The Thunder Riders Part 7

Speares glared at the man, but checked his anger. Aside from the marshal, these three were the best of the posse. He couldn't afford to lose them.

He looked at Franklin, then canted his head to indicate the townsmen flanking the market hunters. "Mr. Franklin here guarantees you each two hundred and fifty dollars-if the gold and and the girl are recovered." Speares looked at the banker, flushing beneath the brim of his black bowler. "Ain't that right, Franklin?" the girl are recovered." Speares looked at the banker, flushing beneath the brim of his black bowler. "Ain't that right, Franklin?"

Speares didn't wait for a response. "Move out!"

"Sheriff," Patchen called.

As the others spurred their horses south, Speares turned back to Patchen, standing before the stage. The deputy marshal looked at the woman in the green dress. "What about your dead?"

Speares just stared at him as if he had no idea what the man was talking about.

"You're not going to bury them?"

"The best way to honor the dead," Speares said, holding his skitter-stepping mount's reins taut in his right fist, "is to shoot the s.h.i.t outta those that killed 'em!"

The sheriff turned his horse and put the steel to its flanks.

Yakima whiled away the afternoon and early evening in the Saber Creek jailhouse by counting the stones in the ceiling, then in the floor, and by trying not to think about how far Wolf and the girl were getting away from him.

By nine o'clock it was fully dark, and the street traffic had died down. Yakima, lying on his bunk, ankles crossed, stared through the cell bars at the shotgun in the hands of the liveryman, Suggs, who slept tipped back in the sheriff's swivel chair.

The shotgun lay across Suggs's broad thighs. Fifteen feet away. But with the bars between the gun and Yakima, it might as well have been in the next territory.

Yakima's heart did a slow, hot roll.

He had to get out of here tonight. By sunrise tomorrow, the gang, Wolf, and Anjanette would be deep into Mexico-probably too far away to track. Speares and his men would most likely be dead, their b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.ses strewn about some isolated arroyo.

The door latch clicked.

Yakima shuttled his gaze to the front wall as the door opened. A pretty redheaded woman in a low-cut red and black dress and a lacy black shawl poked her head through the opening, her plucked eyebrows arched. She'd gone heavy on the eyeliner and war paint, and the mole off the right corner of her mouth stood out from the rouge.

Suggs had jerked with a start when the door hinges had squawked. His shotgun slid off his thigh and hit the stone floor with a clatter. As he bent forward with a nervous grunt to retrieve it, the redhead laughed.

"It's me-Polly."

Suggs looked up at her, and the lines in his face planed out.

"Kinda slow tonight," the redhead said, closing the door and stepping into the room. "I knew you were alone over here, with orders not to leave, so I thought you might be lonely." Her eyes grew soft, and she sucked a breath to lift her opulent b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Want a poke? Half price for the man guardin' that killer in there."

Suggs picked up the shotgun and sat back in the chair. "I don't think so, Polly. If Speares got back and caught me . . ."

Polly stepped forward, hooking her thumbs into her bodice and pulling it down to her waist, the large, pale b.r.e.a.s.t.s jolting free. "That your last word on the subject, Charlie?" She stopped before Suggs's chair, smiling. Suggs stared at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s like a little boy staring at a jar of colored rock candy on a mercantile counter.

He set the shotgun down against the desk and reached forward, palms out. "My, those're some jugs!"

Polly stepped back with a laugh. "Let's see the lucre, Charlie!"

Suggs scowled, glanced at the door, then the window, then turned back to the girl. "I reckon Speares won't be back tonight."

He glanced at Yakima, who peered out from beneath the hat tipped low over his eyes, lifting his chest slowly and regularly, feigning sleep. Suggs stood and poked a hand in his pocket, flipped a couple of coins on the desk. "h.e.l.l, since he's gone after them d.a.m.n Thunder Riders, Speares prob'ly won't ever ever be back. No point in deprivin' myself of a half-priced poke!" be back. No point in deprivin' myself of a half-priced poke!"

"Now you're talkin'!" Unpinning her hair from the back of her head, Polly skipped toward the open door of the jail's only other cell, to the right of the one Yakima was in. She glanced at Yakima, wheeled toward Suggs. "What if he wakes up?"

Suggs chuffed. "So? The breed ain't long fer this world."

