CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Doc Collier was wiping his hands on a towel when Mort Corey quietly entered the infirmary. Mike laid on a cot, still unconscious, a snowy white bandage covering his chest and right shoulder. Daisy was at his side, holding his hand. Slim looked up as Mort came in, his face taut with worry.

“How’s he doing?” the sheriff asked softly.

“Slug just creased his shoulder,” Collier smiled. “Knocked him for a loop, though, but he’ll be just fine.”

“Thank heavens!” Mort said fervently. He bent down and gently stroked the boy’s tousled hair. “For a minute there, I was afraid I was goin’ to lose my favorite fishing buddy.”

“He was very lucky,” Daisy sighed. “Doctor Collier says we can take him home in a day or two.”

“Slim, I need a word with you about Jess,” Corey said. “Something’s come up.”

Daisy gave Slim a quick look, wondering what had happened between him and Jess. She had heard Slim’s angry shouting in the outer office, but had been too concerned about Mike to pay attention to what was being said. She saw his face harden at Mort’s words, and let go of Mike’s hand for a moment.

“He’s leavin’ town,” Slim said curtly.

Daisy moved towards him, a shocked look on her face. “Without even seeing if Mike’s all right?” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe he would do that, it’s not like Jess.”

“Aren’t you forgettin’ something, Daisy?” Slim snapped. “Mike’s wouldn’t be lying here all shot up if it weren’t for Jess!”

“Oh, Slim, you can’t possibly believe…”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Cooper,” Mort interrupted. “Slim, can I see you outside for a minute?”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No, I don’t think so. Come on, what I have to say won’t take long.”

Slim rested a hip on the edge of the doctor’s large, cluttered desk in the outer office.

“What’s on you mind, Mort? My former ranch hand shot anyone else lately? He’s rackin’ up quite a score.”

Corey frowned at the bitter tone in his friend’s voice. It was so unlike Slim.

“You can’t hold what happened today against Jess,” he said. “Be fair, Slim. Johnny Tyrell would just as leave have shot him in the back. What would you have Jess do? Stand there and let himself be gunned down?”

Slim rubbed at his eyes with a dispirited gesture, gazing at the sheriff in weary resignation. “I don’t know, Mort, he sighed. “Right now, all I can see is Mike getting’ caught in the middle of it; he could have been killed!”

“So could Jess,” Corey said tersely. “Slim, he held his fire when Johnny drew exactly because Mike was between them. If Jess hadn’t reacted as quick as he did, the Tyrell boy would have cut them both down.”

“Maybe so,” Slim murmured. “Maybe I’m not thinkin’ straight. It’s been one bloody incident after another since Jess came here.”

“He didn’t ask for any of it,” Mort Corey pointed out. “Slim, if you turn your back on him now, he’ll go on runnin’ for the rest of his life…though I doubt he’ll get very far with that bullet hole in him.”

“What bullet hole? What’re you talkin’ about, Mort?”

“You didn’t know?” Mort said, startled. “I thought…well, I ran into old Nate Jenks on my way over here. Said Jess had been by to pick up his horse; he was hurt, bleeding from what Jenks thought was a bullet wound in his side. One of Tyrell’s slugs must’ve caught him after all.”

Slim sagged against the desk. “He never said a word, Mort… or maybe I didn’t give him a chance to.”

“You came in with Matt Tyrell,” Corey said. “Did he tell you about Lou Coulter? That it was his father who hired Coulter to go gunnin’ for you? It was the old man’s plan to get at Jess through the folks he set store by, and who had helped him.”

Slim blanched at the sheriff’s words. He remembered all too clearly what Jess had said. ‘It was never your fight to begin with, Slim.’ With a stab of guilt he realized Jess had been right; he had stepped between the two of them because he knew Hurd Tyrell was behind it. Sudden, knife sharp clarity showed him his friend’s white, stricken face, heard his own harsh words, refusing to listen. Saw himself strike out at Jess, savagely, repeatedly. His shoulders slumped.

“My God, Mort,” he whispered, consumed with guilt. “What have I done to him?”

“You tell me, Slim, what happened between you two?”

“I wouldn’t listen to him,” Slim said hoarsely. “He tried to explain, but I was ready to kill him for what’d happened to Mike. I went after him! I was so angry I didn’t see he was hurt.” He paused. “He just stood there and took it,” he recalled, seeing all too clearly his friend’s stunned face, and the pain and fatigue that his anger had blinded him to earlier.

“We’d better find him before Tyrell does,” Corey said. “I checked on him at the hotel, to talk to him about the shootin’, but the desk clerk said he rode out earlier this afternoon. He’d asked directions to your place.”

