Kid Calhoun (12 page)

Wat would have an appropriate reception waiting no matter who showed up at the outlaws’ campfire.

Jake went upstairs to Sierra’s room with her because it was the one place she said they could talk without being disturbed. Sierra sat in a cushioned chair by the window. Jake stood by the door.

“All right, Ranger. Talk.”

“I was told you know Booth Calhoun,” Jake said.

“What if I do?”

“I’m hunting the Calhoun Gang. I hoped maybe you could tell me where to start looking for them.” He took the poster out of his pocket and crossed to hand it to Sierra. “Have you seen this man?”

Sierra was shocked at how accurate a drawing it was of the Kid, but she kept her features even. She knew by sight all the members of Booth’s gang. Except for Wat Rankin. For a moment she considered agreeing to point them out for the Ranger. At least that way Anabeth Calhoun would be safe. But a lifetime of hard lessons made her cautious. “Why should I help you?”

“Because these men are murderers. Because they need to be brought to justice.”

What kind of justice would the law exact for Booth’s death? Sierra was inclined to believe Anabeth Calhoun’s justice would be more swift and sure. But she wasn’t averse to having the law hound Booth’s murderers, either. “I can tell you where they usually rendezvous when they come to Santa Fe,” Sierra said at last.

Jake followed Sierra’s directions to an isolated spot five miles south of Santa Fe. The fire beside the
waterhole at the bottom of the rocky trail was a sure sign of human inhabitants. Ordinarily Jake might expect a welcome there and an offer to “Light and set.”

But there was no one anywhere near the fire. The camp looked deserted. Jake was certain it was not. He suspected that some or all of the Calhoun Gang were out there somewhere. They must have scattered when they heard him coming.

But the danger below wasn’t his only concern. Because ever since he had left Santa Fe, he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that someone was watching him—that he was somehow being pursued himself. Jake shivered and blamed it on the cold. He nudged his horse with his knees and headed down the slope to the fire below.

The only way to spring the trap was to ride into it.

Jake felt the hairs prickle on his neck only an instant before he heard the first gunshot. He threw himself from the saddle, but the shot must have been aimed low because the bullet hit him anyway. Jake’s leg crumpled under him as he collided with the ground. A second shot tore a hole in his sleeve. A third shot sent splinters of rock to blister his face, but by then he was safely concealed in a shallow gully lined with thick sagebrush.

He remained perfectly still, knowing that any movement would give him away. Jake heard murmuring voices and knew the bushwhackers were deciding how and when to make their move. He had plenty of ammunition in his gunbelt. Of more concern was his wound. His pants leg was soaked with blood.

Jake took off his bandanna and tied it around his leg. It stemmed the bleeding, but didn’t stop it. The outlaws wouldn’t have to shoot him. All they had to do was keep him pinned here, and he would eventually bleed to death.

The hairs on Jake’s neck prickled again, an instant
before he felt a hand on his shoulder. Jake brought his gun to bear as he rolled over. He never knew what kept him from firing, but a moment later he was glad he hadn’t.

The lean man who was crouched on the ground beside Jake, the upper half of his face shadowed by his hat, had his finger to his lips, indicating the need for silence. He gestured for Jake to follow him, then began crawling along the gully away from the light of the fire.

Jake didn’t know what to make of it. The stranger could easily have killed him. Apparently the man wasn’t a part of the Calhoun Gang. But if not, then who was he, and what was he doing here? Hell, Jake thought, there would be time enough to find that out once he made good his escape—if he made good his escape.

Jake took one look back toward the fire and made his choice. He rolled over onto his belly and began to slither down the gully after the stranger.

The lean man moved like an Indian, swiftly and silently. Jake might have done a better job of emulating him if it hadn’t been for his wounded leg. It wasn’t cooperating. The distance between them grew larger, until Jake could no longer see the man who had come to rescue him.

Jake stopped for a moment, breathless from exertion and dizzy from loss of blood. He turned to look over his shoulder to see how far he had come from the fire and realized it was no longer visible on the horizon. Jake leaned his forehead on his hand. If he took a moment to catch his breath he would be all right. His eyes drifted closed.

“Well, now, what do we have here? Don’t move an inch or I’ll blow your head off.”

