Defiant (42 page)

Gardner looked from one man to the other, obviously sensing something odd, but he didn't pursue it. Instead, he turned back to Matt Sinclair.

“When?”

“Anytime now.”

“Where do you want my men? I have six with me. All good men, good shots.”

“Thank God. All mine are townsmen. Willing enough, but none are easy with guns.”

“Just tell me where you want us.”

“I have ten men posted in windows and on roofs above the street. You were probably in their sights when you came in. If your men can replace four nearest the bank, I'd feel a lot better.”

The marshal nodded. “I'll do it now.”

Sinclair hesitated. “I'd better go out and give a signal. I don't want any accidents. You wait here,” he told Wade, “and I'll take Mrs. Williams to the hotel.”

Mary Jo looked from one man to the other, then surrendered. At least, she appeared to surrender, Wade told himself. And what in the hell was Sinclair doing, allowing him out of the cell, apparently leaving him free in his office? Free for the moment.

Mary Jo leaned up and kissed Wade, apparently indifferent to the avidly watching observers. The kiss was long, sensual, and … loving, so damn loving that all protest fled from him.

“Mrs. Williams?” Sinclair prompted after a moment, and Wade reluctantly let her go, moving a few steps away, trying to quiet the quaking in his heart. She looked back at him for a long moment, then followed Sinclair and the other men, leaving Wade alone in the room.

25

Wade looked at the cell, then at the door. Freedom. It had become more important to him after the last day and night in jail. Infinitely more important.

There were even guns within reach. But he wasn't certain he was good enough at shooting with his left hand to hit a target.

He went to the door and opened it, half expecting an armed guard. There was none. The sheriff was at the end of the street, directing several men. There were men with rifles on roofs, but they were all looking toward the road from the south.

And there were horses within an arm's reach.

Freedom. And just as important, he would never see the disillusionment in Mary Jo's eyes.

Why hadn't Sinclair told her about Brad Allen? Why had Sinclair left him an open invitation to flee?

I'm through running
. The words he had spoken so bravely earlier. But that was before he fully realized how he might spend the rest of his life. He'd been prepared to die, even to hang. He wasn't sure he could live in a cage for twenty or thirty years.

And he wasn't at all sure he could face Mary Jo and tell her the truth. Or Jeff. Jeff would try to find excuses, reasons, and that would destroy some of the boy's inherent decency. There was no reasoning away murder.

A horse was seconds away. And then what?

He couldn't join Manchez again. He'd only bring trouble on their heads. The twelve-year-old search would be resumed. He would be hunted again with renewed effort, and he would never stop running. Mary Jo and Jeff would read someday of his capture or death. Another one of Anderson's guerrillas brought down.

Sinclair was no one's fool.

He couldn't figure out why Mary Jo hadn't been interested in the lawman. He appeared to be everything a woman should want: decent, hardworking, honest. Wade was everything a woman should avoid. Perhaps when he wasn't around …

The door opened and Sinclair came back in alone. “Still here, I see.”

“You told me to wait,” Wade said, biting back the smallest of smiles.

“People don't always do what I tell them.”

The smile disappeared. “I hope Mary Jo did.”

“I think she'll stay put for a while, for your sake. I stressed that point, just as she apparently did to Jeff. It's the only thing that seems to get through to either of them.”

“Why did you let me out of the cell?”

“I wanted to see whether you meant it when you said you were done running. If you are, maybe I can help.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't see your kind much. Because you might have saved this town. You've been with those Indians up in the hills, haven't you?”

Sinclair had done that before, switched subjects so rapidly he could easily disarm someone just as he fired a shot into their heart.

“Talk is,” Sinclair continued, “the Utes found young Jeff. They wouldn't go to that trouble unless they had good reason.”

Wade was silent. It was obvious the sheriff was fishing.

Sinclair continued, his voice soft but compelling. “There's also been talk of a white man living with them. He even married one of the Ute women. Had a kid. I was wondering what happened to him?”

So Sinclair had put the pieces together. Wade should have expected it by now. Sinclair's pleasant expression hid one hell of a lot of shrewdness.

“You through?”

