Brotherhood of Evil (8 page)

Chapter 16

Halfway up the stairs, Joe Kiley gave serious consideration to turning around, dashing out of the saloon, jumping on his horse, and riding away as fast as he could. Green and Larson could damn well fend for themselves.

Trask had promised all his men a big payoff, though. It was hard for Joe to balance saving his own hide against maybe being a rich man. Rich by his own lights, anyway, which wouldn't take all that much since he'd never really had anything to speak of except a horse, an old saddle, and a gun.

So he kept climbing, with one hand on Green's arm to steady him because of the bad leg. In the two days it had taken to get there, the bullet hole in Green's thigh had started to fester. Green was worried that the leg might have to come off. Joe figured that was a real possibility. He was pretty damn sure Larson's arm was going to have to go. It was beginning to swell and turn black.

The door to Trask's room was open. They were a sorry-looking bunch as they went inside.

The rooms at Zeke's were nothing fancy, but somehow Jonas Trask made any room he was in seem at least a little elegant. He stood beside a long table with a piece of canvas draped over it, holding a snifter of brandy. He swirled the amber liquid slightly as he smiled again. “Come in, gentlemen. Come in.”

Green limped in, followed by Larson.

Joe brought up the rear.
Too late to run now,
he told himself. He remembered his pa reading stories from the Bible when he was a kid . . . especially the one about some hombres who'd found themselves in a lion's den. That was sort of the way he felt.

With his foot, Trask pushed a ladderback chair closer to them. “William, you should get off your feet. Sit down.”

Green, whose first name was Bill, shook his head. “I reckon I'm all right, boss. Larson here is in worse shape than I am.”

“Well, then, you should sit down, Charles,” Trask told Larson. “You do look a bit puny, I must say.”

Larson lowered himself onto the chair, being careful of his wounded arm. “I'm feelin' a mite puny, boss, and I don't mind sayin' it.”

Trask sipped the brandy but didn't offer them a drink. “I didn't expect to see you gentlemen quite this soon. I was going to send a man to check with you in another day or two and bring you back if you had the information I sent you to get.”

Green nodded. He rested a hand on the wall next to him to steady himself. “We've got it, boss. That's why I figured it would be all right to go on and rendezvous with you here, once we'd tangled with Jensen's men.”

Trask's voice was sharp as he asked, “But not Jensen himself?”

Green shook his head. “No, sir, he's not there on the Sugarloaf, just like you thought. They're not expecting him back for another week, maybe two.”

“You're certain of that?” Trask looked intensely interested at that news.

Green nodded toward Larson. “Chuck heard Mrs. Jensen talking to one of the hands. She's the one who said it, and I reckon she ought to know.”

“Indeed she should,” Trask agreed. “What happened? How did the two of you get shot? You were supposed to stay out of sight and not engage Jensen's men.”

Green, who had been in charge, explained about the gun battle. Joe was glad to let him do it. There was an old saying about shooting the messenger, and he didn't want that to be him.

Green concluded the story by saying, “I'm sorry, boss. I thought we were bein' plenty careful. I'm not sure how they spotted us. One of those cowboys must have eyes like an eagle.”

Trask didn't say anything, just stood there nodding slowly as if considering everything Green had told him.

Nervously, Green went on. “The important thing is that we found out what you wanted to know, right? We've got a pretty good idea of how many men Jensen has riding for him, and we know their routine. And we know that Jensen himself isn't there and won't be for a while.”

“You're right. That's very important,” Trask agreed.

Green began to look a little less anxious.

“I'd hoped I could gather a large enough force to make our move before Jensen returned from Arizona, and it appears now that I can. Twenty more men are supposed to arrive tomorrow. That will increase our numbers to a hundred.” Trask hadn't moved.

Joe wondered how the boss man could afford to pay that many hired guns, but it was no business of his, he supposed. And to tell the truth, so far, they had gotten more promises than
dinero
.

Trask threw back the rest of the brandy, set the empty snifter on the table, and began to pace back and forth on the Navajo rug. The expression on his lean face became more intense. “Many men have tried to defeat Smoke Jensen in the past and failed. Their mistake was that they'd attacked him directly. I intend to take a more strategic approach and use against him those things that are most precious to him.”

