Westward, Tally Ho! Page 7

  Kate's heart thumped wildly beneath her chest as she watched the tall English butler run out into the middle of the street only to halt abruptly and stand there stiff as a rail. He called out the names of the two men who'd entered the hotel.

  "The old fool." Kate cursed, fingering the cold steel of the gun he refused to wear. "He'll get himself gunned down without a fight!"

  Guthrie stood alone in the dusty street. A hot, dry afternoon breeze whisked by him, flapping his unbuttoned vest and rolling a tumbleweed by his firmly planted feet. He stood as if every muscle in his thin frame had tensed like a spring ready to jolt. He kept his eyes narrowed, his jaw set, as he glared at the two men under the scorching rays of the New Mexico sun.

  Slowly, Buckeye and Burly had turned at the sound of his voice. Now they sized him up. Burly guffawed at the sight of the unarmed Englishman and took a confident step toward him, but Buck had seen the look in the old man's eyes, and it gave him pause. So he hung back with his hand hovering over his knife. True to form, he let Burly do all the talking.

  "What do you want, old man?" Burly jeered, stepping off the sidewalk into the dust. His thickly muscled arms were folded across his chest, leaving both Colts buckled around his hips in plain view. He eyed the butler with disgust. "What's the matter? Ain't you man enough to carry a gun?"

  Guthrie remained silent, his arms down at his sides, his fingers relaxed. His eyes never left the gunslinger. In a low, conversational tone, he said, "I don't like guns."

  The big man laughed out loud before cursing the Englishman foully. "Don't like 'em, eh?" he taunted. Then with a speed so great that it blurred his movements, his ham-sized mitts dropped to his holsters and snatched up the Colts in a flash. "Bite the dust, geezer!"

  With both guns leveled on the Englishman, Burly squeezed off one shot after another, the bullets skidding into the ground at the older man's feet and sending a plume of dust up into his eyes. Burly roared with laughter, a crazed look on his face.

  "Bite the dust! Bite it!" He fired all twelve rounds and stopped pulling the triggers only when the chambers started clicking empty.

  Then it was quiet.

  A crowd had gathered at the sound of the gunshots, and now cowhands, train workers, bartenders, Kate's girls, and other members of the town stood at a distance, hushed as the thick cloud of dust cleared.

  Then they saw—to their amazement—the English butler was still standing.

  "He didn't even flinch!" Kate cried with excitement, almost jumping up and down like a little girl.

  "What a man..."

  Kate turned to find Cora behind her, looking out the window over her shoulder. The scowl on her broad face had been replaced by a look of wonder, and her big green eyes now stared, transfixed, at the scene unfolding before them.

  There Guthrie stood, exactly as he had before the shooting started. But now he was covered from his Stetson to his boots in a thick coat of dust. Even his eyebrows were caked with it. Yet he stood unwavering, his eyes set on the two men before him.

  "He didn't even cough!" Buckeye hissed in disbelief. "He didn't move a muscle while you were shootin' at 'im!"

  Burly didn't reply. Kate could tell he was burning up inside with rage. The man was used to getting a reaction. It's why he did most of the harebrained things he did. He loved reactions. If an hour went by without one, he'd do something rude, crude, or lewd just to get one.

  Buckeye had known Burly since they were lads, and the way he told it, at age ten, right before Burly had quit his schooling, he'd been as big as a regular-sized man and as hairy as one, too. He'd thrived on the reactions he'd gotten from his smaller classmates. Pulling hair, tossing frogs, spewing spit wads, and beating senseless any kid stupid enough to pass behind the schoolhouse after lessons—these had been his only reasons for getting an education. And any teacher who dared to reprimand him? They always got the works, too.

  Burly was a man used to getting his way. But now? The Englishman standing before him hadn't twitched a muscle while Burly was shooting at him. Covered in dust, the older man stood silently, his cool, squinted eyes fixed on Burly in a way that was starting to unnerve him—that much was plain to see.

  Burly let loose a sudden stream of oaths, fumbling with the bullets on his gun belt in a hasty attempt to reload his Colts.

  "Okay, Burly," Buckeye whispered so loudly it served no point to be whispering at all. "You stall this Englishter while I show Slick all the loot in their room. Make it look fair—don't gun 'im down unarmed. I don't fancy havin' my neck stretched, and I doubt you do either!"

