Blaze! Night Riders Page 2

  That set them muttering, not in a happy way. J.D. supposed that Kate had done it now.

  "Well, since you put it that way," said the mob's spokesman, "how 'bout we just go on and shoot you from the front?"

  * * *

  Brent Bodine believed he had it covered, with eleven men, himself included, up against one fella and his woman, for God's sake. All right, so they had killed a bad man whom he'd heard of in the territory, but so what? Bodine knew about bounty hunters stalking men, sniping them from a distance when their backs were turned, all nice and legal just because some WANTED poster bore the words "Dead of Alive."

  Or maybe it had been the woman, pretty as you please and shapely, even in an outfit that a man might have selected for a day out on the trail. She could have charmed old Bad Eye while her partner snuck up on him from behind—or, hell, shot him herself while he was looking at her goodies.

  Either way, eleven guns against the two of them were killer odds, no matter how you sliced it. Bodine hadn't killed himself a woman yet, although he had a rope around the dark one's neck and planned to send her off as soon as they were finished with the meddlers. And the more he thought about it, if a female threatened someone with a gun, what difference was there shooting her, than gunning down a man?

  Nothing at all.

  So Bodine went ahead and told the pair of them, after they'd sassed him about back-shooting, "Well, since you put it that way, how 'bout we just go on and shoot you from the front?"

  And then it went to hell in nothing flat.

  Bodine saw both the strangers drop their Winchesters—the Yellow Boys, with fifteen rounds apiece packed in their magazines—and aim them straight into the middle of his mounted team. Before he had a chance to reach the big Colt Army Model six-gun holstered on his belt, they'd started firing like they meant to kill the whole damned bunch.

  Bodine heard something whistle past his hooded face, or maybe felt it, even through the flour sack, and then his silver dapple gelding bolted, didn't even give Bodine a chance to grab his Henry rifle from its saddle boot before the animal was on its way and out of there.

  He yelled, "Shit fire! Hold up!" but it was just for show, no tension on the reins to stop the animal from running for its life—and his. In fact, he didn't want to stop; it was the very last damned thing on Earth he wanted at that moment, as the gunfire crackled on behind him and he heard more weapons joining in.

  * * *

  It wasn't much, as far as killing went, particularly with so many men involved. J.D. knocked one guy from the saddle with his first shot, and he saw Kate plug another's shoulder, blood spurting and the impact nearly downing him, but somehow he held on and wheeled his black buckskin around and slumped across the pommel, hanging on while it escaped.

  Kate let him go, busy firing at the others but not very serious about it, shooting more to scare and scatter them than stretch them on the ground. J.D. followed her lead, and in another moment all they saw was dust, nine hooded riders following the first one who had broken from the group and hammering across the plains northwestward, with a couple of them firing pistols backward in a half-hearted attempt to act like men.

  J.D. squeezed off a final round to chase them, hitting no one, then he turned back to the dark-skinned couple sitting atop horses, each one with a noose in place. Their mounts were skittering a little bit and whinnying, spooked by the shooting until Kate rode up beside them, speaking softly, calming them right down.

  She had that way about her when she wanted to, with animals and people, all the same. But if you riled her up, like seconds earlier, watch out.

  J.D. rode up beside the captive man, putting his Winchester away, and told him to rest easy while he loosened up the noose, then cut the rawhide thongs that bound his hands behind his back. Able to breathe again, the man muttered his thanks and watched while Kate released the woman from her bonds.

  She proved more talkative than her companion, telling them, "Thank God for you! You saved our lives!"

  "Just passing by toward Yankton with our friend, here," Kate replied, giving them time to eye the shrouded corpse of Bad Eye Voightlander. "We figured hoods don't mean a legal hanging, whatever they claim you've done."

  "Trying to live, is all," the black man answered, clinging to his saddle horn with trembling hands. "It's getting so that ain't allowed around these parts, unless the top man smiles at you."

  J.D. was of a mind to send them home, wherever that might be, and let them make the best of it, but Kate spoke up, asking, "You want to ride along with us awhile, in case the flour sacks come back?"

