Chapter Nineteen

Jeff made Ben and Joel give up their weapons, but let Ethan keep his, even though he did make him walk out front with his brothers and Wilkie, where he could keep an eye on all of them.

A murmur of hostility rose from the throats of the growing populace on the street. Most of them were armed, and Ethan couldn’t help feeling a moment’s resentment. Where had these fine, responsible townsfolk been last night when Kestler’s mob of drunken cowboys had tried to break Joel and Ben out of the jail for a lynching? His gaze raked the restless throng, taking in the malice in their faces, the rigidity of their stance. He saw Sam Davidson up front with a shotgun, and, when their eyes met, Davidson called: “You want me to get a rope, Sheriff?”

“I want you to get out of the way, Sam.”

“You ought to turn your back for a few minutes,” said Murphy, the blacksmith. “We can take care of this ourselves.”

“Hold on,” Jeff said quietly to his prisoners. He moved out front. “Gentlemen, I want every one of you out of my sight, and I mean right now.”

A roar of protest erupted from the crowd. “You can’t order us off the street,” Sam replied hotly.

“The hell I can’t.”

“What are you going to do, Jeff?” Tim Palmer called from the rear of the crowd. “Arrest all of us?”

“That’s right, Palmer, every one of you. Maybe not today, but I’ll make it my personal goal to arrest at least three of you at a time, give each of you your own cell, until the circuit judge shows up and fines you for obstruction of justice. Is there anyone out there who thinks I won’t?”

There was an uneasy silence, then a whispering like the soughing of wind through the grass. Grudgingly the crowd parted.

Jeff glanced over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

They marched through a narrow, jostling aisle of hostile humanity. Ethan heard Joel’s name uttered more than once, and realized it wasn’t him or Ben or even Bob Wilkie the crowd wanted. It was Joel, for what he’d been accused of doing to Suzie Merrick—one of their own.

Jeff led them down the middle of the road until they came to Hide Street, where he moved them onto the boardwalk. The crowd remained behind, and Ethan began to breathe easier. Then Ben glanced behind them and said: “Here they come.”

Ethan turned. Expecting a mob of rushing citizens, he was taken aback by the empty street. Then he spotted a cloud of dust approaching from the south, and his heart sank. Even as he watched, the murky silhouettes of horsemen came into focus under it.

“Kestler,” Joel said flatly.

“Keep moving,” Jeff commanded.

They picked up their pace. With the jail in sight, Ethan figured they had plenty of time to get inside, bar the doors and shutters. He hadn’t counted on the men Kestler had left behind, though—Clint and Shorty and the kid, Oren. The cowboys seemed to appear out of nowhere, spreading out in front of the jailhouse door, formidable as a locked gate.

Clint moved his hand to his revolver, although he didn’t draw it. Almost reluctantly, the other two followed his lead.

“Sheriff, why don’t you let me go?” Wilkie said nervously. “This is between Kestler and the Wilders. I don’t want no part of it.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Jeff replied, “because you’re in it up to your nose right now, which is a damn’ good time for you to start thinking about keeping your mouth shut.”

Ethan glanced behind them. Kestler and his men were approaching swiftly, a tawny flood of horses and dust.

“Keep walking,” Jeff said tersely.

They hurried now, Kestler coming in fast from the south, Clint and his boys unmoving before them. Jeff paused briefly at the end of the boardwalk, eyes flitting left and right. The jail sat across the street, on the northwest corner of Hide and Culver, barely thirty yards away. At Jeff’s signal, they started across.

“Don’t come no closer!” Clint called. “Let’s just wait where we are until Mister Kestler gets here.”

“Charlie Kestler’s got nothing to do with this, Clint,” Jeff replied evenly. “It will be you and your boys who are interfering with an officer of the law if you don’t get out of my way.”

Clint shook his head resolutely. “I’m sorry, Mister Burke, but Mister Kestler gave strict orders that, if the Wilders came back, I was to hold them until he could deal with them personally.”

Behind them, Kestler’s cowboys were entering town, a thunder of hoofs echoing between the buildings, just a couple of blocks away. Jeff’s reaction caught everyone by surprise. He stalked the remaining distance to the jail’s front steps, almost swarming up them to get at Clint. The cowboy took a startled step backward and, too late, raised his arms in self-defense. Jeff jabbed a hard right that tore through Clint’s skimpy guard, and Clint’s head rocked back as if it had come loose from its moorings. He stood there maybe two seconds, slack-jawed, knees partially buckled, then crumpled.