“Jess’ll probably go by the ranch to pick up his gear,” Slim said. “If he’s hurt he can’t get too far. If he runs into Hurd Tyrell there’ll be more blood spilled.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s Jess who’ll be on the losing end’,” Corey muttered.

ooo0ooo

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jess topped the crest on the old Laramie road, and the ranch came into view. He was reeling with exhaustion, and for a moment he thought his fevered mind was playing tricks on him. The barn was on fire, flames eating up along the sides, thick gray smoke curling towards the sky. Swearing, he spurred the buckskin down the slope. He urged the skittish animal close up to the barn, and hit the ground running, his wound forgotten. He knew Slim kept stage line equipment in the building; maybe there was time to salvage some of it. Jess tore off his bandana and soaked it in the water trough. He was about to tie it over his nose and mouth when the sound of a gun being cocked behind him caused him to stiffen.

“That’s as far as you go, Harper!”

Jess’ hand dropped to his gun, his fingers closing on the butt.

“Don’t try it, friend, you haven’t got a prayer. Get rid of it, slow and easy, left hand!”

Seething, Jess complied. He turned slowly, and faced two men dressed in faded range garb. One of them trained a gun at his chest.

“Who’re you?”

“They work for me, Jess,” Hurd Tyrell said, emerging from the bunkhouse.

For the first time since his trial two years ago, Jess laid eyes on the man who had caused so much grief. He felt the sting of smoke in his throat, and cast a despairing glance at the barn. It was engulfed in flames, the dry, old timbers burning and cracking like matchsticks.

“Why this?” he coughed as heat and smoke reached them. “What did these people ever do to you?”

Tyrell strolled towards him, a benign smile on his face. He was thinner than Jess remembered him, but immaculately dressed, as always. Snowy white shirt, black pinstriped suit, highly polished boots and yellow leather gloves. His black Stetson sat at a jaunty angle over his lined forehead. Jess stared into the man’s hooded, unwavering eyes, and grew cold at the terrible darkness he saw. There was no mercy to be had here, not that he would ask for any.

He drew himself up, and stood quietly, waiting. Tyrell’s two vaqueros kept their guns trained on him; they were well paid and loyal to the boss. They knew the story of how his youngest son had been gunned down some years ago; one look at them told Jess they would give no quarter.

He squared his shoulders with an effort, and blinked the smoke from his stinging eyes. It was all coming to an end, as it must, with more bloodshed. You live by the gun, you die by the gun. At least this time it would be his blood, not that of some innocent bystander; he would take as many with him as he could, he vowed silently.

“Why this?” Tyrell said mockingly, and indicated the inferno that had been the barn. “To teach Sherman a lesson he won’t soon forget. By the time I’ve finished with this place, there won’t be a brick left standing, I promise you that.”

“You’ve got me, that’s what you wanted, ain’t it?” Jess snarled. He was weaving on his feet, and put out a hand to steady himself against the water pump. “You got no quarrel with Slim!”

Hurd Tyrell shot him a sharp look, suddenly noticing the blood seeping through the man’s vest. He reached out and brushed the vest aside with the barrel of his revolver. Jess managed to remain still, enduring the man’s presence when he wanted nothing more than to batter his fists into that thin, dark face. Tyrell saw the bullet hole in his shirt, and smiled cruelly.

“Well, now,” he chuckled and stepped back. “Looks like you caught the wrong end of a bullet finally. Care to tell me what happened?”

Jess eyed the man who had dogged his trail for so long. “Your son Johnny and I had a slight disagreement,” he said, his face flushed from the heat of the fire.

“Johnny! I don’t believe you; he wouldn’t do anything without my say-so. What’re you trying to pull, Harper?” Tyrell snorted.

“Nothin’,” Jess said slowly, painfully. “Nothin’ at all. I’m just tellin’ you the truth, Tyrell. But you wouldn’t recognize the truth if it jumped up and bit you, would you? You might have to admit that your sons ain’t as perfect as you think. You closed your eyes to what happened that night in the saloon, when Billy died, and you’ve been blind ever since.” He paused to draw a shaky breath, and Tyrell glared at him, his brown furrowed.

“Johnny’s dead,” Jess said.

The older man swayed as though he’d been struck, and his face went gray. Vasquez took a worried step in his direction.

“You’re lying!” Tyrell rasped. “It’s a filthy lie!”

“He called me out! Reckon he was tired of waitin’ around. He’s dead, Tyrell, and he almost got an eight year old boy killed tryin’ to get to me.”

Hurd Tyrell felt white-hot rage and grief threaten to choke him, as he read the truth in the other man’s haggard face. With a snarl of hatred, his hand shot out, and his revolver struck Jess a vicious blow to his injured side. Jess couldn’t hold back an agonized cry. The blow robbed him of breath, pain shooting through his battered body. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen if Anderson and Vasquez hadn’t grabbed hold of him. Anderson twisted his left arm behind his back, bending it up between his shoulder blades. Fire lanced through Jess’ injured side, and he sagged forward.

