Chapter 19
The Irish Kid helped Doc Withers get Stretch back into bed. The lofty man protested some, but the adrenalin from the shootout had begun to wear off, and he was feeling the effects of his new wound. After Stretch was made comfortable, the two men walked back into the doctor’s office.
“Care for some coffee, son?” said Doc, seeming oblivious to the ordeal that had just taken place.
“Uh, yeah. Sure, Doc,” answered the Kid, surprised at the casual tone of the medico’s voice. “What about these dead men? You want me to take care of the bodies?”
“No, sir. You leave ’em be, right where they are. After I drink me some of this black magic elixir I’m brewing, I will stroll on down to Mordecai Burns’ house and tell him what happened. He’s the mortician, and he’ll take care of removing the bodies.”
That sounded good to Cormac. He didn’t like to kill unless he had to, and he sure didn’t have any taste for taking care of the corpses afterwards. He accepted the hot black liquid from the doctor and raised the cup to his lips.
Mort Quarry had made it to Rancho Bonito in time to beat the storm. He sat in his expansive study and gazed down at the twelve-year-old bottle of Scotch whiskey that rested on a table beside him. He reached for the bottle, handling it as one would handle a newborn child. He put the crown of the whiskey bottle against the lip of a tall crystal goblet and poured the pale amber liquid down the side of the glass. He had sworn to his daughter that he wouldn’t drink anymore, but he felt like having just one. It wouldn’t hurt him to have a small glass of the Scotch nectar.
He raised the glass to his lips. “Here’s to you, Bale Armstrong, you old codger. Within a fortnight, I will have your land and all that comes with it.”
Jim reckoned Shank’s fifteen minutes were up. He and his compadres raised their six-guns and fired into the air at the same time. The herd, already skittish from the approaching storm, took off at a dead run in the direction of the Quarry compound. The storm broke loose before the cattle had gotten a hundred yards.
The rain was coming down in sheets, and Jim Butler had lost sight of his companions. They had become separated right after the Norther hit. Jim was on the right flank of the herd riding for all he was worth. Visibility had been reduced to only a few yards, and Jim wanted to stop, but he feared the cattle would trample him and his horse. He kept riding and hoped for a break in the storm. All of a sudden, a rare bolt of ball lightning charged across the sky illuminating the whole horizon. The flash only lasted for an instant, but Jim could see a group of white structures a short distance ahead.
He dug his heels deep into his horse’s sides, and leaned forward in the saddle. The blue mare reacted with a sudden burst of speed. The big horse was gaining ground on the herd’s frantic leaders when a slingshot stab of lightning struck a giant blackjack tree directly in her path. The ancient oak splintered into a dozen airborne pieces. Jim stood up in his stirrups and yanked back hard on the reins. The mare was running flat out when Jim jerked her head back. She reared straight up in the air, her hoofs flailing at the black void in front of them. The panicking horse lost her balance and tumbled over backwards. Jim went flying through the air straight into the path of the storm-maddened cattle. He hit the ground hard but rolled to his feet and came up running in the direction of his horse. The crazed beast had regained her footing and, before Jim could reach her, she took off into the night.
Jim almost panicked for a moment, but he didn’t stop running. Regaining his wits, he began to frantically look about him, searching for a safe haven from the charging herd. A large chunk of the lightning-split tree lay right in his path. He leaped over the massive slab of wood and squirreled himself down behind it. The maddened cattle tramped around and over the log, showering him with dirt and rocks. Jim Butler squeezed his eyes shut, and for the first time in a long time, he prayed.
As the violent thunderstorm intensified, Mort Quarry thought he was having a nightmare from which he couldn’t awaken. He felt like he was in the middle of a raging tornado. His house began to vibrate; a plate glass window in the front living room shuddered and popped out of its frame like an overripe boil, shooting shards of glass in every direction. One of the flying shards hit Mort in the face, tearing a jagged three-inch hole in his right cheek. Raising his hand to the gash in his face, he realized this was no bad dream.
Mort sprinted to the door just in time to see a thousand-pound steer run headfirst into one of the thick oak columns that held up the massive balcony. The column held and the steer went down, disappearing beneath an enraged mass of hide and hoofs. Abject alarm masked the man’s features as he realized that his cattle were stampeding through the Rancho Bonito compound. He knelt by the blown-out window and watched in awe as the livestock rushed by his home.
As soon as the last bawling cow passed, Mort Quarry ran to his barn and saddled his horse. His world was unraveling, and if he didn’t do something quick to stop the decay, all of his hard-earned gains would crumble around his feet.
“Hack! Shank! I found him!” hollered Rusty. The little puncher had dropped to his knees and was digging like an armadillo, trying to extract Jim Butler out from beneath a thick pile of rubble. “Oh, my Lord,” he said, “I think he’s still alive.”
Both men jumped down and began to help with the excavation. Struggling, they pulled Jim from his hidey hole. Hack had grabbed his canteen as he dismounted and as Shank elevated Jim’s head, he poured a tiny amount of clean water into Jim’s mouth.
Jim sputtered and choked on the liquid. He shook his head and squinted his eyes, staring up at his rescuers. “You boys tryin’ to drown me?” he said.
Tears ran down Rusty’s cheeks, balling up in the dirt that caked his face, forming tiny streaks of mud.
Shank looked over at his old saddle mate and grimaced. “Dang it, Rusty, I think you would bawl at your own funeral. Can you walk, Badger?”
“Yeah, I think I’m okay.” With Hack and Rusty’s assistance, Jim struggled to his feet. He was covered in dirt and cow manure from head to toe, but everything seemed to be working okay. He was hurting, but he figured that came from being scrunched up under the fallen tree for too long.
“Shank,” said Jim, “you and Rusty better hightail it on back to the Double-A-Slash before you’re missed. I’m goin’ to the hotel and get a bath. Hack, you ride into town and camp out at the saloon. Keep your ears open and your mind clear.”
“No whiskey?” Hack screwed his face up like he had just bitten into a sour apple.
“No more than two beers, either, Hack. We’ve all got be on the alert and ready for anything.”
The massive gunfighter shrugged his shoulders and stepped into the saddle. He dug heels into his horse and was gone.
The drovers found Jim’s horse wandering not too far from where they had dug their friend out from under the lightning-scarred tree. Rusty handed the mare’s reins to Jim, and he and Shank headed for the Double-A-Slash.
Jim rode down to the Rancho Bonito complex to check out the results of the stampede. All of the outbuildings were damaged but still standing. The front windows had been blown out of the main ranch house and manure covered almost everything. Half a dozen dead cows lay about, trampled during the mad rush.
Jim searched the bunkhouse and the ranch house but found no sign of human injury. Satisfied that no one was hurt during the stampede, Jim turned the mare toward town. He was anxious to get out of his nasty clothes and into a tub full of hot, soapy water.