Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) (10 page)

“Everybody stay put here until I reach the end of town, and the doctor lives,” Hornady said, the rifle across his thighs. He moved the pistol up from the doctor's back and stuck it against the base of Lanahan's skull.

From the middle of the street where two men kneeled over, tending to the badly wounded banker, Stone cried, “For God's sake, please don't let him hurt the doctor.”

“I like his attitude,” Hornady said, batting his boots to the horse's sides and sending it galloping along the dirt street. The townsmen stood staring, guns in hand.

At the far edge of town, Hornady slowed the horse to a halt and turned it quarterwise in the street.

“Here's where you get off, Doctor,” he said. He scooted back far enough for the big man to climb down. Then he smiled as he slid forward into the saddle and said,
“Adios,
now.”

The doctor hurried along the street, still badly shaken by the whole experience. But before he'd gone twenty feet, three shots rang out from Hornady's small custom revolver, each bullet hitting Lanahan squarely in the back.

“I was only joking about not killing you, you big tub of guts,” Hornady said as the horse circled in the street, stirring up a rise of dust. He looked back at the doctor and grinned. He spun the revolver expertly on his trigger finger, righted the restless horse and galloped away.

Chapter 10

Perched on a high, rocky ledge overlooking a narrow gully winding between two steep hillsides, a rifleman named Dallas Burns levered a round into his rifle chamber. He watched closely as a single rider moved into sight on the trail a thousand feet below him.

“Rider coming,” he said over his shoulder to another rifleman, this one resting on one knee beside a small fire.

The other rifleman, Stan Liles, stood up in a crouch with a cup of coffee in his gloved hand and eased over closer to the edge, beside Burns. He set his coffee down, stretched out a battered artillery telescope and raised it to his right eye.

After a moment of waiting in silence, Burns grew impatient.

“Well? Is it one of us or not?” he asked.

“Yep, it's Morton Kerr,” said Liles, still staring through the telescope. “His horse looks like it's ready to fall over and give up the ghost any minute.” He grinned and added, “Morton will be lucky if that cayuse makes it all the way up.”

Dallas Burns chuffed and shook his head.

“Kerr never had any luck with horses,” he said. “All I ever saw him ride was rags and buzzard bait.”

Searching back farther along the trail, Liles spotted another rider coming into sight.

“We got another one straggling in,” he said. He stared through the scope for a moment longer, then said, “Looks like Deacon Jamison.”

“Is Young Ezekiel with him?” Burns asked, laying his rifle across his knees now that he knew it was their own men.

“Nope, don't see him,” said Liles.

“That's not good,” said Burns. “This old bull and the kid always stick closer than grass in a pig turd.”

“Not this time,” said Liles. He lowered the telescope and rubbed both eyes.

“They must have had to split up for a while,” Burns said, scooting back from the edge, getting up onto his feet and dusting the seat of his trousers. “We best go say who's coming.”

“Dad ain't going to like the deacon showing up without the kid at his side,” said Liles.

“He might not like it,” said Burns, “but that's no skin off our butts, is it?”

“No, not at all,” said Liles, collapsing the telescope, putting it away. “Truth be told, the kid and the deacon both make my skin crawl.”

“Yeah, them and their cockeyed religion,” Burns chuckled, staring out and down at the riders.

“It'll be a good half hour before Kerr gets up here—even longer if he has to carry his horse,” Liles said.

The two outlaws turned to a rope hanging down the hillside. Each in turn used the rope to help pull himself up a steep, dangerous path leading to where their horses stood waiting.

Untying his horse's reins, Liles stepped up into his saddle beside Burns, and the two turned their horses to a thin trail leading down to a narrow valley below.

“More truth to be told,” he said. “I don't like the way Dad's been acting these past few months. Every time I'm around him, he's got the deacon or one of his top flunkies talking for him. I'm starting to wonder if he's lost his voice.”

“I know why,” said Burns. “He's doing it to remind us where our place is. He thinks of us outlaws like we're his damned servants. He doesn't like us, but he knows he needs us to keep his game afloat.”

“Sort of like a mighty king and his underlings?” said Liles.

“Yep, that's how I take it,” Burns said as their horses moved along at an easy gait.

“Religious folks always think they're better than us poor sinners,” Liles said with a thin smile, “no matter how much they try to deny it.”

“I know they can't help thinking it,” said Burns. “But it sort of frosts my kernels to have a man turn his face away when I come into the room to report to him.”

“Can I say something?” Liles asked, lowering his voice as if someone might hear him.

