The Lawless (17 page)

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FOUR

“If I remember my military history correctly, a flanking shot can take down a whole row of soldiers,” Count Boleslav Andropov offered. “The same principle applies to hired gunmen.”

“Then we place my cannon here.” Marco Salas jumped, startled. “What was that?”

“Just an owl,” the count said. “Wondering who we are.”

“It's so dark out here away from the cabin,” Marco said.

“Then bring the lantern closer to us.” Andropov looked over both shoulders. “Too many ghosts of dead Indians around here.”

“Grab an end,” Marco directed. “We'll lift the cannon onto the rise.”

The count grunted as he lifted. “Damn. It weighs a ton.”

Marco said, gasping, “Here, Count, right here.”

Andropov groaned.

“Wait a minute. Do you think it's in the right place?”

“Yes, yes, it's in the right place,” Andropov said. “Ahhh . . . I hurt. This is yet another ailment I must relate to Dr. Fullerton. Poor, poor Count Andropov, a man of suffering.”

The rise stood only three feet above the flat, but Marco's plan was to hide behind the hillock and then, when Savannah St. James's gunmen were in the right position, touch off the cannon.

“When the time comes, I think we will do great execution, Marco. The Cossacks will go down in droves and Mrs. Kerrigan's ranch will be saved.”

Marco's teeth flashed white in the darkness. “It is a mighty cannon.”

The count didn't think it was a mighty cannon, but to spare the sturdy little Mexican's feelings he said nothing, glad the gloom hid his expression of doubt.

“Count Andropov, we must be vigilant,” Marco said. “At the first sign of invaders, we will run here and man the cannon.”

“A fine plan,” the Russian said. “We will be the first line of defense, though first lines have an unhappy habit of being wiped out.”

“Then you must bring your rifle, Count, and sell your life dearly.”

Andropov blinked. “Falling for the flag is not quite what I have in mind, Mr. Salas.”

But the Mexican wasn't listening. He sighted carefully along the top of the cannon, then clapped his hands. “This is going to be grand.”

“Indeed,” Count Andropov said, fervently wishing that he'd never left Mother Russia.

The cabin lamps were lit against the evening darkness as Kate Kerrigan said, “Mose, I have instructions for you that you must carry out to the letter. Do you understand?”

He nodded. “I surely do, Miz Kerrigan.”

“Very well then. Now, at the first sign of approaching trouble you will get Ivy and Shannon and take them west on good horses into the brush country.”

“But Miz Kerrigan—”

“There you will hide and only come out of hiding when you hear me call out for you. The girls are old enough to appreciate the danger we are in, so they will cooperate.”

“But I want to—”

“If you don't hear my voice, then you will know I am dead. You will then use the money I'll give you to get out of West Texas. And no, Mose, you cannot stay here and fight. I need you to save my daughters. They trust you.”

“It's a hard thing to leave you in danger, Miz Kerrigan,” Moses said. “What about your house?”

“It's only a cramped little cabin with a fancy door, Mose. No great loss.”

“You don't mean that, Kate,” Frank Cobb said from across the room.

Kate smiled. “Not a word of it, but the lives of my girls must be my first consideration.”

Cobb looked at Moses. “Seems like you got it to do, old fellow.

Moses sighed. “I know where my duty lies. It begins and ends with the pretty lady sitting there in her chair.”

“Thank you, Mose,” Kate said. “I feel better now that you'll take on the job. Ensuring the welfare of two young lives is a heavy responsibility.”

Moses nodded and his face split into a smile. “Heaviest I've ever had, I reckon.”

“Tonight I'll say a rosary for you, Mose.”

“That will surely help, Miz Kerrigan,” Moses said.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FIVE

“The
Emperor Maximilian
is building steam nicely, Mr. Hickam. He will be ready to go first thing tomorrow morning,” Marmaduke Tweng said.

“You sure Savannah will be safe in there once the lead starts flying?” Jack Hickam asked skeptically.

Tweng nodded confidently. “The glass is tempered and will deflect bullets. Now listen to this.” He removed a small panel from the side of the
Emperor
near the back wheels and opened a valve. “Hear that?”

“Yeah, I thought I heard water running,” Hickam said.

“You heard correctly. At great pressure, the water is forced through copper pipes by steam power and as it goes, it activates little levers that lock the windows in place. Once the
Emperor
starts to roll, I will do the same for the doors. No one can enter until I close the valve and cut off the water.”

“Or leave,” Hickam pointed out.

“Miss St. James will be quite safe until this dreadful business is over, I assure you.”

“Savannah says you have a fire gun,” Hickam said.

“Yes, a device of my own invention. Though I'm told that Professor Wilkins of Oxford College in England has made a similar device that's mounted on a gun carriage. He calls it an infernal machine.”

“Your gun burns bodies.”

“To ash.”

“Then make sure you bring it tomorrow, Tweng. You'll have plenty of work for it.”

