Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191) (14 page)

The stage rolled out of Buffalo Crossing on schedule carrying the three passengers. Before it left, Emily drew Matt aside and said quietly, “I overheard Mr. Baxter talking to his son. They've got ten thousand dollars in gold in the strongbox to buy some mining equipment in Laramie.”

“Your father was worried about something like that,” Matt told her. “Don't worry, we'll get them through.”

“I hope so,” Emily said. “If anything happens to that gold, we're ruined. Claude Baxter will see to that.”

As the settlement fell behind them, Matt looked ahead to Tomahawk Pass. He said to Hanrahan, “What do you think the odds are they'll hit us in the same place as the last time?”

“They might,” Hanrahan said. “But there are plenty of other places along the route where they can set up an ambush.”

“You were right about Baxter. He's got ten grand with him.”

“Saints preserve us,” the big man muttered. He slapped the reins against the backs of the team. “The man's a fool. That's just askin' for trouble.”

Matt agreed. But there was nothing they could do about it now except try to get Baxter and his gold safely to their destination.

His nerves were drawn taut as they entered the pass. Sheriff Blocker had done like he said he would and brought mules out here to drag the boulders out of the road. The trail was clear ahead of the stagecoach. Hanrahan whipped up the team and went through the pass in a hurry, while Matt's eyes intently scanned the hillsides searching for any sign of an ambush.

Nothing happened except for Claude Baxter yelling up from the passenger compartment, “Hanrahan! Why are you going so fast? You're bouncing us around in here like a bunch of beans!”

“Just tryin' to get you where you're goin' on time, sir!” Hanrahan replied.

“Well, slow down a little! We're not in that big a hurry.”

Hanrahan slowed the coach, but only after they were through the pass. The road entered a long series of bends curving between more hills that weren't as rugged as the two Tomahawk Peaks. There were still plenty of places the gang of road agents could hide, but none that were set up quite as well for an ambush. Matt stayed alert anyway. He didn't plan on relaxing and heaving a sigh of relief until they reached Pine Knob.

Several miles rolled by. They came to a broad, shallow creek that flowed over a gravelly bed. Hanrahan started the team across the ford.

There were no hills close by to provide hiding places for the outlaws, but quite a few aspens and cottonwoods grew along the stream's banks. Matt cast a wary eye toward them and suddenly stiffened as he saw sunlight reflect off something.

“Better whip up the team, Seamus—” he began.

The sharp crack of a rifle shot interrupted him. One of the leaders threw up its head and screamed in pain, then collapsed. That forced the rest of the team to come to an abrupt halt, leaving the coach halfway across the creek.

“Get down!” Matt yelled as he grabbed his Winchester from the floorboards and threw himself off the box to the left. He landed in the stream with a splash and rolled underneath the coach.

Hanrahan's bulk created an even bigger splash as he jumped into the water. The big man scrambled under the coach.

“Are you hit?” Matt asked.

“No, but the devils came close, damn their eyes!”

Both Baxters, father and son, were shouting and cursing, and the woman screamed as shots continued to ring out.

“Get down and stay there!” Matt called to them. “They're not shooting at you!”

He hoped that was true. From what he had seen so far, it seemed to be. Bullets smacked into the creek around the coach and some of them thudded into the big wheels, chewing splinters from them. Matt figured he and Hanrahan were the real targets. The outlaws would want the Baxters alive.

The water was cold, since the creek was fed by deep underground springs and snow melt. Matt ignored its icy grip flowing around him and thrust the Winchester's barrel between the spokes of the nearest wheel. He spotted a muzzle flash and instantly returned fire. A man flopped limply out from behind the tree where he had been hidden.

“Ye got one of the scoundrels!” Hanrahan said.

“Yeah, but there's plenty more of them,” Matt replied, “and there's not enough cover here.”

He looked around and spotted a long, gravelly sand bar that stuck up a couple of feet from the water, about twenty yards to their left. No shots were coming from beyond that spot, so Matt thought it might provide enough cover to give them a chance. That would mean leaving the passengers, but Matt hoped they would be safe enough. They were worth a lot more in ransom as long as they were still alive.

Matt pointed out the gravel bar to Hanrahan and said, “Make a run for it, Seamus! I'll cover you!”

“No, lad, I'm too big and slow,” Hanrahan insisted. “Ye go first, and if ye make it, I'll give it a try.”

