Hanging in Wild Wind Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  PART 2

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART 3

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Teaser chapter

  To the Last

  “Are you going to die or what?” the ranger asked again.

  “I’m going to . . . Just shut up,” said Wheeler. He lowered his bloody fingertips inside the edge of the boot well. Any second now, the ranger told himself.

  Wheeler’s hand came up quickly enough for a dying man. But the ranger was ready. A knife . . . ? He saw the bloody hand try to rise and stab the blade toward him. But in Wheeler’s condition, the big knife slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.

  Sam’s boot stamped down onto the blade as Wheeler fumbled to grab it by the handle. “The shape you’re in, you draw a knife?” Sam said. He pulled Wheeler up by his shirt and leaned him back against the bar.

  “It’s all . . . I had left . . . ,” Wheeler said, sounding weaker, his eyes looking more and more distant. “You didn’t leave me no choice. . . .”

  “I didn’t come here bringing choices,” said the ranger.

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, August 2010

  Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2010

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-45881-5

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  For Mary Lynn . . . of course.

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Vientos Salvajes, New Mexico Badlands

  The first slug from the ranger’s big Colt sent outlaw Morris Wheeler flying backward through the open door of the Belleza Grande Cantina. The sound of the gunshot sent people scrambling in every direction, emptying the busy dirt street. Even as Wheeler crashed down inside the saloon, upending a table crowded with empty bottles, shot glasses and wooden cups, the ranger had already turned with his smoking Colt, poised and ready. He searched the street warily for his next target.

  He saw no one, but he knew there were three others. He’d seen them before he’d even ridden into Vientos Salvajes. He had lain atop a rocky trail and watched the outlaws through his battered army telescope. He’d counted four of Silva “the Snake” Ceran’s gang riding toward the bustling badlands town, each of them wearing a long tan riding duster and a broad-brimmed black hat. One of the four he’d recognized as the woman, Kitty Dellaros. The other three were Andy Weeks, Delbert Trueblood and Morris Wheeler. Each was a noted thief and murderer.

  He’d seen no sign of Silva Ceran himself, but he had an idea that the gang leader was somewhere nearby, lying low, letting his crew take all the heat that had been on their trail ever since the payroll robbery near the mining town of Poindexter more than two weeks ago.

  The ranger stepped toward an alleyway, breaking into a run alongside the large cantina. A flock of frightened chickens burst forth in a flurry of batting wings, squawking above the pounding of hooves. Silva “the Snake” Ceran wasn’t there, but in this deadly business the young ranger had learned quickly to take what he could get.

  These were Silva Ceran’s people; there was no questioning that—a few of his people anyway, the ranger thought. Riding with Ceran had become a popular pursuit among the swell of saddle trash who preyed on the citizens along both sides of the border.

  The ranger knew very little about Kitty Dellaros, aside from her name and the growing reports that she’d been riding with Silva Ceran of late. As for the three gunmen, he knew them well enough. For weeks now he’d been carrying around in his saddlebags posters of their grim faces. They were desert outlaws from the old Sugar Blanton Gang, and in addition to the posters, each man’s name was carefully recorded on a list that the ranger carried in his vest pocket, along with the battered stub of a pencil. He’d hoped to put that pencil to good use today.

  As he turned and gathered Black Pot, his Appaloosa stallion, he heard a frightened voice call out from the front door of the cantina.

  “Ranger, you must come quickly, por favor. This one is still alive.”

  Sam hurried out of the alley, leading the stallion behind him. Out in front of the open doorway, an elderly man jumped up and down in place, waving his long, bony arms to get the ranger’s attention.

  Still alive . . . ? The ranger looked surprised. But no sooner had the old man spoken than a gunshot accompanied by a string of cursing and the crash of breaking glass erupted from inside the cantina. “Stay out here,” the ranger said, giving the old man a quick once-over, wondering whether this was a trick of some sort.

  “Sí, of course. I will wait out here,” the old man said.

  Ins
ide the darkened cantina, Morris Wheeler had dragged himself to his feet and managed to snag a young woman by her long black hair as she stood stunned, staring wide-eyed at him. He was standing slumped against the bar, his bloody left hand entangled in the woman’s dark locks, holding her against him. “You moved too slow, little chick-chick. Look what it got you. . . .”

  “Please don’t hurt me,” said the young woman, her voice trembling.

  “We’ll see,” Wheeler said, strained and weakened. “You’re taking me out of here, little missy. I die, you die. . . .”

