Stands a Calder Man (53 page)

It was a relief when they reached the unmarked gate to the Triple C Ranch. Here the rolling country was covered with brown grass, dried out and burnt up, but it was a covering that held the rangeland intact.

“We're almost home.” Webb took his eyes off the lane long enough to glance at Lilli.

The blowing wind had freed strands of dark hair for the sun to set on fire. Her wide mouth was lifted in a faint smile at the prospect of journey's end. “I wish we could go faster.”

Ahead, there was a straight stretch of fairly smooth road. Webb pushed down on the foot pedal to increase their speed, blurring the landscape in his side vision. They were nearly halfway across the stretch when, all at the same moment, there was an explosion and the steering wheel was suddenly wrenched to the right, nearly ripped from his hands.

A blowout. Webb fought to regain control, but the automobile careened violently to the right, bounced wildly into a ditch, and came to an abrupt stop as it gouged into an embankment. It was a full second before Webb realized they were no longer moving. The
instant he turned, he saw Lilli slumped against the door.

A wild fear clawed through him as he reached for her, calling her name. Her body was limp when he gathered it into his arms. Already an ugly bruise was coloring her right temple. His fingers found the pulse in her neck, but it wasn't very strong. His own heart was thudding loudly in his chest, the blood pumping with powerful thrusts. As carefully as possible, he laid her down on the seat and reached behind him to open the door.

There was a whanging thud of a bullet ricocheting off the metal frame, and Webb threw himself across Lilli. It hadn't been a blowout. Somebody had shot out the tire. Another searching shot plowed into the upholstery of the seat only a few inches above his head. He reached over to open the small compartment in the dash and take out the revolver that was always kept there. It was mostly for snakes, which were prevalent in this part of the country. It wasn't uncommon to encounter one while changing a tire. Whoever was shooting had a rifle, but at least Webb, too, was armed.

Aware that he had to draw the fire away from the car, where Lilli might get hit, Webb waited until the third shot broke the windshield. He kicked the door open and rolled outside, counting on surprise. He hit the ground and kept moving. Two shots were snapped off in rapid succession, kicking up the dirt behind him as his unseen assailant tried to bring his moving target into his sights. Erosion had exposed an outcropping of coal just ahead of him. Webb lunged for the shelter it offered, grabbed a corner of it, and swung behind it. Another bullet fragmented the coal edge under his hand, coal splinters peppering his hand as he yanked it back and flattened himself against the ledge rock.

He was breathing hard; perspiration was breaking out on his forehead and upper lip. All the shots had come from the same rifle. There was only one person out there. Judging from the direction of the shots, the man had to be in that stand of dead pines on the hill
across the way. Webb checked his revolver. There were only five bullets, the hammer resting on an empty chamber. He turned it and wished he'd grabbed some shells.

There was a chance a Triple C rider was in the vicinity and had heard the shots. But with Lilli hurt and unconscious, Webb couldn't risk waiting for help to come.

So far, his attacker was unaware he was armed, which gave Webb a slim advantage. With only five bullets, he couldn't trade shots with the man, which left him with the only other option—to stalk his attacker. There was little covering around him. The ambush site had been well chosen. The hill and the stand of trees gave a commanding field of fire. Webb would have to rely on the folds of the land to conceal his stalk, but first he had to verify the location of his prey.

He made a move as if he intended to bolt for the protection of the Model T and let the rifle fire drive him behind the outcropping of coal again. This time he watched for the stabs of red in the pines. They came through the branches of the lowest tree on the slope, brown and brittle needles hiding the shooter behind their screen.

There hadn't been a sound from the Model T, nothing to indicate Lilli had regained consciousness. His lips were dry with fear and he moistened them. He couldn't risk thinking about her, not now when all his concentration had to be on this stalk.

As quietly as he could, Webb bellied down on the ground and left his hat by the coal ledge. Then he started out, crawling like a snake through the grass and using every available dip and crease in the land. It was all so open around him. Any minute he expected to hear a bullet whistling near his head. But it was the openness that was his protection. It lulled his attacker into believing there was no way he could be approached in this deceptively flat-looking land.

