Savage Hellfire Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Caught in a Trap . . .

  “Lie down flat,” John whispered, and pushed on the flat of Corny’s back, driving him into the ground. “And don’t make a sound.”

  He held Corny down with his left hand as the woods exploded with the sound of charging horses. He could see their shadows as they made a beeline for Corny’s camp.

  “Corny,” one of the men called.

  “Yeah,” John said, holding a hand over his mouth. “Over here.”

  Corny struggled to rise. John could feel the terror in the man’s flesh as he pressed down on his back.

  “Shhh,” John whispered. The shadows drew ever closer, and the horses’ hooves made a thunder that reverberated through John’s bones.

  The riders closed in on the lean-to and their rifles barked. Orange lances streamed into the fir boughs and bullets shredded limbs and gouged the ground inside the lean-to. The explosions were deafening as four rifles sprayed lead into the shelter, breaking the limbs that held up the roof until it came crashing down . . .

  Berkley titles by Jory Sherman

  THE VIGILANTE

  THE VIGILANTE: SIX-GUN LAW

  THE VIGILANTE: SANTA FE SHOWDOWN

  THE DARK LAND

  SUNSET RIDER

  TEXAS DUST

  BLOOD RIVER

  THE SAVAGE GUN

  THE SUNDOWN MAN

  THE SAVAGE TRAIL

  THE SAVAGE CURSE

  SIDEWINDER

  SAVAGE HELLFIRE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  SAVAGE HELLFIRE

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / June 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Jory Sherman.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18802-6

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Ted Salinas, wherever you are.

  1

  JOHN SAVAGE LOOKED ACROSS THE SHADOWY CREEK AT THE OLD diggings, so silent and forlorn in the soft mist of morning. His horse whickered uneasily as if it, too, could feel the eeriness of the place. The clouds were low and the creek was only partially visible under the blanket of fog, the wisps of vapors that rose from the chill waters like ghostly feelers from something buried there.

  The packhorses snuffled through rubbery noses. John’s horse, Gent, a rangy gelded trotter with three white stockings and a small blaze on its forehead, nickered uneasily in the quiet.

  “You goin’ to sit there all day and gawk, Johnny, or do we ride acrost?”

  Ben Russell held the lead ropes of the two packhorses. He was riding a fresh-broke Arabian mix he had named Rusher, because the two-year-old was as frisky as a colt and always wanted to run and lead. Ben fought him tooth and nail to break him of his bad habits. Rusher had a dull russet coat with a splash white blaze on its forehead. Ben said it had turned white from a thunderbolt and most of the electricity was still inside the horse.

  John turned his head to look at Ben, a drift of brown hair on his forehead, hat tipped back slightly, his eyes dark as kohl.

  “Spooky,” John said softly.

  “Ain’t no ghosts here, Johnny. You got to get those things out of your head.” Ben’s eyes seemed to burn through the mist. He and John had been through a lot together, to hell and back, he thought sometimes, and now it was time to get a fresh start in life. Maybe, he thought, to start all over as they had planned.

  “Their spirits are here, Ben,” Savage said, his voice solemn, pitched to a prayerful softness, as if he was just entering a church.

  “Aw, John,” Ben pleaded, a note of impatience in the soft whine of his voice.

  John clucked to Gent and ticked his tender flanks with both spurs. The horse stepped gingerly into the creek, adding new notes to the soft and lazy gurgle of the stream, the cold stinging his hocks so that he waded across quickly, his hooves splashing water halfway up all four legs. Ben followed with the two packhorses, roiling the waters until they filled with sand and, he thought as he looked down, the glittering dust they sought, the tiny gold flecks swirling like fireflies in the black dolomite.

  But the creek was dark and murky, and the sun was still harbored behind the mountains to the east, with only its pink and salmon tinge in the pastel clouds as faint as an old woman’s blush.

  John looked up toward the cliff beyond the beach, but the fog was still too thick for him to see the entrance to their old mine, the one he and Ben had been working in when Ollie Hobart and his henchmen had attacked the mining camp and murdered all of them along this very cre
ek. Killed were his mother and father, his sister, uncle, and everyone else. Only he and Ben had survived the slaughter because they were in the mine and unarmed. But they had seen all the horror, seen the faces of the men and heard their names called out during the shooting.

