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  ‘Here, boss,’ he said with a near smirk. ‘It ain’t your usual tipple. But it’ll help you with your daring.’

  Jack didn’t move. His expression hardly changed as he watched Kettle reach out for whatever crude spirit Bishop was offering.

  After a late meal of coffee-soaked corn dodgers Kettle, Bream and Bishop were slowly falling into a thin, fitful sleep. But Jack wasn’t. He waited until deep into the night, then rolled free of his blanket, grabbed his Winchester with the wrecked stock and slipped quietly away from the camp.

  Skirting the edge of the tree line, he took up a position beside an ancient blowdown pine, less than fifty yards from the sleeping men. He turned his collar, blew on the backs of his hands and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. Above the still-distant peaks stars glistened in the thin, chill air. The available light afforded a good view up and down the mountainside.

  After an hour of intense concentration his eyes were beginning to ache and break up his vision. He heard a slight sound and looked towards the sleeping camp. Something that wasn’t a night critter was moving stealthily through the trees, coming his way.

  Nestling the rifle stock against his shoulder, he blinked, squinted down the sights. Should be OK with this, he thought of his Winchester. At this distance the buffalo gun would take out half the surrounding timber.

  Walter Bishop broke from the darkness and Jack’s trigger finger relaxed. He exhaled a relieved breath and called out, irritated,

  ‘Get back to the camp.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Bishop replied. ‘I’ve come to find you.’

  Jack cursed and leapt to his feet; then, Jack indicating that Bishop should go ahead, they quickly made their way back to camp.

  ‘He just upped and left, did he?’ Jack asked, seeing the empty bedroll.

  ‘No. The horses were restless, an’ he went to check ’em. That was about half an hour ago.’

  He won’t be coming back was Jack’s first thought. He felt it in his gut. He glanced at Kettle, but the old man was still sleeping soundly. Bishop stared at Jack as though he, Jack, had the answer.

  ‘What d’you reckon?’ he said.

  ‘We’ll go and see,’ Jack replied. ‘Lead the way, I’ll cover you.’

  A minute or so later, Bishop cursed breathlessly.

  ‘They’re gone. Our goddamn mounts are gone.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ Jack snapped, then listened intently. The vague figure caught Jack’s eye as it rose and stumbled forward, towards them.

  ‘Hey, who the hell slugged me?’ Hector Bream slurred.

  ‘His name’s Dawson Cayne, and you’re lucky he didn’t slit your throat,’ Jack said.

  The three men stood silent. They could hear the horses moving back down the slope, the sound of someone groaning in pain.

  ‘What the hell do we do now?’ Bishop whispered.

  ‘You should’ve thought of that before riding up here,’ Jack muttered.

  ‘I wasn’t goin’ to be left on my own,’ Bishop rejoined gloomily.

  ‘Just stay here.’ Jack ran towards the trees below them, alert for any other other sound.

  ‘Jack . . . Jack Finch.’ The plaintive cry came again out of the darkness ahead of him. With his blood running cold, Jack tried to figure out the situation. The voice was Ralph Kettle’s. But he was rolled in his blanket, sleeping his way to morning.

  Kettle’s voice came again. ‘Jack, are you out there?’ Jack cursed, turned back and shouted ahead:

  ‘Hunker down. Cayne’s at the camp.’

  Immediately, the thunderous blast of a big rifle shook the air and the bulky figure of Walter Bishop came barging through the timber. The man went into a headlong plunge, hit the ground and rolled into a stilled, untidy heap.

  ‘You all right, Hec?’ Jack called out, while the echo of the gun’s blast reverberated around them.

  ‘Yeah, I’m OK. Walt’s down.’

  ‘I know, I saw. You stay put, I’ll come to you,’ Jack shouted. He ran quickly through the trees, climbing at an angle to the gradient.

  Breaking out into the starry night, and a distance from the camp, Jack rushed on to a clump of moss-covered boulders. He hunkered behind them, his finger lightly tapping the curve of the rifle’s trigger. Cayne was unpredictable but he had guts. He’d got among them, lain in a bedroll right under their noses and taken Bishop with a single shot, albeit with a bullet big enough to down a full-grown oak.

