Chapter 9
Arriving with not even a name to call his own, Deacon found what he knew was everything he ever wanted only to face the likelihood of being killed before able to enjoy it. Shrugging, he trotted his horse to the head of the gully, willing to trade a life spent poorly to keep her safe without one regret in doing so. Walking the animal carefully down a rock-strewn slope, keenly alert for any hint suggesting Lambertson’s men were about, he reviewed a plan little resembling one.
Reaching the bottom, he hoisted his canteen and swallowed long, sweat trickling from beneath his hat. Uncomfortably hot above, in the ravine heat blasted off rocks sending dancing waves up on all sides bringing perspiration soaking through his shirt and pants. Continually drying his gun hand as best he could, Deacon moved closer to the ranch house at a steady pace, his few glimpses of it playing over his thinking as he worked over choices.
Finding the gulch narrowing, he dismounted, stuffing his hat in his saddlebag before scrambling up to the rim for a peek around. Rifle ready, he peered out over ground baked solid at Lambertson’s barn blocking a view of the house from him. Seeing the gully flatten a few yards away, he inched down and retrieved his horse, leading it up then walking them toward the building, himself shielded by it.
Reaching the back, he tied his mount off on a broken plank protruding slightly outward and eyed the doorway warily. Stooping, he scooted quickly to the entry, a fleeting look showing two horses in the pasture, five more in stalls, a wagon and nothing else. He darted through the door moving immediately into deep shadows before edging across the floor, coming to rest half hidden by a post with a large pile of hay behind when he heard a door slam.
Breathlessly, Deacon waited, the sound of boots scraping dry, stony ground reaching his ears. A moment later, the man’s silhouette passed through the opposite threshold headed to a stall across the barn. Giving time for him to fill hands with a saddle, Chance inhaled then stepped away from the post.
“You one of them that ambushed the woman’s Pa and husband?” he snarled quietly.
Dropping the gear, the man’s shoulders hunched then he froze only a second before throwing himself to one side while grabbing for his belt gun. Chance’s rifle roared, the bullet entering three inches below the man’s neck and exiting in a spurt of blood through his back, standing him upright. Levering a shell into his rifle, Deacon fired again, seeing a blossom of red erupt below his target’s breastbone and a plume of red coat the wall as he crumpled and fell.
Spinning, snorts and whinnies of the distraught horses in his ears, Chance took two steps away from the door, ducking beneath an unshuttered window. Peering out the shoulder high opening, he saw the entire rear of the house. Waiting silently, Deacon watched until a dark shape appeared behind the screened door. Lifting his rifle, he inhaled, holding his breath as a man kicked open the door then ran low toward the far corner of the barn.
Tracking perfectly, Chance fired once awarding the gunman a second ear and driving his target tumbling sideways spattering a pool of blood, the rifle he carried sent flying. A satisfied grunt escaped Deacon’s lips at reducing his enemies to one as he surveyed the house again, observing no movement at doors or windows. Swiveling, he stepped to the west wall and bumped open a man door, kneeling as he looked out at a series of large boulders pointing his direction.
Working on instinct only, he calculated the distance, figuring the angles and time needed to gain cover before Lambertson could shoot. His eyes narrowed spying an oil lamp hanging inside the door, the stale heat of the barn suddenly replaced by a cauldron of flames felt seventeen years earlier. Searching around, he found a pair of burlap sacks and stuffed them half full of straw then grabbed a rake leaning against one wall, tying the bags to it with twine from a bale nearby. Soaking the make-shift torch with oil, Chance returned to the door and gave a swift look before launching himself toward the rocks.
Thirty feet to Deacon lasted a lifetime, one hand clutching the rake and one his rifle, before he slid behind the boulders. Gasping, he eyed the house through gaps between stones then worked closer to the building under cover of pines and rocks. Reaching a space facing a window, he considered a dash to get below it, breaking the glass with his rifle butt and tossing the lit torch to force Lambertson out or burn him alive as they’d done to Deacon’s own father.
On one knee, he paused, furiously working to control his breathing. No sound came to him from the building as his gaze flicked between windows and two corners. Finally, nerves taut, he lunged, racing to his chosen spot below glass panes where he flung himself against the wall, sweat pouring over every inch of his body.
Trembling, Chance fumbled with a box of matches in his pocket, removing one after a time and preparing to strike it and light the torch when he stopped. From deep recesses of his mind, he heard Pa, the gravelly voice he knew so well rocking him.
“Not doing that, son” Deacon heard, “or will be haunted the rest of your days worse than has been ‘til now.”
Motionless, Chance stared unseeing, the voice continuing, “You treat him as they did me you’re no better’n them. If you’re wanting him, son, go face him like a man square up or live regretting every day left you got.”
Face taut, Deacon shook his head, chasing the voice from his head. ‘Face him like a man' Pa said and that’s what he’d do. Dropping the unlit torch, Chance shifted the rifle to his left hand, moving along the wall and risking a short look when reaching the porch before stepping up, scrunching low next to a tall front window. A brief look in showed Lambertson crouched behind his desk, the chair shoved off to one side, with a rifle in hand and a pistol on the floor beside him.
‘Face him like a man square up.' Pa repeated. ‘Back shooting’s for cowards.’
Desperately seeking a way, Deacon exhaled almost silently, knowing any sound could bring a shot piercing the pine walls capable of crippling or killing. Running a hard gaze over the porch, mentally counting steps to the door, he dismissed the notion as too far before resting tight eyes on a short bench and chair sitting under the window. Working through an idea, he squatted and laid his rifle aside, easing forward then flattening his palms below the seat. Inhaling sharply, he burst up, driving the sturdy wood frame through the glass pane with a shattering explosion as Lambertson whirled, the chair taking him in the chest knocking him back.