  "Yes, ma'am," the dusky woman said. "We oughta tell the sheriff about this, I guess."

  "Like he don't know already," snorted her companion.

  "We don't know that for a sure thing, Amos."

  Hearing one of them pronounce a name, Kate jumped right into introductions. It turned out the couple's name was Hilliard, they were married, and the woman's given name was musical: Calliope. They each thanked Kate and J.D. half a dozen times for helping them, then finally agreed that they should take the lyncher Kate had drilled and carry him to town, as well.

  Before they put him on his horse, J.D. removed the corpse's hood, but neither of the Hilliards recognized his chubby face. He weighed a bit, and it was hard work draping him across his saddle, but they got it done at last and struck off from the mob's intended hanging site.

  As they rode on toward Yankton, trailing Bad Eye and the other stiff on uncomplaining mounts, J.D. watched for the gunmen they had scattered, half expecting some of them to find their balls and double back to fight some more, but none appeared. In spite of that, he couldn't help believing that they'd bitten off a chunk of trouble for themselves, and that they'd find it hard to chew.

  Chapter 3

  Yankton was more or less what J.D. had expected for a county seat and capital of the Dakota Territory. It was a river town on top of that, facing Nebraska from the north bank of the broad Missouri River, with its docks not far away from a two-story capital building and courthouse, with churches, a school, and the standard assortment of shops.

  The county sheriff's office wasn't hard to find, located next-door to the courthouse where the shackled prisoners could be escorted to their trials without a tiring trek. There'd also be some kind of prison, likely situated outside town a bit, where those convicted by the court would serve their time or kick air at a taut rope's end in expiation for their crimes.

  No problem there, for Bad Eye Voightlander, whose wasted life had run its course. J.D. and Kate had saved the territory far more than it would have spent trying the outlaw, and then housing him for years or hanging him to thrill the local populace.

  As for the other body they were bringing in, well, that was still up in the air.

  A large man with a pistol on his hip, badge on his vest, was lounging on a bench outside the sheriff's office when the six of them, four living, rode up to the hitching post out front. He had a long face underneath a Stetson with a rolled brim and a snakeskin band, broad shouldered and broad chested, but somewhat bandy-legged as he rose to eyeball them.

  "Sheriff?" Kate asked, to break the ice.

  The big man nodded. "Jordan Kersey, in the flesh. I recognize the Hilliards, there. And you are...?"

  Kate went through the introductions for the second time that morning, then said, "Wrapped up on the bay we have one Zeno Voightlander, delivered up to you for the reward that's posted on him."

  "Bounty hunters," Kersey said, his tone stopping a hair north of contempt.

  "Correct," J.D. replied, not backing down from it an inch.

  "And who's your other passenger?" the sheriff asked. "More money on the hoof?"

  "We couldn't tell you that," Kate said. "Ran into him and more, masked up, trying to hang this couple you already know."

  The sheriff blanched a shade at that. Frowning, he asked, "Is that true, Amos?"

  "Yessir," Amos Hilliard answered.

  "And he pulled on you?" Kers
ey asked no one in particular.

  "They all did," J.D. said. "At least one more of them was hit, before they turned tail and rode off."

  "I'll have a look at this one, then, before I warn the sawbones." That said, Kersey stepped down from the elevated wooden sidewalk, moving up beside the would-be lyncher's mount. Grabbing some wiry hair, he turned the dead face for a better view, then let it drop.

  "I know him," Kersey said. "It's Arnie Sallinger. He has—er, had—a little spread southeast of town a mile or two. Reckon he's left it to his wife and two small boys."

  J.D. supposed that was supposed to make him feel bad, but it wasn't working. Every man who'd ever tried to kill them almost certainly had relatives. Whether they mourned the errant dead was their problem, not his.

  Kate answered for the two of them, saying, "I guess he should have been working his farm, instead of hanging folks."

  "And what's with all his buddies wearing masks?" J.D. inquired.

  He caught a glance between the Hilliards and saw Sheriff Kersey wince a little. There was something on the lawman's mind, but when he answered, all he said was, "Beats me. People break the law, a lotta times they try to hide their faces while they're doing it."