“I expect you can if your jaws are working,” said Burns.

“I've noticed lately, lots of Dad's wives have been disappearing,” said Liles.

Burns stared at him.

“I mean it,” said Liles. “I've noticed the older ones are being weeded out up here and new ones are showing up over in Gun Valley.”

Burns nodded and said, “All right, I've noticed that myself of late—just haven't mentioned it.”

“What does it mean?” Liles asked.

“Hell, who knows?” said Burns. “The way Dad treats his women, I could see him using them up like laying hens and trading them off for some younger ones.”

Liles appeared to consider it for a moment.

“There's a practice that could take hold and spread like wildfire,” he said with a mindless grin.

“You're the one brought it up,” said Burns. “I thought you were making serious conversation.”

“I am serious,” said Liles. His grin went away. “Trading them off, huh?”

Burns shrugged and said, “I'm just speculating. But don't think Dad wouldn't do it if it suited him. If we treated our horses like he treats women, we'd have to walk every place we go.”

“You watch when we go to talk to him,” said Liles, “see if he don't pass us right off to Cinders first thing.”

“I don't have to watch,” said Burns. “I already know he will. I can't recall the last time the man has looked me in the eye.”

They rode on toward a tall, pointed black crevice at the bottom of a stone hillside. Out in front of the crevice stood a rifleman walking back and forth, watching them ride closer. To one side of the crevice, three horses were poised at a long wooden hitch rail.

“What's out there?” the rifleman asked as they rode in, slid their horses to a halt and swung down from their saddles.

“Two riders, Brother Bud,” said Burns, “Morton Kerr and Deacon Jamison, coming up about twenty minutes apart.”

“Thanks be to the Lord. It's about time everybody started showing up,” said the rifleman, Brother Buddy Gentry. “I expect Young Ezekiel is with the deacon?”

“No,” Burns said. He gave Gentry a look.

“Umm-umm,” Gentry said, shaking his head, “and Dad already in a bad mood.”

“Bad mood about what?” Liles asked.

“Never you mind about what. You two did your job. Now ride back and stay watching,” he said dismissively. “We'll have more men straggling in. Make sure they're not being followed. I'll tell Dad what you said.”

Burns and Liles looked at each other.

“I told you,” Liles said to Burns under his breath.

“Where is Dad?” Burns asked, not to be put off. “I'd like to tell him myself.” He started to take a step toward the dark crevice.

Brother Bud blocked his way, his rifle up across his chest.

“I'm following Dad's orders, Burns,” Gentry said, adding in a low, even tone of warning, “You two will not want to put me to hard testing.”

Hard testing?

Burns and Liles looked at each other again.

“Well, hell no, Brother Bud,” Dallas Burns said with a dark chuckle. “I'd not put a man to
hard testing
unless I was all set to straightaway blow his head off.” He gave Gentry a flat, cold stare, his hand near his holstered Colt.

“Let's go, Dallas,” Liles said quietly, venturing a fingertip, poking Burns' forearm.

Burns rounded his arm away from Liles' finger and kept his stare on Gentry.

“I told you, Burns, it's my orders. Nobody comes in, not until Dad tells me otherwise,” Gentry said.

“Let's go, Dallas,” Liles repeated.

Burns released a tight breath, followed by a dark little chuckle.

“You can sure get under my skin sometimes, Brother Bud,” he said, letting his gun hand uncoil at his side.

“Sorry,” said Gentry, “but that's not my fault.” He looked Burns up and down and said in a somber tone, “That comes from you not being saved—not knowing the word of the Lord.”

“See? I tell him that all the time,” Liles said, keeping himself from grinning. “Let's get riding, Dallas,” he said to Burns. “Now that you know what your problem is, we'll see if you do anything to solve it.”

The two turned and swung back up into their saddles.

Knowing Liles was only mocking him, Gentry said, “It wouldn't hurt neither of you to take to heed to the word of the Lord.”

“Amen to that, Brother Bud,” Liles said, touching his fingers to his hat brim. “We see any more of our men coming, we'll send them on through and watch their back trail.”

The two turned their horses and rode away.

“Did he strike you as being drunk?” Burns asked. “I could have sworn I smelled whiskey.”

“These fools always strike me as being drunk,” said Liles. “As far as I'm concerned, it would be an improvement.”

They rode on. Moments later, as they drew closer to the spot where they'd sat looking out over the trail, they both reined up sharp as they saw a big black blaze-faced horse step out onto the trail in front of them. Atop the horse sat Frank Bannis, a rifle standing straight up from his thigh.

