Chapter Twelve
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Kill them.
The words struck a cold blow to Matt's stomach and it didn't take much imagination to understand their meaning. There was no time to think, to plan anything. He acted on pure impulse.
In a split second, Matt had ducked away, at the same time twisting himself a half turn. His right knocked Biggs' gun hand aside while his left shot out, catching the other squarely in the face. Teeth grazed against his knuckles and he felt the sudden hot flow of blood spread across his hand.
The outlaw's head snapped back, bopping on his thick neck like the float on a fishing line. Off balance, he staggered backwards into the porch steps, startling the tabby cat who had been napping there. With a frightened meow she leapt from the stairs and bounded off across the yard towards the barn.
Wasting no time, Matt immediately spun around on Stanton, determined at all costs to stop him. The outlaw had his colt halfway drawn when the Marshal plowed into his lanky frame, sending them both tumbling to the ground in a plume of dust.
Matt quickly scrambled to his feet again.
Snagging Stanton by the front of his filthy shirt, he followed up with a swiftly executed punch to his temple and the outlaw crumpled in his grasp.
Matt's eyes darted to the colt that now lay a few feet away in the dust. Without hesitating, he lunged for it. He felt stones and dirt move aside beneath his questing hand, felt his fingertips brush against the sun-warmed metal of the gun.
His fingers were about to close around the barrel when a sudden kick from Biggs' boot sent the gun scooting out of his reach.
"Nice try, Dillon!" Flecks of blood were dribbling from the outlaw's broken nose. He hauled out with a booted foot, and before Matt had a chance to climb back to his feet, he found himself under a barrage of vicious kicks.
Gravel and dust scattered around him as he quickly rolled away, skillfully eluding the first two or three kicks, but he was a fraction too slow for the next one; the hard-tipped toe of Biggs' boot suddenly ground painfully into his ribs.
It stung like a whip, like a razor slashing him, and Matt couldn't contain a groan as he twisted to one side, trying to escape the punishment. He barely managed to roll clear of another kick, this time, the boot missing his head by a hair. With a quick swipe of his leg, he hooked Biggs below the ankles, kicking his sturdy legs out from under him.
The outlaw grunted in surprise as his back struck the ground hard, giving Matt just enough time to scramble back to his feet.
There were three of them and one of him. Not bad odds, Matt found himself fleetingly thinking-that was, of course, if the men would have been unarmed.
"Don't kill him...I want him alive!" Biggs' shrill warning caused Matt to jerk his head up in alarm.
He saw Stanton, stretched out in the dust belly-down. The colt was now in his hand, leveled squarely at the lawman's chest.
For the fraction of a second, Matt froze. It was just enough of a distraction to give Kiley time to come up on him from behind. A strong hand suddenly dug into his shoulder roughly spinning him around and the unexpected blow clipped Matt on the side of the face, driving him back several paces.
Ducking Kiley's next punch, Matt quickly reciprocated with one of his own. The shorter man's head rocked to one side and Matt followed the strike with an uppercut to the man's mid section.
With a startled grunt, Kiley folded in half as he felt the breath being driven from his lungs. Before he had a chance to recover, a powerful two-handed blow to the back of his neck sent him crashing to the ground.
"Hey, Dillon!"
Panting, Matt swung around. He caught a brief glimpse of Biggs' bloody face and then a fist came flying at his head.
Instinctively, he jerked up his left arm, effectively blocking the punch and retaliated with a straight right to the other's chin.
With a gasp, Biggs stumbled backwards and almost tripped over Kiley who was still on his hands and knees in the dust, trying to shake his head clear.
Stanton, back on his feet by now, wasn't one to stand by idly and before Matt knew, he found himself with a muscular arm locked tight around his throat from behind. Without thinking, he rammed his elbow into his attacker's stomach in an attempt to shake him off.
The other gasped and froze instantly but didn't loosen his grip; instead, he continued to mercilessly increase his pressure on Matt's windpipe.
The Marshal was a tall man, a lot taller than the outlaw and the fact that Stanton was hanging on to his back with his whole weight, only added to the pressure the arm was exerting on his throat.
Matt tried dragging air into his lungs, but found that he couldn't.
Sudden panic dredged deeply in some hidden resource. With all the strength he could muster, he dug his fingers into Stanton's arm and succeeded at loosening his grasp a little.
He sucked in a greedy breath, the sudden rush of oxygen to his brain almost making him dizzy.
And then Biggs came at him again.
His eyes ablaze with cold fury, the burly man balled his huge hands into fists. For a second, he stared into the Marshal's eyes, breathing hard then he surged forward.
