Chapter Twenty-Four
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"THROW THAT GUN DOWN, BIGGS AN' DON'T MAKE A WRONG MOVE, I GOT YOU COVERED!"
The stock of his big Swiss rifle pressed firmly against the side of his face, Luke kept the muzzle trained squarely at the outlaw's back as he stepped out from behind the cover of a small collection of cottonwoods a good thirty-five yards up the incline.
Some people called it intuition, others 'sixth sense'. He'd never been exactly sure what to call it. All Luke Crandall knew was that he had learned to trust and rely upon it a long time ago. Once again, it hadn't disappointed him.
About twenty minutes into his ride to the Parker's place, he had suddenly felt it-the tell tale prickling sensation at the base of his neck that made the fine hairs there stand on end. It had been stronger than ever before and he had known at once that he had made a mistake by leaving his farm. Without a second thought, Luke had yielded to it. Turning the roan back around, he had kicked him into a careless gallop, back down the trail he had come from.
It had only taken him half the time to cross the ridge to Cross Creek, but instead of continuing straight down, he had dismounted and led the gelding out of sight into the cottonwood thicket that surrounded his homestead. Leaving him tied up amongst the trees, he had slipped the rifle from the scabbard and had followed a vague rabbit path that wound its way through the thicket. He had known that the path came out close beside the barn and had figured that if he kept low and moved quietly, the shrub growth would give him cover every inch of the way.
As he had moved along, the powerful feeling that something wasn't right had gotten stronger with each passing second. It had only urged him on to greater hurry.
After a few minutes, the trees had opened up to a first view of the back of the barn. Luke had quickly found his unease justified as his eyes had scanned the sun-washed brightness of his yard below. There, standing right in the middle of it, was Matt Dillon, all six feet and a half of him, confronting a man he had no trouble recognizing even though he had his back turned on him.
Dan Biggs.
But what had made the matter even worse was the small limp form of a child that the outlaw was holding firmly against his chest, a gun to his head.
Rory. His nephew. At the sight, the seasoned ex-Sheriff had felt a sudden lurch in the pit of his stomach. His fingers had clenched around the sun-warmed, smooth metal of his rifle. In all his years as a lawman, it was the one thing he had never faced before. Seeing a loved one's life in mortal danger.
He knew better than to shoot any man in the back, but he had to admit that at this very moment, he wouldn't have had too much of a problem with it-were it not for the fact that a bullet from his rifle would most likely not only end Biggs' life, but also his nephew's. The sight of the little boy hanging limply in the outlaw's grasp, had stirred feelings of the worst kind inside of him. They were feelings, so strong, that if he hadn't learned to control them early on, they probably would have ended his career as a lawman a long time ago.
Luke drew a deep, calming breath, swallowing to free the lump that had suddenly formed inside his throat. Then he brought his rifle up and stepped out from behind the concealing shrubs to announce his presence.
At his shout of warning, Matt's eyes darted up the slope in surprise. The sight that greeted him brought an influx of relief rushing along every nerve ending, not already chafed raw.
For one long, never-ending moment everyone stood still; everyone, including Dan Biggs.
It was as if the world held its breath. Even the birds had ceased their song as the ex-lawman began to slowly move down the slope, the scuffing and grating of his boots against the hard-packed earth the only sounds that could be heard.
His eyes, steel-gray and hard were focused on the outlaw's back, the fiery intensity of his gaze as unwavering as his gun.
When he was still a good twenty yards away, Luke stopped. From the corner of his eye, he quickly noted the position of his wife, Kitty and Chester. He felt a vague sort of relief when he saw they had remained close to the house where they would be less of a target for Biggs.
Luke took a steadying breath and then carefully adjusted his aim. He wanted to make sure, that if it came down to it, his bullet would hit the outlaw as far away from the boy as possible.