Sinclair shrugged. “Just curious.”

“So am I. Why didn't you tell Mary Jo about that poster?”

“You're the one who wants to stop running. Seems like you should tell her.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Depends on what happens in the next few hours.”

“I don't think I like your games.”

Sinclair smiled. “Not many people do.” He looked at his watch. “If they're coming today, it should be soon. A telegram from Texas says your friend prefers afternoon. He plans his getaways to the west. Pretty smart. Eyes are blinded by the sun.” And then Sinclair switched topics again. “You want to come with me?”

“Where?”

“Inside the bank. I thought about stopping him on the street and shipping him off to Texas, but it would be safer for the town to take him inside the bank now that I have some professional help. I don't like shooting in my streets.”

Wade narrowed his eyes. “Why take me along?”

“I got a feeling about you, mister. A real strong one. Damn if I can put a handle on it, but something just tells me to take you along. Of course, you don't have to go.”

“I could stay in a cell?”

“Yep.”

“I'll go with you.”

Sinclair smiled. “Thought you might. Can you handle a gun at all with that left hand?”

“Well enough to crack your skull.”

“That's true, though it wasn't too smart to remind me.”

“I didn't think you'd forgotten it,” Wade said wryly.

The sheriff reached in one of the drawers and took out the six-shooter Wade had handed him yesterday. Wade checked. It was loaded. He didn't say anything, though he wondered at the man's carelessness. He tucked it into the band of his trousers.

Sinclair checked his own six-shooter. “Dave's gonna be the clerk and one of his men the manager. Another will be a customer. You and I will be behind the counter. Our other men will be outside. I figure one of them will wait outside with the horses, so there will be five of us to their three, and they won't expect us.”

“I still can't shoot worth a damn. Why do you want me?”

“You know him. You'll know his voice when he comes in. Your face might surprise him. And you want him. Bad enough to come to me. But,” he added softly, “I want them alive.”

Wade nodded. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He hadn't lied when he'd said he was tired of killing. That last one, that miner, had demonstrated how much. He'd felt no satisfaction at the man's death. There hadn't even been hate left after the long hunt. He'd only felt empty. Alone. Ready to die himself.

And then Mary Jo and Jeff had come along, and he'd found embers of himself still alive.

They entered the bank. The owner, Sam Pearson, clucked around nervously for a few minutes, worrying aloud about whether he should stay or not, and was finally ejected by the sheriff as more hindrance than help. The lawmen all took their places, Wade sitting on the floor next to Matt Sinclair.

Sinclair was silent for a few moments. “Maybe I'll get my horse back. I sure liked that horse.”

Wade was reminded of his role in that piece of horse stealing. He didn't think that was Sinclair's intent. The words had been spoken wistfully. He could think of no reply that wasn't self-serving; he added that slice of guilt to all the rest.

“Heard you're real good with horses,” the sheriff continued, and Wade wondered what was coming next. The lawman, he was discovering, seldom said anything just to hear himself talk. Every word, each question, seemed to have some purpose, even if it seemed a little obscure at the time.

“I like horses,” Wade replied. “They don't talk.”

Sinclair chuckled but fell silent.

There were no customers, and Wade realized the entire town must know by now what was going on. He hoped the silence in the street didn't alert Kelly. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe Kelly would just ride on, go back to Texas or up to Wyoming. Or maybe he would hang around and go after Mary Jo if he suspected Wade had crossed him. If Kelly didn't show, Wade would probably go back to jail, and Mary Jo and Jeff would be alone. Of course, they had Tuck and Ed now, but neither man was a match for Kelly and his gun-hands. Neither was he, though, not with his busted arm. Wade took out his gun, and fingered it with his left hand. It still wasn't comfortable there.

He glanced up. Sinclair's steady blue eyes were watching him without visible emotion. “Waiting's always hard,” Sinclair said, “but then I guess you know about that.”

Wade hesitated, then asked a question of his own. “You in the war?”

“Two years in the Union infantry. Never wanted to walk again.” The flatness in his voice indicated he didn't want to say more. Wade understood that.