Launching from the sill off one foot, Deacon hurled himself at the rancher, landing on the man. Grabbing wildly, Chance got a grip on Lambertson’s rifle, yanking it away and throwing it aside before Tresh tossed him off with a two handed shove. Rolling, kicking the pistol past easy reach, Deacon rose in a squat, weight forward on his toes taking Lambertson’s charge on his shoulder, powering the rancher backwards into the desk just above his belt.
Grunting in pain, Tresh lunged, thick muscled arms sending Chance stumbling. Wheeling about, Deacon back-pedaled, glaring at Lambertson as the rancher crouched in a fighters stance, fists balled. A malicious sneer crossed Tresh’s face, his younger days of street fighting as a wharf rat in Buffalo giving confidence as he edged closer, lashing out with a low left connecting beneath Chance’s ribs.
Hatred and anger welling up left no room for pain as Deacon stepped back anxiously looking for an opening. Never one for bare knuckle fighting, Chance sensed instinctively having greater height and reach was his advantage but knew Lambertson’s stout build hid more strength and power than seemed he should have.
The men circled warily, trading jabs to test one another, neither noticing a shadowy form edging forward in the hallway watching intently. Lambertson threw a short right Deacon slapped away followed by a left jab Chance anticipated. Sidestepping, Deacon flashed a right cross crushing the rancher’s nose sending blood erupting over them both then hopped close, hammering Lambertson with a left uppercut to the midriff.
Reeling, the rancher fixed a fearing look on his foe, an open-handed slap from above Chance’s shoulder snapping his head down and away. Deacon pivoted at the hips bringing a back-
hand from low against Lambertson’s cheek slamming him to the floor. Leaping, Chance straddled Lambertson, striking twice with overhand rights before straightening, backing away and staring as the dazed rancher shook his head, trying to rise.
“Get up and die on your feet like a man” Deacon demanded, flipping the loop off his pistol and drawing, “or die on the floor like the worm you are.”
Lambertson’s face paled, the large black muzzle of Chance’s Colt filling his vision. Sweat stung his eyes as they widened seeing his own pistol several feet away against the massive rock fireplace. He licked dry lips, unable to swallow.
Deacon leveled the barrel, images of Rachel’s Pa and husband ambushed from behind left half buried in a gulch feeding vultures and coyotes blinding him. Cocking the hammer, his finger tightened then held, a rumbling voice from behind slicing through the fire in him.
“Don’t pull that trigger.” Pike ordered. “You’ve no trouble with the law yet, Mr. Chance, but kill an unarmed man and you will.”
Deacon’s breath caught. Nothing less than killing Lambertson was his only thought when Adam spoke again.
“He’s not worth all you’ve gained, Mr. Chance. Can promise your last day will be swinging from a gallows you don’t lower that gun.”
Chance exhaled abruptly, raising the barrel of his pistol, releasing the hammer harmlessly before holstering the weapon. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Pike standing in dim light as the badge on his vest seemed to glow bright.
Adam smiled lightly at the man. “Good thinking, Mr. Chance.” he said then shifted suddenly, his own pistol exploding in the small room. Stunned, Deacon spun toward Lambertson, seeing blood gush past fingers clutching his right shoulder, his revolver still spinning where it landed.
Two quick steps got Pike over the wounded man where he knelt sharply, Lambertson’s breath rushing out as Adam landed on his stomach. Holstering his gun, Adam rose and grabbed the ranchers bleeding arm, spinning him face down harshly, ignoring the man’s howls of pain. Slipping a piggin string from his vest pocket, Pike dabbed a loop over Lambertson’s hand and tightened it, holding firm as he gripped the man’s other wrist and roughly dragged it alongside, finishing tying the rancher with familiar, practiced motions.
Leaning, he reached for the loose pistol and tucked it in his waist band as he instructed Chance, “Retrieve several towels from the kitchen, if you would, so to keep this fellow from bleeding to death.” adding with a grin, “Army little likes paying rewards for men they’re wishful of hanging who are already dead. Takes all their fun away, truth be told.”
Staring blankly, Deacon stood until Pike barked, “Towels, Mr. Chance!”
Fog cleared by Adam’s tone, he whirled away, returning only a moment later with an armload of cloths and holding them out. Selecting two larger ones, Adam removed his knife from the holder at the small of his back, easily slicing them lengthwise before dropping them, taking then a pair of smaller dish rags. Folding one, he shoved it beneath Lambertson’s shirt where his bullet exited then rolled the man over and repeated the action on the front.
Nimbly tying two of the sliced towels together, Pike wrapped them over Lambertson’s neck and under his arm holding the make-shift bandages in place before using a second pair to circle the rancher’s chest and knotting them tightly. Standing, he surveyed the unconscious rancher with satisfaction turning finally to Deacon and holding out his hand.
“Adam Pike, Mr. Chance, United States Marshall.” he offered, alarmed when Deacon grimaced with pain. Examining Chance’s arm, Pike chuckled, bending then to grab another cloth before stepping next to the taller fellow.
Holding Chance’s wrist, Adam withdrew his knife again, slicing away Deacon’s blood covered sleeve then grasped a long sliver of glass with the towel.
“Going to hurt a mite.” he muttered, jerking the shard out and letting it fall, gripping the cut tightly for a minute before tying the cloth around it.
Meeting Chance’s anguished look with a raised brow and grinning, he bobbed his head. “Reckon that’ll do for now, Mr. Chance, as you’ll be liking Mrs. Loftin attending to your injuries better anyway.”Remembering most pleasantly nursing he received from Hannah after his brutal fight with Brotherton in Denver*, Pike chuckled. “Can say, too, she’ll be liking to give care unless I miss my guess.”