Yakima continued raising and lowering his chest slowly as Suggs followed the girl into the cell, awkwardly dancing a little jig and humming a few bars of "Old Arizona." Yakima could see part of what they were doing out of the corner of his right eye, without turning his head.

When Suggs had pulled his pants down to his knees, nuzzling the girl and giving her a.s.s a couple of sporting slaps, they crawled onto the cot on the other side of the barred wall. Suggs raised the wh.o.r.e's dress above her waist, positioned himself between her spread legs, and began thrusting.

Yakima let them get going hot and heavy, grunting and sighing and giving the cot's leather springs a good workout, before he poked his hat back off his forehead. He dropped his boots to the floor, eased across the cell, and stuck his left arm through the bars. He wrapped the arm around Suggs's neck and slammed the man's head against the cell wall so hard that both cages shook.

The redhead and Suggs screamed at the same time. The redhead stared up in horror as Yakima slammed Suggs's head once more against the bars and held him there, closing his arm taut around the liveryman's neck. Suggs groaned and choked, his face swelling and turning red as the redhead rose up on her elbows, yelling, "Stop! No!"

Yakima turned his gaze on her. "Get the keys from the desk or I'll kill him!"

She tried wedging her fingers between Yakima's arm and Suggs's neck. "Let him go! You're killing killing him!" him!"

Yakima tightened his grip. "I will will kill him if you don't fetch those keys p.r.o.nto! I'll tear his head clean off his shoulders!" kill him if you don't fetch those keys p.r.o.nto! I'll tear his head clean off his shoulders!"

Suggs gasped, eyes bulging, and threw his left arm out, gesturing toward the desk.

Sobbing, the redhead scrambled out from beneath the liveryman, rose from the cot, and ran into the main office. She grabbed the key ring off the desk and started back toward the cell in which Suggs was slumped on the cot, head grinding into the bars.

Yakima turned to stare at her over his right shoulder. "Unlock my cell door!"

She slipped on the stone floor, nearly falling, as she turned suddenly and lunged toward Yakima's cell. She hadn't pulled her dress up, and her big b.r.e.a.s.t.s bounced and her red hair hung across her shoulders as she fumbled the key into the lock. It took her several tries to finally get the key turned, and then the bolt gave with a satisfying clank.

As the door swung slightly outward on its rusty hinges, Yakima released Suggs, turned around, and pushed it wide.

He'd taken one broad step toward the desk, over which his cartridge belt and holstered .44 were coiled on a hat peg, when the outside door sprang open. A thin, long-haired man in a wool tunic and a broad-brimmed felt sombrero stumbled in, then stopped suddenly, eyes bright, as two others came up beside him-including the Mexican, Spanish Lluna, whom Yakima had fought on his last visit to town, in the Saguaro Inn. All wielded rifles, revolvers hanging off their hips or under their arms.

"Well, well-looks like we got here just in time, gents!" The thin man c.o.c.ked his rifle and aimed from the hip at Yakima's belly. "The breed was about to take a stroll!"

Chapter 9.

Yakima froze, glanced at the shotgun leaning against the sheriff's desk.

"Forget it, breed," said the third man, flanking the thin gent, raising his own Winchester and narrowing his flinty eyes. "You'll never make it."

"Hey, don't go and spoil our necktie party, heathen," said Spanish-a bulky Mexican wearing a green greatcoat, red bandanna, and low-crowned sombrero. A streak of white, like lightning, marked his s.h.a.ggy black beard.

They were ten feet away, but Yakima could smell the liquor on their breath.

The thin gent's gla.s.sy hazel eyes slid to the wh.o.r.e standing near Yakima, who quickly pulled her bodice over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Suggs was on his hands and knees on the cell floor, shaking his head as if to clear it as blood dripped from the gash in his right temple.

"Hey, Suggs," said the thin man, laughing while keeping his rifle trained on Yakima. "Speares might not have felt the need to specify, but I believe he wanted you to guard the breed, not turn the jail into a wh.o.r.ehouse."

Lluna and the third hombre laughed.

"That's real funny, Boyd," Suggs said, rising stiffly while dabbing his cut temple. "Put the son of a b.i.t.c.h back in his cell, will you? There'll be a couple nights' free stablin' for all three you boys if'n you don't tell Speares."

