Part 13 (1/2)

Luke ran to the corner, put his back against the wall, and risked a quick look. Muzzle flashes came from the trees and clumps of brush scattered along the bank. He counted shots from three men, so he knew his volunteers had managed to get off their horses and make it to cover when the shooting started.

The outlaws had taken cover, too, some of them crouching in doorways and others kneeling behind crates of supplies on the deck. Luke saw a flash of fair hair and spotted Delia Bradley hunkered behind the strongboxes. That was actually a pretty good place to take shelter, he thought. No bullet could possibly penetrate those boxes full of gold bars.

A noise from behind alerted him to trouble coming from that direction. He whirled and found himself facing Derek Burroughs with a leveled gun in his hand.

Luke knew Burroughs could have cut him down, but he didn't fire.

For some reason, he had hesitated.

In the split second they faced each other over gun barrels, the two men's eyes met. Despite everything that had happened, despite the greed that had led Burroughs to turn into a ruthless outlaw with blood on his hands and despite the anger that filled Luke at what Burroughs had done, at that moment, the bond that war had forged between them was still there, and it kept Burroughs from pulling the trigger.

No such bond existed for McCluskey. The outlaw had climbed on top of the pa.s.senger cabins and charged across them with a gun in each hand spouting fiery death, yelling at Luke in incoherent, hate-filled rage as he triggered the revolvers.

The slugs fell like hail around Luke. He twisted and threw himself toward the edge of the deck as McCluskey's bullets whipped around him. None of them found him as he dived into the river.

McCluskey didn't stop shooting.

Luke closed his eyes instinctively as he went under the surface. When he opened them again he saw the little trails of bubbles streaking through the water as the bullets searched for him. He kicked hard, knowing that the only safe place for him at the moment was under the riverboat.

The shadow cast by the boat enveloped him as he glided underneath it. He hadn't had a chance to grab much of a breath before he went into the river, and his lungs were clamoring for air. He planned to swim to the other side, climb out, and get back into the fight.

The rumble of the boat's engine abruptly got louder, and the paddlewheel lurched into motion. Someone who knew how to run the boat had made it up to the pilothouse. Luke twisted in the water as the wheel began to churn toward him.

He swam hard, knowing that if he got caught in the paddlewheel, it would bust him to pieces. He could get clear faster going back the way he'd come, but some of the outlaws were still shooting into the water. He saw the streaks up ahead left by the bullets.

He couldn't stay where he was. He reached down to the bottom and pushed off hard against it, arrowing through the water and out from under the boat. Rolling over, he jackknifed the upper half of his body out of the water and fired up at the riverboat as it roared past him like a giant primordial beast.

Water blurred his vision, but he could see well enough to shoot. He didn't see Burroughs or McCluskey or Delia. Several outlaws stood on the deck shooting at him. He lanced slugs among them, downing one man and making the others scatter for cover.

The riverboat picked up steam. Luke bit back a curse as it moved on past him and he fell behind. The decks were clear as all the train robbers had hunted holes. All he had to shoot at were the dripping, revolving paddles.

Burroughs and his gang had gotten away-again.

Luke stayed low in the water until the riverboat had vanished around the next bend, just in case anybody was trying to draw a bead on him with a rifle. When the boat was gone, he headed for sh.o.r.e. He stood up when the river became shallow and waded in.

Kermit Winslow and Ray Stinson emerged from the trees, helping Craig Bolden limp along. The mining engineer had taken a bullet through his right calf.

Winslow called, ”Jensen, are you all right?”

Luke emerged from the river with water streaming from him. He nodded and said disgustedly, ”I'm fine, but they got away with the gold.”

”We hurt 'em, though,” Stinson said. ”I reckon we killed two or three of 'em. That'll make it a mite easier the next time we go up against 'em.”

”There's not going to be a next time for you men,” Luke said, his voice still harsh with anger, directed mostly at himself. ”Bolden's hurt. You need to take him back to the train and wait for help with the others.”

”d.a.m.n it, we set out to get that gold back and give those outlaws what they got comin'!” Winslow protested.

”Yes, but this was our best chance to do it,” Luke said.

”So you're gonna give up?”

Luke reined in his temper. He couldn't blame Winslow for being angry. The man took it personally that someone had held up his train. Luke was sure the conductor felt the same way.

”I never said I was going to give up. I'm going after them. But I'm going to do it alone. Stinson, you and Bolden can ride double back to the train. I'll take the other horse so I'll have an extra mount. I know where that riverboat's headed, and I'm going to see if I can beat it there.”

”And if you can . . . ?” Winslow asked.

”I'll have a warm welcome waiting for them.” There was nothing warm about Luke's voice.

It was cold and hard as ice.

CHAPTER 22.

”Where's a rifle?” McCluskey raged as the riverboat went around the bend. ”Somebody give me a rifle! I can still draw a bead on Jensen!”

”Forget it,” Burroughs snapped. ”Luke's out of sight now, and so are the others.”

McCluskey sneered at him as the two men stood on the deck with Delia. ”Luke, is it? That's what you call him because the two of you are such good friends.”

”We fought together in the war,” Burroughs said. ”A man doesn't forget something like that, no matter where he finds himself later.”

”A man doesn't forget that he needs to be loyal to his partners, either,” McCluskey said. ”Who's more important to you, Burroughs, the men you ride with now or somebody you knew fifteen years ago?”

”My men know good and well that I'm loyal to them.”

”Is that right? You want to explain to them how come you didn't pull the trigger when you had Jensen dead to rights and could have gunned him down?”

One member of the gang was up in the pilothouse, having been sent there by Burroughs after Lynch was killed. Two more were in the engine room, stoking the boiler and keeping the engine running.

But the others, including a couple men who were wounded, were on the deck and heard what McCluskey had to say. They listened with intense interest as the body of an outlaw who'd been killed in the fighting lay uncovered on the stern, a grim, b.l.o.o.d.y reminder of what had happened back around the bend of the river.

”I didn't have the drop on him-” Burroughs began.

”Yes, you did,” Delia piped up. ”I saw it, too. You had your gun pointed at him and he had his back to you. All you had to do was pull the trigger.”

Burroughs stood with a bleak frown on his face and didn't say anything. He couldn't refute that accusation, and McCluskey and Delia both knew it.

After a moment, Burroughs gave a nod of his head. ”What's done is done. Let's just worry about getting on up to Pine City and splitting up the gold-”

”Hold on a minute,” McCluskey interrupted. ”I know I'm not part of your gang, Burroughs-”

”That's right, you're not,” Burroughs said.

”But I've got a stake in this now,” McCluskey persisted. ”I helped you fight off that ambush Jensen and his friends tried to pull, didn't I? Seems to me that pretty much makes me one of you, doesn't it?”

Several of Burroughs' men muttered in agreement, and a couple others nodded.