“Why don’t we talk it over face-to-face?” Jesco offered. “You come to the porch. I’ll come to the window.”
“And have you fill me with lead the moment I show myself?” Saber snorted. “Not likely.”
Jesco added the frosting to his bait. “I’ll show myself first. With my arms out from my sides and my hands empty. How would that be?”
“I suppose that would do.” Saber tried to sound as if it were of no consequence, but his tone betrayed his bloodlust.
“Give me a minute.”
“Take as long as you want.”
Jesco darted back to Timmy. “You heard. He fell for it. Count to a hundred, real slow, to give me time. Then push the chair to the window. Whatever you do, don’t show yourself.”
“What if they don’t shoot?”
“They will.”
“What if all he really wants to do is talk? He’ll wonder why you don’t say anything.”
“It won’t come to that.” Jesco ran to the hallway and down it, to a room on the left. Nancy’s piano occupied a far corner. Past the piano was the window. He had tested the latch earlier, and it did not make noise. Nor did the window as he slowly slid it open high enough for him to slip over the sill. Just as quietly, he closed it behind him.
The night air was cool on Jesco’s face. Drawing his Colt, he padded toward the front of the house. He had only gone a few feet when he sensed danger. He whirled, thinking as he did that it was his nerves and nothing more, of how silly he would feel when he saw no one was there.
But someone was.
Steel glinted in the starlight. An inky figure was almost on top of him. Jesco had the illusion he was being attacked by a set of clothes. Somehow he got his hand up and caught a wrist, establishing that his assailant was flesh and blood. The illusion was due to the man’s skin, which was as black as the night.
Jesco was slammed against the house. His own wrist was seized. Why the black had not shot him was anyone’s guess. Maybe the man enjoyed carving others up. Or maybe the black wanted to take him alive in order to inflict a long, slow, agonizing end.
Jesco considered himself strong, but the black proved stronger. The knife inched toward his neck. Exerting every sinew, he bent his back into a bow.
It did no good.
Another few moments, and the steel would bury itself in his throat.
In the dark, a stone’s throw from the front of the house, four figures lay with rifles to their shoulders. A fifth man, skinny as a rail, was on his back facing the house, his legs crudely bandaged, a pistol in his hand. Nearby was a sixth figure, his head half blown away.
“What’s takin’ that cowboy so damn long?” Twitch groused.
“Be patient, cousin,” Saber said. “For ten thousand dollars, we’ll give him all the time in the world.”
Twitch swore, but not too loudly. “You don’t really believe he’ll hand it over, do you? It has to be a trick.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” tittered the third man with a rifle. “And if he shows himself, he’s maggot bait.”
“Watch that itchy trigger finger of yours, Fritz,” Saber cautioned. “No one is to fire unless I do. Is that clear?” He glanced at the skinny man with the bandaged legs. “How are you holdin’ up, Harvey?”
“The bleedin’ has about stopped,” the wounded man said. “But I hurt like the dickens.”
“At least you’re breathin’,” Saber remarked, with a meaningful glance at their former companion, who had taken the brunt of the shotgun blast in the head. “We can’t say the same about Lutt.”
The last of them now spoke. He was burly and filthy and missing several front teeth. “That damned cowboy has to suffer for what he did. We need to take him alive and do to him as the Comanches did to my grandpa. Cut out his eyeballs for starters, then chop off his nose and ears.”
Saber grinned. “You sure are a bloodthirsty cuss, Caleb. I’d like nothin’ better. But you saw that cowboy unlimber his hardware. He’s slick as axle grease. Takin’ him alive might cost a few of us our lives, and with Lutt dead and Fritz barely able to walk, we’re runnin’ short.”
“Speakin’ of runnin’ short,” Twitch said, “where in hell did Creed get to? That darky is never around when we need him.”
“I wouldn’t call him that to his face, were I you.” Saber rose on his elbows to scan the yard. “He’s supposed to be keepin’ watch out back in case those cowboys try to give us the slip.”
They fell silent, waiting. Finally Saber raised his cheek from his rifle, and remarked, “You’re right, cousin. It’s takin’ a lot longer than it should. It makes no sense. It was the cowboy’s idea.”
“You can’t ever trust a cow nurse,” Twitch said. “They’re sneaky as hell.”
Saber nudged Caleb with his boot. “Work your way up to the house and have a look.”
“Why me?” the burly outlaw objected. “Why not your cousin or Fritz?”
“Because I want you to do it,” Saber snapped, furious that his decision was being challenged. “Unless you would rather that you and I have us a little talk of our own after this is over.”
“No,” Caleb said quickly. “Those talks of yours end too permanent for my likin’. I’ll go.”
Saber came close to shooting Caleb anyway. Questioning his judgment had become contagious. It hinted that whoever disagreed thought they could do better at leading. The next step from thinking they could do better was wanting to take over, and the next step from there was to bury a knife in his back or blow his brains out. It wasn’t easy leadin’ a pack of cutthroats. Saber must always watch his back, and never, ever show a sign of weakness. At the slightest hint, they would pounce. “Where the hell is that cowboy?” he grumbled.
Timmy Loring was in a predicament.
He had counted to one hundred, slowly, exactly as Jesco told him to. Then he started to slide the chair toward the window. It was harder than he reckoned. Dunn weighed over two hundred pounds. To make things worse, the wood floor was not as smooth as it appeared to be. Where the boards joined were slight ridges. Each time the chair came to a ridge, the legs caught. Timmy had to lift first one front leg and then the other, then push the chair until the rear legs caught. Then he had to do the same with the rear legs.
It was taking forever. But another five feet should do it. The chair would be close enough to the window for the killers to see Dunn.
Timmy was sweating profusely. His clothes stuck to him like a second skin. A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead down the bridge of his nose and fell to the floor with a tiny, wet
Lying flat, Timmy extended both arms, and gripped the right front leg. He started to lift. In his haste, he misjudged, and the chair leg rose higher than he intended. Without warning, the chair tilted in the other direction. Frantic to keep it from crashing to the floor, Timmy gripped the rung between the legs, and pulled. He pulled too hard. The chair rocked onto its rear legs. Rocked, and tilted in his direction.
Timmy flung out both arms but he was a shade too slow. The chair, and its enormously heavy burden, fell on top of him. The sound was not as loud as it would have been had the chair struck the floor, but it was still much too loud for Timmy, and he glanced at the broken window in fear that the killers had heard.
Nothing happened. No one shouted to ask what was going on.
Relieved, Timmy pushed against the chair, but it wouldn’t budge. He pushed against Dunn, but Dunn’s body had shifted as it fell, and lay across his back, and he could not get enough leverage. The best Timmy could do was raise his right shoulder a few inches.
“No, no, no.” Timmy tried again, pushing with all his might. It made no difference. He was pinned.
Timmy’s heart hammered. He had to right the chair and place Dunn back on it. Jesco was counting on him. Clenching his teeth, he pushed and pushed and pushed, and met only failure.
Timmy took stock. Maybe he was going about it all wrong. He figured he could roll out from under the body and stand up, but he had barely begun to roll when something snagged, and he could roll no farther.
