Chapter 10

Turnbo was jolted back to his senses by the wagon lurching into motion. Pain shot through him with every bounce of the rig into a chuckhole, every time it dropped into a rut. His stomach churned each time the wagon jounced over a rough spot. Hunger and especially thirst tormented him. As the wagon rolled onward, he faded in and out of consciousness. He had long since lost all track of time in the pitch blackness of his rolling prison, not knowing whether it was day or night, nor how long it had been since he had been locked up. All Turnbo knew was the odds were Ross Lucast would most likely never get the chance to kill him. He would die from lack of water or heat prostration well before that.

Every time Turnbo slipped into the blessed relief of passing out, another bounce from the pitching wagon would jolt him awake. He'd never been one to give up, hell, no Texas Ranger ever had been, but at this point he'd welcome one of Lucast's swords run through his gut. At least that would end his torment.

Turnbo had no idea how much time had passed before the rig finally came to a stop. Even when it did, it seemed he lay there for an eternity before the wagon shifted, and he heard someone climb the steps and open the door. The faint light which silhouetted the person entering indicated it was sometime in the middle of the night.

"You awake, Ranger?" Ross Lucast nudged Turnbo with the toe of his boot. Turnbo grunted an assent.

"Good. Morey, untie him. Be careful."

Banton knelt to the task of loosing the Ranger's bonds. Fresh agony, the feeling of millions of pins and needles being stuck into his flesh, shot through Turnbo's wrists and ankles when circulation returned. He stretched his legs, attempting to fight the spasms in his back. Banton grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to a seated position.

"Morey, you're an idiot!" Lucast exclaimed, when he saw Turnbo's Colt still in its holster. "You forgot to take his gun. Get it right now!"

"You're right," Banton said, shaking his head. "Dunno what I was thinking." He pulled the pistol from Turnbo's holster.

"Now give him some water," Lucast ordered. "Don't want him dyin' thirsty." Banton uncorked a canteen and handed it to Turnbo, who took it and drank greedily.

"That's enough. Get him up and movin'."

"Sure, Ross." Banton jerked Turnbo to his feet. The Ranger stood shakily, his muscles so cramped he could barely remain upright.

"Outside, Ranger," Lucast said. "Just remember one thing. Open your mouth and I'll cut you down where you stand. Get goin'."

Banton shoved Turnbo to the open wagon door. Fighting the pain, somehow the Ranger managed to stumble down the steps and remain standing. A dim moon, low in the sky, and the positions of the stars indicated it was well after midnight, even later than Turnbo had thought. Banton shoved Turnbo's own gun in his back.

"That way, Ranger. Behind those bushes."

Turnbo headed in the direction Banton pointed, a thick screen of scrub brush and stunted junipers. He hesitated when he reached the thicket.

"Keep goin'," Lucast ordered. Turnbo forced his way through the thorny vegetation and into a small clearing. Jake Cutter and Hugh Marks were waiting there. To Turnbo's surprise, there was one other person… Cutter's wife, Julie Ann.

"You mean there was a woman in on this with you, Lucast?" he asked. "You never mentioned her."

Julie Ann answered him instead.

"Ranger, I sure am part of the outfit, and glad of it," she said, laughing. "I'm the horse holder. It was easy enough to disguise myself as a man. No one ever suspected. And in case you're wonderin', I can shoot as well as most any gunslinger. Shot myself a couple of lawmen durin' our robberies. Ross wanted me to stay in my bunk, but I told him I had just as much right to see you killed as anyone. Wish I could be the one to drill you, but Ross is savin' the pleasure of killin' you for himself. So I'm just gonna settle on keeping your horse for myself once we've finished with you. I always did fancy paints, and he's a fine one."

"That's enough out of you, Julie Ann," Lucast said. "Ranger, turn around, unless you'd rather get it in the back."

Turnbo slowly turned to face his captor. He swayed with the effort. Lucast now had a gunbelt strapped around his waist, the holster against his left hip holding a Remington .44. He was wearing his thick spectacles. He pulled the gun from its holster and leveled it at the Ranger's belly. Banton also had his gun aimed at Turnbo's middle.

"See this pistol in my hand?" Lucast asked, with a smirk. "Reckon you think I'm gonna use it to kill you. Well, you're wrong. That'd be too easy, Ranger. Besides, a gunshot would wake up the others. As I've already told you, they don't know anything about our scheme, and I sure wouldn't want to have to cut them in on it now. Or kill them to keep them quiet."

