CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Now would be a fine time to kill them, every man jack of them, while they were out in the open cutting and baling hay against the coming winter. The man with the field glasses shook his head. Pity. It was a lost chance. Ol’ Salty hadn’t gathered enough men yet, and he wouldn’t strike the ranch until he held the advantage in numbers.
Well hidden among a stand of catclaw in a deep cut at the northern border of the Kerrigan range, Archie Lane had seen enough. Bending low, he faded back into the wild oaks where he’d left his horse and swung into the saddle. His job was to scout the Kerrigan ranch house and its outbuildings and look for weaknesses.
When he attacked, Davis Salt wanted an edge, something only a reconnaissance could give him. He’d chosen Lane for the job, because for a spell the man had run with Jesse and Frank and them, and he knew how to scout a town and its bank and figure the best way to take the place. An additional qualification was that Lane was good with a gun and could take care of himself. He’d spent two years in Yuma for gunning a pimp and pistol-whipping his whore and vowed he’d die before returning to Yuma, or any other federal prison. To avoid arrest he’d killed four lawmen and made himself a luminary of the frontier’s most wanted list. Keeping a heap of git between himself and the next hanging posse made Lane a desperate man . . . and in Salt’s opinion desperate men made excellent business associates.
Lane looped wide around the Kerrigan range and then headed south, finally riding up on a low rise that overlooked the ranch house. The outlaw dismounted, made his way to the top of the rise on foot, and found himself in a small cemetery with a few fresh graves. Lane was as superstitious as any cowboy, and the cemetery, especially the newer graves, made him uncomfortable. He considered finding another viewpoint. But the boneyard offered cover, and it was unlikely that anyone would go that way. Lane fished in the pocket of his shirt for the beef jerky he’d stashed there and chewed on a piece as he used his field glasses to study the big, four-pillared Southern mansion, small cabin, bunkhouse, stable, corrals, and a cluster of other buildings, including a smokehouse and what looked like a toolshed. The place was well laid out and meticulously maintained, and seemed to be prospering, judging by the blood horses in the corrals and the sleek Hereford cattle grazing nearby. A fat man in a stained apron, a bandage on his right hand, stepped out of the cookhouse, emptied a dishpan, looked around, and walked back inside.
Then Lane’s heart raced faster.
A raggedy-looking dog appeared from somewhere near the cookhouse door, stared hard at the rise, and then cocked his head to one side, thinking things over. Lane watched the mutt with growing apprehension. The last thing he needed was a barking cur to raise the alarm. To his relief, the dog decided that there was nothing of interest on the rise to justify such a long walk. He found a patch of sun, lay down, and put his chin on his paws, his gaze fixed on the cookhouse door.
Archie Lane breathed a sigh of relief and raised the glasses again, but he never got them to his eyes. Something hard slammed into the back of his head and he tumbled into a bottomless well of darkness.
* * *
Lane opened his eyes to the blur of a bearded face just inches from his own. He blinked, blinked again, and stared into a pair of faded blue eyes.
“Howdy, young feller,” Gabe Dancer said.
“Wha . . . what the hell?’ Lane said.
“You’ve been sleeping like a baby for nigh on twenty minutes, sonny. Hell, for a spell there I thought I’d kilt you for sure.”
Lane heard a woman’s voice say, “Oh, thank God, Gabe. I thought you’d killed him too. Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. Got a hard head, I guess.”
The outlaw groaned and fixed Dancer with cold eyes. “Did you hit me, old-timer?”
“Sure did. With this.” He slapped the stock of his Henry. “Made quite a clunk.”
Lane’s hand slid down to his Colt and closed on an empty holster.
“Looking fer this, sonny?” Dancer said, holding up the revolver.
Lane’s fingers massaged his temples. “Why did you hit me, you crazy old coot?”
Biddy Kelly, dressed in a brown cotton walking-out dress with a white collar and cuffs, kicked Lane’s booted foot. “Don’t you talk to Mr. Dancer like that. It’s not polite.”
“That’s all right, Biddy, my darling. The gent just regained consciousness and don’t know what he’s saying.” Dancer prodded Lane’s belly with the muzzle of his cocked rifle. “You’re a spy. That’s why I hit you, and if you call me a crazy old coot again I’ll blow your belly button into the next county, just to prove how crazy I can be.”
“Damn you, I’m not a spy,” Lane said. “I’m just passing through.”
“Going where?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere.”
“If you ain’t a spy, then what are you, sonny?”
“A . . . a . . . birdwatcher.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“Yes, I am. I watch birds.”
“What kind of birds?”
“All kinds, big birds, little birds.”
“You ever see a red-breasted—forgive me for saying that word in your presence, Biddy—pickle tit—and for that one too—around here?”
“Yeah, sure I did. I watched two of them not long ago.”
“Partial to graveyards, are they?”
“That’s what I heard. Something to do with the quiet.”
“You’re a damned liar,” Dancer said. “There ain’t no such bird as a red-breasted pickle tit—sorry again Biddy. I just made it up.”
The girl seemed a little irritated. “Mr. Dancer, don’t keep apologizing all the time. I’ve heard both those words many times before. And remember we’re talking about a bird, not a . . . a . . .”
“Bosom,” Dancer said.
“Yes. That.”
“Saw your hoss down below,” Dancer said to Lane. “Not many big American studs around these parts. Mister, you’re an outlaw”—he held up the field glasses—“and a spy. You know what happens to spies? They get shot.”
“No, I’m not any of those things,” Lane said.
“You got an outlaw’s eyes, like looking into a nest of vipers, and you got a gunman’s hands. Look at them, as well kept as a woman’s, clean fingernails an’ all. You’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life.”
“A man doesn’t need hard hands to watch birds.”
“Is that a fact? But around these parts he needs a hard head, as you discovered.”
“You go to hell.” Lane groaned and placed his palm on his forehead. “Damn you, old man. I think you scrambled my brains.”
“Sonny, you don’t have any brains to scramble. All the outlaws I’ve known were as dumb as snubbin’ posts.” He motioned with the Henry. “On your feet. I’m taking you to Mrs. Kerrigan, and you got some explaining to do.”
Lane stood, a tall, loose-geared man dressed in dusty range clothes. His boots and gunbelt were of good quality, and a silver watch chain crossed his flat belly. He looked lean and dangerous, and Dancer did not take any chances with him as they left the rise and walked to the house.