“Will there be many bodies, Mr. Hickam?” Tweng was a timid man at heart.

“A lot. Depend on it.” Hickam grinned. “Who burns better, women or men?”

“I'm afraid I don't know,” Tweng said, horrified.

“Well then, you'll find out tomorrow, won't you?” Hickam walked away, laughing.

 

 

Hack Rivette decided to make his play that day. His shifty eyes were busy. For a while, he stood and watched Marmaduke Tweng shovel charcoal into the
Emperor Maximilian
's furnace, then use his gloved hand to clang the flap shut again. Over by the tents, Jack Hickam was talking to a man and the man kept nodding, agreeing with whatever Hickam was telling him. Rivette saw a flicker of movement behind one of the
Emperor
's windows and he swore that Savannah St. James had been naked. All that led to thoughts he shared with no one.

He smiled to himself. The woman would be his soon enough, once Hickam was out of the way. He was living the last few hours of his life, and that gave Rivette a great deal of satisfaction.

Hickam went into the tent and the man he'd been talking with walked in Rivette's direction. He had field glasses hanging from a strap around his neck. “Mount up. We got a job to do.”

“What kind of job?” Rivette asked gruffly.

“We're gonna scout the Kerrigan place, make sure they don't have any unpleasant surprises in store for tomorrow.”

“Who says?” Rivette looked at him closely, remembering that they called the man Lefty.

“You know who says. The boss, Jack Hickam.”

“He ain't gonna be the boss too much longer,” Rivette muttered.

“Well, that's between you and him, I guess.” The man was small and thin and wore his Colt on his left hip. “Let's get saddled up.”

Rivette decided to go along with it. He planned to kill Hickam in the evening, make one less for dinner. Until then, he'd nothing better to do.

He glanced at the window where he thought he'd seen Savannah, but there was no sign of her.

 

 

Count Ivan Boleslav Andropov put his telescope to his eye and studied the advancing riders. He didn't know who or what they were, but he was sure they were up to no good. When the smaller of the two scouted the land ahead of him with field glasses, it confirmed the count's suspicions . . . they could only be a pair of the notorious Savannah St. James's hired gunmen.

Faithful to his promise to Marco Salas, Andropov had taken up a perch in the cemetery above the Kerrigan cabin. Although his .42 Berdan infantry rifle had an effective range of three hundred yards, such a shot was beyond his skill as a marksman. His great fear was that the riders would spot the cannon and ruin their plan for an ambush.

For a few moments, Andropov kneeled in thought, soft grass under him and the late August sun warm on his shoulders. He had no time to raise an alarm. By then, the spies might be gone.

Crouching low, he made his way across the rise and dropped down to the flat on the other side. He ran, still crouched, staying to the thin cover of mesquite and wild oak. A dip in the ground ahead gave him respite. He dropped into the hollow, regained his breath, then bellied up the slope and peered through the long grass.

The two men had moved forward a hundred yards and were very close to the cannon. Andropov felt his heart lurch in his chest. All they had to do was turn their heads a little to the left and they'd see it, but both seemed fixated on the terrain that lay ahead of them, peaceful enough, dotted here and there with grazing cattle.

Andropov nodded to himself as he watched the pair search for improvised defenses that the Kerrigans might have thrown up in haste to guard the cabin and its inhabitants. Then he had a moment of sheer horror. The man with the field glasses swung his horse around and rode directly for the cannon.

Andropov bit his lip hard.
My God, had he seen it?

The rider drew rein and leaned forward in the saddle. He shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed intently at the shallow rise where the cannon was only partly hidden.

Andropov made up his mind. Desperate times required desperate measures. He pushed the Berdan in front of him and sighted on the small man who had dismounted and was walking toward the rise. The big man on the horse watched him.

Andropov, as he'd been taught, took a breath, let some of it out, then squeezed the Berdan's trigger. The rifle slammed against his shoulder, and at the same instant, he saw the little man drop like a sapling felled by an axe.

His fingers fumbling, the Russian worked the bolt and dropped a paper cartridge into the Berdan's chamber. He slammed the bolt home and his narrowed eyes searched for the big gunman. To his surprise, the man had turned tail and ran, his horse already vanishing into its own dust cloud. Andropov rose to his feet, threw the rifle to his shoulder, and snapped off a shot, but he knew even as he pulled the trigger that it would be a miss. He was right. The man was gone, galloping fast into the distance.

His rifle dangling in his left hand, Andropov stepped to the man he'd shot, who was dead as a cigar store Indian. The Russian looked down at the man and placed his hand on his bloody chest. He shook his head. “Damned Cossack, why did you make poor Andropov kill you?”

The only answer was the sigh of the wind as it rippled the long grass. He heard footsteps behind him and turned, expecting to see Frank Cobb, but it was Marco Salas, his face concerned.