  Jack doubted Cayne was still in the camp. More likely he was going higher above the tree line. He’d be a bit more confident now, probably watch and wait on his next chance. And what of Ralph Kettle? After a few minutes of quiet Jack made a circuitous approach to the camp. He kicked the empty bedroll, called out for Hector Bream. The RK cook staggered forward.

  ‘How the hell did the goddamn fiend manage this?’ he gasped. Jack was unsure how to answer.

  ‘Let’s see what’s happened to Kettle,’ he said.

  ‘What about Walt?’

  ‘There’s no saving him, Hec. He was dead before he fell.’

  How many more would die before it was over, Jack wondered. It sounded as though it was all because, many years in the past, a youngster broke his neck after being thrown from a mustang. But what was it that made Lew Cayne’s death so different? What was it really all about?

  CHAPTER 18

  The old man had a bad headache and the side of his face was bruised and swollen. He sat huddled in blankets shaking non-stop, making demands for whiskey.

  ‘There’s no drink o’ that sort left,’ Bream told him. ‘When we get back to the ranch there’ll be all you want.’

  ‘But not before tomorrow,’ Jack furthered.

  They’d talked about their situation, decided that at first light they’d slip down the mountainside and head back to the ranch. In a suitable place, Jack would lie in wait for Dawson Cayne while the others went on ahead.

  Bream and Jack took turns keeping watch. There wasn’t any sleep. It was a break for their strained minds and bodies, although Ralph Kettle noisily complained throughout the dark hours.

  ‘There’ll be light in another half-hour,’ Jack said. ‘I’m going down to find the horses . . . see if there’s any rotgut in Bishop’s saddle-bags. We need something as much as the old man.’

  ‘Amen. You do that,’ Bream said.

  The horses were together, standing in a clearing about fifty yards away. Jack moved calmly forwards, quartering the land around them, keeping his rifle lowered.

  Poking around in the saddle-bags of Bishop’s mare, he found a half-bottle of mescal. He took a long pull, coughed, spat, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and cursed.

  Ten minutes later Kettle’s eyes lit up in the early light as he sucked at the fiery liquid. His body shivers eased to a hand tremble, but his voice was full of distress.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked. ‘Where is the devil killer?’

  ‘Not far away,’ Jack said. ‘What did happen here?’

  ‘He’s a goddamn banshee . . . like something you read about,’ the rancher muttered. ‘I remember Hec going to check on the horses. When he didn’t come back, Walt went looking for you. That’s when he jumped me. I wasn’t fully out but I couldn’t get to my feet. When I did, I hit my head on a tree. I think I went down again. Don’t remember too much clearly after that. Not until. . . .’

  ‘You were shouting my name,’ Jack said.

  ‘Yeah, I remember that. And Walt’s gone?’

  Jack nodded. Kettle took another gulp of the liquor.

  ‘We’d best get on,’ he said; Jack wondered whether in the past the man had had some problem with alcohol.

  ‘We’re going back to the ranch,’ he said. ‘And go easy on that stuff.’

  ‘You want us to skedaddle?’

  ‘Yeah, back to home ground. Where you should have stayed. All three of you.’

  ‘Running away again . . . scared spitless,’ Kettle said bitterly.

  Well, you’d know, was Jack’s
immediate thought. They were soon ready to move out, Bream helping Kettle and Jack hastily packing the bedrolls and gear. As he was bringing the horses in, he saw the shaken look in Bream’s face.

  ‘What’s happened now?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s Walt,’ Bream said. ‘He’s not there.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t in any fit state to start out on his own,’ Jack responded, a little snappier than he meant. ‘You looked in the right place?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s just not there,’ the man replied flatly.

  They searched all the way to the bottom of the timbered slope, while the old man huddled among the horses.

  ‘Like I said,’ the cook huffed. ‘It ain’t so much this turkey, Cayne, but somethin’ else. I think I’ll keep ridin’, with or without you.’

  ‘After,’ Jack grated. ‘Our only chance of beating him is to stay together. Even more so now.’

  The pair went back up the slope and helped Kettle on to his horse.

  ‘You won’t be much use with this,’ Jack said, taking the big Sharps rifle.

  Bream got mounted, took the reins of Kettle’s horse, and moved off.

  Jack watched them go, then walked his mount down through the trees. He didn’t look up, he just sensed the malevolent eyes watching from above.