  Kate shook her head when J.D. looked at her, so all he said was, "We'll just leave the bodies here then, Sheriff. How long will it take to muster that reward on Voightlander?"

  "A few hours," Kersey replied, sounding distracted. "If you wanna rest a spell—"

  "We'll see about a room at the hotel," Kate said, "and let the Hilliards go about their business now."

  * * *

  The hotel called itself the Yankton House, as if it were the only place in town where people stayed and went to sleep. The clerk was middle aged, smelled of tobacco, and had sallow skin. His salt-and-pepper hair was thinning in a pattern J.D. hadn't seen before, retreating from his temples and around his ears, while that on top stayed thick and stiff. He greeted them with all the charm of a dyspeptic undertaker.

  "May I help you, Mister...?"

  "Blaze," J.D. replied, "J.D., that is, and this is my wife, Kate."

  "We need a room," Kate said, determined not to let the clerk ignore her. "For tonight, at least, maybe a little longer. Hard to say."

  "Of course." The clerk allowed his eyes to shift between them, back and forth, but kept on coming back to J.D.'s face. "Might you have any preference?"

  "Rooms pretty much alike?" Kate prodded him.

  "In size," he said. "Except, that is, the presidential suite on the top floor."

  "You ever have a president stay here?" asked Kate.

  "Um, not as yet."

  "We spent some time with one, not long ago," she needled him. "The president, in fact. Ulysses Grant?"

  "I've heard of him," the clerk said, stiffly.

  "Anyway, we'll take a normal room," J.D. put in, before Kate got carried away. "How 'bout the second floor, something facing the street?"

  "A river view," the clerk corrected him. "Of course, sir. That runs two dollars per night."

  Kate was on the verge of calling it excessive, then she thought about the money they had coming from the sheriff and decided they could handle it. When J.D. caught her eye, she nodded curtly and he closed the deal. Two minutes later they were on their way upstairs with rifles, saddlebags, and other gear they'd taken from their horses, both now tied below.

  Their room had all the basics: bed, chairs, one small table, chifforobe, and a small vanity with a tall mirror for the patrons who liked to admire themselves. J.D. was studying the bed when Kate said, "We should find the livery and board our animals, then go someplace to eat."

  "You're right," he said, and tucked his Winchester inside the chifforobe.

  * * *

  "I don't like going back out to the farm alone, Amos," Calliope declared.

  "We have to go sometime," he told her, weary-voiced.

  "But not alone. Not so soon after them rednecks tried hangin' us."

  "Sooner is better," he replied. "They're scattered now and hidin' out. They won't be comin' back for us too soon. Leastways, not this soon."

  "But they'll come," she said. "You know they will."

  "Guess so. But if we run, we'll never stop. The homestead dream goes up in smoke and we've got nothin' but a life out on the road somewhere."

  "We should've gone to Canada."

  "Too late for that," he said. "We've put down roots, more ways than one. Crop's in the ground, we've got a house that's ours alone, and I ain't lettin' any crackers run us off."

  "You'd rather die?"

  "I'd rather fight and win."

  "You're dreamin' now."

  "I'm goin' back," he told her, tone unyielding. "If you want to stay in town and see about the next stage north, I'll get some money from the bank soon as it opens."

  Now she looked as if he'd slapped her, but Amos had no intent of turning back.

  "At least," she said at last, half whispering, "can we have someone ride back with us to the farm? Make sure it's safe and all?"

  "Who's gonna do that for us? Sheriff Kersey?"

  "I was thinking of J.D. and Kate," Calliope replied.

  "Why would they want to get involved?"

  "They are involved, Amos, by choice. And look, right there they come!"

  The Hilliards were just passing by the Yankton House, mounted on horses that the hanging mob had left with them when they lit out for parts unknown. Cursing under his breath, Amos replied, "You wanna ask them, go ahead. Me, I can't bring myself to do it."

  "Fine. Just wait right here."