Tyrell again lashed out with his gun, in mindless hatred, the blow struck him across the face opening up the barely healed wound from Coulter’s bullet. This time they let go of him, and Jess collapsed to the ground. He gasped, trying to get some air back in his tortured lungs. His head swam. Tyrell wasn’t going to make it easy for him, he realized. There would be no quick, clean bullet to end it all; the old man was going to extract his revenge in full measure.

Through half closed eyes, Jess saw the man draw back his boot, and a strange calm came over him. He was past caring, and only hoped that the next blow would render him unconscious and wipe out the agony. Vasquez turned quickly to his boss, and put a restraining hand on his arm. He was certainly no saint himself, and he had killed his share of men, but they had been clean killings, not like this.

“Senor Tyrell,” he began.

“If you don’t want a bullet in your brain you’ll hold your tongue!” Tyrell snarled.

“You think this is…this is goin’ to…bring back your sons?” Jess whispered, pushing himself up on one elbow. “I may have pulled the trigger, Tyrell…but in the end…you’re the one who killed them.”

With an oath, Tyrell launched a kick at him. Jess threw up an arm to ward off the blow; the heavy boot missed his head, but smashed into his right hand with crushing force. The world retreated into a red haze, and a low, animal moan of pain wrenched its way past his clenched teeth.

So, there it was then; he had made his choice, he would not lie still and welcome death. He would struggle against it with his last breath, even if all it accomplished was to prolong the agony. Hurd Tyrell would derive pleasure out of every blow, Jess knew, as he shakily, stubbornly, got to his knees cradling his right hand against his chest.

“For the love of God, senor,” the swarthy Mexican protested, as he looked down at the wounded man. “Kill him and get it over with…there is no honor in this!”

“Shooting’s too good for the likes of him,” Tyrell raved. “I’ll stomp the life out of him like the mad killer dog he is.”

Jess heard the words through of fog of agony. At the periphery of his vision he saw his gun, lying in the dust a few feet away from him. He would make a last ditch effort to reach it, he thought feverishly, and then it would all be over. As Tyrell advanced towards him a shot suddenly split the air, and plowed into the dirt in front of the man.

“Stand away from him, Pa!”

Jess lifted his head dazedly, and saw Matt Tyrell outlined against the sky, gun in hand. Grimfaced and pale, Matt took in the scene before him. He had found out from the desk clerk at the hotel that his father had headed for the Sherman ranch, and he wasted no time in taking out after him. He knew Jess would be headed that way, and one way or the other Matt was determined that the bloodshed would end.

He had ridden into the yard in time to see his father level at kick at Jess, but had been too late to prevent it. He could not comprehend that his father, whom he had loved and respected all his life, could do such a thing to an injured, helpless man. It sickened him, and his knuckles whitened as they clenched the gun.

“Matt! Johnny’s dead, son. Harper killed him!”

“I know,” Matt said, advancing slowly. “It was a fair fight, Pa. Johnny started it. He got no more’n he deserved.”

“Like Billy did, two years ago?” Tyrell asked contemptuously. “You siding with this renegade, boy?”

“I’m siding with the law, Pa.” Matt ran a sweaty shirtsleeve over his forehead, all the while keeping his gun on his father. “Johnny almost killed a young boy trying to get at Harper. It’s time for it to stop…stand away from him, men!”

The two ranch hands stepped back, and eyed Hurd Tyrell warily. This was, after all, the boss’ son, and they had no desire to get caught in the middle of what had suddenly turned into a family feud.

Jess wiped at the blood that obscured his vision, and stared at Matt with feverish eyes. He saw the resolve in that anguished face as the young man faced his father. Jess heaved a tortured breath, and gingerly stretched a hand towards his gun. If Matt killed his father the knowledge would haunt the kid the rest of his days. He ground his teeth at his own helplessness as black clouds tugged at his precarious hold on consciousness.

“It’s gone far enough, Pa,” Matt said firmly. “Billy and Johnny are dead. Killin’ Harper won’t change that. We have a ranch to run back in Bowdrie…it’s time we headed home.”

“And you call yourself a Tyrell!” his father stormed at him. “You’re not fit to carry the name. I intend to finish what I started here, and if you’ve no stomach for it, then get out! Go hide your head in one of your books, like you always do when there’s trouble. Vasquez, Anderson, you follow my orders or you pack it in right here!”

He turned to his men, and gestured for them to move aside.

“Pa!” Matt shouted. “Pa, please, don’t make me shoot!”