Green frowned worriedly. “Should we have tried to grab his wife? I'm not sure we could've gotten our hands on her without getting killed—”

Trask stopped him with an expansive gesture. “No, no, it's actually best that you didn't. Mrs. Jensen is a vital part of my plan . . . but only one part. Other men have kidnapped her and tried to use her to bend her husband to their will, but again, they've always failed. It's like having one ace in a poker hand. That may be the most powerful card, but it can't win the game by itself. What I'm after is a royal flush.” Trask punched his right fist into his left palm. “I want everything—Mrs. Jensen, the ranch, the crew, even the town. I've studied Smoke Jensen, and I know he has many friends in the settlement of Big Rock. We'll take it, too, and when Jensen returns he'll find everything he cares about is in my hand!” Trask held up his open right hand and closed the fingers in a tight, convulsive grip. “Everything!”

That sounded like a good plan to Joe Kiley, although he had always been the sort to let somebody else do the thinking for him whenever he could. Trask seemed to be in a pretty good mood, so Joe was bold enough to ask, “We're gonna raid the town first?”

“Exactly. When Big Rock is firmly under our control, we'll use it as our base of operations to take over Sugarloaf.”

Green warned, “There'll be a lawman there.”

Trask blew out a dismissive breath. “Monte Carson. I've looked into the man's background. A decent sort, a competent lawman, but no match for us. He has a handful of deputies, but they'll be no trouble, either.”

“How soon do we ride?”

“As I said, the remainder of our force should be here tomorrow. We'll depart the next day and should arrive in Big Rock approximately three days from now.” Trask clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Not you, however, William. With that wounded leg, you're in no shape for a hard ride and a harder fight.”

Green sucked in his breath and stood up straight instead of leaning against the wall. He said hurriedly, “I'm fine, boss. This is just a bullet graze. I've been plugged worse.”

“I think it's startin' to fester,” Joe said.

Green shot him an angry look.

“Is that so?” Trask raised his eyebrows.

“No, it's fine, I tell you—”

Trask held up a hand to stop Green's protests. “I'll take a look at it,” he said gently. “It may be there's something we can do to help it heal. There's still some time before we leave.” He looked down at Larson, who seemed to have slipped into a half-sleep as he sat in the chair. “Unfortunately, there's no way Charles will be in any shape to aid our cause by then. Even without examining his wound, I can tell by looking at him that he's quite ill. He can be of service in other ways, though.”

Trask turned and went over to the small table beside the bed, where a black leather bag sat. He opened it and took out a small bottle with a cork stopper. He took a piece of cloth from the bag, pulled the cork in the bottle, and poured some liquid onto the cloth.

“What are you gonna do, boss?” Green asked.

“Ease his suffering.” Trask corked the bottle and replaced it in the bag. He stepped toward Larson with the cloth in his hand, then looked at Joe. “Joseph, if you'd be so kind as to hold Charles's shoulders . . .”

Joe swallowed hard. He didn't want to do it, but he didn't dare refuse the boss's order. He rested his hands on Larson's shoulders from behind, closing them tightly.

Larson startled out of his stupor and raised his head. “Wha—”

Trask moved in and clamped the hand with the cloth in it over Larson's mouth and nose. Larson made a noise through it and tried to get up, but Joe held him down. After just a few seconds of struggling, Larson went limp and his head fell back.

Trask leaned and tossed the cloth onto the other table next to the bag.

“He'll sleep peacefully while I'm conducting my research. Joe, if you'll give me a hand, we'll place him here on this table . . .”

“Sure, Mr. Trask,” Joe said.

“Doctor,” Trask corrected, smiling serenely. “Never forget. It's
Doctor
Trask.”

Chapter 17

Sheriff Monte Carson turned up the collar of his sheepskin jacket as he walked along Big Rock's main street. It was one of those days where the noontime sun was almost too warm for the jacket, especially when a man was out of the wind. The stiff breeze that blew along the street had a bit of a bite to it, though, and the jacket felt good.

Carson wasn't bound for anywhere in particular. He liked to stroll around the settlement he called home, the settlement he had sworn to protect when he pinned on the sheriff's badge. Curley, one of his deputies, was back in the office to handle any complaints that came in.

The hitch racks in front of Longmont's Saloon were full as Carson walked past. No doubt some of the men in the saloon were drinking or gambling, but at that time of day, many of the customers were there to eat lunch. Longmont's served food as well as liquor. Louis Longmont, the French gambler and gunman who owned the place, insisted that it be good food, not just the usual pickled eggs and pig's feet that most saloons served up.

Carson considered stopping for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie but decided against it and continued on. He'd had a sudden attack of restlessness earlier and wasn't sure what it signified. Maybe he was just getting old.