Matt was going to argue, but he realized Hanrahan was right. He said, “Did that old horse pistol of yours get too wet to fire?”

“Not a bit! I kept it out of the water.”

“All right. Keep 'em busy!”

As Hanrahan opened fire with the big revolver, Matt lunged out from under the coach and sprinted toward the gravel bar. He heard bullets whining around him, but none of them touched him in the few seconds it took him to cover the distance. One last bound took him behind the long mound of gravel and sand. He threw himself down behind it and twisted back toward the stranded stagecoach.

“Come on, Seamus!” he yelled as he opened up on the trees with the Winchester, firing as fast as he could work the rifle's lever.

Hanrahan clambered out from under the coach and launched into a lumbering run. Matt groaned inwardly as he saw how slowly the big man was moving. He remembered what Sheriff Blocker had said about Hanrahan having bad lungs. The man huffed for breath as he stumbled along.

With a sudden cry, Hanrahan went down. Matt yelled, “Seamus!”

Hanrahan struggled to get up, and then went still. Matt bit back a bitter curse. Emily would never forgive him for letting her father get killed. He liked the big Irishman, too, and was filled with rage toward the men who had cut him down.

Loud splashing drew his attention away from Hanrahan's body. He looked upstream and saw several riders galloping along the creek bed toward the coach. They wore masks and had their hats pulled low. One of them fired, and the other leader in the team screamed and went down.

Matt realized what they might be trying to do, but before he could react, a storm of lead tore into the gravel bank from the riflemen who were still hidden in the trees. As dirt and chips of stone sprayed over him, he had to duck as low as he could to avoid the barrage.

When he dared to raise his head again, he saw that the outlaws had cut loose the two dead horses. A couple of them were on the box now, one handling the reins. He backed the surviving members of the team, then lashed them with the whip and sent them pulling around the bodies of the slain leaders.

They weren't just robbing the strongbox this time, Matt told himself in amazement.

They were stealing the whole damned coach . . . and the passengers inside it!

Before leaving Buffalo Crossing, Matt had filled his pockets with shotgun shells and cartridges for the Winchester. The shells were useless now after being soaked in the creek, but the rifle rounds would be just fine. He dug out as many as he could and thumbed them through the Winchester's loading gate as the outlaws drove the coach out of the stream.

Lunging to his feet, Matt raced after the vehicle. As he ran, he sprayed slugs toward the trees. He didn't care if he hit anything as long as he kept the men hidden there busy ducking instead of shooting at him. His long legs flashed as they carried him out of the creek. The outlaw handling the reins and the whip urged the team on to greater speed.

The Winchester clicked as it ran out of bullets. Matt tossed it aside, unwilling to carry its weight. His boots weren't made for running, but he poured on all the speed he could as he came up behind the coach.

The other outlaws yelled warnings at the men on the box, but they didn't seem to hear over the thundering hoofbeats of the team. The rest of the gang couldn't shoot at him, Matt realized, without endangering their own men, as well as the passengers. They didn't want to risk that.

Knowing that he would have only one chance at this, Matt leaped. He put all his speed and strength into the jump, which carried him onto the back of the coach. He grabbed at the canvas covering of the rear boot.

His hands slipped and he felt himself falling. Twisting in midair, he reached up and made one last desperate grab.

His fingers caught hold of one of the dangling ties used to keep the boot closed. He hung on as tight as he could as he hit the ground. The strain on his arm and shoulder were tremendous as he was dragged along. It felt like his arm was about to be ripped right out of its socket.

Grimacing with effort, Matt pulled himself up and reached with his other hand for the flapping canvas. He got it on the second try and hauled himself upward. The lower half of his body bounced and scraped along the ground, but he ignored the pain and grabbed for a higher grip.

Slowly, laboriously, he lifted himself until only his feet were dragging. He kicked and got a foot on the boot. That took some of the weight off his aching arms. Teeth clenched, he pulled himself higher.

A moment later, Matt had both feet on the boot and was standing there rocking back and forth as the coach careened along. He looked down at his side and saw that his Colt was still in its holster. That was a stroke of luck.

A brass rail ran around the top of the coach. Matt reached up and grasped it with one hand, then the other. With a firm grip, he started to climb.

The two outlaws on the box hadn't noticed him until now, but the shift in weight as Matt pulled himself halfway onto the coach roof made the one who wasn't driving glance back and yell in alarm. The bandanna tied over the lower half of his face twitched from the gust of air his shout produced. The man twisted on the seat and clawed at the gun on his hip.

