A Wolf in the Fold

“That’s enough,” Gertrude said.

Turning the canteen, Bart Seton scowled and said, “You keep spoiling my fun, sugar. I don’t like it when you do that.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me your damned sugar?” Gertrude snapped without taking her eyes off me. “Keep it up and I will be inclined to dispense with your services.” She sidestepped to her saddle and perched on it with one leg bent at the knee on the pommel. “I trust you understand, Mr. Stark, why I do not end your life as quickly as my hired shootist wants.”

I understood, all right. She was so much like me it was spooky. I shifted slightly so I was closer to the fire and slumped as if I was about to collapse. “What will it be? Stake me out on an ant hill?”

Gertrude chortled. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not an Apache. I wouldn’t know where to find one.”

“Let me dish out what he’s got coming,” Bart Seton said. “I promise you, before I’m done he’ll beg us to put him out of his misery.”

“And deprive me of the pleasure of doing it personally?” Gertrude shook her head. “I should say not. Just because I am a woman does not mean I am squeamish.”

The fire was uncomfortably hot. I shifted again, even closer, so that the unlit end of a burning log was almost at my fingertips.

“I will enjoy this immensely,” Gertrude smirked. “You have caused me no end of setbacks. With you out of the way, I am free to lay claim to the silver and live in luxury the rest of my life.”

I had to goad her, so I said, “You can start by rebuilding your house. Or isn’t that good enough? Maybe you want a mansion.”

“Why must I rebuild?”

“Oh. That’s right. You haven’t heard.” It was my turn to smirk at her. “I burned your house down along with the rest of the LT. The stable, the bunkhouse, there isn’t a building left.”

Gertrude surged to her feet. “For your sake I hope you are just trying to make me mad. My house contains everything I hold dear. Heirlooms from my mother and my grandmother. Gifts from my sister. Things I’ve had since I was a child. Things I can never replace.”

“That’s too bad. They’re all ashes.”

Her eyes flashed and she jerked the rifle to her shoulder, then just as quickly lowered it again. “No. I see what you are doing. You want to goad me into getting it over with. But it won’t work. I want you to suffer before you die.”

It was not working. I had to come up with something else. “Like your son suffered? You should have heard him scream and blubber.”

Gertrude took a step toward me. “Have a care, Stark.”

“Or what?” I had pricked her. “You’ll kill me? I’m dead anyway.” I deliberately laughed. “You should have seen Phil when I pried one of his eyeballs out of its socket. He bawled like a baby.”

That did it. Livid with rage, Gertrude advanced, raising the rifle to bash the stock against my skull. “You bastard! You miserable, rotten bastard!”

I gripped the log. As she reared above me, I levered onto my knees and thrust the flaming end in her face. I went for her eyes. She shrieked and frantically backed away, colliding with Bart Seton as he sprang to help her. Locked together, they tripped over their own legs, and fell.

I was in motion before they hit the ground. Vaulting over the fire, I plunged into the tall grass. My left side flared with torment, but I clenched my teeth and bore it. Breaking into a run, I made for Brisco and the mare. In my saddlebags was my short-barreled revolver and other tools of my trade. I might yet prevail.

Boots pounded the ground. I glanced back to find Bart Seton in swift pursuit. I ran faster, my body protesting with more spikes of pain and a fierce hammering in my temples. I had a twenty-yard lead. To him I had to be no more than an inky silhouette in the dark, yet he snapped off a shot that sizzled the air next to my ear. At least part of his reputation was deserved, after all. He would not miss a second time.

I pretended to be shot. Suddenly flinging myself down, I thrashed about, all the while hoping and praying he would not finish me off with a shot to the brain. Nothing happened, and after a minute I stopped and lay still, curled into a ball, my right hand on my right boot. Still shamming, I looked up.

Bart Seton had his Colt trained on my head and the hammer thumbed back. He wanted to squeeze the trigger. He wanted to badly. But he growled, “On your feet! I should bed you down permanent, but she would have a fit.”

“Give me a moment,” I gasped.

“Like hell.” He kicked me in the back.

I winced and nodded. “All right. All right.” Propping my right hand under me, I pushed myself up and sat with my head between my knees, sucking air deep into my lungs. “It hurts,” I said.

Bart Seton laughed. “You’ll hurt a lot worse before we’re done.”

I attempted to stand, then sank back. “I can’t,” I protested. “My legs won’t hold me.”

“You damn well better get up or you can crawl the whole way,” Seton snarled, coming closer.