  As he moved out of the barrier of trees he knew that not even Cayne’s buffalo gun could reach him at that range. Or it could, but the chances of making a fatal hit were minimal.

  Up ahead, Kettle and Bream dipped over the far side of an arroyo. Jack caught up, reined in and dismounted in the bed of the dried-out creek. If anyone wanted to see where the riders had disappeared to, he just might make himself visible at that point. Jack pulled the Sharps from his saddle roll, leaned against the low, steep walls and peered at the mountains behind him. He blinked against the morning brightness; thought there might be a chance of seeing Cayne emerge from the trees at the base of the timber line.

  He saw a condor circling lazily above the pine.

  ‘We travel the same roads,’ he muttered, wondering if the big vulture had something in its sights. He twisted around; in the other direction he saw Kettle and Bream being swallowed up by the heat haze and undulating ground. It would be another hour before they reached the ranch, the shelter of timbered walls and a bunk, and plenty of ammunition.

  The rancher and Bream dropped from direct sight again. Jack fought away edginess, only to be overcome by a huge fatigue. For two nights he’d had virtually no sleep; now, with the sun on his back, he closed his eyes, considered giving in and riding away. But it was a weak moment and short-lived.

  A single horseman was riding from the trees.

  Jack laid the Sharps across the top edge of the arroyo. He lined up the sights just before the rider vanished into a sandy dip. He counted the seconds before the rider reappeared, telling himself not to squeeze the trigger too early.

  Come close. Come real close and I’ll blow your pieces to Yuma, he thought as the distance between them closed. As he let go of his breath his finger slightly increased its pressure on the trigger.

  The horse’s rhythmic footfalls grew louder as the rider approached. Jack tried to dissolve into the sandy ridge, wondering why the rider was making himself a sitting duck.

  The rider was now outlined against the sky. Instead of pulling the trigger Jack hesitated, rolled sideways, sliding back to the dry floor of the arroyo. A nerve-racking uncertainty suddenly ran through his mind.

  Why? What’s he trying to do?

  Jack was avoiding being kicked or trampled, but the horse and rider turned sideways on to him, then pulled away, along the edge of the narrow gully. The hoofs missed him by a few inches, the horse twisting away as it saw him almost beneath its feet.

  ‘That’s why,’ Jack gasped as he realized. ‘It’s Walter Bishop. An’ he’s deader’n hell.’ Bishop’s large body had been unrecognizable, his features blurred in the shimmer of heat.

  Jack switched his attention back towards the mountains. But there was nothing to see and he stared after the corpse on the galloping horse.

  What the hell sort of game’s that? he wondered. Or are you trying to draw my position – my fire, you son of a bitch?’

  He rammed the Sharps back into his bedroll and mounted his horse, bending low and forward in the saddle. A massive rain cloud obscured the still rising sun. The landscape darkened and Jack didn’t feel quite so warm any more. What would Cayne do now? he wondered. Maybe move along the lower tree line. Maybe ride in to the ranch from further north. Maybe from where he was right now. Jack hadn’t yet shown himself, so Cayne had no idea that he was in the arroyo and hidden from view. If his plan was to follow them, Jack for once had the advantage.

  CHAPTER 19

  The rain had started to fall from a slate-coloured sky as Jack reached the ranch. The stark isolation of the buildings, the barren, muddy yard with its burnt-out barn gave an air of hushed menace. There were three horses tied to the hitching rail in front of the house.

  He dismounted, unpacked his bedroll; a moment later the front door opened. Hector Bream stepped out, relaxing immediately, his shoulders sagging with relief as he saw Jack. Jack climbed the steps and followed him inside.

  ‘Dawson Cayne won’t come stepping up to the front door, but lock it anyway,’ he warned. The confidence faded from Bream’s face.

  ‘Did you miss him?’

  ‘No, I never saw him,’ Jack said, turning to see Ralph Kettle appear from the study.

  ‘You were laying for him. What happened?’ Kettle asked.

  ‘I ran into Walt Bishop,’ Jack said, and started his explanation. He saw their expressions change from apprehension to near terror.

  ‘I did warn you. The man’s becoming a fantasy . . . using a goddamn cadaver to get what he wants. I reckon he’ll ride the top pastures and hit us here sometime tonight. There’s nothing unreal about that.’

