Guns of the Vigilantes

“They’re just ahead of us,” the Kiowa said.

“Black-Eyed Susan just scouted her backtrail. Wait . . . she’s stopped.”

“She’s waiting for us,” Dan said. “She thinks she has nothing to fear.” A word clogged in his throat, and he finally managed, “God knows, but she’s a beautiful woman.”

“Beauty and the beast, two women in one skin,” the Kiowa said.

“I know it,” Dan said. “But it sure doesn’t make this arrest any easier.”

“She won’t be arrested,” the Kiowa said.

Dan nodded but said nothing.

He and the Kiowa rode closer through a bright, clear West Texas morning that late summer of 1888, and across the prairie, mistflowers were in bloom and lark buntings sang.

When he and the Kiowa were fifty yards from Susan Stanton and the girl, they dismounted and closed the distance on foot. They stopped at pistol-fighting range and Dan said, “Susan Stanton?”

The woman smiled. “You’re aware of who I am.”

Susan had pulled her hair back and tied it at the nape of her neck with a rawhide string. Dan had once heard that it was a precaution longhaired gunmen took to avoid their hair flying across their faces during a fight. He’d never expected to see a woman do it. Her twin gunbelts were crossed over her hips, pistol butts slightly forward for the draw. Her left hand strayed to the oval medallion around her neck that bore an image of Macha, the man-slaughterer, the Celtic goddess of war and death.

“I’m Deputy Sheriff Dan Caine. Do you know why I’m here?” Dan said.

“Sure, you’re a rube lawman come to arrest me for kidnapping”—she took her hand from the medallion and waved in Jenny’s direction—“this little slut.”

“And for taking part in the massacre of the girl’s family,” Dan said. He swallowed hard and said, “Now unbuckle your gunbelts and let them fall to the ground.”

Susan shook her head. Her slim, elegant hand was near the pearl handle of her Colt. “That is not my intention.” She turned her head slightly and said to Jenny, “Get over there beside the lawman. I want you where I can see you.”

Jenny walked toward Dan but had the good sense to stand well apart from him.

“Miss Stanton, please don’t make me use force,” Dan said. “Surrender now and I promise you’ll get a fair trial.”

“Don’t be stupid, little man,” Susan said. “You’re arresting nobody.”

Her eyes moved to the Kiowa, and Dan said, “He’s not a part of this. You’re dealing with me.”

Dan didn’t anticipate what happened next. It was so blindingly fast, so ruthless, it took him completely by surprise.

Susan Stanton drew and shot the Kiowa. Dan saw the Indian stagger back a couple of steps, sudden blood on his shirt, then crumple to his knees before pitching over onto his face.

“Now he’s not a part of this,” Susan Stanton said. She smiled, enjoying the situation. Her mouth drew tight and small. “Now get on your horse and ride away. Don’t look back or I’ll gun the Calthrop tramp.”

Anger slashed at Dan Caine like the serrated edge of a red-hot knife.

“You damned . . .” he drew and a split second later the realization hit him that he was slow . . . way too slow. Susan Stanton’s bullet hit him on his left side and she took time over her second shot, right arm straight out using the sights like a duelist. Dan, faint from the hit, tried to bring up his gun. Too late.

BAMM!

The shot tore through the still morning like a great shard of glass.

Dan Caine watched in horrified surprise as the bullet slammed into Susan Stanton’s corset, just between her breasts. The woman screamed, not in anger, nor in fear, but in an unholy, screeching rage that came from the black recesses of her soul. Dan Caine forgotten, dying on her feet, the urge to kill was still strong in her. Susan Stanton swung her gun in the direction of Jenny Calthrop, who stood holding the Kiowa’s smoking Colt in both hands.

Dan had a fraction of a second to make the shot. There could be no hesitation. He fired and instantly a small red rose blossomed between Susan Stanton’s eyes. For a moment, the woman stared at Dan Caine with fading eyes, and then she dropped to the ground.

Gun in hand, Dan stepped to the body. It was strange that in death all her spectacular, animated beauty fled her and all that remained was an empty, soulless shell.