  With that, he turned to enter the hotel.

  "Stay right where you are, Mr. Buckeye."

  The ice-cold voice of the Englishman froze the stocky man in his tracks. Only the raccoon tail dared to move. Kate had never seen Buck obey another man before—not since his old pappy had passed away, God rest his soul. But the tone of this Englishman's voice and the look in his eyes were enough to keep Buck from disobeying. He didn't seem to know why; it must have been some kind of survival instinct. So with his beady eyes darting side to side, he turned to face the older man.

  "You want me, stranger?" Buckeye tried to sound confident. After all, this was just an unarmed English butler they were dealing with. "C'mon, speak up! You want me?"

  "No. I do not want you. I told you not to move." Guthrie ignored the faint ripple of laughter that slithered through the crowd of spectators. Kate couldn't help smiling. "I know of your plan to do away with my master and myself, and I would like an explanation."

  Buckeye forced a chuckle. "Hey, I don't know what you're talkin' about!" He shrugged awkwardly. "I just—"

  "Shut up, Buck," Burly spat savagely, spinning the cylinders of his loaded six-guns and glaring at the Englishman. "The plan's dashed. It was a dumb plan anyhow, when you came right down to it. Time for a plan of my own." Gathering himself to his fullest height, Burly roared, "Here's your explanation, old man!" He tossed one of his Colts through the air, and it landed with a puff of dust at the Englishman's feet. "You think you're so high and mighty with your fancy Englishter talk and your highfalutin manners and whatnot, but you know what? You're nothin' but a yellow-bellied coward!"

  Guthrie regarded the revolver near his toe for a moment before returning his gaze to the massive gunslinger. "If you wish to fight me, sir, then it will have to be without the use of firearms."

  If it had been humanly possible, smoke would have billowed from Burly's ears. He was beyond fury now. Kate could see that he was delving into the realm of blind rage. She remembered all too clearly seeing him like this before. It hadn't ended well for the man foolish enough to go up against Burly Jones.

  "You're gonna fight me right now!" Burly screamed hoarsely, his face red and lumpy. He jammed his gun into its holster and hovered one hand over it. "With guns!"

  Guthrie shook his head. It was obvious that he knew his calm demeanor was aggravating the big man, yet it was the only way to win the crowd's favor. He was outnumbered, and he needed the people of Santa Fe on his side. With no lawman for twenty miles, it had to be clear who fired the first shot. Kate could only hope the townsfolk wouldn't act like their typical fickle selves and instead keep rooting for the underdog this time.

  "You apparently want a fight, Mr. Jones," Guthrie said evenly. "I refuse to pick up the gun." He nudged it away with his boot. "But if it is a fight you desire, then a fight you will have. Hand to hand."

  A gasp went through the crowd, and Burly's face lost some of its color.

  "Didn't he take you down on the train?" Buckeye hissed.

  "Shut up!" Burly's crimson color returned, and with a snarl that flashed his teeth, he roared, "I'll make you draw, Englishter!"

  Burly drew his Colt with that lightning speed of his and fired off a shot at the Englishman. The bullet tore into Guthrie's Stetson, which flew off his bald head. Yet he stood stock-still.

  "I'm gonna start callin' you Baldy!" Burly jeered.

  Another shot. This time, the bu
llet skidded across the old man's cheek, leaving a streak of blood behind. Then another shot nicked the Englishman's ear lobe with startling accuracy. Blood oozed down his neck. Yet he didn't move a single muscle.

  "C'mon!" Burly taunted. "Be a man for once in your life!"

  The fourth shot ripped across the butler's thigh, tearing his pants.

  "What color shorts you got under there, Baldy? Pink?" He chortled at his own joke, throwing back his head and hooting with perverse glee. But he was the only one laughing.

  Kate clutched Guthrie's gun as she watched. "Why doesn't he do somethin'?"

  "He's waitin' for his moment." Cora nodded her head. "Just like a rattler, he's waitin' to strike."

  "I don't know, Cora. He don't seem like the kind to strike."

  Burly let off another shot, and it streaked a trail of blood across the top of the older man's head. "Take that, you ugly Englishter! You sissy!" he spat. "Pick up that gun!"