  “Turn the woman loose, Wheeler,” the ranger called from inside the door.

  Wheeler turned to face him, his Remington in his bloody right hand. “Or what, Ranger?” he growled. “You going to shoot me again?”

  “Most likely,” the ranger replied, his Colt leveled as he took a step forward.

  “Getting shot don’t matter much to me now.” Wheeler gestured with his gun down the front of his bloody shirt. “I’m shot to hell already.”

  “I can get you some help,” the ranger said.

  “Shit, you can,” said Wheeler. “Look at me. I’m dead. You did this, you son of a bitch.”

  “It needed doing, Wheeler,” said the ranger. “If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been somebody else soon enough. We both know that.”

  The dying man considered it. “Yeah, I guess so.” He gave a dark chuckle and shook his head. “Get out of here, darling,” he said to the young woman, letting go of her hair and giving her a shove. “Next time . . . don’t stand around so long.”

  The young woman bolted away like a frightened deer.

  “Now, as for you, Ranger . . . ,” Wheeler said. He cocked the Remington with his bloody thumb.

  The ranger’s Colt bucked once in his hand, and the shot hit Wheeler an inch to the left of the bloody wound in his abdomen. He staggered back in a full circle along the bar but caught himself. “Gawl-damn it!” he said, pained and outraged. “You did it again.” He bowed deeply at the waist.

  “Drop the gun or I’ll keep it up,” the ranger said with no remorse.

  “Jesus, Ranger . . . You can’t just shoot a man who’s already—”

  The ranger cocked his Colt, and at the sound the outlaw stopped. “Wait. Damn it.” His Remington slipped from his hand and landed with a hard thud on the floor. “There. Satisfied?”

  “What about that help?” the ranger asked. He stepped forward, keeping an eye on the bowed outlaw’s hand, which was dangling near the top of his boot well.

  “Don’t do me no favors. . . .” Wheeler moaned.

  “Suit yourself,” said the ranger. He took a bottle of whiskey from atop the bar, uncorked it and handed it out to the outlaw.

  Wheeler gave him a curious look, but took the bottle from his hand. “Figure a little kindness will get me . . . to tell you where the Snake is?”

  “I know where he is,” said the ranger, still keeping an eye on Wheeler’s bloody hand. “He’s at the end of whatever trail those three are on.” He gave a nod in the direction the other three outlaws had taken out of town.

  “Smart son of a bitch,” the dying outlaw growled under his breath. He managed to take a swig of whiskey without straightening. “You’re that ranger they’re all talking about—the one who killed Junior Lake and his gang.” He looked up at the man’s dusty silver-gray sombrero and added, “Sam something-or-other.”

  “Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack,” the ranger said. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “That figures. . . .” Wheeler gave a sneer of contempt. “I just wish I could see you once Trueblood and Weeks get done with you. . . .” His voice grew weaker and his words became slurred because of the steady loss of blood.

  “Are you going to die or what?” the ranger said coolly.

  “Why? Are you going to shoot me again?” Wheeler asked angrily.

  “Might,” said the ranger. “I want to get on your pals’ trail.” He watched as the outlaw’s bloody fingers flexed near his boot well.

  “You want to get a hold of Kitty . . . like every other man does,” said Wheeler. “I know what you want. . . .”

  Since Wheeler brought up the woman, the ranger pursued the matter. “Is she the Snake’s woman?”

  “Ha. He thinks she is . . . ,” Wheeler said. It sounded more difficult for him to form his words. “She’ll throw open her knees for . . . anything that’s got a pecker. . . .”

  The ranger nodded. “I’ve heard that.”

  “I just bet you have,” Wheeler managed in a suggestive tone.

  “Are you going to die or what?” the ranger repeated.

  “I’m going to . . . Just shut up,” said Wheeler. He lowered his bloody fingertips inside the edge of the boot well.

  Any second now, the ranger told himself.

  Wheeler’s hand came up quickly enough for a dying man. But the ranger was ready. A knife . . . ? He saw the bloody hand try to rise and stab the blade toward him. But in Wheeler’s condition, the big knife slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor.

  Sam’s boot stamped down onto the blade as Wheeler fumbled to grab it by the handle. “The shape you’re in, you draw a knife?” Sam said. He pulled Wheeler up by his shirt and leaned him back against the bar.

