Velvet Thunder (25 page)

“What are your names?” Heath asked almost conversationally, catching them off guard by speaking first.

The leader raised a questioning brow. He shrugged as if he didn't see any harm in revealing their names since he didn't plan to allow anyone in the saloon to leave alive. “I'm Chi Chi. This is Jones”—he pointed to the ape—“and that's Montana.” He indicated the cowboy. “Who wants to know?”

As Chi Chi spoke, Jones lumbered over to the window, away from the Mexican. Montana stationed himself halfway between the two.

Heath acknowledged silently that the gang had played this scene before. Three to one, that was probably their usual odds. They were too gutless to face a man one on one.

The barkeep and the cowpunchers sympathized with Heath, but none was interested in dying that day. Men in the untamed West learned early on that minding their own business was vital to staying alive. Smiling at Heath apologetically, the cautious threesome made for the door.

Heath understood. Too bad he had never learned the lesson of minding his own business, he thought drolly. He inclined his head in tribute to their pragmatic spirit.

He turned his full attention on the brigands then and watched with shock as they wheeled away from him and coldly shot the three men in the back. He was horrified, enraged. Still, he resisted the urge to do the same to them. Heath Turner was not a back shooter.

Chi Chi turned a hideous smile on Heath. “Now we will have to kill you.” He feigned reluctance. “Such a pity to kill a man of honor,” he sneered, making reference to the fact that Heath didn't shoot them in the back when he had the chance.

“It doesn't take a great deal of honor to refrain from shooting a man in the back. No matter how lowlife the man is. It's the code of the West. Or hadn't you heard? Only a coward takes advantage of a man with his back turned. But then, I had you three figured for cowards all along.”

Anger sculpted the faces of all three men. “Your first mistake,
mi amigo
”—the Mexican bit off harshly—“was that you didn't leave the marshal where you found him.”

Heath stared coldly at him, unblinking. “Killing him was your first mistake.” He paused for emphasis. “And your last.”

Montana raised his weapon. It shook slightly in his black-gloved hand. His voice was defensive when he spoke. “We found him on the trail and did our Christian duty by burying him.”

Heath's gaze hardened as he released a snort of disbelief.

“You think he's lying?” Jones interjected.

Heath stared at him silently. He rose to his full height with the grace and menace of a great predatory beast. Tucking the bottom of his vest behind his back, he revealed his Colt—shiny, deadly, loose in his holster. “I don't
think
he's lying, you filthy piece of garbage. I
know
he is. I saw you murder Reno in cold blood.” He hitched his head toward Chi Chi and Montana. “While your gutless partners stood by and watched.” His voice was steady, his eyes burning like hot pokers, damning. He flicked the Mexican a glance. “You're not only cowards and murderers, you're liars as well. The list of your attributes grows long. Unfortunately, my patience for this conversation has grown short.”

Montana's mendacious grin faded, and something fierce flickered in his eyes.

Heath recognized the sign. He kicked the table over, dove behind it, and drew his gun in a blur.

As if on cue, the brigands aimed and fired as one.

Heath came up on one knee and fired a slug straight through Montana's eye, killing him instantly. The outlaw whirled around upon impact and jerked backward. His head crashed through the window, shards of glass cutting to pieces what was left of his face.

An instant later Heath turned his attention to the Mexican. They both fired, Chi Chi a second behind Heath. A burning-hot slug slammed into the brigand's shoulder; his own shot buried itself in the wall behind Heath's head.

Chi Chi fell heavily behind the bar, joining Jones. Heath slipped one leg around his side of the bar and shook the table he had overturned. Instantly, the men blew the table into fragments.

Heath leapt up and threw himself atop the counter, scattering empty glasses as he went. The Mexican, staring at the table, was surprised to hear Heath sliding along the bar. Finding the strength to swing his guns upward for a kill, he felt more hot lead enter his body. Then blackness descended upon him a breath after Heath shot him clean through the heart.

Jones slipped around the edge of the bar.

Heath slid down and stood before the Mexican as thick, hot blood spewed from the dead man's body. Bullets began flying like fireflies on a summer night. Heath hit the floor and returned Jones's fire, wounding him in the side.

Clumsily trying to reload an old Allen pepperbox .45, the big man grunted when a second bullet plunged into his thigh. He fell heavily and overturned a brass spittoon. Moaning, he pretended to surrender.

Cautiously, Heath approached him. Despite his grave injuries, the big man surged to his feet and caught Heath around the chest in a bear hug.

Heath felt the breath whoosh from his lungs, but he remained standing. His arms penned at his sides, he planted his feet solidly and pushed backward, slamming his attacker against the wall.

Jones grunted but hung on tenaciously, tightening the pressure around Heath's chest. Again and again Heath slammed him against the wall, but the big man held tight.

A sharp piece of wood protruded from the center post of the room. Heath swung around and crashed his assailant backward, trying to impale him on the knifelike splinter. Jones's thick wampus took the brunt of the impact. But the splinter jabbed into his back like a straight pin piercing a tough side of beef. He twisted away from the post and the pain, but continued to hold tightly to his prey.