“Get him out of here!” Jeff barked to Shorty and Oren, and the two cowhands quickly grabbed Clint’s arms and hauled him out of the way.

“Let’s go,” Ethan said tautly, but they’d barely reached the boardwalk before Kestler and his men were upon them.

For a long minute the junction was crammed with plunging, rearing mounts, swearing riders. Then Charlie Kestler kicked his lathered horse forward, and the pandemonium died.

“We’ll take over from here, Jeff,” Kestler said stonily.

“No, it’s my job. I’ll handle it.”

A cold smile cracked the rancher’s granite demeanor. “You can’t stop me this time.”

Jeff put his hand on his revolver, feet braced wide. “I’m getting a little tired of other people telling me my job, Charlie, so let’s make this crystal clear. If you try to stop me, I’ll kill you. I’ll swear to that much, no matter what else happens.”

“You’d kill me, risk your own life and reputation for a pack of rabid skunks like the Wilders? I don’t believe it.”

“I won’t do it for the Wilders, Charlie. I’ll do it for the law, and what that represents out here if this town is going to survive.”

Ethan had been watching Kestler’s men closely, wary of any sign of treachery, but the sheriff’s words drew his eyes as irresistibly as food in front of a starving dog. Glancing at Jeff, he felt a moment’s pride standing at his side. The citizens of Sundance—at least those who had predicted he would cut and run, rather than face Kestler’s wrath—had been wrong. Jeff Burke had no intention of folding, but Ethan also understood that didn’t mean he would be able to stop Kestler and his men if they rushed him.

A crowd that had tagged along at a distance from Merrick’s barn was stopped on the boardwalk half a block down from the jail. In the silence following Jeff’s pledge to stand up for law and order, it stirred, then parted to allow a knot of men to pass through.

Bob Wilkie whooped loudly. “Hey, Nolan, get me the hell outta here!”

Nolan Andrews didn’t respond, didn’t even appear to have heard. He came forward resolutely, heels loud on the wooden boardwalk, spurs jingling, his men a clutch in his shadow. Two of them, including the man with the torn cheek, carried shotguns. All of them were well-heeled with revolvers.

Behind them, the townspeople seemed to shrink back, and Ethan’s hope for assistance withered. “We’d better get inside,” he said quietly.

“Can’t,” Jeff replied out of the corner of his mouth. “The door hasn’t been fully repaired yet. One of us would have to go around back and open it from the inside, and I don’t think Kestler’s going to allow that to happen.”

Nolan Andrews and his men reached the end of the boardwalk and stepped down into the street. Several of Kestler’s cowboys reined out of their way.

“What’s holding things up, Kestler?” Andrews demanded, halting at the rancher’s stirrup.

Ethan’s gaze returned to the gunman. Andrews stared back, face still discolored from the beating Ethan had dealt him in the Bullshead. Knowing he’d given as good as he’d gotten made Ethan feel a little better about his own bumps and bruises.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Kestler said to Andrews, glancing around uncomfortably, as if loath to be seen in the gunman’s company.

“I’m here to get this mess cleaned up so me and my boys can move on,” Nolan replied. “I’m getting tired of the way things have been dragging on, waiting for”—he looked deliberately at Kestler—“certain people to decide how they want to finish the job.”

Kestler’s eyes burned in sudden rage as the killer’s implication spread through his men.

Down the boardwalk to their right, Ethan heard Oren say: “What’s he mean, Clint?”

Straightening in his saddle, Kestler snarled: “All right, enough of this foolishness. Turn your prisoners over, Jeff, or . . .” He paused, staring north along Hide Street.

Ethan glanced in that direction. Gerard Turcotte and Badger Dick Barlow were riding into town, rifles balanced across the saddles of their plodding mounts as if they were just aimlessly wandering in. But Ethan knew these men didn’t wander anywhere without purpose, and he turned away to scan both streets in his view, Hide and Culver.

“Or I’ll take them by force,” Kestler finished at last, dragging his eyes back to the sheriff.

“You might,” Jeff acknowledged. “But you won’t live to see it through.”

Ethan spotted Seth and Gabe at the entrance to Palmer’s Livery, and wondered how long they’d been there. Scotty Dunham and François LaBarge stood in the door of the Bullshead, the muzzles of their rifles poking above the scalloped tops of the batwings like stubby cannons. Hank McKay reclined in a chair in front of Jenkins’s Barbershop, a long-barreled fowler resting across his lap.

“Jeff,” Ethan said.

“I see ’em,” the sheriff replied quietly.

