet.” The crooked deputy chuckled. “We'll save that for later.”

Luke had never been caught in the middle of a buffalo stampede, but he figured that had to be about like what was going on inside his skull as he slowly regained consciousness.

He remembered being battered by Elston's men until he passed out. As far as he could tell, there were no gaps in his memory, despite the pain in his head.

But that was just the thing, he thought. If he couldn't remember something, he wouldn't know if any time was missing or not. Until he knew for sure, he just had to assume that was the case.

It probably didn't matter anyway. He was already a prisoner in the hands of his enemies. He was sure things could get worse—they always could—but they were pretty bad to start with.

Once he was awake again, he told himself that the first thing to do was take stock. He wanted to know if his arms and legs still worked.

Unfortunately, he couldn't tell because they seemed to be bound so tightly he couldn't move. He took that to mean that he wasn't paralyzed, because if he had been, there wouldn't have been any point in tying him up.

The next step was figuring out where he was. Darkness surrounded him, but it wasn't complete. A faint luminescence filtered in from somewhere. He got the impression that walls loomed close around him. He managed to lift his legs slightly and then bring them down with a thud. The sound's echo seemed to confirm the impression that he was in a small area.

He was lying on hard-packed dirt. He could taste it in his mouth and feel it against his cheek.

At first, he felt as weak as if he'd been lying in bed sick for a month. But as he lay there in the darkness, the iron constitution that his rugged life had given him began to assert itself. Strength seeped slowly back into his muscles and bones. He was able to squirm sideways, and after only a couple of feet, he came up against a wall. His hands were tied behind his back, so he rolled over and felt the obstruction.

The wall was made of logs fitted closely together and then chinked. More than likely his captors had tossed him into a smokehouse, Luke thought. He sniffed the air, caught faint scents of both wood smoke and meat. The building wasn't being used for that purpose right now, but he was confident that it had been in the past.

Unfortunately, that bit of knowledge did absolutely nothing to help him in his current situation.

The effort involved in getting over here had worn him out, too. He lay there breathing hard and wondered if he ought to call out. He decided against it. No sense in letting his captors know that he was awake before he had to.

He might not have much choice in the matter, though, he realized a few minutes later as he heard a faint murmur that grew louder and turned into voices. Somebody was approaching the smokehouse.

A key rattled in a padlock, from the sound of it, and then hinges squealed and the heavy door scraped on the earth as it was pulled open. Lantern light spilled into the little log structure, and it was blinding to Luke's eyes after the time he had spent in the dark.

“Douse him,” a harsh voice ordered. Luke didn't have a chance to tell the men he was already awake. One of them stepped into the smokehouse, bending to avoid hitting his head on the top of the low door, and threw a bucket of water in the prisoner's face.

Luke reacted instinctively, gasping and sputtering and shaking his head from side to side to get the water out of his eyes and nose. He heard a wheezing sound and realized after a second that it was somebody laughing.

“Drag him out of there,” the same voice ordered, and this time Luke recognized it. It belonged to Whitey Singletary.

Hands took hold of Luke's feet. The back of his head bounced on the hard ground as a couple of the men with Singletary dragged him from the smokehouse. That set off new explosions of pain inside his skull. He did the best he could to ignore them.

“Howdy, Jensen,” Singletary rasped. “Welcome back to the world. Bet you figured you were dead, didn't you?”

Luke didn't bother answering the brutal deputy. His eyes were starting to adjust to the lantern light, so he looked around instead.

His surroundings were unfamiliar, but it didn't take much of an effort to figure out where he was. He saw barns, corrals, and in the distance a big, two-story ranch house with whitewashed walls and a porch that appeared to run around all four sides. Oil lamps hung on that porch at intervals and cast a lot of light, making it stand out in the night.

There was a small balcony outside one of the rooms on the second floor that looked like it had been added after the rest of the house was built. It didn't quite fit. Something about it seemed familiar to Luke, and after a moment he realized that it resembled a widow's walk of the sort that was found on seacoast houses in New England. No wonder it looked a little out of place here in West Texas.

