Chapter 20
Dunbar glanced at the men sitting their horses to each side of him. He looked at Prophet then swung down from his saddle. The others began to dismount but froze when Prophet said, “Only Dunbar. You two are welcome to wait out here with your horses.”
“To hell with you,” said the man on Prophet’s right, and stepped to the ground.
“Yeah, you, big man,” said the half-breed, swinging down from his saddle and pointing an angry finger at the bounty hunter. “You put the hogleg down and we’ll fight man to man. I’ll break you in half, send you home in a bag!”
“Stand down, Curly,” Dunbar ordered.
“Maybe some other time, Curly.” Prophet wagged his pistol at the rancher. “Leave the Winchester in its sheath.”
Dunbar wrinkled a nostril at him then reluctantly slid his rifle into the scabbard strapped to his saddle. He stepped up onto the boardwalk, looked at Prophet disdainfully. “If you’re not a Creighton man, who are you?”
“A friend of your daughter.”
Dunbar gave a frustrated chuff then peered over the batwings. “Mary!” he said, and pushed through the doors.
Prophet returned the glares of Curly and the other Dunbar rider, both men standing in the rain beside their horses, then followed the rancher inside.
“Mary,” Dunbar said again, striding haltingly toward his daughter.
Mary still had her eyes on the floor, as though stricken.
Dunbar looked at John Leonard, who’d heaved himself to his feet and was leaning back against the bar, holding his wounded arm. Dunbar glanced at Prophet, who stood wide of the bar so he could keep everyone inside the saloon in sight while also keeping an eye on the batwings.
“What in hell is going on here?”
“Leonard took your daughter off the stage,” Prophet said. “She didn’t realize he no longer worked for you.”
Dunbar stared at Leonard. Leonard stared back at him, hatless, his chest rising and falling heavily as he breathed.
Showing his teeth like a demented dog, Leonard said, “I was just doin’ my job. The deal was Mary went to Sand. For thirty grand. It seems you didn’t tell Mary, so she was a little surprised when we got to the Jinglebob. She’ll get used to it in time. He’s a rich man, Sand is. Far richer than you, Dunbar. He’ll likely be showin’ up here any ole time now.”
Dunbar turned to yell over the batwings, “Keep an eye out for Creighton!”
The rancher turned back to Leonard. “So that’s why we saw him headed toward the Three-Box-D.” He turned to Mary. “He was after M-Mary. We were headed to town. I figured you’d eventually end up here, Mary. At least, I hoped. We heard riders comin’, turned off the trail, watched ’em pass. It was Creighton and four others, all right.” Dunbar scrubbed his weathered face with a battered hand. “Christ!”
Mary was staring up at him, her eyes a mixture of rage, despair, and disbelief. “So it’s true, eh, Pa? What they told me you did. You lost me in a poker game to Sand Creighton.”
Dunbar gave a deep, animal-like groan then whipped the sling from his shoulder, setting his left arm free. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees before his daughter, doffing his hat and tossing it onto the floor beside him. “Oh God, Mary—please forgive me!”
“It is true . . .”
“It’s true, but it was the act of a desperate man!”
Mary shook her head as she gazed at him through tear-shiny eyes. “What are you talking about—a desperate man?”
“I’m losing the ranch, Mary. Three hard winters in a row have crippled me financially. Creighton has better protected range in those canyons to the north. As far as hands, I am down to those four men out there. They are the last of my role, because I can’t afford to pay any more!”
“So rather than lose the ranch, you sold me to . . . your worst enemy?”
“I couldn’t relinquish the ranch. My father built it! Your aunt and I grew up there!”
“Aunt Grace is dead.”
“I know that. I saw the body on the stage . . . after the horses broke away and dumped it in a ravine.” Dunbar convulsed with a mewling wail, raked his big hand down his face, swallowed. “I’ve taken her home, buried her.” He turned to Prophet. “Who killed her?”
“A pack of outlaws at the Porcupine Station. They must have got word you were haulin’ that much money here on the coach. And your daughter . . . to sell.” Prophet put extra emphasis on sell, showing his disdain for the man on his knees before him.
Dunbar flushed sheepishly. He turned to Mary. She stared at her foster father, tears still streaming down her cheeks, upper lip quivering. Dunbar crawled forward, placed his hands on her knees. “There is something more. I’m dying. I have a cancer. A doctor in Cheyenne diagnosed it. I have three, maybe four months left.”
Mary didn’t respond to that. At least, not on the outside.
“The thirty thousand was to keep Grace in the house until she passed, and to keep a couple of men around to try and hold the wolves at bay.”
“You sold me for thirty thousand dollars,” Mary said, voice pitched with both awe and exasperation.
“For thirty thousand and the ranch, Mary!” Dunbar cried. “Thirty thousand and the ranch. Don’t you see? It was in your best interest. Creighton has money. He’s a rich man. While I may not like the man, our enmity stemmed from business. It wasn’t personal. He raised a family at his place, lost his wife a few years ago. He lost his little girl just after she was born; both boys died in a stampede. But he treated his kids and his wife well. They were well provided for. He would have treated you well, too. He would have provided for you.
“He’s old, Mary. Nearly as old as I. He won’t live that much longer. And then . . .” Dunbar shook his head in wonder. “And then all that land would have been yours. By then, Grace would likely also have died, and you could have had the Three-Box-D, as well. Combined the two ranges. You could have had an empire out here!”