An hour went by without more words. Wade sensed the tension rising in the room. Waiting always made a man consider the possibility of death. Idle conversation somehow seemed almost foolish.

The skin crawled on the back of Wade's neck as he heard something at the back door of the bank, and the man posing as president went to open it. “Strangers riding in, four of 'em,” the man assigned to watch from the roof reported.

The door closed, and Wade heard, and saw, sudden movement. Final last check of guns. His and Sinclair's were out. The others had hidden them in easily accessible places. The three visible men had all picked locations where they could duck suddenly as they grabbed their weapons. They needed only a second and it was up to Sinclair and Wade to give them that second.

A bell on the front door jingled, and Wade heard the sound of boots and spurs on the flooring. The lawman posing as the customer was at the counter window, talking to the counterfeit clerk. Wade, sitting on the floor next to the legs of the clerk, felt the man's sudden tension. He looked over toward Sinclair, whose brow was now creased with concentration.

And then Wade heard Kelly's voice. “I want to make a withdrawal.” Wade nodded to Sinclair just as a man sprinted over the gate that separated one side of the customer area from the the back of the bank where the safe was. Wade recognized Shepherd, whose gaze, focused on the safe, missed seeing Wade and Sinclair as they stood.

Wade saw everything in the flash of a second: Kelly becoming enraged when he saw Wade; the other three lawmen reaching for their hidden weapons; Shepherd sensing something and turning, seeking a target for the gun in his hand.

The lawman posing as manager shot Shepherd, and Shepherd went down. The young gunman—Johnny Kay—fired wildly. The bullet plowed into Sinclair, and as the sheriff spun from the impact, three lawmen fired at Kay.

Sinclair was still standing, a stunned look on his face, blood running down his right shoulder, when Kelly jumped over the counter and had Sinclair by the neck, shielding himself with the sheriff's body.

There were shots from outside, a yell, then silence. Kelly held a gun to Sinclair's head. Shepherd was moaning on the floor, and the three lawmen stood motionless watching Kelly and Sinclair.

Kelly's attention, though, was on Wade. It wavered for a moment as his eyes went to the three lawmen. “Put down your guns or I'll blow his head off.”

The three did so, slowly. “You too, Allen.” He looked around the room. “You know who you have here?” He looked at Wade with hatred. “I could kill you now, but I would rather you hang.” Again, he looked around the room. “His name is Brad Allen, and he's wanted for murder. Old and recent.” He turned slightly and jerked Sinclair around. “We're going to leave now.” Wade saw the sheriff flinch with pain.

“Take me,” Wade said. “I planned this, and you can't get far with him like that.”

“I think not,” Kelly said. “They might not value a turncoat as much as a lawdog, and I think he'll last long enough.” He grinned. “You can help, though. Make sure the street's clear.” Kelly looked down at Shepherd, who was lying on the floor, groaning. “Can you make it on your own?”

Shepherd shook his head. Kelly shrugged.

“You,” he said to Wade. “Get the money out.”

“There isn't any. It's all been taken someplace else,” Wade said, goading him. He wanted Kelly to turn the gun on him, giving the other lawmen time to sweep up their six-shooters, for Sinclair to drop to the floor. His eyes met Sinclair's, and he knew the lawman knew what he was doing. Sinclair shook his head almost imperceptibly, but Wade didn't pay any attention.

“I planned the whole thing, Kelly, even helping Shepherd get away so you would come into town. There's a man and rifle in every window. You won't get away.”

“Why?” Kelly's eyes were blazing.

“Because I don't like you. Because you're a rabid animal, just like you always were.”

“So were you, my friend,” Kelly ripped out. “You were no better than any of us.”

“No,” Wade said. “But I know it and you don't. You're a fool, Kelly. A mistake. A snake walking on two legs.” His voice lowered. “And a coward. Always a coward.”

Kelly's face was livid now with rage, and the pistol in his hand moved from Sinclair's head to Wade's stomach. At that moment, Sinclair pushed hard and went sideways, only slightly deflecting the bullet that plowed into Wade. As Wade went down to his knees, a searing pain stabbing through his middle, he heard more shots, a yell, some cursing.