Matt got his Colt out first and fired before the outlaw could get off a shot. His bullet struck the man in the shoulder and knocked him backwards. That made him topple off the front of the box. With a scream that was abruptly cut off, he fell under the slashing, pounding hooves of the six galloping horses.

The other outlaw ducked as Matt fired again. He dropped the reins. They fell free, slithering off the box. Crouched on the floorboards, the man yanked his gun from its holster and triggered a shot. Matt threw himself flat on the coach roof as the slug whipped over his head. His Colt roared again.

A red-rimmed hole appeared in the center of the remaining outlaw's forehead. His eyes went wide and glassy as the bullet bored through his brain and exploded out the back of his skull. He fell to the side, already limp in death, and sailed off the driver's box.

Matt holstered his gun and pulled himself forward until he spilled over onto the seat. He saw the reins flying loosely between the legs of the racing horses. There was no way he could reach them.

The runaway team had to be stopped, though, and Matt saw only one way to do that. He held on to the seat with one hand, balanced for a second on the edge of the footboard along the front of the box, and then leaped out into empty air.

Matt landed on the back of the left-hand wheeler. The horse jerked under him, but he grabbed its mane and hung on. When he was settled on the horse's back and confident that he wouldn't fall off, he took hold of its harness and leaned over to grab the right-hand wheeler's harness with that hand. He hauled back, slowing them, and that gradually slowed the other horses in the team as well. After a couple of minutes, the coach lurched to a halt.

Matt slid off the horse and ran back to the door. He twisted the catch and yanked it open, worried about what he might see inside.

Three pale, terrified faces stared out at him from huddled shapes on the floor. The younger Baxter had a pocket pistol clutched in his hand. Obviously thinking that Matt was one of the outlaws, he thrust it out and started to pull the trigger. Matt grabbed his wrist and shoved his arm up just as the pistol went off with a loud popping sound. The bullet flew harmlessly into the air, well over Matt's head.

Matt wrenched the gun out of the young man's hand and said, “Hold on, damn it! I'm not part of that bunch. I just saved you from them!”

“Where . . . where are the rest of them?” the elder Baxter asked. All his bluster was gone now, scared right out of him.

Matt looked around, thinking that he might see the other outlaws galloping toward him, ready to wipe him out and take the Baxters prisoner again, but he didn't see anybody.

He heard shots coming from the direction of the creek, though.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. From the sound of the gunfire, somebody had come along and pitched in to give him a hand.

That help might have come too late for Seamus Hanrahan, though.

“Let me turn this coach around,” he said. “You folks will be all right now.”

“Turn the coach around!” Claude Baxter repeated in disbelief. “Absolutely not! I insist you take us on to Pine Knob as scheduled, young man.”

It sure hadn't taken the mining magnate long to get his arrogant attitude back once he realized he was safe, Matt thought. Luckily, he didn't give a damn about Baxter's attitude.

“Sorry,” he said curtly. “We're going back.”

He slammed the door without giving them a chance to argue with him.

Ignoring the angry shouts from inside the coach, Matt gathered up the reins, climbed onto the driver's box, and turned the stagecoach around. He sent it rolling back toward the creek, and by the time they got there, all the shooting had stopped.

Matt saw a number of bodies sprawled in the trees and along the creek banks. A dozen men on horseback sat their saddles nearby, holding rifles. Matt recognized some of them from Buffalo Crossing.

He recognized Sheriff Thomas Blocker as well, who was kneeling next to a man propped up against the trunk of a cottonwood. Matt's spirits leaped as he looked at the soaked, bloody, but very much alive Seamus Hanrahan.

“Saints be praised!” Hanrahan said as Matt brought the coach to a halt and jumped down from the box. “You're alive, lad. I didn't think I'd ever see you again after that crazy stunt you pulled.”

“And I thought you were already dead when I went after the coach,” Matt said.

“No, a fellow as slow as I am has to be canny. When I got hit, I decided I'd better go down and stay down. I figured if the scalawags thought I was dead, they might stop shootin' at me. I kept me nose barely above water, just enough to get some air. Like to froze to death in that creek before the sheriff and his posse come along, but I'll warm up sooner or later.”

Matt looked at Blocker and said, “You didn't tell me you were going to be following the coach, Sheriff.”

