CHAPTER THIRTY
Seth Koenig saw the red glow in the night sky long before he noticed the acrid smell of burning in the night air. Despite the darkness, he hit Hellfire Pass at a dead run, raging at the treachery of the hands. Damn them! Damn them all! They’d burned him out! How else to explain the scarlet-bellied clouds above the very spot where the ranch house stood.
And it was as he’d feared.
Everything was aflame.
The house, the barn, even the outbuildings had been torched.
Silhouetted by fire, he stood in the open and watched his property burn. Everything he had worked for, killed for, was going up in smoke. Enraged, he vowed his revenge. He knew them all—their names, their faces—and he’d hunt them down one by one until he’d killed them all.
Wrapped in a cloak of self-love, what Seth didn’t understand, that night or any other, was the depth of feeling the Hellfire hands had for Blade. They’d respected the man for his strength, feared him for his quick hands and fast gun, but loved him because no matter how rich and powerful he became, Blade Koenig remained one of them. He cared about the men who rode for him, paid them top wages, and looked after their welfare almost as a father to his many sons. Nor did Seth realize that to a man, the Hellfire hands considered him a bully and a braggart, a rapist who did not deserve to be the treacherous offspring of a much better man.
Burning the ranch had been a matter of spite, that and the fact that the punchers could not stand by and let Seth inherit what he’d gained by murder. They knew because of his ill-gotten gains he had the money to rebuild the place, but were content that they’d sent him a message written in fire that they held him in the deepest contempt.
Seth saw the burning as vandalism, nothing more, oblivious of the hatred that had spilled each can of coal oil and lit every match.
* * *
By dawn, the fire had burned itself out and all that remained of the house and the other buildings were ashes and a few blackened timbers. As he kicked through the rubble Seth told himself that there was no real need to rebuild a place that held so many bad memories for him. He had a house, a fine house, waiting for him. The Kerrigan place would suit him down to the ground and, if everything panned out the way he planned it, he would have the beautiful widow in his bed. Kate Kerrigan was a wildcat, but she was the kind to succumb to the strength and masculine charm of a man like himself. Oh, she might fight him at first, but a few encounters with the back of his hand would soon cure her of that.
Seth grinned, looking on the bright side. Today was the dawn of a new era. West Texas would be his permanent home, but he’d use the Hellfire to graze part of his herd. Very soon he’d be rich beyond his wildest dreams, live in a fancy mansion, and have an even fancier woman for mattress time. Nothing could stand in his way.
But first things first.
Davis Salt and his boys were still camped south of Deming. He’d ride there and tell the outlaw it was time to attack the Kerrigan ranch. So what if Salt didn’t yet have the fifty men he needed? They could take the KK with half that number . . . if the rubes even put up a fight. He’d ridden right up to Kate Kerrigan’s doorstep without a challenge before and he could do it again.
Such pleasant thoughts gave Seth an appetite. If he left right away, he reckoned he could be with Davis in time for lunch. He walked to his tired horse, and then froze, his entire body pinned in place.
Shield, the damned Pima, stood about fifty yards away, holding a Winchester across his chest, the stock decorated with brass studs. The Indian had stripped to a breechcloth, knee-high moccasins, and a red headband. The top half of his face was painted black, a sign of mourning, and his hair had been pulled back for war.
A spasm of fright spiked at Seth Koenig. The Pima didn’t look human, more like an avenging spirit summoned from some terrifying Indian netherworld. Fear gave Seth a voice. “What the hell do you want?”
The Pima made no answer. Stared, unblinking, flaying Seth alive with his knife-edge eyes.
“Damn you!” Seth screamed. “Damn all of you!” He drew and fired. A miss. He fired again and then lowered his gun.
The Pima was gone . . . he’d been shooting at a phantom. Seth cursed. No, not a phantom. A damned Indian made of flesh, bone, and blood like himself. He holstered his gun and swung into the saddle. His Colt had failed him, but the Winchester would not. He slid the rifle from the boot, set spurs to his horse, and charged the spot where he’d last seen the Pima. It was open ground relieved from barrenness by a few wild oak and soapberry. Seth drew rein and dusted the entire area with shot after shot, levering the Winchester from his shoulder. He cursed wildly, damning the Indian and every breath he took, and when he lowered the rifle from his shoulder there was nothing to show for his efforts but a thick, greasy drift of gun smoke.
“Come out, damn you,” Seth yelled. “Show yourself and fight like a man.”
The silence mocked him, ridiculed his fear.
Seth grimaced and shoved the Winchester back into the boot. What was it an old-timer had once told him? When an Indian don’t want to be found, you won’t find him. Well, damn the Pima. Their paths would cross again.... “And I’ll kill you,” Seth roared. “You hear me, redskin? I’ll kill you.”
All right. He had to get away from there, be with white men again. Davis Salt would welcome him and they’d make a plan, maybe share a bottle and talk about cathouses and the whores they’d used and abused.
Seth swung his horse, took one last glance at the ruin of the Hellfire ranch house, and then pushed his mount into a canter. There were better days ahead, and that certain knowledge made him smile.
Seth Koenig was himself again.