  Guthrie shook his head resolutely, his eyes locked on the big man.

  Burly trembled with rage. He let out a stream of profanities and obscenities and fired off his last shot. It went wild and hit an innocent bystander—the train's Chinese cook, unfortunately, who yowled as he hit the ground, clutching his leg. Finding his weapon empty, Burly hurled it aside and charged headlong at the Englishman with a ferocious roar.

  "Oh God!" Kate cried. "He'll kill 'im for sure!" She dashed out of the café and screamed, "Somebody stop 'im!"

  Guthrie's eyes had been narrowed, every muscle in his thin frame tensed. His jaw had been set, and there had been no trace of fear on his face as he watched the big man approach.

  Until Kate had screamed.

  In that moment, Guthrie seemed to lose focus, and he turned sharply to find Kate rushing straight toward him from the café—

  With bone-crushing force, the weight of Burly Jones slammed him to the ground where Guthrie lay like a broken statue, his neck bent at an odd angle, his arms and legs twisted. A gasp went up from the crowd, and his assailant backed away, wide-eyed.

  "Walter!" Kate collapsed at his side with hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She lifted his head and called his name, but there was no response. She gasped, feeling around his throat for a pulse. It was slow. "Somebody get a doctor!"

  Her eyes focused on Burly Jones and Buckeye Daniels, hanging back as the crowd surged forward around the fallen Englishman. The two men shuffled away, obviously hoping to escape the scene without being noticed. They knew this town. They knew how common lynchings were for even minor offenses. And they knew they'd both see the end of a rope for killing an unarmed man.

  Kate knew better than to think anyone would grab them if she yelled, "Get 'em!" They were two of the most dangerous men in these parts—Burly with his twin Colts and Buck with his Bowie. As much as this town enjoyed a good lynching, no one would raise a finger to stop them.

  Kate knew what she had to do.

  "Hold it right there!" Her sharp cry halted them mid-step, and their faces paled slightly as every eye in the crowd turned to find them. Kate left Guthrie in the care of Cora for the moment and rose to her feet. "You two sons of bitches ain't goin' nowhere."

  The crowd cleared, and Kate faced the two men at twenty yards. Buckeye looked uncertain of the situation, his eyes darting like he wanted to crawl under the nearest rock. It was no secret he'd desired some alone time with Kate for quite a spell, and now being on her bad side wasn't sitting right with him at all. Burly, on the other hand, remained as overconfident as ever. The way he gripped his recovered Colt let everyone know he'd just as soon shoot the woman before him as talk to her.

  "Y'know," he said with a chuckle, "I don't take kindly to a whore questioning my parentage." His bloodshot gaze lingered on her figure as he licked his lips. "Even so, it'd be a true pity to gun down such a fine lookin' female."

  "You're all talk, Burly Jones." Kate's voice was ice-cold.

  "What? You want some action instead?" He took a step toward her and a hostile murmur surged through the crowd. He stopped, weighing his chances. "I'm not goin' anywhere, huh? Well, how exactly are you gonna stop me? There ain't nobody in this town man enough to stand up to me." He spun the Colt's cylinder, and it gleamed in the sunlight. "I'll drill the first six lily-livered yellow-bellies who try." He stared down a few of the men in the crowd, and they dropped their gaze to the dust. "See? They're scared of me. Because they know me." He chuckled lewdly. "You really should get to know me, Kate." He advanced on her.

  Kate pulled up the hem of her dress and grabbed Guthrie's six-gun, holding it at eye level. "I'll shoot you, Burly." Her voice was hard, and there was no doubt in anybody's mind that she could kill him.

  Burly didn't favor public opinion much. But he did stop in his tracks. "You think you can shoot me? With my shootin' iron already out in the open like this? At least give yourself a fightin' chance, darlin'." He holstered his Colt and grinned. "You just tell me when to draw."

  Buck didn't seem to like the way this was going. "Hey now, Burly... You don't want to be doin' this, not with Kate Carson..." He tried to pull him away.

  Burly cussed him out and shook him off. "Give it up, Buck. She won't ever have you! She's only got eyes for rich Englishters. I'm doin' you a favor here. If you can't have her..." he said with a wink at Kate. "Then nobody will."