  “It’s all . . . I had left . . . ,” Wheeler said, sounding weaker, his eyes more and more distant. “You didn’t leave me no choice . . . Arizona Ranger Sam fucking Burrack. . . .”

  “I didn’t come here bringing choices,” said the Ranger.

  The three riders did not slow their horses until they topped a high ridge five miles from town. “Whoever it was, he ain’t riding alone,” Delbert Trueblood said. He and Weeks looked back across the flat stretch of land below. Tagging behind them, Kitty Dellaros nudged her limping horse to a stop.

  “That’s what I’m thinking, too,” Andy Weeks said to Trueblood, sounding winded, looking worried. “We’re lucky we didn’t run into them on our way out of town.”

  “Damn lucky,” Trueblood agreed.

  “It’s one man,” Kitty Dellaros said with disgust. She edged her horse a few feet away from them and stepped down from her saddle.

  “Yeah?” The two gunmen looked at each other. “How the hell do you know that?” said Trueblood.

  “I looked back,” said Kitty. “You two sods could have looked back too, if you weren’t in such a hurry to run out on Wheeler.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Weeks warned.

  “We did look back,” said Trueblood. “There’re others waiting to trap us back there. Ain’t you been listening to us?”

  “I’m listening, but I’m not hearing anything,” the woman said, pushing her hat brim up on her forehead. “I don’t know how you sods ever made it this far.”

  “Call me that one more time,” said Weeks, “and see if I don’t kick your ass, same as I would a man.”

  “That goes for me too,” said Trueblood.

  The woman didn’t answer, but she didn’t take their threats too seriously. They didn’t want her going to Ceran with complaints against them. Instead of replying she shook her head, raised her horse’s front hoof and ran a gloved hand along its foreleg with a critical eye. “Easy . . . ,” she purred when the horse resisted her touch.

  The two outlaws nudged their horses closer to hers. “Is that horse going to make it?” Trueblood asked as he and Weeks stared at her from behind, taking pleasure in the sight of the female form, even in the loose, ill-fitting riding duster.

  “No,” said Kitty. She lowered the horse’s foreleg and patted the animal’s hot muzzle. “This is as far as he goes.” She raised a short-barreled Colt Thunderer from a holster beneath her duster. She held the shiny nickel-plated gun out at arm’s length toward the horse’s sweaty head.

  “Don’t even think about firing that gun,” Weeks said quickly. “It’s a dead giveaway where we are up here.”

  “What else can I do?” Kitty said with resolve, staring at the lame horse as if speaking to it instead of the outlaw.


  “You can leave him,” said Trueblood. “The critters will make fast work of him tonight once they catch his scent.”

  “Yeah, right,” Kitty said without turning her eyes from the horse. What he’d suggested was unthinkable. She took a deep breath.

  Weeks shouted, “If you fire that damned gun, I swear to God I’ll—”

  She squeezed the trigger. The sound of her shot rolled out across land and sky. The big horse’s knees buckled beneath it. It collapsed dead onto the rocky ground.

  “Damn it to hell!” Weeks shouted, having been cut short in the midst of his threat. “You are the most hardheaded bitch I have ever come across!”

  “Shut up, Weeks,” Kitty said. She swung the Thunderer toward him, not needing to cock the short double-action Colt. “I just killed a horse I liked. Think what I’d do to a sumbitch I can’t stand.”

  Weeks’ hand started to go for the gun on his hip. But seeing she had him cold, he stopped himself.

  “Both of yas settle down,” said Trueblood. He raised his rifle from across his lap and held it loosely, covering the two of them. “We’re being dogged by somebody back there, whether it’s one man or a dozen. This is no time for us to start falling apart.”

  “It’s one man,” Kitty insisted. “It’s that ranger, Burrack, who killed Junior Lake and his gang.” Her eyes and gun remained locked on Weeks.

  “Burrack, huh?” said Trueblood. “How the hell do you know that?”

  “Because I saw him riding in,” Kitty said. “You two wouldn’t stop humping your whores long enough to look out the window when I told you to, else you would’ve seen him yourselves.”

  “How do you know Burrack?” Trueblood asked, suspicious.

  “Jesus . . .” Kitty lowered the nickel-plated Thunderer and shook her head. She looked back along the trail leading across the flat desert land below. “I don’t know Burrack. I saw him once in Yuma. He always wears that gray sombrero, rides that big Appaloosa. The horse belonged to Outrider Sazes until one of Junior Lake’s boys stopped Outrider’s clock.”