"I said for you to throw that gun down, Biggs," he repeated in a voice that allowed for no contradiction. He stood rigidly, unmoving, the rifle leveled. But despite his calm demeanor, there was a cold lacing of sweat on his brow, testament to his fear for Rory's life.
Below, Matt was the first one to recover, quickly adjusting to the new situation. Across the distance, he threw a quick glance past the outlaw to where the ex-lawman had positioned himself. He could see that his face was tight, without expression of any kind-a mask of rigidly held determination.
Luke Crandall was definitely a force to be reckoned with, Matt realized with a hint of admiration; a man whose edge and strength remained undiminished by the years.
His eyes tracked back to Biggs, settling on the outlaw's face. "You heard him, Biggs," he said, hoping his voice didn't come across as bad as he felt. "Put your gun down an' let the boy go. You ain't got a chance against the two of us."
There was no response.
Matt could feel the tension crackling through the air like heat lightning on a summer night. The sound of Biggs' heavy breathing, out and in while he assimilated what Matt had said, could be heard clearly in the eerie stillness that seemed to have enveloped the yard like the enfolding wisps of an early morning fog.
"Forget it!" the outlaw ground out furiously at last. He was slinging Rory back and forth so that his bare feet stirred up dust. "I'm gonna kill you, Dillon! I'm gonna kill the boy here first an' then I'm gonna kill you!" His thumb pulled the hammer of the colt all the way back, and the loud double click added its own emphasis.
The threat elicited a strangled sob from Millie Crandall, and across the distance, Matt saw Luke's face twitch visibly upon hearing it.
His eyes switched back to Biggs. He could sense the other's nervousness, sweat-slick and skittish like a panicked horse. The outlaw was behaving exactly as Matt had anticipated; the fact that he was still talking, threatening, confirmed his belief that Biggs knew good and well that he wouldn't have the chance to shoot him and the boy. What it now came down to was the question which one was more important to him. Matt was confident that he knew. He met the other's angry gaze coolly, levelly from across the short distance. "You can't kill all three of us, Biggs, you know that," he said in measured tones, stating the obvious. "You harm that boy, I promise you, you won't walk outta here alive."
Bigg's shifted and licked his lips. He was thinking fast. He was thinking hard. The truth of Dillon's words suddenly struck him. It was true, he most likely wouldn't be able to kill both, the kid and Dillon, especially not now with that damn Crandall-fella's gun at his back.
No, the boy didn't really matter-it was Dillon that did.
His features grew taut the instant he made his decision.
The expression on the other's face wasn't lost on Matt. Instinctively, he tensed, all of his attention now focused on the colt in Biggs' hand.
Sweat seeped uncomfortably from beneath his hair line, trickling into his eyebrows and over the upper part of his cheeks. One salty drop ran into his mouth, but Matt barely noticed it; he was too centered on the man before him, knowing that he was fast approaching his breaking point.
"Well? What'll it be?" he prompted, pushing the outlaw just a little further.
The look in Biggs' eyes was that of a caged animal, his anger by now having reached lethal proportions.
Matt's eyes narrowed, trying his best to block out the disturbing glare of the sun as he watched and waited for that first, barely perceptible indication that the outlaw would turn the gun on him.
Time, in the sunlit yard, stood still. The air was crackling with tension as the two men eyed each other across the distance-a distance too close for either one to miss.
Then, suddenly, the moment was there.
With an enraged scream, an animal cry too angry for words, Biggs suddenly released his hold on the startled boy, roughly throwing him aside, at the same time swinging his gun around on Matt.
Blued steel flashed in the sunlight.
"DAMN YOU, DILLON!" he screamed his anger and frustration as his finger squeezed the trigger.
With speed that was as much fluid motion as it was instinct, Matt wrenched the colt from his holster. His fingers convulsed on the trigger even as he leveled the weapon for aim.
The crackling explosion of Biggs' gun was almost instantly followed by the sharp report of the Marshal's colt.
