Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Caleb moved quietly into the wide central hallway. No one had come in through the front door. The only other door to the outside was by the kitchen, where Sheila had gone. It had been latched when he checked earlier.
The open stairway to the second floor was ahead of him and to the right.
The steps turned at a landing and formed an arch over the downstairs hallway.
Beyond the arch, at the end of the narrower passageway, he could see the back door.
It was closed. The entrance to the kitchen was to the right.
The door to the surgery was to the left.
He listened for any sound of dishes or footsteps from the back of the house. There was nothing.
A few hours ago, she'd been laughing with Gabe and Paddy beside the barn.
Now, she was somewhere in this house with a killer.
He cursed at himself for letting his guard down. While he was playing a game, a deputy had been murdered. And Sheila could be hurt, as well.
His boots moved noiselessly across the floorboards. Alert for any movement, Caleb passed under the arch and headed down the passageway. He spotted jagged pieces of a broken plate and sugar cookies on the floor at the entrance to the kitchen.
Concern quickened Caleb’s steps. There were no sounds coming from either room. He feared that someone had her.
He went past the broken plate and sidestepped as he entered the kitchen, his six-shooter at the ready. His eyes swept the room, illuminated only by the flickering light from the stove’s banked embers.
Caleb saw her, standing with her back to a cabinet, a butcher knife in one hand and an iron skillet in the other. Eyes wide, she was positioned like a practiced street fighter, ready to take on whoever came through the door. Recognizing him, she rushed forward.
Relief washed through Caleb, and he closed the distance between them in a heartbeat.
“I heard a noise.” Her gaze flickered toward the door. “The surgery. I went to look in.”
When faced with the possibility of danger, some people backed away or stood frozen, unable to process the threat. A few moved toward and challenged it. Sheila Burnett was one of those.
Stubborn. Fearless. Infuriating.
And thank God for it.
She pointed with her knife. “He was going toward the patient, but stopped when I dropped the plate.”
Caleb had known someone could break into the house, but he’d done nothing about it. Livid with himself, he turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen. Doc was coming down the hall from the front of the house, carrying a shotgun.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Stay with her,” he said.
He raised his Colt and moved to the surgery door.
On the far side of the room, a window facing the empty side lot was open, and a shadowy figure was disappearing through it. Whoever he was, he was quick and agile and gone in an instant.
Caleb bolted across the floor, glancing toward the recuperating gunman as he ran. He expected the bed to be empty. It wasn’t. The patient was still strapped down, though there was no longer any need for restraints.
He was staring at the ceiling, his throat cut. Blood was on the floor, on the bed, on the bed linens.
The judge’s warnings about Goulden sprang into his head. An assassin had been sent to kill the man to keep him from talking.
But Caleb's first thought wasn't of Goulden or the judge.
It was of how close Sheila had come to walking into this room little more than a moment sooner.
Far more important than Patterson, Sheila had come close to being hurt.
He was not about to let this snake get away. Caleb climbed through the window and immediately spotted him. He didn’t have much of a head start.
The street in front of the house was the last one before the edge of Elkhorn.
Beyond Doc’s house, the road made a long rising bend to the right before becoming what was little more than a trail leading up to dozens of mining claims and logging cuts in the heavily forested hills to the north of town.
The rain began to fall even harder. The ground was soft and slick. His boots sank into the mud, making it difficult to run. Two long flashes of lightning lit the darkness, and he saw the man slip ahead of him, but get back on his feet quickly. Caleb bore down on him.
The open lot next to the house was no more than a hundred yards wide. Groves of young cottonwood and scrub pine formed the far border, though they were lost now in the darkness and the storm.
Caleb figured the fleeing assassin had his horse tied there. It was possible he had a partner or two waiting as well. He’d take care of that problem when he came to it.
The killer had gone through that window with the agility of a cat. The man was small and lean, but even with his short legs, he was having no easier time finding his footing in the mud.
Caleb still had his iron in his hand, and he thought about using it. He could easily shoot him down right now, but he wanted him alive and talking.
The injured gunhawk was dead. This one murdered him. He’d cut the throat of a man who was strapped down and unable to defend himself. From his time as a sheriff, he knew members of a gang each had a purpose. Four men were now dead. What was this one’s role?
Caleb guessed he was here to make sure no one was left behind to incriminate whoever was paying them.
He stuck his pistol in his vest and sprinted.
Caleb wanted to get his hands on the throat of this villain who’d had the brass to enter Doc’s house. He’d brought the threat of violence into the home of people he cared about.
The assassin slipped and went down on one knee, but he was up again in an instant. As he came up, Caleb was surprised when he spun around.
