Free Dead Trouble by Jake Douglas Page A

folk would say he had been too slow, or had left his moves too late, but the fact was he deliberately hadn’t made any moves at all or given any sign of how he felt about her. Spain was courting her and Deke hadn’t come along until later. In his book and by his code, that gave Spain first claim. She had agreed to marry Durango and had married him. That was an end to any thoughts of romance between Karen and Cutler as far as he was concerned.
    Now he found himself feeling sorry for her: he savvied how she must have felt, coming from a rich family in Denver, winding up on the Red River, without a single one of the comforts she was accustomed to. It would seem no great deal to someone in Karen’s position for Spain to make ‘arrangements’ with law- breakers : she had tried to rationalize it by saying Spain wasn’t a rustler, but after taking the first bribe to look the other way while rustled beef was driven across his land he was no less an outlaw than the thieves themselves in Deke’s book. But if that was Durango’s only involvement – and Deke hoped like hell it was – then there was a chance he could get him out before he found himself dragged in any deeper.
    At least it explained Durango’s cool, disappointing welcome: he hadn’t been expecting Deke after hearing rumours of his death and maybe he was fooling himself, but Cutler liked to think that Durango had been trying to protect him by not taking him into his confidence and involving him in any suspect deals. That would belike the old Durango Spain he had known and admired for over ten years.
    But that didn’t mean the men Spain was meeting tonight would have any such inclinations. They might see him only as a Ranger: ‘Once a Ranger, always a Ranger – and never a man!’, was the credo of some of these hardbitten outlaws – and so they would as soon see him dead to be on the safe side as to accept him as Spain’s partner in any deal they had made.
    ‘Hold it, you! Who the hell are you?’
    The voice came out of darkness as thick as a blanket in an airless cellar, but Deke thought the owner was somewhere in those trees.
    He reined up, still holding the rifle across his thigh one-handed, thumb easing back the hammer, finger curled around the trigger and bringing it back at the same time. Now all he had to do was lift his thumb from the hammer spur and it would fall and fire the cartridge in the breech. It was an old gunfighter’s trick, shaving a split second, and he had used it on two previous occasions successfully.
    He was ready to try a third time if necessary.
    ‘I asked who the hell you are, mister!’ the impatient voice snapped and Deke heard the ratchet of a cocking gun hammer. ‘You got about two seconds to say!’
    ‘Looking for Durango Spain.’
    ‘Never heard of him!’ Deke didn’t say anything and after a short silence the hidden man snapped: ‘Why?’
    ‘If you don’t know him, it don’t matter.’
    ‘Smart-mouth son of a bitch! You’d be Cutler, is my guess.’ Deke didn’t say one way or the other. ‘Goddamnit, answer me! I got my gun trained on you!’
    Deke rowelled with his spurs abruptly, falling loosely across his horse’s neck as it leaped forward, swinging the rifle out to one side and shooting one-handed into the darkness of the trees. He didn’t hold out much hope of finding a target but it would distract the man in there.
    He heard the bullet slap against a tree trunk and saw a vague whiteness that likely was a piece of bark torn away. He thought he heard the tail end of a startled curse but couldn’t be sure with the echoing gunshot – followed swiftly by one from the guard. But the man had fired in uncontrolled reaction and his shot was wild.
    By that time, Deke had a fresh shell in the breach and was thundering into the line of trees, using knees to guide the grey, although it had popped enough mavericks out of brush-choked draws and on timberline slopes to instinctively start dodging and weaving. A gun