Chapter Nine
“God blind me, he drove you off! You let one man put the crawl on you.”
“He wasn’t one man, Cap’n,” Barney Merden said. “He was a one-man army.”
“Get him,” Nate Condor said. “Find him and bring me back his head. I want him dead, you understand? Dead, dead, dead!”
“But he might be long gone by now.”
“I don’t give a damn. Go after him and find him. Take all the men with you.” Condor gave his second in command a scathing look. “There’s safety in numbers.”
Merden knew better than to argue.
The traits that had made English Nate a terror on the high seas—a violent temper and a willingness to kill—he still possessed. Added to those were his speed with a gun and his flashing skill with a knife. He wore two Colts in crossed gun belts, rare at that time in the west, and he badly wanted to use them that night.
Merden read the warning in the man’s glittering black eyes. “We’ll find him, Cap’n. We’ll turn over every damned rock until we do.”
“Then go. Get out of my sight. And remember, Barney, I want his head. I’ll make a damned soup from his skull and relish every hellish sup.”
After he heard his men ride out, Condor unbuckled his guns and tossed them on the table. He poured himself a whiskey, lit a cigar, and threw himself into a chair. Disappointment hung on him like a damp cloak. He’d thought his riders the most dangerous men on earth, yet when they’d come up against a real fighting man instead of a terrified pumpkin roller they’d cut and run.
The boss’s concept was a good one—chase every rube out of that part of the territory and complete the job without prying eyes reporting their every move to the army or the law. It was a plan that could work, and work well. But he’d been given cowardly rabble to work with, men he’d have fed to the sharks if they’d been part of his pirate crew.
Condor watched blue smoke curl over his head and reached a decision.
Hellfire was the answer.
Use the men he had and move against Recoil sooner than the boss had planned. Burn the damned town and shoot down the fleeing citizens like rabbits, and the rest of the settler scum would scamper for the hills.
Condor smiled. It was an excellent plan; one the boss would appreciate.
That is, while he remained boss. As things stood, there were too many men expecting a cut of the spoils, and eventually all of them would have to go, especially the boss who wanted the lion’s share.
He’d get paid all right, not in double eagles but in hot lead.
“Well?” Barney Merden said. “What’s your report, matey?”
The man who’d just walked out of the darkness said, “Two old men drinking coffee by a fire and talking. Nothing else.”
“You were with me at the big skedaddle,” Merden said. “Is one of them the man who attacked us?”
“Damned right he is. I’d recognize him anywhere.”
“Big feller, dressed like a puncher?” John Landers said from the darkness.
“Yeah, that was him.”
“Condor wants his head. He wants to make soup from his damned skull.” Merden looked around him. “Does everybody understand that? I want no slipups this time.”
“Hell, let’s go get the head.” Landers’ teeth gleamed white in the gloom. “Them old coots won’t know what hit ’em.”
Merden sat his saddle, hesitant. “We’ll lose men. The big feller is a demon with a rifle.”
“Not if we do it fast, Barney,” Landers said. “Ride in and gun ’em down. The job’s done real quick and ol’ Nate’s got his soup for supper.”
“Joe?” Merden said to the man who’d scouted the camp. “Let’s hear you, damn it.”
“Well, near as I can tell, it ain’t gonna be that easy.” Joe swung into the saddle of his paint. “Them old timers ain’t fools. They’re camped under a rock ledge with a stand of juniper on one side and a cliff face on t’other.”
“So we need to go at them straight on?” Merden said. “And across bare rock, damn their eyes.”
“I’d say that’s about how it shapes up,” Joe said.
“Hell, I don’t like it,” Merden said. “We’ll lose too many men riding into their rifles. Three, maybe four, and that’s my low count.”
“Some of the boys have torches,” Landers said. “We can burn ’em out.”
“Come to think on it, they got some dry brush in front of them,” Joe said, his face brightening. “That’ll burn with plenty of smoke. We’ll be on top of ’em before they know what’s hit them.”
Landers sought Merden’s eyes in the darkness. “Is it a go, Barney?”
“Damn right it’s a go. Get the torches lit and we’ll smoke ’em.”
Shamus O’Brien was stretched out, dozing by the fire, the pain in his lower back allowing no sounder sleep.
A restless and uneasy man, Luther Ironside remained awake and his eyes constantly scanned the darkness. The stars glittered close as they always did in the high country, and the air smelled musky of pine. The night was so quiet he fancied that if he listened hard enough he could hear lime green frogs splash into the mountain rock pools.
He allowed himself to become drowsy, lulled by the crackling fire and the rustle of the breeze, and his head dropped lower until his stubbled chin rested on his chest.
Then Ironside slept . . .
He didn’t see the first flaming arc of a torch trail sparks through the air and land on brush. Then a second. And a third.
Thick, acrid smoke woke him. He shook Shamus awake, but no words were needed. Ten men had already emerged through the reeking haze, their rifles trained on Ironside, the man they considered the most dangerous.
“Stay right where you’re at,” Merden said. “Or by God I’ll drop you right where you stand.”
Shamus froze in mid-movement as his hand reached for his holstered gun. The Winchester muzzle rammed into his right ear convinced him it wasn’t the best time to make a play.
Ironside, his eyes red and smarting, his Colt hanging loose at his side, also decided not to buck the odds. He let the revolver fall from his hand.
“Get their guns, boys,” Merden said. “And bring them with us out of this damned smoke.”
Shamus and Ironside, prodded with guns, followed Merden out of the acrid murk to a clearing angled by moonlight.
“Hey, Barney,” Landers said, grinning, “you gonna cut the big guy’s head off, like Condor wants?”
“Hell, no. Let him do his own cuttin’. We’ll take them back with us.” Merden waved his rifle in Shamus and Ironside’s direction. “Rope ’em up good and get ’em on their horses.”
Shamus leaned closer to Ironside and whispered, “About now, I wish my sons were here.”
Ironside nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Right now, I’d settle for just Jake.”