Jess’ left hand closed on his gun, the butt resting with comforting familiarity in his palm, as if just the feel of the weapon could give him back some of his strength. He lifted his head with an effort, and saw Tyrell and his two hands facing Matt. The metallic taste of blood was in his mouth. He thumbed back the hammer.

“Tyrell!” he rasped hoarsely.

Hurd Tyrell whirled. He saw his enemy on his knees; saw the dark gleam in his eyes. Jess pulled the trigger even as Matt cried out for them to stop, and watched calmly as the older man stumbled back. He squeezed off another shot, and it threw Tyrell against the water trough as Matt watched, horrified. Hurd Tyrell’s legs buckled, and he fell, the upper part of his body hit the water, leaving his legs dangling grotesquely over the side.

The two hired hands swung to cut Jess down. He tried desperately to make his gun obey him one more time, but he was shaking so badly he couldn’t curl his finger around the trigger. It fell from his nerveless hand even as he heard shouts and firing all around him. A shot plunked into the water trough, followed by several more going over his head in rapid succession.

He wondered vaguely why none of them struck him. Hampered by the blood and sweat running into his eyes, Jess made a final effort to pick up the gun he had dropped, but before he could grab it a dusty boot heel came down solidly on the weapon. He choked back a groan, and his head sank down on his arms. Tears of pain and frustration made dirty tracks down his dust-grimed cheeks.

“It’s all over, Jess,” he heard a familiar voice say quietly, far away.

Slim kicked the gun away, and dropped to one knee beside his wounded friend. His heart was in throat as he looked at the bloody, battered body. Jess felt himself gently lifted, supported. His head rested on Slim’s knee, and the sensation of drowning eased a bit. He tried to focus on the stricken face that bent over him.

Slim wiped the dark, sweaty curls off Jess’ forehead with a gentle hand. “Easy, Jess, you’re gonna be all right. Just hang in there for me…”

He had reached the ranch along with the sheriff in time to see Matt square off against his father, and Jess’ shot that killed Hurd Tyrell. Tyrell’s hired hands had gone for their guns, but by then Corey and Slim were within range, and had cut them down, leaving them sprawled in the dirt by the water trough.

Jess sighed wearily; it felt so good to just rest here with Slim’s arms holding onto him, he was so tired, so damnably tired.

Matt and Sheriff Corey came towards them, and Jess was torn with pity for the young man. He saw the devastated look on his face, and wondered if there would be any forgiveness in him for the man who had killed his two brothers, and now his father. He swallowed with difficulty, and fought against the darkness closing in on him.

“Matt…I’m…sorry,” he whispered.

Their eyes met and held, one haunted, darkened by pain, the other stricken, almost uncomprehending. The air crackled with tension and regret, the smell of dust and death lingering like a shadow, touching them, driving them apart.

“Can you make it to the house, Jess?” Slim asked softly, breaking the tension.

“Yeah…sure…give me hand up,” Jess murmured.

Gritting his teeth, and leaning heavily on Slim, he struggled to his feet. For a moment he wavered unsteadily, close to collapse.

“I’ll ride for the doc,” Corey said. “Matt, you stay here and give ‘em a hand.”

Matt Tyrell stood immobile, shifting his gaze from Jess to his father’s dead body. Sorrow for all the good memories flooded in on him, and with a strangled sob he pulled the body from the water, and lowered it gently to the ground.

“Pa, I’m sorry, God help me, I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t let you kill him.”

He used his bandana to wipe the water off the old man’s face, and awkwardly straightened out his coat. Jess took a half step towards him, but Slim held him back.

“Not now, Jess,” he said quietly. “Leave him be.”

He felt Jess sag against him, and tightened his grip on him. Compassion and pity for these two men, both so badly used, washed over him. He looked at Jess and saw that he was close to passing out.

“Matt, can you give me hand?”

Matt Tyrell hunched his shoulders, and got slowly to his feet, his face stained with tears. Jess flinched at the grief in his eyes, and wished desperately for some words to comfort him, to explain, but what was there left to say?

“Don’t ask me for help, Slim,” Matt said. “I tried to stop the bloodshed. I didn’t want my father to turn into a cold-blooded killer! Well, he’s dead now, so it’s finished…but don’t ask me to help…I can’t…I just can’t!”

He paused and gazed at his father’s killer, and Jess shivered at the look in the young man’s eyes.

“Let it end here, Jess,” Matt whispered. “I got nothin’ left to give. I hope I never set eyes on you again.”

Jess bowed his head, the pain of Matt’s words somehow worse than the fiery agony in his side.

“I understand, Matt,” he whispered. “Go bury your dead.”

ooo0ooo

*********************************

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