He slid the Remington back in place and picked up a cavalry saber from the ground. "I'm gonna run this blade right through your belly, Ranger. It'll be quicker and quieter than a bullet in your guts. You got anything to say before I kill you?"

"Just that you'll never get away with this," Turnbo said. "You might kill me, but I've already notified Ranger Headquarters about you. Sheriff Spears up in San Angelo knows about you too, as do all the lawmen in these parts. And Rangers never forget when one of their own is killed. You'll be hunted down like the sorry son of a bitch you are."

"We'll be long gone before that happens," Lucast said. "By the time anyone figures out what happened to you, we'll be in Louisiana. After that we'll be workin' our way up the Mississippi on a riverboat, well out of the reach of Texas law. So you see, Ranger, we've got no worries."

Lucast walked closer to Turnbo and jabbed the point of the saber into his belly. Just as he did, a female's voice wailed a high note from the edge of the brush. The note climbed to a banshee's howl, its crescendo knifing through the dark. Startled, Lucast and his partners turned to look for the source of the hideous sound.

Turnbo grabbed his chance. He slammed his head into Lucast's belly and shoved him aside, then jumped at Banton and knocked the gun from his hand. Turnbo scooped up his Colt and shot, hitting Banton in the chest and slamming him to the dirt.

Jake Cutter reacted with surprising speed for a man of his bulk. He got behind Turnbo, wrapped his arms around him, and locked him in a bear hug, pinning the Ranger's arms against his sides. He lifted Turnbo half a foot off the ground as he pressed against his chest and ribs. Already weak from his ordeal, Turnbo struggled for breath. Silver spots swam before his eyes.

"That's it, Jake. Crush the life out of him," Lucast urged, still gasping for air. Desperate, Turnbo reached his left hand into Cutter's crotch, grabbed his testicles, and squeezed hard. Cutter screeched in pain and dropped the Ranger. Somehow, Turnbo had held onto his gun. He rolled onto his back and fired. This bullet took Cutter under the chin and blasted its way into his brain. Turnbo was rolling again before Cutter even dropped. A bullet burned along his ribs, then, flat on his belly, Turnbo shot Hugh Marks through his right breast. Marks spun half-around and pitched to his face.

Lucast had regained his feet and, saber in hand, lunged at Turnbo. The Ranger lurched sideways, swung his legs around, and tripped him. Lucast drove his saber into the ground as he stumbled. The blade snapped. Lucast hit the dirt, rolled, and came to his feet at the same time Turnbo regained his. Just as Turnbo thumbed back the hammer of his Peacemaker, Lucast grabbed Turnbo's wrist, attempting to wrest the six-gun from his grasp. Toe to toe, both men struggled for the Colt. The gun fired. The two stood there for a moment, until Ross Lucast backed away with an expression of complete shock on his face. Turnbo had managed to press his gun against Lucast's belly and pull the trigger. The.45 slug ranged downward, tearing through his intestines. Lucast opened his mouth as if to speak, dropped to his knees, and then fell face-down.

"Look out, Ranger!" A shot rang out from the edge of the clearing. Julie Ann Cutter fell alongside her husband, with a bullet through her side.

"She was gonna shoot you in the back. Couldn't let her do that. Besides, I never could stand that bitch. Felt good to put a bullet in her," Tangela Peele said. She stood with a smoking Smith and Wesson short-barreled .38 revolver in her hand.

Turnbo stared in surprise at the woman, for just a moment.

"Much obliged, Miz Peele."

He used the toe of his boot to roll Ross Lucast onto his back. Blood soaked the lower part of Lucast's shirt and dribbled from his mouth.

"Never . . . never expected . . . anyone'd . . . figure out . . . my scheme . . . Ranger . . . let . . . alone . . . endin' up . . . gut . . . gutshot." He choked, let out a sigh, shuddered, and lay still.

Jack Martin and Mike Trombley emerged from the brush. Neither was armed. Right behind them were the rest of the women of the troupe.

"What's goin' on here?" Martin shouted.

Turnbo pointed his Colt at the men. "I'll explain in a minute. Meantime, stay over there until I sort all this out, all of you. I don't want to have to shoot anyone else."

"You don't have to worry, Ranger," Tangela said. "I'll keep an eye on them for you."

"Much obliged again."

Turnbo checked the other bodies for any signs of life. He found none. He turned back to face the remaining performers.

"Your boss and some of your pardners have been robbing banks and murdering folks all over Texas. Lucast used his theater company as cover. Now, I guess it's all over," he said. "Reckon I'd better . . . lie down."

Turnbo's arm dropped and his gun fell from his hand, then he slumped to the dirt.