Revulsion strong in him, Dan turned away. A glistening fan of blood spread upward from just above his gunbelt to midway up his left side. The wound pained him considerably, and he felt weak and sick as he walked to where Jenny Calthrop kneeled beside the Kiowa.

Jenny rose and rushed to Dan. “How bad are you hit?” she said.

“I don’t know. How is Gomda?” Dan said. Then, by way of explanation, “The Indian.”

“The bullet went all the way through his shoulder,” Jenny said. “It’s a bad wound.” She studied Dan’s face and said, “I think you’d better sit down.”

“Let me see Gomda first,” Dan said.

Dan half kneeled, half collapsed beside the Kiowa. The man’s eyes were open, but he seemed to be in considerable pain. “How are you feeling?” Dan said.

The Indian managed a small smile. “A white man’s question deserves a white man’s answer. I’m doing just fine.”

“What’s a Kiowa answer?” Dan said.

“I’m in great pain, but it tells me I’m not dead yet.” The Kiowa touched Dan’s chest. “For a while I was out like a dead cat. You killed Susan Stanton?”

“Jenny Calthrop killed Susan Stanton. I just finished her off.”

The Kiowa nodded. “The woman was truly evil, and I rejoice at her death.” He took his hand from Dan’s chest and saw blood on his fingers. “You’re wounded,” he said.

“Black-Eyed Susan put a bullet into me,” Dan said.

“And it’s still inside you,” Jenny said. “Dan, I must get you to a doctor.”

“It’s a fair piece to Thunder Creek, and there is no doctor,” Dan said.

“There’s a doctor in Paint Rock,” Jenny said. “I’ll wire the sheriff and tell him we need help.”

“Hell, I’ll be dead by then,” Dan said.

“No, you won’t,” Jenny said, her face stubborn. “I won’t let you die, so there.”

“I don’t think I can get up again,” Dan said. “How do I get on my horse?”

“With great difficulty and a lot of pain,” Jenny said.

Dan shook his head. “I hope you never become a nurse.”

“Until we reach Thunder Creek, I am your nurse,” the girl said. “Don’t worry, I had brothers, and I know how to set a broken bone and treat cuts and bruises.”

“How are you with gunshot wounds?” Dan said.

“I’ve seen a lot of those recently, but I’ve never treated one,” Jenny said.

The girl sacrificed the tattered remainder of her chemise to tightly bind up Dan’s side and the Kiowa’s shoulder. “That may stop the blood,” she said. “But I don’t know.”

Dan wasn’t feeling too good, and he couldn’t muster the strength to make a comment.

Jenny stripped saddle and bridle from her horse, slapped its rump and watched it trot away, tossing its head. She then caught up Susan Stanton’s big American stud, a harder mount to handle, but a much better horse.

To her surprise, the Kiowa was back on his feet, but blood already stained the fat bandage at his shoulder. “I’ll help you get Deputy Caine into the saddle,” he said.

Dan weighed a hundred and seventy pounds that summer, but for a wounded man and a young girl he was a deadweight, and they struggled mightily to get him onto his horse, and when he finally got seated, his feet in the stirrups, he apologized profusely for all the trouble he’d caused.

“You’re wounded, Deputy Caine,” Jenny said. “So none of that was your fault.”

“Except come tomorrow morning, when we have to do it all over again,” the Kiowa said. But despite his own pain, he smiled.

Before they headed north, Jenny took one last look at Susan Stanton’s body.

“Doesn’t . . . doesn’t seem right leaving her there . . . huh?” Dan said. He was slumped in the saddle and barely able to talk.

“I think she’d have killed me today or tomorrow,” Jenny said. “And she would’ve left my body where it fell.” She shook her head. “I think early in her life Susan Stanton discovered that doing evil was easy, and I have no sympathy for her. As she would have done to me, let her lie where she fell.”

“Not one to hold a grudge, are you, little lady?” Dan said, gasping the last few words of that question.

“I hated her because I was afraid of her,” Jenny said. “Tonight, I’ll pray for God’s forgiveness.”