The Ghost of Apache Creek

Chapter 18

Harcourt drew rein at the edge of town, and his eyes reached into the darkness. The street was deserted, the only light the rectangles of orange that were the marshal’s office windows.

The notes of the flute fell around Harcourt like a ticking rain and brought him no joy and less comfort.

Pace wasn’t a flute player, nor was Leggett. So who the hell was the musician? An element of the unknown had intruded on Harcourt’s plan and he didn’t like it one bit.

He shivered, but not from cold or fear. From something else. “Dread” was the word that described it, as though the black eyes of the night watched him, weighed him, and found him wanting.

The grulla pawed the ground, uneasy, impatient to be going. Harcourt quieted the horse and considered his next move.

The flute music came from the other end of the town, by the old graveyard. It would be dark there, way too dark for accurate shooting if it came to that.

Also, how many men were with Pace?

The answer dawned on him with terrible certainty.

The crazy man was burying Heap Leggett, and he’d at least one other with him, maybe more.

Despite the coolness of the night, Harcourt felt sweat bead on his forehead.

He couldn’t chance a ride down there in darkness, into the guns of Pace and his cronies. It would be courting death.

Harcourt slid his rifle back into the leather and gave his situation some thought.

Finally he decided to go back to camp and round up his men. Come dawn, they’d return shooting and end this thing once and for all.

But suddenly Harcourt saw something that brought a smile to his lips—a woman alone—and his course of action became crystal clear.

The door of the marshal’s office opened and Jess Leslie stepped onto the boardwalk, the timbers creaking under her feet.

She stood for a couple of minutes, listening into the night, then turned and walked back inside.

A canny man lets his first impulse pass and acts on the second.

But Beau Harcourt was not a canny man.

He rode the grulla to the marshal’s office, swung out of the saddle, and jumped onto the boardwalk. He kicked the door open and charged inside.

Jess made a dive for the Winchester in the gun rack.

Harcourt had a fleeting impression of the woman.

Young . . . thick yellow hair, huge eyes, a wide mouth, narrow waist . . .

He beat Jess to the rifle, grinned, then backhanded her hard across the face. The girl bounced away from him and crashed, unconscious, onto the floor.

Harcourt, a big man and strong, picked up Jess effortlessly, carried her outside, and threw her across his horse.

He stepped into the saddle and galloped out of Requiem.

As the grulla covered ground with its sure canter, the situation Harcourt had left behind amused him.

Obviously Pace was sleeping with the girl—and what man wouldn’t?

Like a rat, the loon would wait until first light and then dart from his hole and come looking for her.

Out in the open he’d be easy to kill.