  An eerie sense of foreboding crept into John’s senses as he looked back at the creek, the tendrils of mist steaming off its surface like the bony fingers of those who had died there, their blood soaking into the gravel and sand along the banks.

  “Don’t go through it again, John,” Ben said.

  “I’m not,” John said, a little too quickly, he thought. A lie, quickly spoken, but a way to quell the anger rising in him like the mercury in a thermometer, blood-red and as fierce as it was on the day he witnessed the bloody slaughter of his family.

  “Maybe, we should just start our ranch up yonder and forget about that old mine.”

  So, John thought, Ben was spooked, too. He looked over at him and saw the bloodless skin behind his beard, the slight quivering of Ben’s lips, the doubt flickering in his eyes like the fog shadows that littered the ground like the cast-off garments of dead men and women. And a little sister, robbed of life before she was dry behind the ears.

  “We’ve got a week before the boys get our beeves up there,” John said. “Let’s make it count and see if we can strike some color.”

  “My heart ain’t in it, John,” Ben said. His brother had died there, too, with all the rest.

  “Then put your muscle in it. Let’s unpack those panniers, set up our tents, and store our gear up in the cave.”

  “I’ll find us a place to unload,” Ben said, and pulled the packhorses behind him as he rode beyond the place where they’d set up their old, original camp.

  “Not too far,” John said, as he looked down at the ground, as if seeking traces of the horror left there over two years before.

  “I’ll pick a place we wasn’t,” Ben said, and headed upstream, trying not to look at the place where they had all pitched their tents, lived, worked, eaten, drank, and played cards together, getting out the gold, until that fateful day when Ollie Hobart and his men had ridden up on them and started blasting with their rifles and six-guns. He could not see where the tent stakes had been, but he remembered, and he cringed inwardly as he rode along the burbling stream. He did not look up at the rimrock, nor at the cave where he and John had been working that day, unarmed, unable to help, unable to stop the slaughter. They had carried that day with them, and he knew it was still with them, and on them, and deep inside them.

  But John had wanted to come back, work the claim, live up on the tabletop behind the bluffs, and raise cattle, build a home, maybe look for a wife.

  Ben had not gone far when he heard the unmistakable sound of a crashing rock and the grating sound of sliding gravel. He reined up and turned to look back at John Savage.

  John’s hand was a blur as it dove for his six-gun, and before Ben could gulp down his fear, he heard the snick of the hammer being cocked. John was hunched in the saddle, his pistol barrel leveled at the cave entrance, ready to shoot. Dust rose in the air just beyond the cave adit, and trailed down behind a jumble of loosened rocks that were still skidding down toward the sandy shore of the creek.

  “What is it?” Ben yelled, his hand floating toward the jutting stock of his rifle.

  John did not answer. He was still looking up at the black hole in the rocky face of the bluff, through the lingering veils of mist, the wisps of smoky floating patches that still clung to the creek and hugged the mountain.

  Ben had seen it before, but John’s fast draw still caught him by surprise and filled his senses with wonder. He knew that the sight was dead on at the mine entrance and if anyone stepped out with a rifle or pistol, that person was liable to go down in the time it took to draw a quick breath.

  “You’re mighty touchy, John,” Ben said as he rode up to his friend, expelling the quick breath he had held in his lungs until they started to burn. “It’s just a bunch of rocks and some gravel.”

  John said nothing, but held his pistol steady, his eyes narrowed to twin slits as he peered through the rising fog. There was a stillness that sounded like thunder in Ben’s ears, an awful stillness that comes when a man is about to die, or has just died. There was another thunder, waiting inside the barrel of that Colt in John’s hands.

  Then, they both heard it, a soft moan, a voice trying to sound a word.

  “Yeopp,” issued from the black hole of the cave.

  Ben tensed and his fingers moved on the butt of his rifle, crawling like spider legs over the stock, ready to jerk it free of its scabbard.

  “Help,” the voice sounded again, forming the word.

  It was a young voice. The voice of a girl or a boy from the sound of it.

  “Help me,” the voice cried, and there was anguish and pain behind it and through it as cold as icy shivers on a winter morning.

  “Sounds like some kid,” Ben said, loosening his grip on the rifle stock. “Can’t see up there too good.”