He had barely an instant to react. They were close, and his footing was bad. He skidded to a stop as the knife flew toward him, whirling end over end, the blade a deadly blur.
The weapon hit him in the chest as he managed to twist his body. The knife made a deadened metallic sound and stuck in his vest. By sheer luck, the gun Caleb had slipped into his garment had diverted the point.
The rogue didn’t wait to see the results of his action. He was running again.
Caleb yanked the knife from his vest, dropped it, and flew after him.
They hadn’t gone ten steps when he caught up and dove at the weasel. He sent him sprawling into the mud, but they were both on their feet in an instant.
The man made a move to run again.
As he turned, Caleb grabbed the shoulder of his coat and yanked him off balance. There was no way this blackguard was going to escape him.
His foe was quick to find his footing on the slick ground. He twisted around, batting at the arm holding him in an effort to free himself.
Still clutching a handful of the duster, Caleb drew back the other hand. He focused on the point of bearded chin, his fist poised and ready to finish this.
The killer was startlingly fast, and he was neither frantic nor panicked. He simply had other plans.
Before Caleb could even unleash his punch, he caught sight of the long, thin blade in his foe’s hand. It darted through the darkness from below. His enemy was spinning toward him to add power and speed to the upward thrust. The point of the knife was aimed directly at his heart.
Caleb arched his body sideways to evade the lethal assault. It wasn’t enough. The blade punched into his side.
The fiery pain was sharp, exploding upward through his midsection and chest into his brain with unexpected ferocity.
The man drew his arm back in a flash, ready to strike again. But Caleb—still holding the coat—jumped away, slinging the cutthroat to the ground. The attacker was on his feet in a single motion.
The blade had pierced his vest, but it hadn’t found his heart.
Caleb was still alive and blind with fury.
As the weasel turned to run, Caleb shoved him again, sending him flying. The assassin faced him as he tried to spring to his feet, and Caleb’s boot connected with his shoulder, driving him up and over onto his back. He rolled and lay flat, crying out in pain.
The rain battered them, and distant lightning flashed. Caleb moved closer. The dark handle of the knife protruded from a spot high on the man’s chest. In his fall, he’d landed on his own blade. He squirmed and cried out again.
Caleb was hardly in the mood for sympathy. He’d given this viper two chances. He wouldn’t get another. He could feel his own blood pulsing from the wound in his side. Dropping onto one knee, he twisted the knife and then yanked it out, eliciting a sharp cry.
Caleb held the blade where the man could see it. “Talk.”
“Go to hell.”
The rogue lay panting in the mud, looking up. His face hardened as Caleb pulled two more knives from the man’s boots and tossed them away. He carried no concealed pistol. He was a blade man.
“You first.” Caleb pressed the point of the blade up under the man’s chin. “Who sent you?”
His pinched face squeezed shut, and his lips pressed into a tight thin line.
“Talk or I gut you right here.”
“Go ahead. Do it.”
The image of Sheila’s pale face in the kitchen flashed before Caleb’s eyes. This dog would have killed her with no more thought than brushing a spot of lint from his coat.
Caleb grabbed a fistful of coat, lifted the blackguard six inches, and slammed him back to the ground.
“Damn you to hell. Kill me. Be done with it.”
“Not until you’ve suffered enough.”
Lightning, closer now, lit the sky, and the crash of thunder rolled over them.
“Or I can let you go.”
The cur’s eyes cleared for a brief moment, and then he smirked. “You wouldn’t.”
“Give me a name.”
He scoffed. “Nobody sent me.”
Caleb had been right in his thinking. This one was smart enough to be put in charge and tough enough to hold his tongue. He shoved a hand inside the rogue’s coat, looking for a purse, letters, or anything that might give a clue to who he was.
Nothing. If he was carrying anything, it wasn’t in his coat.
Another bolt ripped the sky, reflecting off the blade. Caleb stared as the cold light of recognition flooded his brain.
The knife.
As he held it up, lightning continued to strike the hills to the south. The insignia was there. Strips of silver inlaid into the handle.
A six-pointed star with an E in the center.
“Where did you get this?”
“Go to hell.” He shut his eyes.
Caleb grabbed the man’s collar again, lifted him, and hammered him into the ground. His eyes opened, and hatred—cold and deadly—shone in their depths.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was a gift.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Go to the devil. I ain’t never saying.”
Caleb knew the insignia. He knew the knife. He’d seen it a hundred times before. And if he dared to even touch it when he was growing up, the punishment was swift and sure.
“This knife belonged to Elijah Starr.”