Rebel Justice Read online

CHAPTER SIX

  The Loomis Brand

  It was quiet when Wayland plodded into town on the bay. Even the atmosphere from within the saloons was subdued. He rode in the back way, in case his escapades at Loomis' ranch had caused any commotion in town. All was peaceful, though, so he took his horse to the livery, brushed her down and fed her before returning to the hotel.

  When he entered his hotel room, his attention was drawn to the note he had left for Cassie, willing his possessions to her. He took pleasure in wadding it up and throwing it away. Wayland unstrapped his gunbelt, pulled off his boots and stretched out on the bed. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to relax, and was suddenly consumed by a wave of exhaustion. His body was still weak, not fully recovered from his gunshot wound. Wayland realized that he'd have to be aware of his limitations. He slipped into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

  The next morning, Wayland awoke feeling refreshed. Though the activity from the night before had taken its toll on him physically, it had also served to bolster his spirits. He had taken his first action against Loomis, and it felt like a minor victory. Wayland got up, shaved and left the hotel for the restaurant, where he wolfed down a plate of steak and eggs. He was on his third cup of coffee, when Shorty entered and made a beeline for him. It was obvious that something serious was on his mind. Shorty yanked a chair out, directly across from Wayland, dropped heavily into it, and planted his elbows firmly on the table.

  "Join me, Sheriff?" he calmly asked.

  "You're just a plain, damn fool, aren't you?" Shorty growled.

  Wayland shrugged. "Did they make a law against that, too?"

  "No, they didn't, but they did make a law against trespassing and murder, and by damn, you're guilty of both!" Shorty thundered, and slammed his fist on the table for emphasis.

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Shorty," Wayland lied.

  "What I'm talkin' about is one man dead and two wounded at the Loomis place last night. What I'm talkin' about is, you're under arrest!"

  Wayland's eyebrows raised in surprise, as he casually sipped his coffee.

  "You got witnesses that saw me there?" he asked.

  "No, I ain't. You got witnesses that say you wasn't there?" Shorty responded.

  Wayland shook his head. "No".

  "Well, then, I'm takin' you in," Shorty insisted.

  "You'll never prove it, Shorty. Leastways, not in a fair trial."

  Shorty's head bobbed in a nod of agreement. "I know that. In two weeks, the circuit Judge will come around, and he'll drop the charges. I'll apologize, and you can go. Meanwhile, you can cool your heels in jail. It'll give you time to think. It appears to me, you need it."

  Wayland frowned. Shorty was making this tougher than he expected. Whatever happened, Wayland wasn't about to spend two weeks behind bars. Still, the thought of swapping lead with Shorty didn't appeal to him, much, either.

  "You can't do this, Shorty," Wayland argued.

  "Oh? And why can't I?" Shorty replied.

  "Because, he was with me last night," came Cassie's voice.

  Shorty and Wayland turned, to see her approaching the table. Fortunately, Shorty didn't see the look of surprise and astonishment on Wayland's face.

  "Cassie..." he started, but she quickly interrupted.

  "He didn't want to say anything out of consideration for me," she added.

  Shorty's mouth turned downward in a frown. "I know that ain't so, Cassie," he said.

  "I'll testify to it, Shorty," she threatened, "You can explain to the Judge why you arrested a man who had a perfect alibi."

  Shorty was outgunned, and he knew it. He looked at Cassie, then at Wayland, gave a shrug of grudging defeat, rose and stomped out.

  Wayland looked at Cassie, and smiled. "Looks like I'm beholdin' to you again," he said.

  She glared at him as she sat down. "I knew you were crazy, Wayland, but I didn't think you were stupid! How could you do something like that?"

  Wayland looked mildly insulted. "That's a fine way to talk. Here I was going to leave you the best quarter-horse this side of the Mississippi, and you treat me this way."

  "I don't want your horse, you fool," she blurted, "I want you!"

  Wayland reeled inwardly from the impact of the words. His jaw hung slack as he mentally groped for a reply. Cassie took a deep breath, calming visibly, as though the admission had released the pressure from her.

  "Alive, Wayland," she said. "I want you alive. Please, let's just get away from here. I have some money saved.."

  He reached over and laid his hand on hers, to stop her."Not 'till it's over between me and Loomis. I can't."

  Her look turned cold, and the disappointment showed strongly on her face. She raised her head defiantly, and squared her shoulders. "If it's that important to you, then go ahead," she said in a calm, controlled voice. "But even if you come back alive, don't come back for me, Wayland." She rose, and walked out, holding her head proud and strong.