With a grunt, he buried a hard driven fist in the depths of Matt's belly and followed it up with a sharp upper cut to the jaw that jarred the lawman's head back and crashed his teeth together.
Matt felt the breath waffle up from his lungs. Pain blasted its way through his body and then his face.
He reeled and would have fallen but for Stanton's arm around his throat that kept him more or less upright.
Held firmly from behind Matt was unable to fight back.
His hands were wrapped around Stanton's arm to keep it from crushing his windpipe and he couldn't do anything other than try to roll with the punches as they came. Though he tried his best to move aside, several more times the fist smashed into his face. His lip split against his teeth. A cut opened along his cheekbone. His nose bled onto the light blue fabric of his shirtfront.
When Biggs hauled out again, not quite as fast this time, Matt managed to bring his left foot up and release it sharply forward.
The boot caught Biggs a long way below the belt. His jaw dropped as he doubled up with a sharp yelp of pain, the air being sucked from his lungs. Moaning, he sank to his knees.
Though some small part of his brain registered satisfaction, Matt had no time to dwell on his small victory; his fingers were still desperately clawing at the arm that continued to relentlessly cut off his air supply. The exertion of trying to shake Stanton off, only added to the rapid depletion of what little breath he had left.
The blood was roaring loudly in his ears like the crash of an angry surf, black spots overtaking his vision. He knew that he wouldn't last too much longer if he couldn't get Stanton off of him soon.
Then it was all over.
The sound of a Winchester being cycled registered faintly in Matt's mind. The arm around his throat loosened a little and he looked up only to find himself staring down into the business end of Kiley's rifle.
"Outta the way, Stanton, I'm gonna fix that bastard for good!" he growled, spittle flying from his lips. He rammed the barrel against Matt's chest, his eyes blazing with murderous fury.
"Hold it, Kiley...I said he's mine!" His voice sounding a little higher than usual, Biggs unevenly clambered back to his feet and came to stand, facing his partner. He was breathing heavily, in obvious discomfort from the kick to his groin. His gun was leveled on the Marshal, but his blood-shot eyes were boring into his partner's, dangerous and hard.
Kiley held his ground, his face resentful, unyielding as he withstood Biggs' gaze. For a long moment, the two men bristled at one another.
Matt could sense their hackles rising as he stood, sandwiched between the two with Stanton still hanging on to him from behind. It was a stand-off, neither one of them was prepared to give way to the other. They reminded Matt of two angry dogs facing one another down over a bowl of scraps.
It was Kiley who finally backed away. Angrily, he glared past Matt at Biggs. "Sure," he spat, clearly not meaning it. "he's yours." He shot Matt a hostile glance before reluctantly easing his stance and lowering the muzzle of his rifle.
Ignoring him, Biggs swung on Stanton who still had the Marshal in his strangle-hold.
"Damn it, git the hell off," he hissed as he stamped a foot in the dusty ground. "You're squeezin' the life outta him!"
Stanton scowled, not too happy with the order, but didn't put up a fuss. He abruptly withdrew his arm and then took a step back, scooping up his colt from the dust as he did.
Right away, Matt slumped forward.
Bracing his hands on his thighs, he greedily gulped in a few lungfuls of air. His chest was heaving with the exertion of the fight and his sweat-beaded hair hung ragged and disheveled over his brow. He knew that Biggs hadn't called his men off out of pure kindness, but right now he was glad for it all the same.
Somewhere off in the distance, the cawing of a crow sounded, but all that could be heard in the yard was the sound of breathing: his own, harsh and rasping as his body struggled for some measure of recovery, slowing, steadying as it was achieved. Then there was the heavy breathing of the outlaws, all three, Matt couldn't help but notice with a certain degree of satisfaction, clearly looking the worse for wear.
Biggs was taking long, deep breaths, trying to ease the throbbing pain in his groin, and Matt used the few precious seconds of respite to quickly take stock of his own physical condition.
He could feel warm blood tracking in sticky slivers across his upper lip and down his jaw, could taste its coppery tang in his mouth; more was seeping from his lacerated knuckles. His ribs hurt where he had been kicked and the side of his face was throbbing from Biggs' blows, but nothing was broken-he was fairly certain of that.
Biggs ran a grubby sleeve across his face, spreading the blood from his nose all over his face and then spat on the ground. He stared down at Matt from cold, cruel eyes. "So, you like playin' games, Dillon, eh?"