“I didn't tell anybody until I was ready to ask for volunteers and ride out,” the lawman replied. “It's not that I didn't trust you, Matt. I just didn't want to take a chance on word of my plan getting around before the stagecoach left. I have a hunch somebody in Buffalo Crossing is tied in with this bunch. I figure the man you killed a couple of days ago was in town getting orders the times that I saw him earlier.”

Matt nodded and said, “I agree with you. Did you take any prisoners?”

Blocker shook his head regretfully.

“They put up too much of a fight for that when we hit them. There wasn't time to be careful.”

“Well, maybe we can get around that. Let me take a look at the bodies. First, though, are you going to be all right, Seamus?”

“Aye,” Hanrahan replied. His voice was fairly strong. “I've got a pretty deep crease in my side, but the cold water kept it from bleedin' too much. Give me a week or so and I'll be as good as ever!”

Matt nodded. He left Sheriff Blocker wrapping a makeshift bandage around Hanrahan's torso and went to look at the dead outlaws.

He checked their boots, and when he got to the fourth corpse, he found what he was looking for.

“Anybody know this man?” he asked the posse members who were sitting on their horses nearby.

One man spoke up, saying, “I've seen him before. I'm not sure where, though. Maybe in the saloon where I do most of my drinkin'.”

“Which one is that?”

The man glanced toward Hanrahan and said quietly, “Don't tell that big Irish madman, but I'm talkin' about the Artesian.”

That answer didn't surprise Matt. He said, “You wouldn't happen to know the fella's name, would you?”

The posseman rubbed his jaw and frowned in thought for a moment before saying, “I think I heard one of the saloon girls call him Dave.”

“That'll do,” Matt said with a nod. “Much obliged.”

He went back over to Blocker and said, “I could do with the loan of a horse, Sheriff. It'll take you a while to gather up all these bodies, and I need to get back to town right away.”

Blocker jerked a thumb toward the coach and asked, “What about those three? Claude Baxter and his boy are yellin' their heads off about getting to Pine Knob so they can go on to Laramie.”

“Maybe you can get a couple of volunteers to take the stage the rest of the way,” Matt suggested.

“I'll pay good wages,” Hanrahan put in. He had gotten to his feet. He was still pale but seemed steady on his feet. “Or rather, I should say that Emily will pay good wages. I got to learn to stop buttin' into the girl's business.”

Matt didn't really care about any of that now. He said to Blocker, “What about that horse?”

“Take mine,” the sheriff offered. “It's that roan over there. If you're bound on the errand I think you are, though, I really ought to be doing it myself.”

“Trust me, Sheriff. I can handle this job.”

“Never entered my mind that you couldn't,” Blocker said.

 

 

Matt's clothes had dried in the warm sun by the time he got back to Buffalo Crossing. He had found his hat and the Winchester and recovered them. The rifle was fully loaded, as was the revolver on his hip.

He rode past the stagecoach station and Hanrahan's saloon without stopping. He was bound for the large building on the far side of the settlement that housed the Artesian Saloon.

Although he still had some unanswered questions, there was no doubt in his mind that Nicholas Radcliff was the mastermind behind the stagecoach robberies. Rather than Seamus Hanrahan wanting to put Radcliff out of business, it was the other way around. Radcliff had chosen to do that by going after the stagecoaches, knowing that if Hanrahan lost his contract with the line it would bankrupt him all around, including the saloon.

Matt wasn't sure why Radcliff hadn't just hired some hardcase to bushwhack Hanrahan and kill him, but he supposed Radcliff had his reasons. Everybody's own motives seemed sane to them, even if they were completely loco to anyone else.

He hadn't been in the Artesian before, but he knew where it was. It had big, fancy windows and a corner entrance. Matt dismounted, tied the sheriff's horse to one of the hitch racks, and stepped up onto the boardwalk to push through the bat wings. He found himself in a large barroom that bordered on elegance, especially for one that was located in a frontier settlement like Buffalo Crossing.

What he didn't see was any sign of Nicholas Radcliff.

Matt went over to the bar. A bartender in a red vest came up to him and asked, “What can I do for you, friend?”

“Is your boss here?” Matt asked.

“Mr. Radcliff? No, I haven't seen him for a while. Maybe I can help you—”

“No thanks,” Matt broke in. He swung around and left the saloon.