Jake gladly played dead, but his mind was racing, searching for a way to avoid catastrophe.

“Hey! I found the Kid! He’s over here!”

“Is that you, Grier?” one of the outlaws called.

“Yeah,” Grier answered.

“Are you sure it’s him?” someone shouted back.

Grier shoved Jake over with his boot so he could get a look at his face in the moonlight.

“Hey! It ain’t him. It’s somebody else.”

“Kill him, and let’s get out of here.”

Jake shivered at the cold-bloodedness of the command. He knew if he was going to do something it had to be soon. His gun was in his hand at his side. The problem was how to shoot without getting shot first. What he needed was a distraction.

He got it when the stranger who had stopped to help him suddenly stood up in plain sight of the man holding the gun on Jake. The stranger also had a gun in his hand, and it was aimed at Grier.

Grier seemed rooted to the ground, stunned by the apparition that had appeared before him. “It’s the Kid! Somebody
do
something!” Grier shrieked.

“I thought you said it wasn’t him!” a voice shouted back.

“You have to pay for what you did,” the stranger said to Grier. “I want you to think about the bullet that’s going to kill you. First I’m going to shoot the gun out of your hand. Then I’m going to put a bullet in each of your knees, just like you did to Booth. But I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to let you live as a cripple.”

“Shit. Shit,” Grier muttered.

“If it is the Kid, don’t shoot to kill!” someone shouted. “The Kid’s the only lead we have to that gold! He’s bound to know where his uncle buried it.”

Jake heard pounding footsteps as the members of the gang converged on them. He didn’t understand why the Calhoun Gang wanted to kill the Kid. But one thing was certain. The gang thought the Kid
knew where Sam’s gold could be found. Which meant Jake wanted the Kid alive, too.

He could see the big man torn between aiming his gun at his prisoner on the ground, and bringing it to bear on the Kid. It was as though he knew the instant he moved the Kid would shoot.

Grier’s eyes were on the Kid, but his gun was on Jake. Jake figured he had an even chance of getting Grier before Grier could aim and fire at him. He had to do something to get free before the rest of the gang arrived on the scene.

“Grier!” Jake shouted.

Jake’s gamble paid off. Grier made the mistake of swinging his head back around before pulling the trigger. The time it took him to find a target was all the time Jake needed to bring his gun to bear on the big man.

Jake’s bullet hit Grier square in the chest. The outlaw turned his head and looked back at the Kid. “It was better this way, Kid,” he said.

Jake heard the Kid say, “Son of a bitch.” But when he raised himself on his elbows he could see nothing in the darkness. Where had the Kid gone?

Despite the shouts of one man exhorting the other gang members to finish Jake off, the outlaws mounted their horses and fled. Jake watched them race away as though the hounds of hell were chasing them. He turned to search for the man who had saved his life.

Only the Kid had disappeared.

Jake was confused. Was the stranger who had led him to safety really the Kid he was searching for? Why did Kid Calhoun know where the gold was, and not the other members of the gang? And what had the Kid meant, when he said Grier had to pay for what he had done to Booth? Exactly what had happened to Booth Calhoun?

Jake whistled for his horse and the buckskin gelding
came on the run. He used a stirrup to pull himself upright and grabbed the horn to help him into the saddle. Finding the Kid would have to wait until he could get his leg patched up. Jake turned the buckskin north and headed back to Santa Fe.

It wasn’t long before that same prickly feeling assaulted him again. He was being followed, which wouldn’t be difficult, considering the trail of blood he was leaving on the rocky ground. But he never heard a sound, nor saw so much as a blade of grass move behind him. Whoever was on his trail was awful damned invisible.

Jake felt himself slipping out of the saddle. Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder to steady him. When Jake recognized the figure beside him, he frowned. “Who the hell are you?”

The stranger hesitated an instant, then said, “I’m Kid Calhoun.”

The young outlaw tensed, waiting to see whether Jake would draw on him. It was hard for Jake to pull his gun on a man who had just saved his life. He resisted the urge and instead asked, “Why did you help me?”

“I’ve got no use for the Calhoun Gang anymore.”

“Why not?”

“They murdered my uncle, Booth Calhoun.”

“Why did you follow me?”