Marco glanced at the dead man. “Is my cannon all right?”

Andropov gave a little nod. “Yes it is. And so am I. Thank you for your concern.”

Marco gave a little bow. “I am glad you are unhurt, Count. Who is he?”

“One of the St. James gunmen, I believe. There were two of them, but the other ran away. They were using field glasses to spy on the cabin.”

Marco stepped to the cannon and inspected it closely. “It is undamaged, thank God.”

Andropov nodded to the dead man. “This one may have seen it. He was walking toward it when I shot him.”

“And the other? Did he see it?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. Let's get this one on his horse.”

Marco nodded. “Yes, we must take him back to the house.”

“No. I'll drop him off at the cemetery and we can bury him later. There's no point in upsetting the ladies.”

“But he might still be alive,” Marco said.

Andropov cursed in Russian. “Marco, his chest is shot through and through, he's not breathing, his heart is not beating, and his eyes are staring at nothing. I'm pretty sure he's dead.”

The Mexican crossed himself. “Then may he rest in peace.”

“Amen. Now let's get him on the horse.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-SIX

Hack Rivette was in a seething, killing rage as he drew rein near the clanking, steaming
Emperor Maximilian
and swung out of the saddle.

“Where the hell is Lefty Wilder?” Jack Hickam yelled above the racket.

“He's dead.”

“What happened?” Hickam was joined by the three surviving gunman.

Savannah stood at a window and looked on.

“He got bushwhacked by a hidden rifleman,” Rivette said. “Probably Frank Cobb.”

Surprised, Hickam asked, “You mean he was laying for you?”

Rivette's anger snapped. “Of course he was laying for us. Probably him and others. They know we're coming.”

“How many?”

“Hell, I don't know. Enough to drop us all before we get anywhere near the damn Kerrigan spread, lay to that.”

Hickam didn't believe it. “Are you sure? Are you certain it was Cobb?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. You calling me a liar?”

“How come you didn't get hit?” one of the other gunmen asked snidely.

“Because I lit out of there,” Rivette said. “Damned if I was gonna stay put and swap lead with sharpshooters I couldn't see.”

Savannah opened one of the
Emperor
's doors and stepped outside. Her lustrous hair was piled on top of her head in a cascade of glossy waves and curls, and she wore a pearl blouse, black taffeta skirt, and lace-up boots with high heels. An antique brass hand magnifier hung around her neck, and a gold mechanical watch hung from a chain around her waist.

Rivette thought her breathtaking and wanted more than ever to possess her.

The woman waved the men away from the
Emperor
. When they were sufficiently distant from the roar of Marmaduke Tweng testing the steam engines, she said, “I couldn't hear from inside. Jack, what has happened?”

“Lefty Wilder is dead, shot down by Frank Cobb.” Hickam read the question on her face. “He's a former lawman and good with a gun.”

“I reckon he's doing that Kerrigan gal,” Rivette said, grinning.

“Crudity does not become you, Mr. Rivette,” Savannah said. “There is a lady present.”

“Keep that in mind, Rivette,” Hickam ordered.

The gunman apologized, his face working. “Sorry, Miss St. James.”
But soon you'll be the one that's sorry.

“Rivette says the Kerrigan crowd is laying for us, Savannah. They got riflemen in position to defend the place.”

“They know we're coming and they can pick us off at a distance,” Rivette put in. “I was lucky to get away with my life.”

Savannah's laughter was light as a spring rain. “There's no need for your concern, gentlemen. Mr. Tweng assures me that the
Emperor Maximilian
is the most powerful weapon on earth. It will crush anyone and anything in its path. The late Mexican emperor Maximilian feared assassination above all else and that is why his great land carriage is made of the finest steel and the windows of reinforced glass. Both will turn aside bullets. All the windows and doors can be locked and no enemy can force his way inside.”

“So we just drive it over folks,” Hickam said.

“Yes, Jack. Over folks and through buildings,” Savannah said. “The
Emperor
will pulverize everything in its path, human and animal, crushing and destroying. When the enemy is demoralized, I mean Kate Kerrigan and her minions, Mr. Tweng will open the doors and we will leave the
Emperor
and shoot down those who are still standing.” She laughed again. “There won't be many of those.”

She saw doubt in Hickam's eyes and said, “The terrain around the Kerrigan place is perfectly flat. The
Emperor
will be in its element.”

Hickam nodded and grinned. “It can be done, by God.”

“Of course it can be done, Jack, and it will be done,” Savannah said. “Someone as insignificant as Kate Kerrigan will never get her men to stand against a modern, steam-powered fighting machine like the
Emperor
. By this time next year, Kate Kerrigan will be long dead and we'll be living in London, Paris, or Rome.”

The latter part of that speech angered Rivette. Savannah St. James would be in his bed in London or wherever, not Jack Hickam's. The man had to die today . . . before tomorrow's attack.