He'd been the sheriff in Big Rock for a number of years. Pretty exciting years, at that, but every now and then, he remembered what his life had been like before that, when he'd been a drifting gunman, a man to step aside from.

He didn't want to go back to that, not even a little, but Lord help him, part of him missed it. Missed having no real responsibilities beyond the end of his gun. He wouldn't trade what he had, not in a million years, but from time to time, he had to fight the urge to saddle a horse and ride and ride, while he still could....

So he walked around the town and said hello to the friends he passed and pinched the brim of his hat to the ladies and reminded himself why he had settled down there in the first place. Big Rock was a good town, and he was proud to be part of it.

With those thoughts going through his mind, he almost didn't notice the five strangers riding in.

Almost . . . but not quite. His lawman's instincts were always working, and they perked right up at the sight of those men.

One man rode slightly in front of the other four on a very impressive cream-colored horse. He wore a black suit and hat and string tie, like a preacher.

Sensing something about the rider that he wasn't a man of God, Monte Carson started walking a little faster toward the newcomers.

Maybe it was the ivory-handled revolver he wore in a black holster.

The four men behind the black-suited leader were cut from a cloth that Carson recognized right away. They were hardcases, much as the sheriff had been at one time in his life. Maybe worse. While he had never ridden outside the law, those men looked like they were quite familiar with that side of the trail.

It didn't mean they had come to Big Rock looking for trouble. All sorts of people passed through the settlement, most good but some bad. If all they wanted to do was pick up some supplies and move on, he was willing to let that happen. It seemed like that might be the case when the five riders reined to a halt in front of the general store.

However, the only one who dismounted was the man in black. He looped his reins around the hitch rail and turned to greet Carson with a smile. “Sheriff Carson,” he said pleasantly. “Good afternoon to you.”

“Have we met?” Carson tried not to sound too suspicious, but it wasn't easy.

“No, but I'm familiar with your reputation. Sheriff Monte Carson, the fighting lawman of Big Rock, friend of the illustrious Smoke Jensen.”

Carson felt an instinctive dislike for this man, despite his hearty, affable manner.

“My name is Trask. Dr. Jonas Trask.” He held out his hand.

With long, slender, supple fingers, it looked like the hand of a surgeon, Carson thought. He shook with Trask and lied, “Pleased to meet you, Doctor. What brings you to Big Rock?”

“I'm here to conduct some important medical research.”

“Really?” Carson said as his eyebrows rose in surprise. He couldn't think of any kind of medical research that could be conducted in Big Rock.

“Absolutely.” Still smiling, Trask turned his head and nodded toward the other four riders. “These men are some of my assistants.”

Carson was convinced that Trask was having some sport with him. Those hardcases weren't any sort of medical assistants. Carson would have bet any amount of money on that. He didn't like being made fun of, either.

His eyes narrowed in anger. His hand moved closer to the butt of the gun on his hip as he said, “What are you really doing here, Trask?”

“Why, I've told you the truth, Sheriff. I'm here to carry out a very important project that will change the course of medical history. It may well change the course of history itself.”

“Maybe you better just move on,” Carson snapped. He glanced at the four men still on horseback. They had tensed in their saddles as he talked to their boss. He knew they were ready to slap leather.

If Smoke had been there to back his play, he wouldn't have worried about facing those men. He would be taking them on by himself, though, if it came to that. He was fast on the draw and accurate with his shots, so he would take his chances, but he knew the odds were stacked against him coming out alive.

Even so, he didn't have any backup in him, no matter what the odds.

“I'm afraid we can't leave, Sheriff,” Trask said in a deceptively mild tone. “You see, that project of mine has already begun—” With blinding speed, he whipped out the ivory-handled revolver on his hip and smashed it against the side of Monte Carson's head.

Carson had seen Trask's hand start to move, and with the instincts and reactions of a man who had once lived by the gun, he jerked aside, thus avoiding the full force of Trask's blow, but the doctor had hit him hard enough to send his hat flying and knock him to one knee. Though his muscles seemed to act in slow motion, Carson kept trying to pull his Colt from its holster.

Trask kicked him in the face just as he cleared leather. The boot heel exploded against Carson's jaw and he went over backwards, sprawling in the dirt and dropping his gun. He felt around feebly for it but couldn't find it. Consciousness began to slip away from him.

Just before he passed out, he heard Trask shout, “Don't kill any more than you have to!”

Guns roared. People screamed. Hoofbeats thundered.

And Monte Carson floated away on a sea of black.