  “You sit tight, Ben. I’m going to have a look-see.”

  “Be careful, Johnny. Might be some kind of trick.”

  John holstered his pistol, swung out of the saddle. He left his reins to trail as he walked toward the ladder set into the hillside. He climbed up to the sounds of moaning from inside the mine.

  Ben heard it, too.

  “Sounds like somebody’s bad hurt, John.”

  John kept going, but turned his head and put a finger to his lips. Ben nodded. His horse whickered, and then began to paw at the ground with its right hoof.

  “I got a gun.”

  John froze on the last step of the ladder. The voice was clear, but full of pain.

  “You want help?” John said, tilting his head to throw his voice upward toward the adit.

  “If you be friendly, yeah. Not one of them.”

  John wondered who “them” was.

  “I’m coming in,” he said. “If you shoot, that’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  “I-I won’t shoot. You come on.”

  John climbed up onto the rimrock and came to the entrance on an angle, his right hand not far from the butt of his pistol. More groans from inside.

  “You in there,” he said, “can you walk? Or crawl?”

  “I think my leg’s broke. Stove up bad anyways. I might can crawl.”

  “You crawl on out here, then. And put your gun away.”

  He heard scrapings and scufflings from inside as he hugged the wall of rock next to the entrance. A few moments later, he saw the face of a boy emerge into the thin morning light.

  “I ain’t got no gun, mister,” the boy said. “I was just a-bluffin’. You ain’t goin’ to kill me, are you?”

  John walked over and pulled the boy out of the cave. His face was covered with bruises, a large purple one on his left cheekbone, another on his forehead. His nose had been bleeding and his upper lip was smeared with dried blood. Both lips were cracked and swollen.

  “Who beat you, boy?” John asked, his voice soft, filled with concern.

  “Them miners upstream,” he said, and winced with pain. He grabbed his right knee and closed his eyes in pain.

  “What you got up there, John?” Ben called through the rising mists.

  “Bring me some water, Ben.”

  John knelt down and looked at the boy’s leg. His pants were torn at the knee and he could see that his leg was scratched and swollen.

  “I don’t think your leg is broke,” he said. “How’d you get that knee bunged up?”

  “They—they hit me with a iron stob or a crowbar. I run off and they didn’t chase me. Only laughed.”

  “Where did you come from to get into that fracas?”

  The boy raised his hand, pointed a thumb up to the sky.

  2

  JOHN HEARD BEN DISMOUNT AND RUMMAGE THROUGH HIS THINGS. There was an eerie quiet up on the rimrock. Little scraps of mist floated up toward him and the boy. He could
not see Ben or the horses clearly, only fragments of hide and leather as the mist ebbed and flowed like curtains in a drafty room.

  The sun began to breach the eastern rim of the front range, a red ball that nibbled at the morning mist and sprayed the pale blue sky with a tangerine glow, shooting rays of gold higher than the clouds. Ben clumped up the ladder and puffed over to John and the boy, his chest heaving and falling with the wheeze of a blacksmith’s bellows.

  “I brung some water,” he said, holding out a wooden canteen.

  John took the canteen, uncorked it, and held it out to the boy.

  “Don’t drink too much of this, son,” John said. “Just wet your mouth and take one swallow. In a while, you can have another squirt.”

  “Th-thanks,” the boy said, and slaked his raging thirst. He started to take another pull, but John snatched the canteen away from him.

  “How bad’s he hurt?” Ben asked.

  “Bruised knee, far as I can tell.”

  “It’s all swolled up like a gourd,” Ben said. “Might have some broken blood vessels from the looks of it.”

  “Can you climb down that ladder, boy, if I brace you?” John asked.

  “I don’t know,” the boy said. “Can’t put no weight on my leg.”

  “You’ll just have to hobble down on one leg,” Ben said. “I’ll hold on to one hand and John will catch you if you fall.”

  “Just don’t fall,” John said.

  The two men helped the young man stand up on one foot. Tears stained his cheeks and fresh ones flowed from his eyes as he stood there.

  “It’s throbbin’ something fierce,” the young man said.

  “What’s your name, son?” Ben asked. “I’m Ben and that’s John got your other arm.”

  All three reached the rocky ground. The boy was trembling, but stood on one leg as a long sigh escaped his lips.