“Jesus, Frank!” shouted Dallas Burns as his horse circled quickly before settling against the hard tug on its reins. “You need to announce yourself!” Beside Burns, Liles was having a hard time with his own spooked horse.

Bannis just stared at the two as they struggled with their horses and finally reined them down. Then he gave a flat smile.

“Anybody as skittish as you two must feel guilty about something,” he said.

“We wasn't expecting you up here, is all,” said Liles. “We saw Kerr and we saw Jamison. But you surprised the hell out of us.”

“Yeah, how'd you get up here past us anyway?” Burns asked, looking a little embarrassed.

“Because I'm good, Dallas,” Frank said. “How far back are Kerr and the deacon?”

“By now,” said Burns, “Kerr should be topping the lower ridge. Jamison is a few minutes behind him. We saw that Young Ezekiel isn't with him.”

“No?” said Bannis. “He should be. Last I seen them both I told them to set up above the water hole and take care of anybody on our trail.”

“Maybe the kid will be along directly,” said Burns.

“Could be his horse threw a shoe or something,” offered Liles.

But Bannis was having none of it.

“The deacon would have lagged back with him, if that was the case,” he said. He nodded in the direction of the crevice. “Is Dad back there?”

“If he is, you couldn't prove it by us,” said Burns. “His Highness ain't talking to the likes of us these days.”

Bannis stared at him, knowing this kind of talk could get his back skinned if Dad got word of it.

“Frank,” said Liles, “Dallas don't mean nothing. We was just talking about how hard it is to see Dad straight up these days.”

“Don't I know it?” Bannis said quietly. “But if I was you, I'd keep my mouth shut about it. Dad's up to something, and it's clear he doesn't want us meddling.” He nudged his horse forward on the trail toward the crevice.

“Forget I said anything, huh, Frank?” said Burns.

“I already forgot it,” Frank said back over his shoulder. “I won't even tell Dad that I slipped in past you.”

“Obliged, Frank,” Liles called out to him as he rode away.

—

As he neared the crevice, Frank Bannis saw the horses tied at the hitch rail, but he saw no sign of Brother Bud Gentry standing guard, walking back and forth in his usual manner anytime Dad Orwick was at Munny Caves. Ever cautious, Frank backed his horse and rode over to a stand of brush and rock. There, he stepped down from his saddle, tied his horse's reins to a rock spur and walked quietly to the cave entrance, his Colt out of its holster and cocked while he checked the thing out.

He moved silently into the black crevice and walked along seventy feet until he felt the narrow stone tunnel begin to widen into a cavern. Across the thirty-foot cavern, a torch stood burning in its stand on the jagged stone wall, casting shadowy light for him to see by. He walked over to the torch, took it down and held it in front of him.

Walking on into another narrow crevice opening that led into a wider tunnel lined with burning torches, he began to hear the sound of voices deeper inside the large cave. Gun still at the ready, he continued as the voices grew clearer. At a sharp turn in the tunnel, he stopped and stood back against the stone wall and listened.

“But, Dad, please!” said Brother Bud's sobbing voice. “You yourself drink. We all know it!”

Instead of hearing Dad Orwick reply, Frank Bannis identified the voice of Elder David Barcinder, Dad's second-in-command among the disciples.

“How dare you compare yourself, Gentry?” Barcinder's voice shouted angrily. “Your job was to guard and protect Dad! But instead you partook of strong drink, broke your pledge to God and shirked your duty to our leader.”

“Dad, please, I'm begging you!” Gentry's voice pleaded.

Bannis heard Dad reply, yet the voice he listened to was not the usual deep, God-like voice of authority. The voice sounded low and shallow.

“You know what's expected of you, Brother Bud,” Dad replied. “There's no mercy for you here.”

What the hell . . . ? Dad?

As Bannis listened, he couldn't believe his ears. That wasn't the voice of Dad Orwick he'd come to recognize these two years of riding for him.

Lowering his torch, Bannis edged forward and peeped around the corner of the stone wall. Across the cavern he saw Gentry on his knees in front of a large, high-backed chair that served Dad Orwick like a throne. Only today Dad was not on his throne. Instead, Bannis saw the broad-shouldered silhouette standing back in the shadows on the grainy outer edges of the torchlights. He saw Dad's familiar wide flat-crowned hat, his long ankle-length riding duster.

“Dad, I know I did wrong,” Gentry pleaded in a trembling voice. “But please don't kill me. I will never do anything like this again, I swear to—”