  Calliope called out, just as the Blazes were untying their two animals in front of the hotel. She eased up to them, putting on her best sad face, and told them what she wanted—what she needed, if she planned on going home this day, when she had nearly died at hostile hands. J.D. and Kate exchanged a look, the man seeming more negative, just like her Amos, but then Kate shrugged and reminded him, "We've got some time to kill."

  "I'd rather kill it in our room," J.D. replied, clearly unhappy with the thought of playing escort to a pair of living targets.

  "We'll have ample time for that when we get back," Kate said, frowning at him as if in disappointment with his attitude.

  It worked. The tall man said, "All right. But first, I'd better go upstairs and fetch our Winchesters."

  * * *

  Deputy Cecil Rice spurred his red dun stallion toward the Circle F spread, east of Yankton, hoping someone else hadn't preceded him with the bad news. He earned his second salary—a damn sight better than the monthly pay he got from Yankton County—doing favors for the ranch's owner, Ellis Fields, and that included bringing news that made a difference, whether the bulletin was good or grim.

  Around the county, Rice's friends referred to him as "Sandy," for the washed-out ginger color of his thinning hair. When he was growing up, a few had called him "Porky," but they dropped that when he got his growth, slimmed down a bit, and proved a readiness to use his fists on anyone who disrespected him.

  These days he had a badge and gun to help with that, but confidence was still something he had to work on daily, even with his more or less respectable position in the county. When he drank, mostly alone at night, Rice still felt like the little fat boy who'd been teased and pushed around in school.

  Outriders from the Circle F detected him on his approach and came to meet him, seeming, as they always did, to rise out of the earth from nowhere. Everyone who worked for Mr. Fields knew Rice by now. They asked no questions when he dropped by unannounced, but always trailed him to the big house, watching while the boss came out to welcome him before they rode away.

  This early afternoon, Fields wore a long-sleeved shirt with silver buttons down the front and at the cuffs, over a pair of neatly pressed blue jeans and jet-black boots. He was already waiting on the broad front porch when Rice approached the house, frowning as if he'd just smelled something rotten in the yard.

  "I heard," he said, without preamble, just
as Rice was getting off his horse.

  Damn it! Too late!

  "Figured you might have, Mr. Fields," Rice said, bobbing his head. "I dunno if you heard about the folks that done it talking to the sheriff, though."

  The frown that Ellis wore shifted a little closer to a scowl. "That's news to me," he said, not asking Rice inside, out of the sun. "Go on."

  "A man and wife they are, called Blaze," Rice said. "J.D. and Kate, I think it was they told the sheriff."

  "Never heard of them."

  "Me, neither. They were bringing in what's left of Zeno Voightlander, for the reward, when they ran into Mr. Bodine and his boys."

  "Killed Arnie Sallinger," Fields said, "and wounded Gus McOwen."

  "Right." The bobbing nod again. "I got a look at Arnie. Sheriff's talking to Doc Ansen, case the other one comes in to get patched up."

  "He won't," Fields said. "We're tending to him. It's a shoulder, through-and-through. He'll be laid up a while and owe me work when he gets on his feet again."

  No slack for anyone from Mr. Fields.

  "Sounds good," Rice said, as if the boss had asked for his approval. Which would never happen in this life or any other. "Anyhow, I thought you oughta know they're booked into the Yankton House."

  "Staying around?" The boss was full on scowling now, and no mistake.

  "Tonight, at least. Waiting for the reward to clear. The territory put four thousand dollars—"

  "On Voightlander. I'm aware. If you hear any other news about this man and wife—whether they're staying on or leaving—let me know first thing."

  "Yes, sir. I surely will."

  Dry from the ride and their palaver, seeing no hope of a drink, Rice clamored back aboard his dun and tipped his hat to Ellis as he turned to leave. No word about the Hilliards, but he let it go at that, and thankfully.

  Chapter 4

  The Hilliard farm was six miles out of Yankton, more or less due north. J.D. and Kate were quiet as they flanked the couple, riding out of town, people along Main Street eyeballing them, but Kate was curious and opened up once they had cleared the city limits.