But he had been a fraction too slow; Matt felt the sudden, hot sting as the outlaw's bullet grazed his wrist. His hand jerked, but he managed to hold on to his gun.
He might not have been fast enough, but his aim had been a lot more accurate than the outlaw's.
Biggs' eyes suddenly widened with surprise. His left hand clasped at his stomach as he staggered back with a startled grunt as though he'd been struck across the chest by a club. His gaze dropped to the bright red flower that blossomed under his splayed fingers, marring the once-white fabric of his filthy shirt. Shockingly red, the blood began to quickly spill out between his fingers and over his hand, dripping down onto the dusty ground. Slowly, in tiny, jerking movements, he raised his face again. His features were twisted with rage, beetle-black eyes, already glazed over by impending death, staring at the Marshal with undiminished hatred. With sheer effort of will, he wrenched his gun up, dead-set on fulfilling his promise of ending Matt's life.
He managed to thump back the hammer, a sound that rang mocking and foreboding in Matt's ears. But before Biggs had a chance to squeeze the trigger again, a small explosion rocked the little valley, and a fraction of a second later, a bullet from Luke's rifle found its target in his back. The powerful impact sent the outlaw staggering forward several unsteady paces towards Matt.
With his back still rigidly straight, he dropped to his knees. His right hand opened and the colt toppled out. It fell into the dirt at his feet with a dull thud.
Biggs' enormous barrel chest heaved. The muscles of his disfigured face went into a spasm. His eyes became fixed and glazed. The last breath bubbled in his throat and bright red blood sprayed from his lips as he opened his mouth to utter his final words. "Damn...you...to hell, Dillon…" Then he pitched forward into the dust. Dead.
Matt's gun was still in his hand, shaking slightly with the effort it afforded him to hold it up. A tendril of smoke drifted lazily from the barrel. He was swaying slightly as his dazed mind was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he was, somehow, still alive. The breath left him in a shuddering exhalation and his gaze moved to where Biggs lay.
The outlaw was face-down on the ground, one arm pinned underneath him. The other hand had fallen away from the chest wound and was now stretched out beside him. It was covered with blood, the bright red in stark contrast with the whiteness of the sun-drenched ground.
Matt could see that the back of Biggs' shirt was entirely crimson, the huge, gaping hole between his shoulder blades still seeping blood. It was draining away into the hard earth where it mingled with the dust, turning into a paste.
"RORY!"
Millie's sudden cry echoed unnaturally loud across the expanse of the yard. Clutching Carrie tightly against her with one hand, she used the other to lift her long skirts off her feet as she began to rush across the yard towards the little boy.
Looking frightened and lost, Rory was still sitting on his backside in the dust, only a few feet away from the outlaw. His face was ashen, his eyes, wide and unmoving, were fixed on the body of Dan Biggs. Moments later, Millie dropped to her knees beside him. "Oh, Rory!" she sobbed as she set Carrie down so that she could gather the petrified little boy into her arms. For a while, her soothing murmurings, interrupted by the occasional sob, were the only sounds heard in the hushed yard.
Then the heavy crunch of booted feet against hard-packed earth sounded as Luke, the rifle still up and ready before him, emerged from behind the barn to cross over to where Millie was kneeling. After quickly assuring himself that the little boy was unharmed, he turned his gaze to the body of Biggs.
The outlaw's mouth was open and so were his eyes. Almost black, the eyes stared sightlessly up at the bright blue sky they would never see again. Luke raised his head and locked gazes with Matt. He nodded slowly. It was over. Dan Biggs was dead. The outlaw had terrorized his last victim.