Heath whirled his assailant back around and pressed him against the splinter twice more. Finally, the big man loosened his grip.

Heath turned on him and landed several cutting jabs to Jones's face. The man, virtually superhuman in strength, was slow and torpid, almost lethargic in his movements. Heath moved smoothly, expertly, gracefully, almost as if he were dancing, ducking, parrying, jabbing, while the ape followed him sluggishly.

Just when Heath thought his opponent was finished, Jones threw a fierce uppercut, catching him by surprise. The force behind the punch sent Heath stumbling backward. He tripped over Montana's lifeless body. The floor rose up to meet the back of his head.

Jones advanced on him, enraged by staggering pain and the flow of hot blood. He kicked Heath repeatedly, sinking the tips of his pointed boots in Heath's belly. He showered Heath with a barrage of oaths and threats. Pink-tinged spittle flew from his mouth with every vile invective.

Heath rolled away from his insane nemesis and crawled behind the bar, hoping for a moment's respite. Before he could get to his feet, however, the monster bounded over the counter and fell on top of him. Heath felt as if he were trapped beneath a ton of bricks. Claustrophobia and the will to survive provided him unnatural strength as he fought to dislodge Jones.

There was little room for maneuvering behind the tightly enclosed bar. Jones wrapped his forearm around Heath's neck and held him in a death hold. Heath was unable to breathe, unable to break free. Frantically grasping about, his fingers encircled the neck of a broken bottle. He brought it over his head like a club. Jones shrieked and released him when the sharp point sank into the tender flesh beneath his left eye.

Heath couldn't imagine how the man could take much more. He was bleeding like a butchered hog. Still in all, Jones remained conscious.

Hearing a lionlike roar, Heath turned his head slightly and saw Jones on his knees. His face was swollen beyond recognition.

“I'll kill you, you rotten bastard, if it's the last thing I ever do!” he thundered, trying to rise.

“Damn!” Heath cursed, casting about for his gun. It was across the room, lying on the floor beside the empty coffee cup the barkeep had brought him before all the bloodletting had begun.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw an ax leaning against the cold black stove. Jones let forth a hair-raising yell and rushed Heath. Grabbing the ax with both hands, feet planted squarely, Heath lifted it high over his head. He threw it with his remaining strength. Following through, his body hit the floor, belly down.

The ax sank into Jones's chest with a sickening thud. The metal sunk into his breastbone up to the handle, knocking him on his back with a thunderous crash. The floor vibrated beneath Heath's cheek where he lay.

Onlookers entered from the hotel and general store. They stared wide-eyed at the carnage, six men, all dead.

Heath raised his head and saw Delgado in the crowd. When the stunned proprietor entered, Heath angled into a sitting position. He pointed to Chi Chi's, Montana's, and Jones's corpses. “Put these bodies on their horses. They killed Marshal Reno. I'll take them back to Adobe Wells. Soon as I get cleaned up.” He added silently, if I can walk.

“Si, Señor,”
the owner replied, inordinately relieved that his buildings would soon be corpse-free.

 

 

Later that day Heath entered Adobe Wells, leading four horses, each carrying a corpse.

News of the macabre parade down Main Street spread like wildfire. Merchants and shoppers exited the stores. Merrymakers filed out of the saloons, all eager to view the morbid scene.

Heath held the reins to Ted Reno's mount. Ted's red hair bounced from beneath the blanket with each step his horse made. The Mexican's reins were tied to the mare's saddle horn. Jones and his horse followed in like manner. Montana and his mount brought up the rear.

Pilar, Sandy, and Preacher Black watched in varying degrees of surprise from their vantage point on the boardinghouse portal. Pilar and Preacher Black took down the street after Heath. Not entirely recovered, Sandy followed at a slower pace.

Pilar caught up to Reno's horse as Heath halted the animal in front of the jail. Throwing the blanket back, she lay her cheek against the marshal's back and wept bitterly. She had thought of Ted as a son, and now he was gone.

Preacher Black stepped to Pilar's side and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. “There, there, child,” he soothed dramatically. “All of us are bereaved over the loss of our dear brother. Prayer and fasting will ease the emptiness.”

With quiet authority and a doubtful glare Sandy pushed the good reverend aside and took Pilar in his arms. She fell against him and cried as if her heart were broken.

Heath sympathized with Pilar. But he was more concerned with Donn Pedro. He had promised the boy that he would bring the marshal back safely. He had failed. Casting about, he searched the crowd for the child. He came up empty.

Judge Jack, Rachel, and Henry Sims stepped out onto the boardwalk as Heath continued his visual search for Pedro. They joined the others in front of the jail.

There was genuine surprise in Judge Jack's voice. “What's the meaning of this, Mr. Diamond?”

“Brought you some bodies” was all Heath said.

“Who killed them?” the Judge asked.

“All except the marshal, I did,” Heath answered.

Jack examined each corpse. When he came to Jones, he pushed the man's shoulders up and jerked a nod toward the mass of dried blood surrounding his breastbone. “What did that?”

