to piece things out.”
The moment for Hijino to act had come. Suddenly straightening, he raised his hand toward his hip, and exclaimed loud enough for those at the river to hear, “Do not touch that
Jack Demp, startled, blurted, “What?”
“I will warn you only once!” Hijino cried.
Blinking in confusion, Demp unwittingly did exactly as Hijino was hoping he would do; he reached for his Colt.
“No!” Hijino shouted. He drew and fired, just as Demp’s fingers closed on the revolver. Hijino shot him in the head. The cowboy never stood a chance. “Watch out! It is a trick!” he yelled at Steve and Armando. Then he sent a slug into Kent Tovey’s chest.
“No!” Steve Pierce bawled.
Hijino swiveled to shoot Clayburn, but Kent Tovey’s horse shied and came between them. Before he could apply his spurs, the cowboys and the vaqueros began firing, each side seeking to protect their own. Rifles blasted in a ragged volley. A slug creased a furrow in Hijino’s shoulder. Swinging onto Blanco’s side, he reined around and raced for the river. He looked back and saw Steve Pierce and Armando trying to flee. Both were hit, repeatedly. Armando fell. Steve succeeded in turning his mount, only to have a slug rip through his throat.
Hanging from his saddle, his shoulder throbbing from his wound, slugs whizzing all around, Hijino chortled with glee.
Everything had worked out exactly as he wanted.
Chapter 25
As soon as Jesco was sure the doors and the windows were secure and no one else was in the house, he blew out the lamps.
“I’d rather have the light,” Timmy said.
“Would you rather be shot?” Jesco countered. They were in the hall. Bending, Jesco grabbed hold of Dunn by the leg, and dragged him into the parlor. “Mrs. Tovey always kept a butcher knife in the top drawer under the kitchen counter. Run and fetch it for me.”
“You’re not fixin’ to cut him up, are you?”
“He deserves to be, but no,” Jesco said. “In the hall closet you’ll find some blankets. Cut one into strips, so we can tie this hombre to a chair.” The young cowboy jangled off, and Jesco glided to the parlor window. Glass crunched under his boots. It had been shot out, and wind rustled the curtains.
Removing his hat, Jesco risked a peek. Something was going on over at the stable. The double doors were open, and several outlaws were moving about. The rest were well hidden. He did not see them anywhere.
Backing away, Jesco replaced his hat. He turned just as a broad shoulder slammed into his gut. A human battering ram lifted him off his feet and slammed him into the wall.
In the dark, Dunn’s features were demonic. He unleashed a punch, snarling, “Now I’ve got you, you son of a bitch!”
Jesco jerked his head aside, and Dunn’s knuckles cracked against the wall instead of his jaw. Dunn howled, and recoiled, enabling Jesco to plant a boot in the other man’s gut. He kicked with such force, Dunn catapulted backward as if he had been fired from a cannon. He crashed into a chair, and both went down. Dunn scrambled to his knees, only to meet a right cross that caught him on the chin.
Jesco could have shot him. Lord knew, Jesco wanted to. But he owed it to Kent Tovey to try and keep Dunn alive. Dunn must answer for Nancy. Jesco swung again, but the killer threw himself back. Jesco immediately closed in, and had his legs swept out from under him.
Jesco came down hard on his back. A hand clawed for his throat, another at his Colt. Jesco swung and connected, but only a glancing blow. He lunged onto his knees.
Dunn sprang, and they grappled. Desperation lent Dunn extra ferocity. His fingers closed like a vise on Jesco’s throat. His knee drove at Jesco’s midsection. Jesco twisted aside to avoid the knee and sought to pry the hand off his neck, but Dunn’s fingers were like railroad spikes, digging deep, choking off his windpipe.
Jesco pushed, but could not throw Dunn off. He rolled to the right, then to the left. Dunn growled, and bunched his shoulders to apply more pressure. He was denied the chance. A revolver thudded against his head, once, twice, three times, and Dunn collapsed on top of Jesco.
“Did I do good?” Timmy Loring asked. He held his Colt aloft, ready to strike again if need be.
“Took you long enough,” Jesco joshed. Pushing the limp weight off, he slowly rose. “That is one tough hombre.”
Together they lifted Dunn into a chair. Jesco let Timmy wrap the strips binding Dunn’s arms and legs, but he tied the knots himself.
“What do we do now?”
“Nothin’ at all,” Jesco answered. “We sit tight, and wait for Saber to make the next move.”
Timmy anxiously glanced at the window. “Shouldn’t we try to pick a few of them off?”
“In the dark?” Jesco shook his head. “All we have to do is stay alive until Mr. Tovey gets back.”
“Is that all?” Timmy asked dryly.
“Think, Tim, think. They won’t go after the rest of the outfit if we keep them busy here. With Dunn our prisoner, we hold the high card.” Jesco touched a sore spot on his neck. He was painting a rosier picture than the situation called for. The part he left unspoken was that Saber’s pack of curly wolves were not about to wait out there twiddling their thumbs.
“Want me to make some coffee?” Timmy asked.
“Sure, and while you’re at it, bake a pie and go out on the porch and dance a jig.”
“That’s a no, I take it?”
A noise outside drew Jesco to the window. Something was moving toward the house from the stable. At first he thought it might be men on horseback, but then the shape acquired detail and substance. It was the buckboard, the tongue up, the bed piled high with hay. Saber and his men were pushing.
“They’re not thinkin’ what I think they’re thinkin’,” Timmy said at his eblow. “How can we stop them?”
“We can’t,” Jesco said. “But we can up the ante. Follow me.” In the next room was a gun cabinet. Lined up on a rack were two shotguns and four rifles. Jesco handed a double-barreled shotgun to Timmy, and claimed one for himself. Boxes of ammunition were stacked at the bottom. “Ever fired one of these?”
“Can’t say as I have, no.” Timmy was fiddling with the release to break the shotgun open.
Jesco held up a shell. “These are buckshot. Both barrels at close range can pretty near blow a man in half.”
“I heard someone say once that a shotgun is the next best thing to a cannon,” Timmy mentioned.
“They have a kick,” Jesco warned. “Keep the stock tucked to your shoulder and a firm grip on the fore end or the recoil will knock you on your backside.” He crammed shells into his pockets and gave the rest to Timmy. “Hurry. We don’t want them to start the frolic without us.”
They reached the window in time. The buckboard had stopped twenty yards out.
“Where are they?” Timmy whispered.
“Behind it.”
In confirmation, a torch flared to life, then a second, and a third. Each was tossed onto the hay. The buckboard promptly began moving again, gaining speed, as flames rapidly climbed the mound in the bed.
“Stay put,” Jesco commanded. He ran to the front door, wrenched it open, and darted out. Thumbing back the shotgun’s twin hammers, he skipped to one side. Out in the dark to the left, a rifle blasted, and a slug bit into the wall. Jesco crouched next to a post. He ignored the shooter and concentrated on three pairs of legs visible under the end of the buckboard.
The front of the house was lit up as bright as day. Another rifle boomed, from the other side, and the post shook with the impact. The crackle of flames and the rattle of the buckboard nearly drowned out a third shot that struck the porch at Jesco’s feet.
By now, the buckboard was less than twenty feet away. Jesco leveled the shotgun at two of the legs, and let