  Damn, but he admired her! Wayland fought the overwhelming urge to go after her, and stop her. He bit blood from his lip as he watched her walk away, but he let her go. It was better this way.

  The day passed quietly. Wayland spent a few minutes at the blacksmith's, to thank the man for taking the bullet out of him. His name was Joseph, and he was a bald, heavily muscled man in his thirties. When Wayland first laid eyes on him, Joseph was hammering away over a glowing, hot anvil. Shirtless, and glistening with perspiration, a bandana tied around his head, he presented an ominous figure. Wayland would later learn that Joseph's frightening appearance was tempered by a gentle, almost shy, personality. Joseph had, ironically, been a field medic in the Union army. He made no reference to "the cause", either Union or Confederate. For him, the war was over. Wayland envied him the feeling. He offered to pay Joseph, but the burly, good-natured blacksmith wouldn't hear of it.

  From the blacksmith shop, Wayland went to the hardware store. The heavy-set, bearded proprietor didn't speak much, but eyed Wayland warily when he ordered two boxes of ammunition. One for his rifle, and one for his Colt. Later, Wayland ventured into the saloon, for a beer. Secretly, he hoped he'd run into Cassie, and be able to say something that would soothe the bad feelings between them. She wasn't there, though, and even Dave seemed reluctant to engage him in conversation. No one, it seemed, wanted to be seen with Wayland. It was as though he carried some sort of plague, and they might catch it if they got too close. They didn't speak to him, or even acknowledge him when they met him in the street. Yet, he could feel the eyes on him when he passed, and heard the whispered gossip going on behind his back. He felt like a side-show attraction, with everyone looking at him, betting on when and how he would die. Feeling itchy, Wayland saddled the bay and took her out for a ride. Not that she, or he, needed the exercise, but Wayland needed the ride to release his pent-up anxiety.

  He stayed out until dark, then built a small camp and ate jerky and beans by an open fire. He was feeling a lot better when he returned to town, well after dark. Wayland purchased a bottle of whiskey at the saloon and went straight to his room. He had several drinks, unusual for him, and contemplated his next move.

  It occurred to him that all of a sudden, he was trying to find a way to accomplish his task without sacrificing his own life. It made him uneasy. His willingness to die had always been, he felt, his best advantage against Loomis. Was he losing his edge? He found no answers in the whiskey, but it numbed his senses enough to eventually drag him into a heavy sleep.

  It was very late that night, when all hell broke loose. Wayland's awakening was abrupt, as he was dragged roughly from his bed. The whiskey and his weariness had dulled his senses and rendered him helpless against the three hooded men who brutally attacked him in the darkness. They pounded him with fists, until he crumbled to the floor, then they kicked him violently in the ribs and back. He had never completely regained consciousness before he blacked out again.

  When he came to, he was stretched out spraddled on t
he ground, with his wrists and ankles tied to stakes. It took a long moment for Wayland to get his bearings. There were stars in the night sky above him, and he knew he was somewhere on the open prairie. A yellowish glow flickered from a campfire nearby, and he could hear the snorts and shuffling of horses.

  He vaguely remembered the altercation in his hotel room. His jaw felt swollen, and he he had a split lip. His ribs also throbbed painfully, but didn't feel broken. Wayland tried to speak, but all that came out was a pained groan. It was enough to bring the three hooded men to him.They stared down at him, the hoods giving them a particularly menacing appearance.

  Thought we'd killed you," one of the hooded men said. The voice was muffled beneath the hood, but Wayland thought he recognized it. He strained his memory to pinpoint it.

  "You sure enough tried," Wayland mumbled through puffy lips. At that, the man standing over him reached up, and pulled off his hood. It was Deputy Harley Stiles!

  "I'm letting you see my face, Reb. Know why?" Harley asked.

  Wayland knew. It was because Harley had no intention of letting Wayland leave here alive. But, why hadn't they killed him already? As if reading his mind, Harley answered the question.

  "Mr. Loomis wants some answers from you. He wants to know why you're trying to kill him," Harley said.

  "Let him ask me to my face, if he's got the guts," Wayland replied sarcastically.

  Harley grinned. It was the first time Wayland had seen him do it, and it really worried him. "I was hoping you'd say something like that," he said.

  Harley lowered down on his haunches, over Wayland. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he studied Wayland. Hovering there, Harley reminded Wayland of a vulture, patiently waiting for a wounded animal to die. He was obviously enjoying the sense of power he was feeling. Wayland determined to take as much fun out of it as he could for Harley. Harley turned to one of the other hooded men and gave a questioning look. The hooded man nodded.

