Ed Gorman - Showdown

He had just started to lean in for some more coffee when the rock hit him. There was just time enough to see the impossible—Tolan on his feet, one handcuff dangling free from his wrist, a fist-sized rock in his hand. And then the rock being thrown with great speed and efficiency right at him.

Pain registered, and then a confusion of pain, momentary blindness, and a desperate attempt to find his Colt and fire.

Nothingness was the last to come. Cold shooting through his body. Shivering, teeth-chattering cold, a damned good approximation of death. And then a distant sense of himself toppling over, hitting the ground hard enough to jar his teeth.

And then—

Nightbirds. Their cries. Wind. Its creeping coldness. Constriction. Steel on his wrists.

Prine forced his eyes open.

He lay on his side. The fire was out, ash.

Despite the enormous headache that kept pressing him down, he managed to sit up high enough to see Neville's body on the other side of the dead fire. Neville lay flat on his face. Prine couldn't get much detail from here. Was Neville even alive? Was he handcuffed?

Tolan and Rooney. Where the hell were they? What the hell had happened?

The rock. The pain. The blackness.

How Tolan had managed to slip out of his handcuffs was a question for another time. Now the important thing was to go after them.

After he gained his wobbly legs, he found out just how difficult finding them would be. They'd either swatted away Prine and Neville's horses or they'd taken them with them. The horses were gone.

He stumbled across the edge of the ash that had been the fire and dropped to his haunches next to Neville.

"Neville. Wake up, Neville."

Neville had also been handcuffed. A wound showed itself on the side of his forehead. A rock had no doubt hit him, too.

Neville didn't respond. Prine leaned closer, listened for Neville's breathing.

Faint. Ragged. But steady. That was one good sign, anyway.

Prine staggered to his feet and went in search of the coffeepot. He needed some, and so did Neville. He'd drink it cold if he had to.

He staggered toward the coffeepot, scrounged around for the tin cup, found it, and then stumbled back to Neville.

"Neville, Neville, wake up."

He shook him a little with his cuffed hands. He had to be careful. Neville might have had some kind of concussion.

Eventually, Neville turned a mud-streaked profile to Prine. The damned ground really was muddy. "What happened?"

"They had a key."

Neville's rage shed some of his fuzziness. Holding his head miserably, he sat up and said, "That sonofabitch Valdez sold it to him."

"Probably."

"When this is all over, that's the bastard I'm going after. Valdez."

"We're sitting out here in the middle of nowhere, Neville. Your threats sound sort of pathetic since we don't have guns or horses."

"They took our horses?"

"Afraid so."

"What the hell're we going to do?" Neville asked.

"We're not that far away from the Lattimore spread. About a morning's walk."

"That's a hell of a long walk."

Prine shrugged. "You think of a better way of getting there?"

Chapter Seventeen

Prine had either underestimated the length of the walk or overestimated their strength. They moved sluggishly through grazing land, their time not even improving that much when they reached the stage road. They'd had a hard thirty-six hours and it had cost them energy and resolve.

"The only thing that's keeping me going," Neville said several times, "is knowing that they're going to hang soon."

All Prine did was nod. If hatred was the fuel that kept Neville going, so be it. Prine had his own fuel. He wanted to admit what he'd done and try to put his life back together.

At midpoint in their trek, Prine saw a wagon in the distance. He put all his strength into chasing after it, shouting, waving his arms. For nothing. He never came close to reaching it.

For his part, Neville took to standing on large boulders and gazing off into the distance. He looked like a fake Indian in a Wild West show, his hand covering his brow so he could see better, his posture rigid as a pointer's when it spots its prey. It looked dramatic as hell but didn't get them anywhere.

They reached the Lattimore ranch around three in the afternoon. Dave Lattimore was just coming out of the barn, a small, quick man in a flannel shirt and Levi's, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. When he saw the two men, he started looking around for their horses.

"Afternoon," he said.

"Afternoon," Prine said.

"Lattimore, we need some horses and a couple of rifles. I'll pay you double what they're worth."

The old, familiar Neville was putting in an appearance again, and Prine wasn't happy about it.

He gave Lattimore a quick version of everything that had happened.

"You think they're still around here?" Lattimore said.

"They are if they're headed to Denver," Prine said. "They'll be settlin' in for the night pretty soon. If we go all night, we might be able to find them."

"No offense, Prine, but neither of you fellas look like you could last all night."

"We didn't ask for any of your Farmer Bob wisdom, Lattimore," Neville snapped. "We asked for horses and rifles. Now, can you set us up?"

Lattimore didn't like being talked to this way, obviously. But in order to help Prine, he nodded and said, "Yeah, I can set you up."

"I appreciate this, Dave," Prine said as they headed for a small rope corral set off from the outbuildings. The shadows were long, heavy, now that the sun was beginning its descent. Lattimore's wife was getting supper ready. You could smell it on the air. Prine had thoughts of a home-cooked meal, a leisurely one, topped off with a good cigar and some good sipping whiskey.

While Prine and Neville looked over the horses, Lattimore went up to the house for the guns. "Dave's a good man," Prine said.

"I'm sure he is."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd treat him that way."

"What? I wasn't treating him that way?"

For the first time, Prine realized that Neville here probably wasn't even aware of acting like a shit sometimes. His behavior was probably so ingrained—hell, he'd grown up rich and powerful, why wouldn't he just naturally assume that most people were put on earth to play subjects to his role as conqueror?—he didn't even hear himself. Or see the resentment in the eyes of the people he insulted.

"Just don't treat him like one of your servants," Prine said. "He's not, and I'm not, either."

"Well, hell, man, I didn't mean to insult him."

"Maybe not," Prine said. "But you did a damned good job of it anyway."

Prine took a dun, Neville a pinto. They walked them up to the barn, where they found a couple of old saddles.

Neville looked unhappy about having to set his royal ass on a saddle this worn, but at least he had the good sense not to say anything about it.

Lattimore appeared a few minutes later. He handed Prine a Winchester and Neville a Sharps that had been old ten years before.

"Best I could do," he said to Neville.

Prine fought a smile. He was sure that Lattimore had dug up the oldest weapon he could find for Neville. If Neville knew this, he didn't let on. He was behaving well since Prine had ragged on him about treating Lattimore better. He was like a dog brought to heel.

They were just ready to saddle up when Betty Lattimore, pretty and plump in blue gingham and a white apron, hurried down to them.

"Figured you boys'd be hungry," she said.

They took their food over to a small table in the backyard. Slices of beef and a boiled potato and peas, probably from her garden on the far side of the house. They ate with the innocence and fury of predatory animals. "And you're invited to sleep here overnight if you'd like."