It seemed to take forever to crawl around to the side slope of the hill. His nose and throat were constantly
tickled by the dust and the smell of dried grass. A persistent wind partially covered the rustling sounds he made. Webb paused, his shirt drenched with sweat, and tried to gauge how close he was to the trees. He flexed his fingers, tightening his grip on the long-barreled pistol.

The low, suspicious whicker of a horse came from his right, snapping Webb's gaze in that direction. A tall, gaunt draft horse stood ground-tied on the back of the hill, eyeing the dark object in the grass with puzzled alarm. There was a second of shock as Webb recognized the animal as one of Kreuger's plow horses. Kreuger! He was the attacker.

Webb cursed himself for not listening to Lilli's warnings about the man. But even if he had, there was nothing he could have done about it. The law had tried Kreuger and turned him loose—to kill again.

The horse snorted. There was no more time to wonder about how things might have been different—or how close he was to Kreuger. Kreuger would have heard the horse and become suspicious about what was alarming it. He had to make his play now.

Pushing to his feet, he squared his body in the direction he expected to find Kreuger and cocked the hammer of his gun. Kreuger was backing away from a tree, half-turned to look up the hill instead of to the side where Webb stood.

“Throw down the rifle, Kreuger!” Webb had the gun leveled on him, his finger resting against the trigger.

Not even a split second passed between the sound of his voice and the whirling move of the drylander. He didn't take time to bring the rifle to his shoulder, snapping off the shot as he came around. The bullet tugged at the sleeve of Webb's shirt. In pure reflex, he squeezed the trigger and felt the revolver buck in his hand.

The impact of the shot hit Kreuger full in the chest. He staggered a step, but came on. This time he raised the rifle and took aim. Webb fired again, stepping to his left as the rifle barrel jumped with a stab of flame. He
heard the whoosh of the bullet go by him. Kreuger's left arm was hanging limp at his side, a crimson stain spreading down his sleeve. Still he tried to balance and aim the rifle with his good arm. Webb gritted his teeth and fired again, realizing the man wasn't going to stop until he was dead.

The rifle was torn from his hand as Kreuger was spun around and knocked to the ground. Webb started forward, keeping the gun on the man as he would on an animal of prey that was downed but not dead. With almost superhuman effort, Kreuger was trying to drag himself to the rifle. Webb reached it first and picked it up. Kreuger twisted his head to look up at him. The hatred in his eyes hadn't dimmed.

“Dammit, Kreuger. Why?” Webb growled, hearing the gurgle of blood in the man's lungs.

“You burned my place.” Blood was coming from his mouth, running red over his lip. “You sent your men to burn my place. Pettit warned me you might try, so . . .” His voice grew fainter, becoming unintelligible as the light in his eyes dimmed.

“Pettit?” A dark frown rimmed his hard features. Crouching on his heels, Webb grabbed the shoulder of Kreuger's shirt. “What the hell do you mean—Pettit warned you?” But he was looking into sightless eyes.

Kreuger was dead and the cracked and thirsty ground was already drinking in the wetness of his blood. Webb let go of the shirt, the lifeless body slumping. His stomach felt queasy till he thought of Lilli. Then he was hurrying down the hill, spurred by his fear for her.

She was lying on the seat as he had left her, no sign of having stirred. Her pulse was weaker, her breath barely stirring against his hand. He had to clench his teeth together to hold back the sobs.

“Lilli. For God's sake, don't die. I need you.” His voice was a hoarse plea that vibrated above a whisper.

Reluctantly he moved away from her to inspect the damage to the auto. The right front fender was wedged against the embankment, making it impossible to change the flat tire. He tried to start the motor to
reverse it onto open ground, but it wouldn't turn over. As Webb started to raise the hood to locate the problem, hooves drummed the ground, signaling the approach of riders. He walked quickly to open the car door and gathered Lilli into the cradle of his arms.

When Ike Willis and Nate Moore rode into view, he was standing in the middle of the road, waiting for them. They reined their horses into a plunging halt.