"No need," Boyd said, grinning at Yakima. "We're gonna throw a necktie party in the breed's honor-out front of the saloon. A couple of the boys are building a bonfire, and Old Antoine is tapping a fresh keg."

Suggs grabbed his underwear and held them over his crotch. "Speares ain't gonna like it."

"Sheet," said the big Mexican. "Speares ain't comin' back. They make him look bad. Take his girl. He'll fight, but them Thunder Riders will fill him so full of holes he won't be able to hold one leetle leetle sip of wheeskey." With that last, the Mexican held up his right hand, spreading his index finger and thumb about an inch apart and squinting at it. sip of wheeskey." With that last, the Mexican held up his right hand, spreading his index finger and thumb about an inch apart and squinting at it.

His middle finger had been chopped off at the first knuckle, leaving a swollen purple stump of gnarled flesh. Yakima hadn't meant to cut off the man's finger; he'd meant to bury the man's own stiletto in his gut. The Mexican had been faster than he looked, however, and he'd sidestepped while throwing an errant hand toward Yakima's wrist.

Not long after the finger had dropped to the floor and been kicked under a table, Speares and three deputies had run into the saloon, armed with Winchesters and a double-barreled shotgun.

The thin gent said, "You an' Polly can stay here and hump. Now, get the h.e.l.l outta the way, Polly-less'n you wanna give the breed one last rut before he hangs."

"Shut up, Boyd!" Polly dropped her arms and stalked into the cell where Suggs was quickly dressing.

Boyd chuckled as he moved forward and right, keeping his rifle trained on Yakima. At the same time, he removed two lengths of braided rawhide from the back of his belt, tossed them at Yakima's feet.

"Tie one around your wrists, the other around your ankles. We done seen how you can kick kick."

"And Spanish here done seen what he can do with a pigsticker," said the man by the door, a weasel-faced little hombre with no front teeth and a pinto vest.

"Shut up, Squires," Spanish said, sliding his lower jaw from side to side, like a cow chewing its cud. "'Less you want me to cut off your your finger and feed it to you raw." finger and feed it to you raw."

The Mexican moved slowly toward Yakima, holding his rifle up high across his chest.

"Back off," Boyd ordered. "Let him put the ties on."

Yakima relaxed his shoulder and straightened his spine. "This doesn't seem very sporting, boys. At least Spanish and I made a fair fight of it."

"There's no fight, breed," Boyd said. "We wanna watch you dance without your boots touchin' the ground." He frowned at the Mexican, whose bushy black brows beetled, black eyes bright with simmering rage.

"I said back off till he's got the d.a.m.n ties on, Spanish!"

"He can put the ties on after after I've broken his I've broken his jaw jaw!" The Mexican thrust the rear stock of his rifle forward, checked the motion, and slashed the barrel toward Yakima's face. Yakima had leapt back to avoid the rifle stock. Seeing that the move was just a feint, he still managed to angle his head so that the barrel clipped only his left cheek.

"Spanish!" Boyd shouted.

The shout hadn't died on Boyd's lips before Yakima had lunged forward and buried his right knee in the Mexican's groin. As the Mexican screamed, Yakima twisted, throwing the big man in front of him as Boyd's rifle exploded.

There was a dull whump whump as the bullet tore into Spanish's lower back. Yakima wrapped both hands around the Mexican's rifle and aimed it toward Boyd. Before he could get his own finger through the trigger guard, Spanish tripped the trigger himself. as the bullet tore into Spanish's lower back. Yakima wrapped both hands around the Mexican's rifle and aimed it toward Boyd. Before he could get his own finger through the trigger guard, Spanish tripped the trigger himself.

"Owwwww!" Boyd cried, collapsing over his bullet-torn belly, knees bending as he dropped his rifle. Boyd cried, collapsing over his bullet-torn belly, knees bending as he dropped his rifle.

The third hombre shouted, "Son of a b.i.t.c.h b.i.t.c.h!" as he triggered his own Spencer repeater. The slug sizzled through the air over Yakima's right shoulder and sparked off a cell bar behind him. Yakima jerked the Winchester from Spanish's grip and, turning toward the door, racked a fresh sh.e.l.l.

