Lon had decided during the night that come daylight he was going to make an attempt to escape from the hacienda. The longer he stayed the greater the chance he’d end up dead. He knew Don Castillo was only playing games with him. The Grandee could have him killed at the snap of his fingers. Lon had no intention of sitting back and allowing it to happen. If he had to die, let it happen while he was on his feet, making a fight of it — like a Kiowa warrior and not some toothless old man sitting in the sun just waiting for death to claim him.
He had thought of his people, too, the ones he’d come looking for. He was no damn use to them the way he was now. If they were to have any chance he had to make a try at breaking free. And there was Bodie. Out there somewhere with Castillo’s daughter — that wouldn’t be any picnic! Between the two of them they’d stirred up some dust around Castillo — it would be one hell of a waste to allow it to settle.
Lon had checked his room over. There was only one way out — through the door. The window, which looked out over the corrals and stables, was heavily barred. The floor was cold, hard stone. So the door had to be his route out of the place. All Lon had to do was to wait for it to be opened.
That didn’t happen until the middle of the morning. Lon heard the heavy bolt slide back and then the door swung open to admit the Mexican called Rivera. The passage beyond the door lay empty and clear.
“You will come with me,” Rivera said. He stood framed in the doorway, his right hand close to the butt of his holstered revolver, his eyes begging Lon to try something.
His brown face impassive, Lon got up off the bed and crossed the room.
“Come quickly,” Rivera snapped. “Don Castillo does not like to be kept waiting!”
“That so!” Lon murmured as he neared Rivera, and saw that the Mexican had started to lift his gun from the holster. Lon quickened his step, moving around Rivera. The Mexican twisted his body slightly so that Lon could step through the door. Lon took one more step, stopped dead in his tracks, and threw himself back against Rivera. The back of the Mexican’s head rapped against the thick wood with a solid thump. Lon came round full circle, left hand reaching out to grab for Rivera’s gun hand. He drove his knee up into Rivera’s groin and drew a pained gasp from the man. In the same instant Lon slammed the base of his right palm up under Rivera’s jaw; Rivera’s teeth snapped together with a brutal crack; teeth splintered and blood spurted from between his lips.
Lon, feeling Rivera’s gun hand pushing against his, turned his body in against the Mexican, closing the fingers of his right hand over the man’s wrist. He began to twist. Rivera gasped and clawed at Lon’s face with his free hand, drawing blood as his nails opened long, deep scratches down one side of the Kiowa’s cheek. Lon ignored the pain, using the stimulation to increase the pressure on Rivera’s wrist. There was a sudden crack as a bone splintered. The revolver slipped from Rivera’s hand. Drawing back from the moaning Mexican Lon looped a powerful left fist round, sledging a cruel blow to Rivera’s lean jaw. The Mexican spun away from the door, blood spraying from his slack mouth. He clutched the doorframe in an attempt to keep on his feet, but Lon came up behind him, plucking the slim-bladed knife Rivera carried from his belt, and with a practiced motion reached over the Mexican’s shoulder and slit his throat wide open. Rivera choked on the rising flood of blood. He slithered down the doorframe and curled up on the floor, his blood pooling around his black-clad body.
Lon picked up the revolver. He bent over Rivera and loosened the gun belt, sliding it free from the body. He buckled the belt round his waist, then made his way along the passage, towards the door at the far end.
The door opened well before Lon reached it. A Mexican, carrying a rifle, stepped through.
“Rivera?” he called. “Rivera.”
Lon lifted the revolver and triggered two shots into the man’s body. The impact threw the man sideways against the wall of the passage, his blood spotting the whitewashed adobe. The rifle clattered to the floor as the Mexican fell. Lon grabbed it as he stepped over the dead Mexican. He made sure it was ready for use. He knew he was going to need it now — those two shots would have the whole place on the alert!
He booted the door open. A stretch of dusty earth lay between him and the main house. There was no hesitation in Lon’s actions. He cleared the door and ran, making for the hacienda.
“Hey!”
An American appeared from over by the corrals. He had a raised gun in his hand. Behind him were two more of Kane’s Comancheros.
Lon swore softly. He threw himself full length across the ground, twisting his body before he touched the earth. He rolled easily, firing as he did. His first shot caught the lead Comanchero just above the belt-buckle. The man folded over as if he was hinged. The top of his head hit the ground with a sodden thump. He was still falling when Lon’s rifle crashed again. A second man went down, three bullets ripping through his chest, leaving ragged wounds in his back. The third Comanchero let himself fall to the ground, his handgun spitting flame and smoke in Lon’s direction. One bullet burned across the top of Lon’s left shoulder. It was the only one to touch him. Lon dropped the muzzle of the rifle, catching the Comanchero as he raised himself off the ground. The bullet drilled a neat hole in the top of the man’s skull, driving down through the brain; blood spurted from the hole in the skull, while more trickled from ears and nose; the Comanchero’s legs kicked spasmodically, his body tensing before it flopped limply against the bloody earth.