“We heard shooting. What happened?” Nate asked, swinging out of the saddle, a worried eye darting to the limp woman in Webb's arms.

“Kreuger. His body's up there.” Webb jerked his head in the direction of the hill. “I'm going to take your horse, Nate. Ike, you ride for the doctor. It's her head. She hit it—” He choked up, unable to finish the sentence. Nate held the reins to his horse while Webb climbed into the saddle with Lilli in his arms.

Nate was left standing in the road as the two riders took off in opposite directions. He was good at reading signs, so it didn't take him long to figure out what had happened.

Simon had been standing helplessly beside the bed, watching life slip from Lilli's body with each passing minute. There was nothing he could do except to monitor her vital signs of pulse and respiration. Webb was huddled on a chair pulled close to the bed, his big hands gripping her hand in a silent effort to will his strength into her body. There was a haunting bleakness in his dark eyes and a ghastly pallor about his sun-browned features.

Leaning over her, Simon searched again for a pulse with his stethoscope and found none. She had left them so quickly he couldn't even say when the exact moment had come. There were tears in his eyes when he looked at Webb.

“I've lost her,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

Simon braced himself for the disbelief, the denial, he expected from Webb, but it didn't come. The dark head was bent. The pair of hands were wrapped so tightly
around hers that the knuckles showed white. The silence was harder for Simon to endure than an outpouring of grief and protest.

When Webb spoke, his voice was unnaturally low and gruff. “Let me be alone with her.”

As Simon left the room, his chin was quivering and his eyes were so blurred with tears he could barely see the door. He closed it and leaned against it, breathing in shakily. From inside the room, there came the scrape of a chair leg moving.

Webb sat on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down his face. He gathered Lilli into his arms and buried his face in her dark copper hair. Great, racking sobs tore through his body. He held her like that until there was no more warmth in her body.

No expression showed on his face, all the grief locked behind his stony features, as Webb stood beside the open grave, his feet slightly apart and his nearly one-year-old son in his arms. The minister droned out his prayer for the living to the mourners. With the exception of Simon Bardolph, they were all Triple C riders and their families.

A swirling wind kicked up dirt from the freshly dug earth mounded beside the grave and swept it over the mourners. Little Chase rubbed a fist at his nose, making a face of dislike at the stinging dust that pelted him, but Webb was mindless of it.

With the close of the prayer, Webb stepped forward and shifted his son to the crook of one arm. A shovel was planted upright in the earth mound. He gripped its handle and scooped up the loose dirt with a push of his foot, tossing it into the grave. The larger chunks made a hollow noise as they landed on the wooden coffin below. Webb dipped the shovel into the dirt a second time and shifted his hold on the handle to raise it, offering it to his son. The small hand eagerly closed on the dirt to grab up a fistful. Then Chase gave his father a bright-eyed look, thinking they were playing some game.

“Throw it down, son.” It was a flat request, accompanied by a nod of his head toward the grave.

With a wild fling of his arm, Chase released the dirt in the general direction of the grave and clapped his hands together. He reached for more dirt, wanting to
do it again, but Webb emptied it into the grave. He then turned and passed the shovel to Nate Moore, standing with his parents. He stepped back, a lonely figure in his black broadcloth suit, too impassive and too silent. And the youngster in his arms only made the picture more poignant.

A darkness was filling the sky to the west when the last mourner added his shovelful of dirt to the grave. Anxious glances were cast in its direction. No one mistook the looming cloud for a billowing thunder-head. They had seen similar formations too many times not to know it was a wind-driven wall of dust, commonly referred to as a black-roller.

Before the group of mourners splintered to go to their individual homes, Webb approached Ruth Haskell and her husband. Chase immediately reached out his arms to the woman who was his second mother, and Webb handed him to her.

“Take care of him for me, Ruth,” he said and walked away.

Like the others, Nate had observed Webb's action and was vaguely puzzled by it. His interest sharpened when he realized Webb was heading for the barns instead of The Homestead. He followed him out of concern and curiosity. Nate finally caught up with him inside the barn, where he found Webb saddling a dingy-colored buckskin.