Feeling a little better, Matt carefully straightened back up to his full height, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. The last thing he wanted to do was give Kiley an excuse to misinterpret his actions and shoot him after all. Still panting a little, he met Biggs' gaze levelly but maintained his silence.
"Well," the outlaw continued, undeterred by Matt's lack of response. "I'm glad you do, 'cause I got a mind to play one with you right now." His mouth twisted into a thin, cruel smile as he exchanged quick glances with his partners.
Kiley readily chuckled his assent, excited about the idea of getting even with the lawman for the beating he had taken. But Stanton didn't respond, his mind occupied with entirely different matters.
"How about the others?" he wondered, sounding rather agitated. "You're lettin' 'em git away just like that? Remember? They owe me!"
Biggs made a curt, angry gesture that cut the other's tirade short. "The hell with 'em!" he spat. "By the time they get to Dodge, Dillon'll be dead an' we'll be long gone!" He leveled his beetle-black eyes on the Marshal again. "You sure gave us a hell of a fight," he said, begrudging the lawman a small amount of respect. "But now it's time to get even."
Matt stood quietly, allowing no measure of expression to cross his face. But the cold sweat that had gathered on his brow, betrayed his tension.
"Well, shoot him then an let's git the hell outta here," grumbled Stanton resentfully, not too pleased at the decision. He felt deprived of his chance to get even with that doctor and the redhead, and he didn't make any effort to hide his disappointment. He shifted restlessly, gravel splattering beneath his boots as he kicked at the ground.
Kiley agreed.
He glanced at Matt, his eyes glittering with hate. He would have loved nothing more that put a couple of bullets into the lawman himself. "Yeah, just git it over with, Dan."
Biggs stared at Matt for some seconds and then looked from Kiley to Stanton, his gaze filled with speculation. "I was more thinkin' of lettin' him go," he said, sounding quite serious.
Right away, tension crackled between them, charging the air.
Stanton looked confused. "What?" he sputtered.
So did Kiley. "You lost your damn mind?" he said.
Biggs ignored their remarks, obviously enjoying their confusion.
But Matt was anything but relieved by his words. He regarded Biggs intently, trying to understand what the other had in mind. There was no way that he believed for one moment that he would actually let him go.
Biggs lifted his lip in a sneer of contempt, showing his yellow teeth. "They're right, you know," he addressed Matt again. "I could just shoot you right here, but that would be a little too quick an' easy, don't you think? I mean, where's the fun in that?"
Matt didn't say anything to that, he knew he wasn't expected to, but he couldn't help but wonder with a growing sense of unease what the other had in mind.
Undeterred, Biggs went on, a wolfish grin now spreading across his broad face. "No, I got somethin' real special in mind for you. We're gonna play a little game." He sniffed back blood that was still trickling from his broken nose and scowled slightly. "Don't worry-it's real simple," he added mockingly upon seeing the unspoken query in the Marshal's face. "All you gotta do is run an' leave the rest to me."
Matt clenched his jaw, realizing at once what Biggs meant by 'the rest'. He maintained his silence, but inside, he struggled to quell the unruly thumping of his heart. He watched as the outlaw reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an old, battered pocket watch.
Biggs snapped open the dented cover and glanced down at its face.
Even Kiley and Stanton were now watching with rapt attention, their earlier resentment forgotten.
"You got exactly one minute, Dillon," announced Biggs now.
The words fell between them as hard and as cold as stone.
One minute. How could he be sure that Biggs wouldn't shoot him in the back the moment he turned? Trying to stall for time, Matt did some quick thinking. "S'pose I won't play along," he ventured, disregarding a faint feeling that he might be pushing his luck, a feeling apparently shared by Biggs' partners who snickered in response.
In an instant, something deadly entered Biggs' eyes. A mocking ripple of laughter spilled across his lips and then his voice lowered dangerously. "Looks like you need some convincin'-"
Calmly, he moved the colt away from Matt's chest, adjusting his aim and with the casualness of a practice shot, he calmly squeezed the trigger.
A belch of fire exploded from the muzzle as the bullet spewed forth with a roar.
The slug caught Matt high in the left shoulder.
With a choked groan, he staggered backwards several paces, the impact nearly knocking him off his feet. His face contorted, his lips peeled back from his teeth against the searing explosion of pain that ripped through his shoulder, he reflexively pressed his right hand to the injury.
He spared a quick glance at the blood that was spilling freely from between his fingers and then leveled his angry gaze upon Biggs. His ears were still ringing from the close proximity of the gun's report, but he could hear Biggs' next words clearly.
"Fifty seconds," the outlaw announced dispassionately as he looked up from his watch.
to be continued...