Matt let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding. His throat felt painfully dry and he swallowed thickly, wishing for a cool drink of water. As his overwhelmed body began to relax a little, his legs suddenly felt weak. His hand, still holding the colt dropped to his side and his body sagged with the exhalation of a weary breath. He was acutely aware of the dull throb in his shoulder wound. An ache, he, no doubt, would have to live with for weeks, maybe even months to come. He felt the thumping of his pulse in his injured wrist, felt the warm, slick blood tracking in sticky slivers across the top of his hand and down his fingers from where it dripped to the ground in thick, crimson droplets. The gun suddenly felt heavy in his grasp and on their own accord, his fingers opened, allowing the blood-smeared colt to drop into the dust at his feet.
From the porch steps Kitty had been forced to helplessly watch the entire, frightening scene unfold. Now as she finally realized that it was over and that Matt was miraculously still alive, her legs suddenly seemed to take on a life of their own. Without conscious thought, she found herself hurrying towards him-towards the man she loved.
Her unexpected move seemed to rouse Chester from his stunned stupor. "Wait up!" he exclaimed as he quickly fell into step alongside her.
The rustle of their hurried footfall registered vaguely in Matt's mind and he slowly lifted his head.
It was Kitty who reached him first. Her step slowed and then she stopped short. For the fraction of a second, she hesitated, quickly taking in his bloody wrist, assuring herself it was the only injury he had sustained. Then her gaze settled on his exhausted face. Sunlight glistened brightly on his sweat-laced features, his dark hair hanging damp and ragged over his brow. Their eyes met.
"Matt?" The hesitantly spoken word was both, question and relief, and suddenly, she couldn't help herself. Oblivious to his rather unsteady footing, she flung herself at him. "Oh, Matt," she sobbed as she melted into the warm comfort of his body. "I was so scared-"
The jolt, as Kitty threw herself at him, induced an unexpected flare of pain in his shoulder. Matt's face scrunched up and he hitched his breath to bite back a groan. Not wanting her to notice, he steadied himself the best he could and brought his hand up to hold her head tightly against his chest.
The terrible apprehension that had lain heavy on Kitty's heart was slowly ebbing from her body as she rested her cheek against the broad planes of his chest, the steady beat of his heart a welcome resonance in her ear.
He bowed his head and buried his face in her hair. "I know," he murmured softly, "but it's over now. It's all over, Kitty."
Kitty nodded into his chest, a silent prayer of profound gratitude rising from her heart. And then, suddenly, the sheer exhaustion and stress of the last week came to an emotional head. Everything she'd endured, she'd gone through, all the worry and fear she'd felt caused her self-control to falter and the tears came. They were tears of gratitude and relief. They were flowing freely now, and she didn't bother holding them back as they tracked wetly across his shirt and chest.
"Sshh..." Matt comforted her as his hand soothingly caressed the back of her head. "It's all right." Closing his eyes, he shut out the world around him, and, for a moment, it was only the two of them standing in the middle of the sunlit farm yard. He reveled in the sensation of her warmth, in the comfortingly familiar scent of her hair. It smelled as he had always known it to smell-a delicate mingling of soap and honeysuckle.
Their shadows, painted midnight black onto the sepia-colored earth were growing longer, pointing sharply to the east as the afternoon sun continued to slowly inch towards the west. A soft, warm breeze had sprung up and was gently playing with her fiery tresses, its welcome touch cooling his sweaty brow and rustling the leaves of the grand cottonwood tree.
For a long, blessed moment neither one moved as they simply stood in each other's embrace, coming to terms with the fact that the ordeal was finally and truly over. Slowly, gradually, their bodies began to relax, their breathing and heartbeats becoming attuned. He sighed softly as he continued to hold her close, heedless of the pair of brown eyes beside him that pretended not to be watching.
They were oblivious to the crunch of feet on sandy soil as Luke and Millie came walking over from the barn to join the couple in the middle of the yard.
It wasn't until Luke carefully cleared his throat that Matt became aware of the five curious pairs of eyes on him and Kitty. He lifted his face to glance over her head.