Lon was on his feet even as the third man was going down. He spotted other figures heading in his direction, and he knew he couldn’t stand them all off. He changed direction, cutting across a dusty compound towards a wooden door set in a long stone wall. Lon’s shoulder slammed against the door as his hand yanked back the heavy bolt. The door swung inwards and Lon followed it. Sunlight spilled into the room and he saw stacked wooden casks, wooden boxes and reels of what looked like white cord. A grin split his brown face. He turned, glancing back outside, and saw that the pursuing figures had halted. Some were even drawing back. Lon began to chuckle. They weren’t going to follow him in here!
He moved across the small storeroom. There was no other way out — just the one door. Not that it mattered. When he did leave this place it would be by the door he’d used coming in. He turned and began to inspect the casks of black powder, the boxes of dynamite, the reels holding fuse wire.
He leaned his rifle against the wall by the door. Dragging a box of dynamite from the top of the stack he used Rivera’s knife to prise off the lid. The dynamite lay in neat rows, like big candles. Lon took a reel of fuse wire and cut short lengths. He’d seen the stuff in use before; it was often used on ranches to clear away stubborn trees, to blast clear fouled up streams. Working quickly he fused a dozen sticks and carried them to the door.
Putting them aside he returned for a couple of powder casks. Back by the door he peered outside. Mexican and American faces were clustered together on the far side of the compound. Lon hefted one of the casks, estimating its weight.
“Here goes nothing,” he murmured softly, and hurled the cask out through the door. He watched it hit the hard ground and roll. Snatching up his rifle Lon aimed, fired, and fired again. His first bullets splintered the cask. Then he began firing at the iron bands that were bound around the cask. His hope was to clip one of the bands and cause a spark. It would only need one to ignite the powder, he hoped, then began to wonder if the idea had been such a good one as three shots failed to do a thing. He fired again, levered the rifle for another shot . . .
The compound shook as the powder exploded. There was a stunning thump of sound. A ball of flame gushed skywards, followed by a boiling mass of thick smoke. The force of the blast pushed Lon back through the door of the storeroom. The air was full of dust and splintered wood. It fell from the sky like rain. Lumps of hard earth and smoldering wood. A chunk of wood landed a few feet from the door, still smoking. Lon reached out and snatched it up. He began to gently blow the smoldering wood. The burned edges began to glow, to turn red as Lon coaxed the ember into life again. He reached out with his left hand and picked up one of the fused sticks of dynamite, gently touching the end of the fuse to the glowing wood. The fuse sputtered into life, seemed to fail, then sparked fiercely, the fuse burning much faster than Lon had anticipated. He lobbed the stick out across the compound, into the drifting cloud of smoke and dust. It went off with a sickening crunch. Lon heard men yell. One began to scream. Lon began to toss burning dynamite sticks out through the door at regular intervals, crisscrossing the compound. He saved the last stick. This one he lit, placed on top of the other boxes of dynamite, and then snatched up his rifle and got out of the storeroom fast. Outside the door he turned to the left, following the stone wall across one side of the compound. There was still enough dust and powder smoke around to conceal him and he reached the far side of the compound without being challenged. There was an arched opening in front of him. Lon slipped through and found himself in a walled garden, and in that instant the whole world seemed to explode around him in smoke and flame and noise. The ground rocked beneath his feet. Adobe walls cracked. Windows shattered. Men yelled. Horses screamed in pure terror. The stone arch Lon had stepped through tilted forwards and collapsed, showering him with debris. Lon staggered away from the wall, spitting dust from his mouth. A mixture of debris rained down out of the smoke-darkened sky. It pattered to earth all around him, some hitting him.
Crouching low Lon ran across a lush lawn. He could see a door on the far side of the garden that appeared to lead into the main house. The door opened at his touch, revealing a long, tiled passage. He ran to the far end and found himself in a large, airy room. At the far end was a huge open fireplace with a carved stone surround Heavy wooden furniture filled the room and the floor was littered with thick carpets and rugs. Paintings and weapons adorned the paneled walls.
Lon closed the door behind him, sliding home the metal bolt so that no one would be able to follow him through from that direction. He moved across the big room, not certain of his next move. All he could do, he realized, was to play the way the game was dealt to make his moves as and when the situation demanded.
He was halfway across the room when he heard a commotion coming from the other side of the double doors on the far side of the room. There was a sudden crash of sound. A man yelled. Shots rang out, and then the double doors crashed wide open . . .