The third hombre screamed like a marauding Indian as he c.o.c.ked his own repeater and, squaring his shoulders and spreading his feet, extended the Spencer from his waist. He screamed again, toothless mouth wide, and stared down at the Spencer's jammed action.

Yakima squeezed the trigger of Spanish's Winchester. Impossibly, the hammer clicked, empty.

At the same time, the toothless man and Yakima tossed aside their rifles. As the toothless hombre reached for the b.u.t.t-forward S&W on his left hip, Yakima crossed the room in two long strides, grabbing the man's gun hand with one of his own while smashing the other fist across the man's jaw.

The jawbone broke with an audible crack, and the hombre yowled. At the same time, Yakima took the man's gun arm in both his hands and jerked forward and down, lifting the man off his feet to turn a forward somersault and hit the floor on his a.s.s, facing the desk.

Yakima leaned toward him, wrapped his right arm around the man's neck, and jerked.

Crack!

The man fell sideways to the rock floor without a peep.

Yakima froze, staring toward the cell in which the redhead was cowering behind the half-dressed Suggs, peeking around the burly man's shoulder, her eyes wide and glistening with horror. Outside, men were yelling, their voices growing louder.

Yakima sprang forward. The redhead yelped and pulled her head back behind Suggs, who dropped the shirt he'd been holding and raised his hands, palms out. "Please, don't . . ."

As Yakima slung their cell door closed, Suggs and the redhead stumbled back toward the outside wall. The door latched with the loud crack of a rifle report.

Yakima scooped his hat off the floor, then dashed into his cell for his sheepskin vest. Shrugging into the vest, he grabbed his six-shooter and holster off the peg over the sheriff's desk and quickly wrapped it around his waist as the voices outside and the thud and ring of spurred boots grew louder.

He plucked the dead Mexican's Winchester off the floor, found a box of .44 sh.e.l.ls in a desk drawer, and shoved a handful of cartridges into his vest pockets. Running to the door, he glanced outside, thumbing cartridges through the Winchester's loading gate.

Several men-it was too dark to see how many exactly-were moving toward the jailhouse, within fifty feet and closing. Lamplight winked off gun iron and steel spurs.

When Yakima had shoved six sh.e.l.ls into the Winchester's breech, he bolted outside and into the street. He stopped about ten feet out from the hitchrack, planted the Winchester's b.u.t.t against his right hip, and levered five sh.e.l.ls into the ground in front of the approaching men.

He must have misjudged one shot and drilled it through a boot toe, because a high-pitched howl rose amid the shouts and curses, one man dropping and grabbing his knee as the others ran for cover on the near side of the street.

As the men continued shouting and the man with the wounded foot continued howling, Yakima ran straight out from the jailhouse and down a side street, clinging to the shadows on the right side of the street while thumbing more sh.e.l.ls into his Winchester's magazine.

Above the shouting, howling, and milling behind him, Suggs yelled as though from the bottom of a well, "Don't let the redskin git away, boys, or Speares'll have my hide hide!"

Another man screamed, "Son of a b.i.t.c.h shot my toe toe off!" off!"

Yakima stopped before six horses tied in front of a wh.o.r.ehouse. A girl's laughter and the squawk of bed-springs rose from behind the red-curtained windows. Yakima quickly ran his glance over the horses, then, picking out a blue roan with straight legs and a broad chest and a sorrel that appeared second-best of the lot, he unwrapped the reins from the hitchrack, backed the horses into the street, and leapt onto the roan.

In less than a minute, he was on the outskirts of Saber Creek, galloping east through the chaparral, leading the sorrel along behind.

When he'd pushed the horses hard for a good mile, he checked them down to a trot. No point in risking a broken leg. He was a good twelve or thirteen hours behind the Thunder Riders, but he had to be patient. He'd tracked in the dark before-his eyes were keen and there was more light than one might figure-but he'd have to take his time, riding one horse, then the other, and keeping a close eye on the sign.

He was trotting through a creosote-stippled flat about three or four miles from town when the thud of hooves- three or four sets-rose behind him. He reined the horses down and turned his head, listening. Voices rose in the silent night, and bridle chains jangled.

s.h.i.t. Men from town were following him.

He turned the horses off the trail and into a nest of rocks and saguaros. Tying the horses a good thirty yards away from the trail, he ran back to the rock nest and hunkered low, peering above the V formed by two boulders.