  "It's ready, Harley," he said. This voice also sounded familiar to Wayland, and this time, he nailed it down immediately. This was the knife-man who had visited his cell with Loomis, when Wayland was laid up. Wayland was beginning to think that everyone in Texas worked for John Loomis.

  The hooded knife-man walked to the fire, leaned down, and picked up something.Wayland's heart sank as he saw the man approach with a branding iron. The end of it glowed red-hot. To add insult to injury, it was the Loomis brand. Harley took the hot iron from the knife man. He casually waved it several passes over Wayland's face and eyes, so Wayland could feel the heat from it. Inside, Wayland struggled to hide the fear that welled up in him.

  "Now, then," Harley said, "you got something to tell me?"

  Wayland steeled himself for the inevitable, took a deep breath, and in a course, raspy voice...began to sing! "Wish I was in the land of cotton..."

  Harley looked dumbfounded, momentarily stunned. The second hooded man let out an involuntary chuckle.

  "Old times there..."

  Enraged, Harley jammed the hot iron against Wayland's neck. Wayland's heart jumped nearly out of his chest, and his body tensed and shuddered against his bonds as he choked back a scream. No, by God! He wouldn't give the bastard the pleasure!

  The searing hot iron sent a sick odor of scorched flesh into the air. Wayland fought the all-consuming river of pain that surged through his body, but he didn't utter a sound.When Harley pulled back the iron, Wayland's body went slack. He was panting hard and his face dripped sweat. Harley stared coldly down at him.

  "I'm not foolin' with you, Reb. This could be a long night. Up to you. What do you say?"

  Wayland's voice came weak, and strained. "...are not forgotten," he sang, "look away..."

  "Damn your eyes!" Harley snarled. He raised the branding iron over Wayland's face, his mouth twisted in a grimace. Wayland sucked in his breath and braced himself...just as a gunshot boomed through the night, freezing Harley!

  The bullet hit the campfire and showered sparks and burning bits of wood everywhere. Harley bolted to his feet and dropped the branding iron. All three men went for their guns, their eyes searching the darkness for the shooter's location. Another shot cracked, and the knife-man's hooded partner went down, dead instantly from a bullet in the head! Harley and the knife man fired blindly into the darkness. A third shot from the sniper kicked up dirt near Harley's boot and sent Harley and the knife-man running for their horses. The sniper kept firing, until the two men had mounted and stampeded off into the darkness.

  There were several moments of silence, as Wayland lay there wondering who his savior could be. Or was it a savior? The possibility of outlaws or renegade Indians could not be ruled out. Either way, he figured he'd be no worse off than he was a few minutes ago. It wasn't long before he heard the footsteps approaching. As the sniper neared, Wayland could hear his labored breathing, along with an uneven walk. He was dragging a leg, Wayland decided. Whoever he was, Wayland knew he was hurt. The footsteps stopped, and a face loomed over Wayland. The man was thin and wiry, with black, unkempt hair and leathery, sun-darkened skin. He grinned, and Wayland noted a front tooth missing.

  "Howdy," the man said, simply.

  "Howdy," Wayland croaked.

  The man rose to his feet, and, favoring his right leg, limped to the dead man he'd shot. He pulled the hood from the man's face, and gave a little grunt of recognition. "Hello, Squint," he said to the dead man, "Never did much like you, anyways."

  With that, the stranger searched the dead body, and chuckled triumphantly at the discovery of a whiskey flask in Squint's boot. He walked away from the body, sat down near Wayland and took a healthy pull from the flask. He swallowed, let out a long "ahhh" of approval, and eyed Wayland.

  "Nice night," he said.

  Wayland was mystified, and anxious to learn his fate. He was in no mood for idle chatter, even from a man who had saved his life. "A bit warm," Wayland answered tersely.

  "You got a name?" the stranger asked.

  "Wayland Brice," Wayland responded.

  "Who you got mad at you, Wayland Brice?"

  Wayland considered lying, but was just sick-and-tired enough of the whole mess that it no longer mattered. "John Loomis," he said.

  The man merely grunted, noncommittally. "And what's got him so riled?"

  "I aim to kill him," Wayland replied.

  The stranger broke into a wide smile. "Is that a fact?"

  "Wouldn't make much of a lie," Wayland answered dryly.

  The stranger laughed. "No, sir, that it wouldn't."

