Shortly after nightfall, Carter Krate and Duff Handy reached the rising ground a mile west of the McGovren house. For an hour, they’d sat their horses, waiting.
‘Damn strange,’ Krate growled. ‘They said to meet here.’
‘You hear that?’ Handy asked ten minutes later, as the muffled sounds of shooting drifted on the night air.
‘Yeah, must be right near the MeGovren place.’
The two men waited a while longer, until they saw tongues of spitting flame and thick smoke piercing the inky blue sky ahead of them.
‘Goddamn spoilers have gone an’ fired the place, without lettin’ us know,’ Krate yelled anxiously. ‘We’re supposed to be lookin’ out for the girl. If she gets hurt, Felix will skin us.’
Handy sniffed the air as he rode. ‘That ain’t the smell o’ mesquite,’ he rasped. ‘What the hell is it?’
The riders tore a way through the pear thickets for the McGovren homestead. The old cabin had been built by Ben’s father, was made of green pine that had been hauled from the Sangre de Cristo timberline. But many years under the pear country’s blistering sun had dried the timber to matchwood.
The smell of burning drifted in as Krate and Handy turned upwind. The roof of the low structure was gone, and charred beams angled into the sky. A stone chimney rose from the pile of still flaming embers where the timbers of one corner had completely burned away. Krate cursed savagely, and nudged his horse forward. He pulled his rifle from its scabbard, held it ready across the horn of his saddle.
He stopped beside one of the small corrals, put a hand out to grip the top rail. He could just make out the pummelled ground where the McGovrens’ few stock horses had milled to get out. For a full minute he listened, but there was no sound other than the crackle of searing wood, then he waved Handy closer to the blackened, smoking ruins.
There was enough light for them to discern the cabin’s homespun contents, large and small objects appeared to be strewn around the cabin, with curious indistinguishable black mangled heaps.
‘What the hell happened here? Where is everybody?’ Krate said, in a hushed, awed tone.
‘Yeah, who was with them others you were talkin’ about?’ Handy asked.
‘One of ’em was called Red Mayhill. I don’t know any more. I think there was four of ’em,’ Krate answered, his voice still slow and strained, ‘Felix is goin’ to raise Cain over this. What the hell happened?’ he repeated.
‘They burned the place down, ’cause they weren’t up to splittin’ the reward. They were cuttin’ us out,’ Handy replied. ‘If this feller Mayhill is still around, he’s the one goin’ to get skinned when he meets up with young Broome.’
‘I wouldn’t want to spend much time hopin’ you’re right,’ Krate said.
Like prowling jackals, the two ’punchers stole about the shadows, listening and waiting. Eventually, a grey dawn lifted the night’s lid, and daylight revealed the blankets of white ash that covered the house and what was left of its contents. Krate and Handy went closer to the pungent, smouldering, ruin.
‘This is where the main door was,’ Handy said, distractedly, looking around at the charred debris. ‘What in hell’s name is this?’ he asked, poking a blackened remnant with the tip of his rifle barrel.
Krate took a close look, thought for a moment then stared horror-struck at his partner. ‘It’s burned meat. Leave it, for God’s sake.’
‘Jeesus, Carter, you don’t think…?’ Handy started in disgust, looked at the dark mangled heaps around him. ‘Do you think it’s them? Was that the awful stench?’
‘Let’s get away from here, an’ keep your mouth shut,’ Krate directed. ‘I’m goin’ to be across the border before anyone finds out what happened here.’
But then, both men were stopped in their tracks when Felix Broome’s voice rasped out at them. ‘You ain’t goin’ anywhere, an’ where’s the girl … where’s Megan?’ he yelled. The man’s face was haggard, and his eyes were red raw as he staggered forward.
‘We don’t know. We don’t even know what happened,’ Krate returned. ‘You ain’t ever goin’ to know who was here.’