He knew he was looking at the home of Harry Elston.

“Get him on his feet,” Singletary ordered. “The boss is ready to see him.”

The men who had dragged Luke out of the smokehouse took hold of his arms and hauled him upright. One of them hung on to him to keep him balanced while the other used a knife to cut the ropes holding his ankles together. Once his legs were loose, the man kicked them apart so that Luke was forced to stand on his feet. Until he felt the pain of blood flowing back into them, Luke hadn't realized how numb they had been. He tightened his jaw to keep from grimacing at the discomfort.

“He ought to be able to walk now, Whitey,” one of the men said after a minute or so.

Singletary nodded and said, “If he falls down, we'll pick him up again. Let's go, Jensen.”

The crooked deputy had stood slightly to one side with a shotgun in his hands while the other men dealt with Luke. He didn't appear to be injured, and Luke wondered for a second if he'd been wrong about Singletary being the one who had fired that shotgun blast through the window of his hotel room back in Painted Post.

But then as the group started toward the ranch house, Singletary grunted in apparent pain, and one of the hired killers with him asked, “Are you all right, Whitey?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Singletary replied. “But I'll be even better once this son of a bitch pays for shootin' me last night. That bullet gouged a big hunk outta my side.”

So he'd been right after all, Luke thought. Singletary had been the bushwhacker on the balcony. He must have bandages wrapped around his torso under his shirt.

He hoped they were taking him to wherever Glory was. He thought there was a good chance she was all right, since that gunman had said Elston's orders were for her to be taken alive, but Luke would feel better once he saw that with his own eyes.

Of course, they would still be in a mighty bad fix, but as long as they were alive they had hope.

Luke stumbled now and then, but whenever he did, one of the men surrounding him grabbed his arm and steadied him. He wished he could make a grab for one of the guns they wore so carelessly. With his hands tied behind his back, though, that was hopeless. He'd just get himself killed sooner.

No, for now he had to just bide his time and wait for a better chance.

The walk to the house seemed longer than it really was, but finally they reached the three steps leading up to the porch. Luke stumbled again as he went up them, but this time it was on purpose. His legs felt stronger and steadier now, but there was no reason to let his captors know that. If they believed he was in worse shape than he really was, that might come in handy later.

As they started into the house, Singletary prodded Luke in the back with the twin barrels of the shotgun he carried and said, “You behave yourself in here, Jensen. Don't go sassin' your betters. The boss made it clear we can shoot you if we feel the need.” Singletary chuckled again. “Or if the temptation is just too much to resist.”

Luke didn't say anything. Trading insults with the deputy wouldn't accomplish a blasted thing. Singletary already wanted to kill him.

Not surprisingly, the big house's interior was opulently, even extravagantly furnished, with thick rugs on the floor, fancy wallpaper, paintings on the walls, crystal chandeliers, and expensive furniture. Luke's captors took him through a foyer with a gleaming hardwood floor, past a parlor, and down a corridor to a heavy oak door that one of the men rapped on and called, “We're here with Jensen, boss.”

Harry Elston didn't call for them to come in. He jerked the door open himself and glared at Luke. He had taken off his coat, but otherwise he was dressed in a gray tweed suit and white shirt, with a string tie cinched tight around his thick neck.

“Bring him in here,” Elston snapped as he stepped back from the door.

Singletary shoved Luke ahead. Luke stumbled on purpose again. That carried him into what appeared to be a combination office, study, and library. It was a big room with a lot of bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. A large desk dominated one side of the room with windows behind it. Curtains closed off those windows at the moment. On the opposite wall was a fireplace with the mounted heads of wild game placed above it. Several paintings of sailing ships had been hung on the other walls. A pair of large, overstuffed armchairs sat near the fireplace.

Luke took all that in with a glance. He had hoped to see Glory in here, but there was no sign of her, only Elston. The rancher said, “Whitey, you stay. The rest of you men can go.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea, boss?” Singletary asked with a frown.

