Pinto Lowery (23 page)

“Wasn't a dozen,” Diggs said, “but might as well be. Got a fair description from Jimmy Pratt. Big man with a busted up face. Joe Hannigan's back.”

“Can't be,” Pinto said, growing cold inside. “I heard dey hung him up in Kansas.”

“Tried,” Richardson said as he swung his horse around. “They killed two deputies and made their escape. Got no more time for swappin' tales now. If they rode past you, they just might be headed for my place. Arabella and the boys are there alone!”

“You keep an eye open, Lowery,” the sheriff suggested. “Spot 'em, duck for cover and get us word. Never could stomach no one makes a habit o' shootin' females and little kids.”

“I'll be lookin',” Pinto told them.

“Could be needin' horses, too,” Dotham warned. “Guard your stock.”

“Trus' me to do what's needed,” Pinto replied.

The posse then turned south and rode off as agitated as before. Pinto poured the remnants of a coffee pot onto the fire and kicked dirt over the coals.

Won't get to Richardson's place firs', Pinto mused. No, they'd come across the Oakes farm. Weren't there good saddle horses in the corral now and nobody but a widow and her kids in the way?

Pinto wasted no time in saddling the black and in loading the Henry's magazine. He filled both pockets with extra cartridges, then climbed atop the stallion and turned south. He didn't bother about the horses. He'd hand Joe Hannigan every blessed one of them if the outlaw would busy himself there and spare Elsie.

When did fate ever deal you a good hand when a poor one was to be had? Pinto wondered. He slapped the black's rump and galloped off toward the little farmhouse that had suddenly become his heart. He recalled Big Nose Joe and grinning Pat, recalled the still, solemn eyes of little Muley Bryant. And in his nightmare imagination, those still eyes belonged to Ben and Brax, to Winifred and Truett. Pat was blowing up a tune on Ben's mouth organ, and Joe was closing in on Elsie.

“No!” Pinto shouted as he raced on. “Not this time!”

A clear-headed man would have ridden with caution. Pinto Lowery had seen enough of war to know how it was best gone about. But just then he was past thinking. A world of fear gripped him, and he was determined not to be too late, not to ride upon Elsie and the children as Richardson, Dotham, and Diggs had found those other poor unfortunates.

He was racing toward the cornfield when a glint of metal caught his eye. He instinctively turned the black away, and it saved his life. Two rifle shots punctuated the summer morning, and a third followed on the heels of the others.

Pinto heard one whine past, and another nicked his right boot. It was the third shot that brought results, though. It exploded in the big black's side and spattered Pinto's leg with blood.

“Lord, I've led you right into 'em, boy,” Pinto cried as he felt the stallion stumble onward. He managed to coax the screaming creature into a stand of willows before the animal collapsed in a dying shudder.

“He went into them trees!” someone hollered. “I saw him. You hit him, I think, Pete.”

A gangly redhead emerged from the cornfield and dashed toward the trees. Pinto tore the Henry from its scabbard and drew down on the foolhardy outlaw.

“Done with bein' de fool this day,” Pinto said, watching the charging figure fill the rifle's sights. It took but a twitch of the finger to send a lead pellet exploding out the barrel of the rifle. The redhead's chin flew back, and he spun crazily. For a second the outlaw teetered on one leg as he tried to hold what was left of his jaw onto his face.

“Pete?” the voice from the cornfield called. Pinto swung his rifle to bear on the second gunman even as the first plunged facedown into the grass, dead. The Henry steadied on a hint of red flannel crawling between the green rows of young complants. Pinto worked the rifle's lever, aimed, and fired. The flannel jumped into the air and fell downward, silent.

Pinto didn't know how many there had been, but he was determined to offer them no second easy chance. He paused a moment, drinking in the scene before him. Finally he detected a movement to his right. Horses! Three animals crept slowly toward the wood. Behind them two pairs of human legs kept pace.

“You up there, mister?” a youngish voice called. “Not dead yet, eh? You the papa maybe? Want to bargain some? Here, see what I got to trade.”

A ragged man in his mid-twenties stepped out, holding a pistol against the forehead of Ben Oakes.

“That your papa, boy?” the raider asked. “Talk at him?”

“My pa's dead,” Ben explained. “For all I know you shot up one of your own men!”

“Ain't no chance o' that, boy. There's the three o' us out here, Joe and Pat at the house, and the cousins watchin' the road. Now, mister, if you give value to this here child, step out so I can see you. Hear?”

