Stryker's Revenge

Chapter 40

Stryker reached the adobe without drawing fire. He was relieved, but at the same time he felt a twinge of concern. Even amid the gloom of the storm he’d been visible to Pierce and Dugan for a couple of seconds.

They were expert marksmen, so why the hell hadn’t they shot at him?

He had no answer to that, and put the thought out of his head.

The criollo was standing on three legs, its head lowered, dozing. The little horse objected strongly to being led out into the storm and fought the bridle. But eventually it accepted its harsh fate and allowed Stryker to lead it outside.

Windblown rain hammering into him, he stepped into the saddle and swung the horse around the side of the adobe. Here the wind was cut by the building and even the downpour seemed less.

He kneed the horse forward, but immediately drew rein as Silas Dugan stepped around the corner, a grin on his lips and a gun in his hand.

The man’s buckskins were black from rain and his wild red hair tossed in the wind, his beard matted against his chest.

In that moment, Stryker had a flash of insight: This was what death looked like.

“Get off the damned horse, or I’ll blow you right out of the saddle, Stryker,” Dugan said. His gun was up, steady on Stryker’s chest.

He had to play for time. His Colt was in the holster and he was no fast-draw artist.

Stryker swung out of the leather, and Dugan said, “Step away from the nag. Well away. I told you I’d give it to you in the belly and I want a clear shot.”

“We can talk about this,” Stryker said desperately.

“All my talking is done, Stryker. Now it’s killing time.” He smiled. “You really didn’t think we was stupid enough to let you get behind us, huh? I could have shot you when you made your run from the wall, but I didn’t. I wanted to watch you die, see, kicking your legs in the mud and screaming like the ugly pig you are.”

Dead men have few options, but Stryker was left with one: defiance.

“Dugan,” he said, slowly and evenly, “you’re a squaw-killing son of a bitch and I hope I see you roast in hell.”

The gunman grinned. “Now you get it, Stryker, one right in the belly.”

The hammer of his gun triple-clicked as it was thumbed back.

Stryker was about to go for his Colt, but the wind saved his life.

A tremendous, shrieking gust blasted over the roof of the adobe, carrying with it the wails of the dead.

Dugan’s eyes flickered and his jaw went slack. For an instant, fear danced in his eyes, and he instinctively raised his head to the wind.

Stryker took his chance.

He dived to his left, drawing his gun before he splashed into the mud. He and Dugan fired at the same instant. Momentarily unnerved, the gunman’s bullet went wide, burning across Stryker’s ribs. But Stryker’s shot parted Dugan’s beard at the point of his chin, driving his shattered jawbone into his throat.

Dugan’s scream was a gurgling screech of pain and terror. The gunman staggered back, holding his gun high. Stryker fired again, missed, and fired a third time. This bullet crashed into Dugan’s left shoulder and he dropped to his knees, his lower face a scarlet mask of blood, teeth and bone.

Stryker rose to his feet. He stepped in front of Dugan, raised his boot and used the sole to kick the man’s face. Dugan fell on his back, still alive, his terrified eyes looking into Stryker’s.

Wails braided through the wind, swelling, waning, and swelling again, like howls from the lowest regions of hell.

“Hear that, Silas?” Stryker said. “They’re coming for you.”

Lightning flashed, flickering white on Dugan’s shattered face, gleaming in his scared eyes.

Suddenly sick of it, Stryker raised his gun. “You’ve an appointment to keep in hell, Silas,” he said. “I don’t want to hold you up.”

He fired into the man’s forehead. Dugan’s body jerked and all the life that had been in him left.

“The trouble with you, Dugan, is that you lived too long,” Stryker said.

He reloaded his Colt and shoved it back in the holster only to draw again as footsteps thudded behind him. He turned and saw Birchwood, his face bound up and tied on top of his head like a dead man in a coffin.

The young lieutenant looked at Dugan, then at Stryker. Anticipating Birchwood’s question, he said, “His luck ran out. Now I’m going after Rake Pierce.”

“He’s gone, sir. As soon as the shooting started between you and Dugan, he ran for his horse and fled the field.”

Stryker smiled inwardly at Birchwood’s choice of words. You can take the boy out of West Point . . .

Trimble stepped through the teeming rain to Stryker’s side. “Cap’n, ol’ Rake’s skedaddled. Left Silas to face the music.” He then saw the body sprawled behind Stryker and Birchwood. “You killed him, Cap’n?” His voice held a note of disbelief.

“I got lucky,” Stryker said. “He didn’t.”

He looked at Cantrell. “That’s one of them down, Don Carlos.”

The Mexican nodded silently, an awareness of the emptiness of revenge in his eyes. The gunman was dead, beyond suffering. There was nothing more to be done with him.

“I’m going after Pierce,” Stryker said.

Trimble was horrified. “Cap’n, ol’ Rake knows mountains like an Apache. He’ll lay up somewhere an’ kill ye fer sure.”

“Maybe my luck will hold.”

“Let me go with you, Cap’n. I’ll smell him out for you.”

Stryker shook his head. “This is personal, Clem, between Pierce and me. I have to do it alone.”

He reached into his saddle roll and pulled out his blouse. Indifferent to the rain streaming over his bare chest and shoulders, he removed the cotton shirt and dragged the blouse over his head.

“If I am to fall,” he said, “I’ll fall as a soldier.”

“Sir, I respectfully request that I accompany the lieutenant.”

“You’re wounded, Mr. Birchwood. I’d say you’ve already done enough. You will remain here until I return.”

“But, sir—”

“That is an order.”

Birchwood looked disappointed, but said only,

“Yes, sir.”

Stryker swung into the saddle and looked down at Cantrell. “I’ll kill him for you, Don Carlos.”

“It is my duty to go with you, Lieutenant.” Stryker smiled. “I appreciate the offer, but you shoot even worse than me. I’ll do this alone.”

“Then go with God, Lieutenant.”

“Clem, south you reckon?” Stryker asked.

“He’s draggin’ a pack mule, Cap’n. Rake badly wants to sell his scalps, especially now when he can keep all the profit.”

Stryker touched his hat and kneed the criollo around the adobe and into the snarling storm. The day was shading darker, shadows gathering on the mountain crevasses and rock ledges, and the wind ravaged through the tall timber. The land shimmered with constant lightning flashes, thunder rolled across the sky, rain fell in tumbling sheets and it seemed to Stryker that the whole world had gone insane.

As he rode nearer to the shelf of lava rock, the unearthly wailing grew louder and seemed to originate from the rock itself. He saw the reason immediately. The wind was forcing itself through tunnels in the lava caused in ancient times by gas bubbles. When the wind gusted, it howled through the cavities and sounded like human wails.

Stryker felt a slight pang of disappointment. He’d been open to the possibility that supernatural forces had helped him kill Dugan. But it had been no such thing . . . just holes in rock.

He rode on, his eyes scanning the way ahead.

Pierce was out there, maybe waiting, and the man was better with the rifle and revolver than he could ever be.

Thus Stryker faced the reality of his situation. It was a truth not calculated to build a man’s confidence.