Mary leaned forward, placed her hands on her father’s hands, atop her knees. Her hands were small, brown, smooth, and young. His were as large and red as roasts. They dwarfed hers. She dug her fingers into his flesh. “Did you ever think to discuss this diabolical scheme with me—your daughter?”
Dunbar frowned, as though perplexed by the question.
Mary wrinkled a nostril at him, shook her head. “No. You didn’t. Why? Because I’m Indian? Because, since I am Indian—though you did your best to raise me white—maybe you see me first as property and then as your daughter . . .”
“Mary, no.”
“That’s it, isn’t it, Pa?”
“Mary, sweet Mary—you could have had an empire!”
“Well, I’m sorry you didn’t ask me. If you had, I would have told you that I didn’t want an empire. There is no way in hell you’re ever going to get me to live with Sand Creighton!”
“Don’t worry. I realize what an awful mistake that was. Mary, I was drunk that night. And desperate. But believe me when I tell you that I realize what a mistake I made. I’m here to take you home. For good!”
“Yeah, well, Creighton himself is gonna have somethin’ to say about that,” John Leonard said, sneering.
Dunbar turned to him, rose with a grunt, knees popping. He squared his shoulders at the grinning Leonard then jerked his right hand down to his holster. He whipped up his Bisley .44 and sent two deafening blasts rocketing throughout the saloon.
Mary jerked in her chair and screamed.
The bullets slammed Leonard back against the bar. The man looked dumbfounded. Blood geysered from the twin holes in his chest. He twisted around, grabbed for the edge of the bar, but there was no strength in his hands.
He hit the floor on his knees then turned again and piled up at the bar’s base on his back, legs twisted, jerking and bleeding as he died.
“My God!” Lola said, leaping out of her chair and slapping a hand to her chest in astonishment.
Outside, more guns popped.
“Mr. Dunbar!” a man shouted. “We got trouble, Mr. Dun—!”
He was cut off by another blast. Horses whinnied shrilly. Men shouted.
As more guns popped, Prophet ran to the batwings and pressed his shoulder against the wall left of the doors. He shoved the left batwing open with his left hand and peered out.
Dunbar’s four men lay belly down in the street. Their horses were fleeing in opposite directions as six riders galloped up in front of the saloon, their horses kicking up mud from the growing puddles. They were led by a portly gent in a yellow india rubber rain slicker and a broad-brimmed, bullet-crowned, cream Stetson with an Indian-beaded band, the thong jostling beneath his chin.
All six turned their horses to face the saloon, smoking rifles resting butt down against their thighs.
Lightning flashed in the sky above them. Thunder clapped. The rain came straight down. Not a torrent by any means, but a steady summer squall.
“You in there, Dunbar?” shouted the portly gent—Sand Creighton, Prophet assumed. “We made a deal—you and me. You send the girl out here or we’re gonna come in and drag her out kicking and screaming!”
Dunbar had moved up behind Prophet, his pistol in his hand. He canted his head to the right, to see out the open batwing.
“Creighton!” he raked out. “Christ!”
Prophet glanced behind and jerked his head toward the saloon’s far wall. Quickly, Lola grabbed Mary’s arm, pulled the girl out of the chair, and ushered her out of the line of fire from the door.
Dunbar glanced at Prophet. “I’ll try to reason with him.”
“Might not be possible. He looks a mite het up.”
Dunbar brushed Prophet, pushing out the right batwing as he stepped onto the boardwalk. When the echo of another thunderclap had passed, he said, “I know we made a deal, Sand. But I’m reneging on it. I did an awful thing. I can’t turn Mary over to you. You can take your money back.” A brief pause. “And you can take the ranch, as well. It’s yours. Just leave Mary alone.”
“Where’s the money?” Creighton yelled above the rain.
Prophet stepped out to stand beside Dunbar. “It’s in the coach. In my saddlebags in the rear luggage boot.”
“The coach is piled up in Bull Creek north of town,” Dunbar added.
“Good to know,” Creighton said. He lifted his left hand. Prophet saw that he held a bottle in that hand. He raised the bottle to his lips, took a long drink, set the bottle back down on his thigh.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and grinned inside his wet, sandy-colored beard. “But I want the girl, too, Vance. She stabbed me in the belly. Nothin’ too serious. I’ll get over it. But I’ll be damned if I ain’t mad!” He gave a dry chuckle. “The little squaw needs a lesson taught her, and since you weren’t man enough to do it at home, it’s gonna be up to her husband. That’s me!”
“No!” Dunbar shouted. “I told you—you can have the ranch! Take your money back! But Mary is off the table!”
“No, she ain’t! She’s mine! I been wantin’ that little squaw for years! Now she’s mine, and I ain’t goin’ home without her!”
Dunbar bounded forward. “You drunken devil!” As he raised his Bisley, Creighton snapped his rifle to his own shoulder and fired.
Dunbar lunged back, stunned, and triggered his Bisley into the boardwalk.
“Get inside!” Prophet shouted, grabbing the wounded rancher by his arm, twisting him around and shoving him through the batwings.
As the bounty hunter turned around to face the six horseback riders, he was met with six separate gun flashes and a hail of hot lead storming toward him.