  "Draw," Kate said.

  She grimaced and pulled the trigger just as Burly cleared leather. Her bullet tore into his belly and exploded in a splatter of crimson across the front of his shirt. Burly screamed and fired off his Colt as he staggered back, but the shot was wide and ripped across Kate's bodice without grazing her flesh. She winced and pulled the trigger again. This time, the bullet slammed into his chest. His head jerked back as his heart ruptured, and his limbs went limp. His Colt dropped to the ground, and after seeming to hang in mid-air for a moment, he collapsed and lay still.

  Kate's gaze wouldn't leave Burly's body. Her head swam, her eyes stung, her jaw trembled. She'd never killed a living thing before, and it came as a cold shock to see him lying there with his glassy eyes staring back at her in surprise. She fought the urge to vomit as the strength left her legs. She dropped to her knees, and Guthrie's gun slipped from her grasp into the dust.

  Chapter 21

  The "sleep of the dead," as his mother called it, had overtaken Clarence, and as usual, nothing short of a loud explosion or a blow to the head could wake him from his slumber. He'd been sitting at the corner table with his father's journal set before him and had just finished an entire page on the intriguing woman, Kate Carson—complete with a very detailed physical description—when utter exhaustion had descended upon him like a weight he could not carry, and without protest, he'd slumped forward onto his forearms and remained there, completely deaf to the battle between Burly Jones and Guthrie the butler on the street below.

  A sharp, urgent rapping upon the door finally drew him from his sweet dreams of Hampshire, of meals served four times a day at the Edwards family estate, of sinking his teeth into a thick, juicy slab of—

  With a groggy moan, Clarence lifted his head and looked at the door under heavy eyelids. "Y-yes?" he croaked.

  "Open up!" It was a woman's voice, unfamiliar to Clarence, and very earnest.

  "Oh bother," he muttered, wishing to return to his dreams and forget entirely the dangers Kate Carson had explained to him. "Just a moment." He stifled a yawn and staggered toward the door to unlatch it.

  Clarence found himself faced with one of Kate's girls from across the street. A knit shawl draped her bare shoulders, and her eyes held an urgent message.

  "It's 'bout yer butler…"

  Frowning with concern, Clarence followed the girl as she hastily led him to the house of ill repute. Other girls cleared the way for them as they stepped through the doorway and into the dim interior.

  "This way." The girl in the shawl headed for the stairs.

  Clarence followed close behind, and it was only when they reached the door marked CARSON
that he asked, "How is he?"

  She stopped, her hand on the polished door knob. "Not too good." She bit her lip. "The doc won't be back 'til tomorrow." She said no more, turning to open the door with a swish across the thick carpet.

  Clarence stepped into the well-furnished room. The lantern light was low, but he could see the giant canopy bed in the center with the lace curtains and thick quilts. Guthrie lay beneath the sheets, his eyes closed, his mouth partly open. His skin had a sickly pallor to it, and there was dried blood on the side of his face. If it had not been for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, he would have looked dead.

  "Here he is, Kate," the girl said quietly, remaining at the door.

  Clarence noticed the woman sitting at Guthrie's side, her hands clasping his forearm. Her hair was down and disheveled, and the makeup around her eyes and cheeks was smudged and streaked. She dismissed the girl at the door with a nod and a sad smile, beckoning to Clarence.

  "What happened?" His voice cracked as he knelt by Kate's chair and grasped Guthrie's cold hand. "How?" Then he wept quietly, clutching the hand of his beloved butler as he cursed himself inwardly for falling asleep during Guthrie's greatest hour of need. "No, no..." He sobbed like a child, his face twisting in a pained grimace.

  Kate couldn't watch. She felt like her heart was about to break. Memories of her own mother's death, long suppressed since she was a little girl, flooded her mind, and she fought to hold them back. A fresh tear trickled down her cheek, and she rubbed it away.

  "C'mon, boy," she said kindly. Clarence's sobs had ebbed to a weak series of sniffs and whimpers, his shoulders quaking. She rested her hand on the middle of his back. "Quit your bawlin' now— it ain't doin' him any good, is it?"

  He faced her with a lost look in his bleary eyes, shuddering as he tried to take a deep breath. Despite his size, he really was just a kid.