  ‘Why tonight? Why the hell us?’ Bream wanted to know.

  ‘Because his enemy’s friends become his enemies too. The game he’s playing can’t be entertaining any more . . . not even for him. He’s probably ready for a kill.’

  Jack looked inside the study where the Mexican was lying on an improvised cot. Rico forced a weak smile, lifted an arm in recognition.

  ‘No hard feelings, amigo,’ he said.

  Not fully understanding what Rico meant, Jack smiled and shook his head. Kettle’s house help, Ramon, sat in a high-backed chair loading an old trade musket. He looked up and nodded.

  ‘Is there anyone else here in the house?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No. It’s just us,’ Kettle said.

  ‘Cinco contra uno,’ Rico croaked from the cot. ‘You think we should worry?’

  ‘Yeah, some. You’ll only be of help if he’s here in the room. If that happens, it’s probably buenos noches time. I suggest we get some rest before dark. Maybe Ramon can keep watch while we all close our eyes.’

  The men positioned themselves about the room, deliberately not in a direct line of any attack through a window.

  After what seemed like minutes to Jack, a hand touched his shoulder. He looked up and saw that Ramon had stacked the fireplace with heavy kindling and set it alight using duff from a tinder box. Hector Bream was holding out a mug of coffee.

  ‘Six o’clock,’ he said. ‘Took it upon myself to give you a shake. Estimatin’ chuck time’s what I’m good at.’

  Jack sat up and took a sip. ‘Thanks Hec. I didn’t think hot coffee could be so welcome.’

  Ralph Kettle was standing by the window.

  ‘Rain’s going to bring on the dark. We’d best eat early,’ he said.

  Ramon agreed, said that he’d fix something up. He walked from the study with his unwieldy gun and Jack followed him to the kitchen and scullery. One large window revealed rain slanting across colourless foothills and blurry mountains.

  ‘The country’s not always beautiful,’ Jack said thoughtfully.

  ‘Certainly not a good time for seei
ng much, señor,’ Ramon replied.

  ‘No, but he’s out there, Ramon. I can feel him.’ For a moment, Jack watched Ramon attend to the stove. ‘What other windows or doors are back here?’ he asked.

  ‘Una momento,’ Ramon said. He shoved a heavy frying pan on to one of the oven’s hot plates, spooned in a dollop of soft lard and a generous slab of beef. ‘I’ll show you.’

  They went through a doorway into a long gloomy room that had been converted from a rear veranda. There were no windows except for one at the far end, which was fixed and hardly big enough for Dawson Cayne to squeeze through. There was also a door, but Jack saw it was locked and very substantial. He followed the Mexican to what was obviously an annexed bedroom. There was a single window, a pair of glass-panelled, heavily draped doors that led through to Kettle’s study. The way Jack saw it, there was only one window to watch in the rear of the house.

  Back in the kitchen, Ramon forked over the sizzling meat in the pan, half-smiled and added a generous helping of chili.

  Not long afterwards, meat, eggs and biscuits were being consumed in the study.

  ‘It’s been a long while since someone handed me a platter of victuals,’ Bream said favourably. ‘I kind o’ like it.’

  Between mouthfuls, Jack had been outlining his simple plan;

  ‘. . . then we fill every lantern we can lay hands on and hang them along the front and back verandas.’

  ‘Like a jamboree. He’ll blow ’em to pieces,’ Bream said.

  ‘So perhaps we’ll know where he is,’ Jack replied. ‘Ramon, I need a good man in the kitchen. You’re familiar with the sounds. Anything you don’t like, just discharge that old smoke pole. Hec, you and Mr Kettle are responsible for these windows.’

  ‘What about me?’ Rico said, hauling himself on to one elbow.

  ‘Same as Ramon. If you see someone you don’t know – shoot ’em. The front’s my area. So, let’s set up those lanterns.’

  The wick of the storm lamp spluttered in the curtain of rain that blew against the house. Jack cupped his hands and struck a fresh match. This time the flame caught and he lowered the glass chimney, turned up the flame and hung the lantern on one of the long tacks that Hector Bream had hammered in. Four more lanterns glowed above the damp boards of the front veranda.