His gaze met Luke's who was holding a still pale looking Rory in one arm, his rifle in the other. The older man's face held no more traces of its earlier tension. It was calm, almost serene. The face of an experienced lawman who had learned a long time ago to quickly put things behind him when they were done and over. His steel-gray eyes-though half shaded by the brim of his worn slouch hat, regarded the young Marshal pleased.
Matt swallowed and then nodded once. "Thanks," he said hoarsely.
One simple word, spoken straight from the bottom of his heart-yet it seemed so inadequate. Luke had saved his life twice now over the course of the last week, and Matt knew that no amount of words would ever be enough to express the gratitude he felt for the man before him. Luke Crandall was one of the finest men he had ever met; a man he was proud to call his friend.
The ex-lawman responded with a curt nod of his own. "Anytime, Dillon," he said and then, a slight smile curving beneath his droopy salt-and-pepper mustache, added, "just don't make it a habit."
Matt's voice was strained as he responded, but a ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "I can't make you any promises there." His arm was still across Kitty's shoulder, holding her close. "But I'll sure try."
Luke's eyes strayed from Matt's face down to his bloody shirt, and his expression suddenly grew concerned. He nodded at the bright red stain that was slowly, steadily spreading. "Say," he said, "that shoulder of yours sure don't look so good."
Millie nodded in agreement and then stepped closer, a still somewhat subdued Carrie in her arms. The little girl had one small, pudgy hand wrapped around the back of her aunt's neck and the thumb of the other in her mouth.
The ex-Sheriff's wife took one good look and then tutted with disapproval. "Oh, Marshal," she chided him gently through still teary, green eyes, "now see what you've done. You've busted open those stitches. I wonder what Doc Adams will say to that."
Well, I don't, were Matt's weary thoughts. But he refrained from voicing them aloud.
At her aunt's words, Carrie yanked her thumb from her mouth. "Marsal, boo-boo," she observed fittingly as she pointed at Matt's blood-stained shirt. She regarded her big friend inquiringly from big, green eyes, wondering why he wasn't crying. Boo-boos hurt and usually made one cry-she knew that from experience.
Her remark earned her benign smiles from the grown-ups and even Matt managed to spread a tired smile.
"Yeah, boo-boo," he muttered with a quick glance at his shoulder, at the same time seriously wondering what Doc would have to say when he saw it. Whatever is was, Matt already had a feeling he wasn't going to like it very much.
Drawing slightly away, Kitty glanced up at him through wet lashes. She could plainly see that Matt had exceeded his physical limit a long time ago. He still had a lot of healing to do and he couldn't do that standing out here in the yard. "Let's see about gettin' you back inside, cowboy," she said softly as she sniffed the last of her tears away. "Millie's right, that shoulder of yours definitely needs some doctoring."
Matt looked down at her, the weary weight of exhaustion reflected in his eyes. He nodded in acceptance, secretly looking forward to being able to stretch out again on the bed he had been so eager to leave only a few short hours ago. But he wisely kept his thoughts to himself. "All right," he said agreeably. "I'm afraid I might need a hand though…" He glanced over at Chester who was busy brushing dust and grit from the Marshal's .45.
At Matt's words, he looked up. "Here, let me give you a hand there, Mister Dillon," he offered immediately as he shoved the colt in his belt and stepped up. "Just-just lean yourself on my shoulder here an' we'll get you back inside."
Matt braced his right hand on his assistant's shoulder and right away, Chester could feel the tremors of exhaustion in the Marshal's constricted muscles as he took a first, unsteady step. Slowly, with Kitty, Luke and Millie following, Matt made his way back to the house.
Around them, the birds had resumed their song. The colorful string of laundry that was stretched out between two poles on the side of the house was swaying softly in the breeze. The chickens had begun to reclaim the yard, scratching and pecking at the dusty soil. The tabby cat was once again sitting on the porch steps, licking her paws.
Nothing would have hinted at the terrible events that had taken place only a few short minutes ago, were it not for the gruesome reminder of Dan Biggs' body lying face-down in the shadow of the barn.
to be continued...