“Jensen's arms are tied behind his back,” Elston said coldly, “and a few hours ago he got a pretty severe beating. I think the two of us can handle him if he tries to give us any trouble.”

Singletary jerked his head at the other gunnies and said, “You heard the man.”

They filed out, leaving the three of them in the room.

Elston stalked over to the desk and took a cigar from a fancy wooden box with a gilt-edged lid. With his short, burly frame, he reminded Luke of a brown bear. He clipped the end off the cigar, put it in his mouth, and lit it with a lucifer. As gray smoke wreathed around his head, he looked at Luke and said, “You're a damned fool, you know that, Jensen?”

“So I've been told many times in the past,” Luke said, “but I'm curious why you think so.”

“If you had taken a look around Sabado Valley and gotten the lay of the land, you would have seen that you and I ought to be on the same side.”

Luke shook his head and said, “I don't see how you figure that.”

Elston puffed on the cigar for a moment, then said, “It's simple, really. Glory MacCrae stands in the way of what we both want. I want the MC, and you want a payoff. Blood money. You should have been working for me, helping me get rid of that bitch. It would have been a good arrangement.”

“Except for the fact that I don't think I could have stood the smell,” Luke said. He turned his head and looked meaningfully at Singletary, who glared and tightened his hands on the shotgun he still held.

Elston waved the cigar at Singletary to tell him to take it easy. He said to Luke, “Do you know what I did before I came to Texas and took up ranching?”

“I don't have any idea.”

“I was a sea captain. Sailed the world over. Ran guns to ports in South America. Fought off Malay pirates to protect my cargoes in the South China Sea. Ruled over the hardest crews with a belaying pin and a strong right hand.” Elston held up a clenched fist. “You don't think I'd let a
woman
stand in my way, do you?”

“I doubt if you ever met another woman quite like Glory MacCrae.”

Elston shrugged and said, “You may be right about that. I'll give her credit, she's stubborn. Not to mention damned good-looking. But that doesn't matter, either. Anyone who defies me gets crushed, no matter what it takes.”

“What gives you the right?” Luke asked as anger welled up inside him. “We have laws in this country, Elston, and it's not the law of the sea. You can't make anybody who crosses you walk the plank!”

Elston set his cigar in an ashtray on the desk and swung back toward Luke. His jaw jutted out belligerently as he said, “There's only one law, and that's the law of power! If you've got it, you're above all the other laws. They're for lesser people, fools like you who are willing to settle for crumbs when there's a banquet just waiting for you, if you're man enough to seize it!”

“You're out of your mind,” Luke rasped. His throat still hurt from all the smoke he had breathed earlier.

Elston shook his head and said, “No, I'm the sanest man in the whole state of Texas. And I'm tired of arguing with you.”

He turned to the wall and tugged on a tasseled cord that hung there. Luke supposed it rang a bell somewhere else in the house. He didn't know what the signal meant, but he knew he would find out if he waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Less than a minute later, the heavy door opened again. Glory came into the room. Verne Finn was with her. The gunman's hand rested on her shoulder.

Glory's hands were tied, too, but they were in front rather than behind her and almost loose enough to free herself. When she saw Luke she cried out his name and ran toward him. Finn didn't try to stop her, and neither did Singletary.

She lifted her hands and caught hold of his shirt front. Pressing her head against his chest, she said in a voice choked with emotion, “I was afraid they had killed you.”

“Not yet,” Elston said. “But it can be arranged if you're determined to be stubborn, Mrs. MacCrae.”

Glory's thick, dark hair was right under Luke's face. He bent forward and kissed the top of her head. Her hair still smelled faintly of smoke. It took a long time to get rid of that smell.

Time they might not have.

But for now he asked quietly, “Are you all right, Glory?”

“They . . . they haven't hurt me,” she said.

“And we won't if you'll just cooperate,” Elston said. “I've already showed you the sales agreement and deed to the MC I had drawn up. All you have to do is sign it, and this whole unpleasant affair can be over.”