After hurrying back to town, it was a letdown of sorts not to find Radcliff at the Artesian. He wasn't sure what to do now. He supposed he ought to go back to the stage station and let Emily know what had happened. If she had seen him ride by, she was bound to be worried about her father.

He swung up into the saddle and trotted along the street, passing Hanrahan's saloon. The doors of the barn next to the stagecoach station were open. Matt rode through them, figuring he would leave Sheriff Blocker's horse here with Ezekial.

He called the old hostler, but Ezekial didn't answer. Puzzled, Matt dismounted and started to look around.

It took him only a moment to spot a booted foot sticking out of one of the stalls.

Matt drew his gun and hurried over. Ezekial lay sprawled on his back in the empty stall. A bloody lump on his head showed where somebody had hit him. Matt figured he knew who that someone was.

He dropped to a knee to check and see if Ezekial was still breathing. The old-timer was. Feeling a little relieved by that, Matt started to stand up.

“Just stay where you are, Jensen,” a familiar voice ordered. “If you try anything, I'll kill the girl.”

Matt controlled the impulse to spin around. Instead, he slowly turned his head and saw Radcliff standing in the doorway that opened between the office and the barn. He had Emily in front of him with his left arm looped around her waist, while his right hand held the point of a small but deadly knife pressed into the soft hollow of her throat.

“You're not even going to make me go to the trouble of tricking a confession out of you, are you?” Matt asked.

“What would be the point?” Radcliff said. “You've already figured it out. When I saw you come riding back into town, I knew it had all gone wrong. You were supposed to be dead by now, and the Baxters were supposed to be in the hands of my men, along with that ten grand in gold.”

“It didn't work out that way. The sheriff turned out to be smarter than any of us gave him credit for, I reckon. He followed the stage with a posse and jumped your gang while they were trying to kill Seamus and me.”

Matt saw alarm leap into Emily's green eyes. She couldn't say anything because of the knife at her throat, so he went on, “He's fine. He was wounded, but he'll be all right.”

“In a way, that's a shame,” Radcliff said. “I'm sure he would have preferred dying to coming back here to town only to find his daughter dead and both of his businesses burned down.”

Matt's eyes narrowed.

“Those attempts on your life and that fire set behind your place were all phonies, weren't they?” he guessed. “You were trying to frame Hanrahan and make it look like he was trying to kill you, rather than the other way around.”

“I didn't want any of the blame ever getting back to me. You see, Jensen, I'm a very cautious man. I came up with several different ways to get rid of Hanrahan or put him out of business, and in none of them would any of the guilt ever fall on me.”

“But now you're going to murder his daughter and burn down his place?”

“It's awfully crude, I know,” Radcliff said with a shrug. “But I've run out of patience. You know the railroad's going to be here in another year or two. When it arrives, the man who owns the best saloon in town will make a fortune. An absolute fortune, Jensen. And that's going to be me.”

Matt didn't say anything, but he shook his head.

“You don't think so?” Radcliff snapped. “What's going to stop me? I cut the girl's throat, I kill you, I set fire to the hay . . . Hell, I won't even need any coal oil for this one.”

“Problem is that once you've killed Emily, there won't be anything stopping me from killing you. You really think you can get me with that knife before I put two or three slugs in you? My gun's already in my hand, you damned fool. You don't have a chance in hell, and you know it.”

Matt was right, and as that awful realization dawned in Radcliff's eyes, the man stiffened. Insane hatred twisted his face, and Matt knew he was about to kill Emily out of sheer spite.

Matt moved as fast as he ever had in his life, uncoiling from his crouch and bringing his gun up in a smooth, blindingly quick motion. The Colt roared, flame licking from its muzzle.

Radcliff's head jerked back. His hand opened, and the knife fell to the hard-packed dirt at Emily's feet. Radcliff let go of her and toppled backwards. Both eyes were wide open, and the bullet hole looked almost like a third eye in the center of his forehead.

Matt stood still for a second, a thin tendril of smoke curling from the Colt's barrel, before he lowered the gun. Emily stared at him, her skin as pale as milk. A shudder went through her. Matt figured she was about to faint, so he said, “It's a good thing you're so blasted short. That way he couldn't hide behind you very well.”

Her nostrils flared as she drew in a sharp, deep breath.

“Short, am I?” she demanded, the instinctive anger she felt acting to brace her and calm her fear. “You could have killed me, you know.”

“Not likely. I was too close to miss.”