Pinto heard just fine. What's more, he read the terror in Ben's eyes. The outlaw was green, though. He held his double-action Colt uncocked. Pinto worked the Henry's lever and readied another shot.

“You ain't killed many men, have you?” Pinto shouted as he stepped from the willows. “Ben, you trus' me?” The boy nodded, and Pinto took aim with the Henry. “Run, Ben!” Pinto shouted.

Ben managed two steps before the outlaw thought to draw the hammer back with his thumb. Before the Colt drew level with Ben's flying shoulders, Pinto had killed his third man that morning.

“Pinto, he was lyin'!” Ben shouted as he threw himself flat onto the ground. “Behind you!”

Pinto made a quick half turn, working the Henry's lever as he dove for cover. A grim, dark-eyed forty-year-old rested a Winchester on one knee and opened fire, spraying the ground with bullets. Pinto cried in pain as one sliced through his left forearm. Ben screamed. Then a pistol shot ended the madness.

“Pinto?” Ben called as he tore the Colt from his would-be killer's hand and rushed to Pinto's side. “You're hit!”

“Alive, though,” Pinto said, not understanding quite how. Then Jared Richardson stepped into view.

“Come lookin' for Pa,” the young man explained as he replaced a pistol in its holster. “Heard the shootin'.”

“Ben?” Pinto asked, gazing at the pale-faced boy huddling beside him.

“Come an hour ago,” Ben explained as he tore off his shirt and began wrapping it around Pinto's bloody arm. “I was off feedin' the hogs. Ma yelled for me to scat, and I lit out o' there pronto. Then these men ride down, shootin' guns, blastin' the house, shatterin' all the windows. These fellows run me down here. That one there,” Ben said, pointing to the older outlaw, “was takin' out a knife when you come up. I figure they were goin' to cut my throat.”

“And de others?” Pinto asked, wincing as Ben pulled the binding tight and tied it off.

“Ain't any gunfire come from the house in a while now,” Jared said, frowning. “Best we get up there and have a look.”

“We?” Pinto asked as he stepped over and picked up the Winchester lying beside the nearby corpse. “Ain't a thing fer you to try.”

“Figure I'm too young?” Jared said, planting a hand on each hip. “I was old enough to save your hide, Pinto Lowery. Now, how do we go about it.”

“Ben,” Pinto said, turning to the younger boy.

“I'm comin', too,” Ben declared. “It's my family after all.”

“Then stay behind me de both o' you,” Pinto barked. “And be ready.”

Pinto led the way into the willows and out onto the far hillside. As they passed the lifeless stallion, Pinto heard both youngsters groan. Pinto himself dared not look at the poor animal. He'd seen a thousand dead men on the battlefields in Virginia, killed every way a man could be killed, but it was always seeing the cavalry horses lying dead that tore at him.

“Ain't their war,” Jamie had remarked once.

“Nor mine, neither,” Pinto had answered. “Here we're all o' us fightin' it.”

That was how he felt now. Here was a nightmare brought down upon him. He'd killed three outlaws. Outlaws? Not a one had practiced the trade long. Like as not they were out-of-work cowboys.

The ones at the house were different. Pinto knew that instinctively, even if only one was in clear view. A young man wearing baggy overalls over his bare shoulders and bony chest tended three horses. The boy's face was half hidden by a gaudy hat whose huge plume exploded off one side and flowed down the young outlaw's neck.

Pinto glanced around, but he saw no one else. Loud voices inside the house shouted threats, and glass shattered amid a child's scream.

“Pinto?” Ben whimpered.

“Watch that 'un,” Pinto said, pointing toward the horse-tender. “Jared, if he goes to movin', you shoot him dead.”

“There's more of 'em,” Ben warned.

“Some inside,” Pinto said, nodding. “More watchin' de road. Stay here with Jared.”

“I'm comin',” Ben insisted.

Pinto shook his head and inched his way along the wall of the barn. It was a good thirty feet to the house, though, and all of it was in plain sight of the lookout. Once the boy got the horses tied, he danced over to the privy.

“Now?” Ben asked, snickering.

“Come on,” Pinto said grimly. They dashed to the house. Then Pinto rested the rifles beside the window of the back bedroom. He took his own pistol and the Colt Ben had brought along, then stepped through the open window frame, taking care to avoid the razor-sharp shards of splintered glass.