‘I told you to watch out for her. That’s what I was goin’ to pay you for,’ Felix raged, as he levelled his rifle at Krate. He was viciously levering a shell into the chamber, when two coordinated shots rang out. One bullet caught him high in the chest, another took Krate in the neck. Neither man uttered a sound as they crashed to the filthy, ash-strewn dirt. Krate rolled onto his back and made an attempt to raise his hands, then they both died staring bewilderedly at each other.
Terrified, Handy was already on the run. He was gasping, sobbing with fear as he fled from the menacing devastation. His head whirled with thoughts of what had happened and what could happen next. Frightened to near hysteria, he made it to his horse and flung himself up into the saddle. He kicked madly, sought immediate obscurity in the wildness of the pear.
Ben McGovren’s procession were well along the trail that led to Lemmon. It was led by Ben himself who was leading Red Mayhill’s horse. Behind him came the other prisoners with their bridles tied to the tail of the horse in front. Next came Joe leading a pack horse, then Megan with Hector bringing up the rear.
It was just about when Handy was poking his rifle at the charred remains of a chunk of quartered calf that the riders came to a halt. The land around them was brightening with the first light, and Ben pointed through the prickly pear to indicate a big, lone oak up ahead of them. Hector nodded that he understood, but Joe asked where they were.
‘The Rio Bonito’s ahead, then the Standin’ K. We’re below the trail that runs to Lemmon, not more’n a mile from the ranch house. We’ll set camp shortly.’
The riders wound on through the thickets, and just as the sun was picking up they drew rein. It was where the prickly pear broke down, and they decided not to ride into the clearings. The prisoners were dismounted and secured to a taller mesquite. All the horses were unsaddled and a cold camp was set. No one was much in the frame of mind for what remained of the beef and biscuits, so Hector, Joe and Megan shared Ben’s crock of Pass whiskey. Each had their own thoughts, but when it sank in that her small number of clothes had been burned, Megan had become silent and morose. All she had in the world now was her duck pants, wool shirt, boots, and a battered Stetson.
‘I was thinkin’ what you said about one o’ these turkeys bein’ Wilshaw Broome,’ Hec said. ‘We could have had us our own a little neck-tie party.’
‘Still can,’ Ben agreed, but turned to Joe. ‘What do you want do?’ he asked. ‘Here’s the chance to claim your part o’ the fight.’
‘Yeah, only trouble bein’ I’m a tad lost,’ Joe responded. ‘Not knowin’ this rough country, I wouldn’t be claimin’ anythin’ for long.’
‘No issues with that, Joe,’ Hec said. ‘Me an’ Ben’ll take care o’ the trails an’ hidin’ places. You just got to say what you want done next. An’ remember, it was Broome’s orders that sent this family o’ rats to burn us all alive.’
‘I ain’t likely to forget that,’ Joe replied. ‘But I already decided that we don’t kill him. Not by shootin’ or hangin’ or any other way you think up.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it wouldn’t help us or our cause. You know I want the courts to handle this.’
‘Bit late for that,’ Hector mused. ‘I don’t see much of a way other than rubbin’ him out.’
‘That’s the old way, Hec. An’ if we do, we’ll never get it straight,’ Joe reasoned. ‘Think about it. Broome’s riders won’t be scared off as long as he’s payin’ big money for our hides. But if we continue to play on their nerves, they’ll weaken. When they find men who’ve paid the final price, his bounty money won’t seem so easy won. They’ll get worried an’ start quittin’. That’ll be the time to take him.’
‘The kid might be right, Hec,’ Ben said, a touch grudgingly. ‘That schoolin’s got him talkin’ like a lawyer or a preacher, but it makes sense. We’ve got to get Broome where the wool’s short. I know one or two things that’ll make him squeal, if we face him with ’em. But not right now.’
‘All right,’ Hector conceded. ‘Just seems we come a long way for cheek turnin’. I knew I shoulda killed him twenty years ago,’ he added with obvious spleen.