The Kid shrugged. “I figured you might need some help. I was right.”

Jake reminded himself that although he had acted the Good Samaritan, Kid Calhoun was also a wanted man. “What do you know about Sam Chandler’s death?”

“I know that Wat Rankin killed him,” the Kid said.

“You were there?”

The Kid looked down at white-knuckled hands, then back up at Jake. “I was there.”

“What about Sam’s gold?”

“Booth hid it. He died without telling where.”

Jake wondered whether he could believe such a tale. It made a very convenient lie.

There was a long silence. Finally the Kid said, “We’d better get to shelter. Storm’s coming.”

Jake still hadn’t pulled a gun. But he didn’t trust the Kid any farther than he could throw him. He had made the mistake once upon a time of trusting an outlaw’s word and five innocent people had died. Never again.

Besides, he didn’t intend to let the Kid out of his sight until he found out for sure whether the Kid knew where Sam’s gold was hidden. “All right. Let’s ride.”

The wind sent tumbleweed blowing. Clouds darkened the moon. Lightning streaked through the sky in jagged patterns. Thunder rumbled down the rocky hills. The air smelled like rain.

The icy water came down first in fat drops. Soon it fell in thick sheets, rolling off Jake’s hat and down the yellow slicker he had donned. Jake followed where the Kid led and was relieved when they entered a shallow cave. He slid off his horse, but his wounded leg wouldn’t hold him. He would have fallen except the Kid slid an arm around him to keep him upright.

“Lean on me,” the Kid said.

A flash of lightning lit the Kid’s face and Jake was surprised at how young the outlaw was. But he knew as well as anyone that the looks of a man had little to do with what was on the inside. A clean scab could hide an ugly sore.

The Kid helped Jake to the rear of the cave well out of the wind and rain and settled him with his back to the rock wall. A ring of stones held brush and firewood that had been left ready so that only a match
was needed to provide both heat and light. The Kid had obviously used this hideout in the past.

Jake watched as the Kid lit the fire, then unsaddled the horses and wiped them dry with handfuls of the grass that also had been left in the cave against a future need. Once the animals had been tended, the Kid turned to Jake.

The Kid didn’t ask permission, simply knelt beside Jake and used a Bowie knife to cut away his pants leg, exposing the wound in Jake’s thigh. He probed the gunshot with gentle hands.

“That bullet has to come out,” the Kid said after he had finished his examination.

“Figured that.” Jake winced as he tried to get more comfortable. “I’ll wait for the doctor in Santa Fe.”

The Kid looked at him askance. “You need to get that bleeding stopped.”

“When the storm ends we’ll be on our way.”

Several hours later, with the storm still raging, it was apparent the Kid had been right. Jake felt himself growing weaker and knew it wouldn’t be long before he lost consciousness. He hadn’t felt like eating any of the beans the Kid had fixed, though he had managed to drink some coffee.

He was still trying to decide what kind of man stood by and watched cold-blooded murder being committed when he robbed a stage and then risked his life to save a perfect stranger on the trail.

Jake had taken a good look at Kid Calhoun, and he wasn’t much impressed by what he found. The Kid was tall and rail thin, with cheeks that were almost gaunt, making his deep blue eyes seem even larger in his face. His skin was beardless, smooth as a brat’s bottom. His black hair was tucked up under his hat, but strands hung every whichaway around his face and down over his collar.

His nose was small and straight, not taking up
much room on his face. On the other hand, his mouth was wide, the lips not too thin. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. When he talked around it Jake had noticed he had all his teeth. It was easy to guess he had done his fighting with a gun, rather than his fists.

Jake didn’t think much of the Kid’s grooming habits, either. The jeans he wore were ripped at the knee, and the gray flannel shirt was too big for him. All in all, Kid Calhoun didn’t fit his image of a heartless killer. It was hard to believe someone so innocent-looking had ridden with the outlaws who had shot Sam down.

All Jake had to do was remember the past to know that looks could be deceiving. Bobby Latham had also looked innocent as a lamb. He’d been a wolverine in sheep’s clothing. The memory of what Bobby Latham had done would be with him forever.

Before Jake lost his senses, he had to decide whether or not to trust the Kid to take out the bullet. In truth, he hadn’t any choice at all.