  The man rose to his feet and walked to Wayland. He reached to his side and pulled a hunting knife from his belt. Wayland sucked in his breath, preparing for the worst, but the man deftly slit the ropes that bound Wayland's hands and legs, freeing him. Wayland gave out a long breath of relief. He sat up stiffly and fought off a wave of nausea that swept over him. He took several long, deep breaths to stifle it, then rubbed the circulation back into his wrists. The stranger offered him the whiskey flask and Wayland accepted it, took a drink and handed it back. The stranger sat back down, and watched him with a leisurely eye. Wayland reached gingerly to his neck, and examined the burn wound. It was swollen and tender, and would leave quite a scar, but it wasn't life-threatening.

  "Whoever you are," Wayland said, "I'm obliged."

  The man toasted him with the flask. "Name's Dan Barker. They call me Irish Dan."

  Irish Dan, the horse thief. So, that was it! No wonder Dan had come to Wayland's aid. He was probably the only man within a hundred miles that was squarely on Wayland's side of the fight. But, what was he doing here?

  "We met," Wayland said. "Couple weeks ago, out on the prairie," Wayland continued. "You were riding a big, black horse."

  Dan nodded, "So, that was you?" he said. "That horse was mine, by rights. Bastard Loomis swindled me out of my ranch. Claimed he bought the place on back taxes. Hell, I homesteaded that place!"

  "So, the horse really belonged to you?" Wayland asked.
>
  "Hell, no. The horse was his. I just figgered to get back at him. I knew he loved that horse, so I tuk it!"

  Wayland smiled. He liked Dan's brass, for sure. "I imagine he's as bent on killing you as me," Wayland said.

  Dan laughed. "You ain't heard the best of it. Blamed nag stepped in a prairie dog hole and broke her leg. Mine, too, I think. Left me stranded out here on the desert. Lucky for you, I was camped near here, and saw the fire."

  "Hard enough for a man afoot to be on the run," Wayland said, "much less a man with a busted leg."

  Irish Dan nodded affirmatively. "That's a fact," he replied. "Been eatin' rattlers and jackrabbits for food. Run out of water yesterday. Couldn't go back and couldn't get away. Ain't that a bother? 'Course, now I got me a horse." He motioned to the dead-man's pony.

  "That mean you're going to leave me stranded out here?" Wayland asked.

  "You can ride with me to the next town, if you've a mind," Dan answered.

  Wayland shook his head. "I gotta go back, even if I have to walk," he said, firmly.

  "Gotta be ten, twelve miles back to Loomis," Dan said.

  "Just the same, I'm going," Wayland insisted.

  Dan regarded him with strong curiosity. "He must've done you a mighty wrong," he mused.

  "He did," Wayland responded, "and now I've got another grudge to settle, as well. Harley Stiles."

  "The Deputy?" Dan asked, incredulous.

  "That's who you were shooting at," Wayland explained.

  "Now, what in tarnation...?" Dan started, obviously confused. His brow furrowed, and his face contorted as he tried to piece together the puzzle. Then, his face blossomed into a look of revelation, as he figured it out.

  "Deputy Stiles is a Loomis man!" he blurted in triumph.

  Wayland confirmed it with a nod. "Tried and true," Wayland said, "and I don't reckon even Shorty knows about it."

  Dan squinted at him. "And, you're goin' after him and Loomis?"

  He asked it with a strong flavor of disbelief. Wayland frowned slightly. "I guess you're going to tell me what a damn fool I am, too. Go on. Everybody else has. Won't make any difference."

  Irish Dan shook his head vehemently. "No, I wasn't thinkin' that. I was thinkin' how much I'd like to see it!" He burst into a wide grin, the gap from his missing tooth giving him a near comical look.

  Wayland laughed heartily with him, then turned more serious, as he gave Dan a steady gaze. "How'd you like to be in on it?" Wayland asked.

  Dan's grin faded, and he looked thoughtful for a moment, then gave a little shake of his head. "I said I'd like to see it. Didn't say I'd die to see it," he said, flatly.

  Wayland was disappointed. He was in no shape to walk back to Loomis, and he needed the horse. "Well, I won't argue the point," he said, "You earned it, right enough. I'm grateful to you."

  Wayland rose stiffly to his feet, and extended his hand to Dan. They shook, then Dan handed Wayland the dead man's revolver and gunbelt. "Here. I got plenty guns," he said.

  Wayland thanked him, strapped on the gun, and set out walking, out into the desert.

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