“An ax.”

The judge shrugged, unconcerned. When he reached Ted, his expression changed. Heath tried to read it. The emotion reflected on his face was irritation. This surprised Heath.

“Who killed Reno?” Judge Jack asked.

“They did.”

The judge ordered that the dead brigands and Marshal Reno be taken over to Radner Banks, the undertaker. His command was carried out with incredible speed. Preacher Black stepped forward, raised his hands in the air, and addressed the crowd as it began to disperse.

“We have seen the effects of evil and violence today, my friends.” He regarded Heath with a condemning glare. “All of us”—he paused—“should confess our sins and be mindful of the brevity of life.”

Again his gaze settled on Heath. Tension was thick. Black flashed Heath a look he couldn't define. Finally, he concluded, “There will be a special service for Marshal Reno tomorrow at the church. All of you are invited to come and pay your last respects to this poor boy.”

Heath looked away from Reverend Black's pious face. That's when he saw Rachel staring at him. The shadow of a self-satisfied smile flickered across her face.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered. She had recognized him. He waited for her to blow his cover. She didn't. Instead, she smiled at him. Her smile was a invitation that no red-blooded male could fail to interpret. Well, he would have to play along for the time being. He returned her lustful smile with a slight bow, mutely promising a future liaison.

Turning in the saddle, he caught Stevie's eye. She had joined her father and Pilar without Heath's notice. The look of stark betrayal on her face told him that she had seen Rachel's smile and his uncharacteristic response.

His gut ached with a sense of guilt that he didn't really deserve. He hadn't done anything improper with Rachel—the very notion sickened him. He didn't intend to do anything improper with Rachel. But he doubted Stevie would be easily convinced of that.

He wanted to reassure her, to tell her how much he missed her, to hold her and to love her, to never, ever let her go. He realized, however, that was not advisable, not just now. There would be time for them later. He had to find Pedro first, tell him of Reno's death. He also had to deal with Rachel . . . somehow.

That done, he would go to Stevie. She would just have to trust him until then. He smiled at her, trying to communicate how he felt about her.

She did not return his smile.

Heath watched her retreat with a foreboding sense of loss. When she disappeared into the boardinghouse behind Sandy, Pilar, and Preacher Black, he tore his eyes away from them and slid from the saddle.

His boots were unnaturally loud on the boardwalk. He pushed the door to the jail open and stepped inside. Dust motes danced in a stream of light pouring from the hole in the wall that served as a window. It didn't take but a moment for him to determine that Donn Pedro was not inside.

Dreading the coming confrontation, Heath made his way to the stage office where Pedro worked part-time. The shingle outside the plain wood building read:
SOUTHWEST STAGE-LINES /ASSAYERS/TELEGRAPH OFFICE/UNITED STATES POST OFFICE.
Drawing a deep cleansing breath, Heath entered the multipurpose establishment.

He would rather square off against Billy the Kid with nothing but a slingshot in his hand than tell this child his hero was lying on a slab at the undertaker's. But there was no help for it. He had made Donn Pedro a promise. And now he had to face him.

Heath's gaze took in the room in one quick glance. Pedro was nowhere to be seen. His shoulders relaxed slightly.

“Could I help you?”

Heath had not even noticed the slight, bespectacled man standing behind the counter. He was as colorless and nondescript as the office in which he worked. “I'm looking for Donn Pedro. I'm afraid I have some bad news for him. Regarding Marshal Reno.”

“You must be Mr. Diamond.”

Heath nodded.

The man stepped from behind the counter and offered Heath his hand. “I'm Josiah Shelter. Donn Pedro works for me.”

Heath shook Josiah's hand. He was impressed with the strength of his grip despite his small stature. The general always told Heath and his brothers to shake a man's hand like they meant it. And that they should never trust a man with a weak-wristed handshake.

If that bit of advice was valid, Josiah Shelter was trustworthy. The sympathy in his eyes and affection in his tone when he spoke Donn Pedro's name reassured Heath as well. The boy would need someone to replace Reno in his life. Heath imagined that Josiah Shelter would be that man.

“Can you tell me where to find the boy?”

“He's probably over at Miss Manchez's boardinghouse. He and Miss Stevie's little boy are thick as thieves.” He smiled, looking like a doting grandfather.

Heath nodded his thanks. He had not planned to go to the boardinghouse so soon, wanting to get his duty to Pedro and his dealings with Rachel out of the way before he talked with Stevie. But now that he would see her sooner rather than later—maybe she would help him break the terrible news to Pedro—he could hardly wait.

“If you will excuse me.” Heath headed for the door.

“Mr. Diamond.”

He halted with his hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

“I almost forgot. You have a telegram from Santa Fe.”

Heath returned to the counter. As he supposed, the message was from Jay.

It read:

Heath crumpled the missive in his fist. Another man was dead; Jay had been too late to save Layard Shackelford's life. The innocent man was a geologist, for heaven's sake. A peaceful, law-abiding citizen, a well-known scientist. And the judge's men had killed him as if he were a wild dog on the run.