“Ethan,” Joel said from where he stood facing Clint, Shorty, and Oren. Finch’s revolver had somehow found its way back in his hand, while Ben kept an eye on Wilkie with Jacob’s little .32 pump leveled on the gunman’s belly. Joel nodded to the far side of the street, where Nate Kestler sat his palomino along the fringe of horsemen.

Eyes narrowing, Ethan moved to the edge of the boardwalk. “Nate! Nate Kestler!”

The younger man flinched when his name was called, eyes darting as if seeking a place to hide.

“Come on up here, Nate!” Ethan shouted. “Tell us what happened with Suzie Merrick.”

“Ethan,” Jeff cautioned.

Nate turned a desperate look toward his father, and Charlie said: “Leave the boy be, Wilder.”

“That’s going to be hard to do, Charlie, considering his involvement in all this.”

Kestler’s face turned even redder, his entire body seemingly swelling in anger; on the far side of the street, his son appeared to shrink down like a frightened rabbit under so much scrutiny.

Shifting his attention to Nate, Jeff called: “Why don’t you come on up here, son? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Stay where you are, Nate!” the father roared. He moved his hand to his revolver. “Move away, Jeff, or I’ll turn my men loose on this town and watch it burn to the ground.”

Like he’d done in Lawrence, Kansas? Ethan wondered.

“Wait a minute,” Clint said uncertainly. “Mister Kestler, nobody said Nate was involved in any of this.”

“Nate isn’t involved,” Kestler shot back. “It’s just a damn’ ploy by the Wilders to divert attention from their own crimes. They’re the guilty ones.”

But a sliver of doubt had been planted in Clint’s mind. Maybe it had been there all along. He shook his head, took a step back. “I ain’t easy about this, Mister Kestler.”

“You’re not being paid to be easy,” the rancher snapped.

“What happened down in the breaks with Janey Handleman?” Ethan asked loudly, as much for Kestler’s cowboys as for the ranch owner or his son. “What happened that Tom Handleman had to keep an eye on his girl day and night for fear of Nate catching her alone and unguarded?”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Kestler growled, pawing for his revolver.

Nolan Andrews stepped forward with an eager grin, smoothly palming his nickeled Colt. “Let ’em howl, boys!” he shouted to his men.

“Aw, hell,” Ethan breathed, then grabbed Ben by the arm and threw him to the boardwalk.

Gunfire erupted on every side, as if a single trigger had been pulled. An explosion of noise and powder smoke filled the street. Lead whined, slammed indiscriminately into wood, brick, flesh.

Ethan dropped to his stomach in front of Ben and shoved his revolver toward the street. He saw Nolan Andrews in the midst of the swirling dust and lunging mounts and swung his sights toward him, but, before he could pull the trigger, a Lazy-K cowboy’s horse bucked wildly into his line of fire. By the time the horse had moved on, Andrews was gone. Another took his place, a tall gunfighter with a revolver in each hand, firing methodically toward the knot of defenders on the boardwalk. Ethan aimed, fired, and the tall gunfighter jerked hard. He spotted Ethan and swung both revolvers toward him, but Ethan fired twice more and the gunfighter collapsed.

The dust and smoke thickened, jelling into a monochromatic pall. Half a dozen cowboys lay wounded in the street; horses ran pell-mell, reins trailing; men fled, leaving their guns in the dust as they sought shelter. Only a handful remained, hardened and desperate. Charlie Kestler, Nolan Andrews, the man with the torn cheek, another Ethan didn’t know, kneeling on the ground, bleeding from the mouth. A bullet narrowly missed Ethan’s ear. He returned fire automatically, knew he’d missed even as he pulled the trigger.

In the street, Andrews was grabbing for the reins of a riderless horse. As he swung into the saddle, Ethan cried a protest and scrambled to his feet. He raised his revolver, cocked it, pulled the trigger; the hammer fell with a hollow snap, chambers empty. Nolan jerked his horse around, slammed spurs into its ribs. He headed north out of town, and Ethan flung his pistol away and raced toward the end of the boardwalk. As Nolan streaked past, Ethan launched himself from the boardwalk, caught a hitching rail under his left boot and threw himself over the street. Nolan saw him coming and tried to bring his nickled Colt around, but he was too slow. Ethan crashed into him like a falling boulder and the two men tumbled into the street, the horse squealing and kicking under them.

