Soon ...
A horse’s head appeared, blaze-faced, wearing an ornate silver bridle. Then its neck . . . and then a rider, a fat man, sitting well back in the saddle.
McBride and the rider saw each other at the same instant. As McBride threw the rock, the fat man was frantically trying to bring up his rifle. The rock, heavy granite flecked with volcanic iron, crashed with tremendous force into the rider’s left cheekbone. The man threw up his arms and tumbled off his horse without a sound. He fell heavily on his back and his mount trotted past McBride, its reins trailing.
Quickly McBride stepped close to the fallen man, picked up the bloody rock and looked down at him. His cheekbone was smashed, that much was obvious. But the man was still conscious, his spiking gaze on McBride’s face filled with pain and anger. He was very fat and his eyes were dark brown, rare in a gunman. Creases at the corners of his mouth suggested a man who liked to laugh and did so often. He looked jolly and hearty, a fellow to drink with.
McBride was horrified. He knew he would have to kill this man to silence him.
That fear was realized when the fat man reached down for his holstered revolver and his mouth opened. He was going to shout for help! McBride swiftly dropped to a knee and smashed the rock into the gunman’s head. Then again and again, crushing blows that turned the man’s skull into a splintered pulp and scattered his blood and brains.
An acidic sickness surging into his throat, McBride stood and stared down at the faceless thing that had once been a man. He let the rock drop from his bloodstained hand and lurched against the arroyo wall where he bent over, retching.
But he could ill afford the luxury of regretting the death of a man he did not know. Nor could he grieve over his moment of insane, brutal violence. He pushed himself upright and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Quickly he stripped the dead man of his Colt, shoved it in his waistband, then picked up the Winchester.
Without looking at the man again, McBride ran back to the cabin. He found Sammy jumping at butterflies in a patch of yellow wildflowers, shoved the protesting kitten into his slicker, then slid the rifle into his saddle scabbard.
He climbed into the leather and made his way along the arroyo. The mist was thinning but when McBride glanced at the sky it was like looking at a blue sea through smoked glass. When he was twenty yards from the entrance of the arroyo he reined up the mustang.
The savage way he’d been forced to kill Harlan’s rider weighed heavy on him, affecting him deeply. He was not a man much given to melancholy, but he gloomily told himself that perhaps the price to bring down Jared Josephine and Thad Harlan might be more than he was willing to pay. If he had any powers left as a police officer, and that was doubtful, his jurisdiction ended at the city limits of New York. The town of Rest and Be Thankful, nest of outlaws though it was, was none of his concern.
Besides, he had to stay alive to ensure that his young Chinese wards could continue their education. Their welfare had to be his first concern.
Sick at heart, disgusted with himself and at the mess he’d made of things, McBride made up his mind. He would leave Deadman Canyon and ride far, ride until the new day’s bright young sun turned old and died into darkness, then ride some more.
He nodded. Yes, that was how it was going to be.
McBride slid the Winchester from the boot and readied himself. He kicked the mustang into motion and left the arroyo at a dead run.
Thad Harlan, Lance Josephine and the other two riders were waiting for him.
Chapter 11
A man’s actions in a dangerous situation depend very much on the level of his fear, and John McBride had fear in plenty. Four rifles pointed his way scared him, but as he’d once warned Harlan, when he got scared he got violent.
He made no attempt to swing away from the marshal and his riders but charged straight at them, firing the Winchester from his shoulder.
McBride was not good with a rifle and shooting off the back of the mustang with its short-coupled, choppy gait did nothing to improve his marksmanship. But his reckless charge had the effect of creating a gap between Harlan and Lance Josephine as the younger man sought to get away from the line of fire.
McBride rode for the gap, feeling the claws of the kitten dig into his skin as it desperately tried to hang on to his shirt. He was aware of Harlan firing at him and felt a hammer blow on his left side, just above the waistband of his pants. He swayed, stunned by the impact of the bullet and a sudden spike of pain, but kept his seat in the saddle.
Then he was through them and riding hell-for-leather to the north.
Behind him, McBride heard Josephine yell, a primitive cry that was almost a scream. ‘‘Get him! I want him alive!’’
McBride turned in the saddle and held his rifle straight out behind him like a pistol. He fired, missed clean, but made Josephine wary. The man was standing in the stirrups, yanking back on the bit, letting the others get ahead of him.
It dawned on McBride then that for all his reputation as a fast gun, Josephine was actually a coward. It’s one thing to gun down a clumsy, frightened man in a barroom, quite another to chase through a mist after a known hard case with a rifle and nothing to lose.
McBride wondered at Lance’s craven action. It was the first crack he’d seen in the Josephine family’s facade of ruthless invincibility. If Jared expected his son to increase his wealth and power, it seemed he was pinning his hopes on the wrong hoss.
A bullet split the air close to McBride’s head and another burned across his leg, inches above the top of his ankle boot. The mustang was game, but he was slowing and Harlan and his two riders were gaining.
The devil in him, McBride drew the Colt he’d taken from the man he’d killed. He turned and shot over his left shoulder, aiming at Josephine. He had no hope of hitting the man, but the bullet must have come close because Lance immediately swung his horse behind Harlan and again drew back on the reins.
McBride left the misty canyon behind and rode into open country that rose in a gradual incline ahead of him. Off to his left was a high, boulder-strewn rise, crowned with a belt of juniper and scattered piñon. Up there among the trees, he could find cover and make his fight. The mustang was faltering and the pain in McBride’s side was a living thing that gnawed at him with fangs. He glanced behind him. Harlan and his men were close and coming on fast.
The rise was a hundred yards away. The rising ground was making the going harder for the mustang and once it stumbled and almost fell. McBride, a poor horseman, had to frantically clutch for the horn with both hands and lost his rifle in the process. Sammy, frightened, had clung closer to his chest, digging with his claws as the horse faltered, adding a small pain to the greater agony in McBride’s side.
Grieving for his rifle, McBride headed for the rise, knowing he was not going to make it. Behind him the sound of hammering hooves was much closer and it was only a matter of time before Harlan or one of his men put a bullet in his back.
A rifle shot!
But it came from ahead of McBride and he saw a drift of smoke at the top of the ridge. More of Harlan’s men! But a split second later the rifle again made its flat statement and behind him McBride heard a man yelp and then curse.