Ben followed with the rifles. The two of them crawled to the door, then cracked it open. Just ahead Winnie lay on the floor, sobbing. Braxton did what he could to soothe her. Truett lay sprawled on the floor, his face battered and bruised. Big Joe Hannigan towered over Elsie.

“Now any fool can see we mean business, ma'am,” Joe yelled. “Want I should have my little brother here open up that little gal there for you? He does it with style, you know. Comanche style. Bit at a time so the screamin' lasts a good while.”

“I told you that's all!“ Elsie cried. “Take it and go!”

“Oh, we'll do that sure enough,” Pat Hannigan added. “Soon's we're sure you ain't held nothin' back.”

Pat stepped toward the children. As he drew a knife with one hand, he held Muley Bryant's mouth organ to his lips with the other.

“Pat's right fond o' music,” Joe said, laughing. “Does drown out the hollerin' some, though.”

“Pinto?” Ben pleaded.

Lord, you lef' me with de short stick again, Pinto thought as he took a deep breath. There was nothing to think over now. Long odds and no time. Pinto sprang forward like a coiled snake, knocking Pat Hannigan back into his brother and opening up with both pistols until all twelve shots had torn the room apart. Yellow tongues of fire leaped from the far side of the powder-choked room, and Pinto's left leg buckled as a bullet shattered the bone.

“Get down!” Pinto shouted as Elsie made a dash for the children. By then Ben had them flattened against the floorboards and shielded with his own bare back.

Elsie crawled over and drew the little ones to her as the smoke began to clear. Pinto hurried to reload his pistols, and lfuett dragged himself, moaning, behind the cover of the kitchen stove. Across the room Joe Hannigan slumped in a chair, the top half of his ugly face blown away. A bloody smear marked the doorway where Pat had escaped.

“Elsie, you all right?” Pinto called.

“Better'n you are,” Ben answered, frowning at Pinto's bent leg.

“Best let me put a splint on it,” Elsie suggested.

“Later,” Pinto replied. “There's accounts lef' to clear,”

“Let him go,” Elsie urged. “There's been enough death.”

“No, I owe that 'un,” Pinto said, spitting the bitterness from his mouth as he hopped to the door. Fer Muley, he told himself. And de others who'd cross his path.

Pat was just reaching the woodpile when Pinto spotted him. The younger Hannigan's right hip was a world of blood, and there were two swelling circles of red below the right knee as well.

“Jared?” Pinto shouted.

“I missed,” young Richardson answered. Seconds later the third outlaw splintered the doorframe with two well-placed shots from the privy.

“Ben, toss me that rifle,” Pinto said, holstering his pistol and setting the second one aside. “Tru, you alive?”

“Dizzy's all,” Truett replied. ”Pa gave me worse lickin's plenty o' times.”

“Take that shotgun off de floor and load her up,” Pinto advised. “Then watch de back o' de house. I aim to work de front.”

“You're bleedin'!” Elsie complained.

“Don't suppose it'll make de floor much difference. Keep down. Got to settle accounts.”

Pinto accepted the Henry from Ben's trembling hands, then inhaled deeply. For several moments there wasn't a hint of Pat Hannigan. Then the arrogant outlaw struck up a tune on the mouth organ.

“I remember you now!” Hannigan bellowed. “That livery a year or so back. I cut down your boy out in the barn, remember?”

“Bad mistake comin' back here,” Pinto answered.

“Back?” Pat called.

“Was me found yer camp down at de creek, dropped dem cousins. Was easy, you know. Close to's easy as shootin' Joe's big nose off dis mornin'.”

“Joe!” Pat screamed.

“He's gettin' you a place ready in hell,” Pinto hollered. “Now come on!”

Pat was angry, but not stupid enough to rush the house with a busted hip. He did, however, lift his head just enough for Pinto to aim a bullet a hair back of the right ear. Pinto squeezed off his shot, but the bullet missed its mark an inch and carried away only half of Pat Hannigan's earlobe.

Pain and fury merged in an instant, and Pat leaped over the woodpile, firing wildly. Bullets shattered plates in a cupboard and pinged off the cast-iron stove. Pinto returned the fire with cool murder in his heart. Two bullets opened up Pat's chest, and a third broke three teeth before driving splinters of bone into the young outlaw's brain. Pat Hannigan screamed in agony and tore at his clothes. Then his eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed in the woodpile.