Ethan rolled free, stood. Still on hands and knees, Nolan kept grabbing for his revolver, but the fallen horse was nearly on top of it, flailing the air around it with iron-shod hoofs. When the horse finally regained its feet and bolted, Nolan scurried for the revolver. As he did, Ethan lunged forward, sending both of them spinning through the dust. Nolan wiggled free and crabbed after the revolver, but Ethan beat him to it, kicked it under the boardwalk.

Nolan surged to his feet, eyes blazing. Ethan stumbled backward, trying to put some distance between himself and the burly gunman long enough to catch his balance, but Nolan was on him in a flash, throwing a roundhouse swing that would have broken Ethan’s jaw had it connected. Ethan managed to duck that one, but Nolan pressed forward, throwing punch after punch with machine-like efficiency. Ethan parried some, dodged others, took the rest in a mind-numbing blur of pain.

Nolan’s fists were like sledge-hammers pounding at his chest and ribs, rocking his head one way, then the other. Nolan could have finished it quickly if he’d wanted to. Instead he paused to savor his victory, a skeleton’s toothy grin splitting his face.

“You suckered me with a whiskey bottle the last time we fought, but it’s gonna be different this time,” the gunman hissed through his own mashed lips. “I’m gonna kill you with my bare hands, then I’m gonna spit in your face, the same way I spit in your old man’s face the day I shot him.”

Ethan swayed dizzily, blinking at the sweat and blood washing down over his left eye. Just a few feet away, Nolan seemed a hazy caricature of a human being, a slope-shouldered brute with fists the size of anvils, fire glowing hotly in his eyes.

He’s gonna beat you raw, boy, a voice said from behind him. Ethan looked. He saw his pa sitting astride a chunky pinto at the mouth of the alley behind the jail, his old Hawken rifle sloped across the saddle in front of him. Ethan frowned at the horse. “Dandy?” he mumbled, puzzled. Dandy had died fifteen years ago, after falling through the rotting ice of the Marias in spring.

You gotta get mean, boy, his pa insisted. You gotta remember what I taught ya.

“Yeah.” Ethan turned, became aware of a bloody drool crawling down his chin, and wiped it away. He remembered what Ira had said after his last encounter with Nolan Andrews: If it had been your daddy he’d tangled with, he’d probably be missing a few pieces of hide this morning.

“That’s true,” Ethan said to himself. Jacob Wilder had been a bare-knuckle brawler, but he fought to win, and usually did. “And me?” Ethan mumbled. “I’m Jacob’s boy.”

Nolan’s eyes had narrowed suspiciously. “You gone addled on me, Wilder? Who’re you talkin’ to?”

Ethan looked up, a lop-sided smile twisting his maimed features. “Come on and do it, gunman. Let’s see how tough you really are.” He stepped forward.

Nolan raised his hands in the precise stance of a trained pugilist—elbows in, knuckles forward, left foot forward for balance and thrust. He squinted from behind his fists.

Ethan threw a left that Nolan easily parried. Ethan edged to the side. Nolan pivoted to keep him centered. Ethan threw another left the gunman effortlessly blocked, then a right that he withdrew at the last instant. Nolan swatted empty air, and his eyes widened in surprise. Ethan stepped forward, slamming his foot at the gunman’s knee with bone-crunching force. Nolan howled and fell, and Ethan swooped on him like an diving eagle. They grappled inside their own cloud of dust, punching, gouging, kicking—Queensbury Rules abandoned in favor of something more primitive, and more deadly.

With Nolan’s thumb pressed into one eye, Ethan turned his head to sink his teeth into the web of flesh between the gunman’s thumb and forefinger. Nolan cursed shrilly and tried to drive a knee into Ethan’s groin, but Ethan twisted at the waist and the blow skidded harmlessly off the outside of his thigh.

They broke and Nolan staggered to his feet, but Ethan lunged before he was all the way up, wrapping his arms around Nolan’s waist and driving him back and down. He began swinging, an unrelenting assault that slowly but steadily broke through the killer’s defenses. Ethan pummeled Nolan’s already misshapened face, felt the cartilage of his nose soften like mush under his fists, saw the tiny white blossoms of broken teeth in the dirt on either side of his head. Yet the gunman refused to surrender; his own fists flew with unmatched fury, hammering the air from Ethan’s lungs, raining upward into his face, neck, and ribs.

Ethan pumped his fists ruthlessly, driven by a need to win no matter the cost, to set things right for Vic and his pa and for the hell they had all gone through. Nolan’s punches became a distant thing, distantly felt. Like the thumping of a ball bounced off the side of a house. There was no longer any pain, no feeling at all save for the mindless pistoning of his arms. He drove them wildly downward until light turned into darkness and the darkness carried him away.