Chapter Six
Mike returned to the house a few hours later to find it oddly quiet. “Peter? Micky?”
“They’re not here!” Lucy called from the kitchen. “They plumb vanished a while ago!”
“Vanished? How?”
Lucy shrugged, still not turning around. “I came down from checking on Davy and they were gone.”
Mike growled. “It figures. Those two . . . how is Davy?”
“No change. His shoulder’s swelled up real good.”
“Has Kate been putting ice on it?”
“Yes, she has, Michael,” Lucy said, her tone mildly patronizing.
“I’m sorry, Lucy. I just . . . ” He ran a hand along his forehead and sighed. “I’m gonna go sit with him.”
“Okay. Don’t wake him, now.”
“I won’t.” He went upstairs and down the hall to the bedroom, pulling up a stool next to the four-poster. The Englishman’s face was flushed, a few sweaty strands of dark brown hair sticking to his forehead. The unbandaged skin around his shoulder was red and swollen, and even from several feet away Mike could see the lump on the side of Davy’s head.
“Oh, Davy . . . ” he moved closer and reached for Davy’s cheek. “You’ve got a fever. How’m I gonna get aspirin into you?”
“Here,” Lucy said, nudging the door open. She handed Mike a small glass of cloudy water. “I crushed a couple and put ‘em in there.”
He smiled at his cousin. “You’re a wonder, Luce.” Carefully, he lifted Davy and got most of the water into him, then laid him back down.
He brushed Davy’s wet bangs from his forehead. “Heal, Dan,” he whispered. “We need you.”
“Dan?” Lucy said. “I thought his name was David!”
“It is. Dan is his . . . nickname.”
“Oh.” Lucy went over to the window and peeked out. “You think your friends are in trouble?”
Mike raised his hand to his neck. “I’d bet on it.”
~~~~~
“I hope we get enough rope to hang Bart with,” Peter whispered as they crept along the path the riders had taken away from the ranch. “Metaphorically, that is.”
“Metaphoric shmetiphoric,” Micky muttered. “I wanna hang them for real.”
Peter sighed. “We’re not like that, Micky, and you know it.”
“I know, I know. But I’m still gonna hurt him.”
“Nobody’s going to stop you from that. Shh . . . look.” He pointed at a small, well-hidden shack.
“Man, they’re squatting close,” Micky whispered, crouching low. “Maybe so they can keep an eye on Kate’s place?”
Peter followed suit. “Why else? Wonder what’s so important about her place?”
Micky sat back on his heels. “Say that again, Peter.”
“Why else would they be here unless they were keeping an eye on Kate’s place? Why is it so important?”
“That’s it!” Micky said. “You figured it out! There’s something about Kate’s ranch that he wants! Now all we have to do is figure out what!”
Peter frowned. “It’s not Kate herself, then. We’ll have to have a talk with them when we get back.” He crept along the wall, crouching low until he was positioned under an open window where voices were heard clearly.
Micky crouched across from him.
Bart’s voice was clearly heard. “We’ve got to do something, boys!” he growled. “Those women have got to be ‘persuaded’ to leave or we’ll never get that oil!”
Micky and Peter looked at each other, their mouths formed into identical ‘o’s. “Oil???” they mouthed to each other.
“But boss,” one of the lackeys pointed out, “they’ve got those four bodyguard types, and that ain’t no slug in your shoulder!”
Peter grinned at Micky and mouthed “You did hit him.” Micky winked.
“I don’t know what this thing is . . . but no fancy weapons are going to stop us. I mean, what are they going to do to us—hand us over to the law?” He laughed and his lackeys laughed with him.
Micky glared at Peter, moving as if he was about to rise and launch himself through the window. Peter grabbed his arm and shook his head.
“You’re the law ‘round these parts,” a voice said, growing louder as its owner moved near the window. “What lawmen aren’t afraid of you are in your pocket.” Something dark flew out of the window and Peter tried desperately to stifle a cry as it hit his bare hand.
Micky slammed a hand over Peter’s mouth and jerked him close, hoping to muffle the cries as he’d muffled Mike’s in the mayor’s closet in LA. But sounds carried sharper out of doors.
“What was that?” Boots thumped on the cabin’s wood floor and a sharp finger of light stabbed the ground as the door was thrown open.
“Peter, we gotta split!” Micky hissed.
Peter nodded and got to his feet, tucking his hand under his arm close to his body.
“Hold it right there!”
Both of them whirled around. Bart stood there, unmasked and half out of his black shirt. His left shoulder was covered by a white bandage spotted with blood. He and the two men flanking him had guns trained on Micky and Peter. “Well, well . . . two of Kate’s bodyguards.”
“Bart,” Peter growled by way of greeting.
“Disarm them,” Bart ordered. “Make sure they’re not packing any more of those little whirly things.”
Both Winds fell into easy fighting stances as the pair approached. They waited until the gunmen were in range before attacking, twisting the gunhands around until their fingers seized, releasing the weapons.
The gunmen struck back, kicking and punching like boxers. Peter’s opponent scored a direct hit on his burned hand.
Peter reeled, catching a fist to the back of the head that sent him crashing to the dirt. Micky lunged at Peter’s opponent, but his caught him by the sash and he was hard-pressed to block a flurry of punches. Bart thumped his way back into the cabin and came back with a handful of rope. “Here,” he said, tossing it to the man standing over Peter’s dazed form. “Tie ‘em up and get ‘em inside. I have some questions for them.”
Micky’s opponent swept his feet out from under him and hogtied him.
Peter groaned as his burned hand was roughly pulled up behind him. “Micky . . . ”
“We’ll get out of this, man . . . ” He glared at the men. “I swear.”
“C’mon, get ‘em inside!” Bart barked. “Right now!” His men seized Peter and Micky by the back of their shirts and dragged them into the cabin.
Micky let out an “oof!” as he was thrown down, and he twisted just enough to cushion Peter’s fall without hurting either of them.
“Talk,” Bart said, slumping back into his chair.
And both of them did, spouting nonsense at rapid-fire pace and incredible volume.
“Enough!” Bart roared, his wrinkled forehead creasing with anger. “Which one got hit in the head?”
“The blond one,” his henchman growled. At a few murmured commands from Bart he approached, hauling Peter up with the help of his friend. Peter grunted involuntarily. A rope was threaded through his bound hands and ankles and tossed over the low beam. Grunting with effort, Bart’s men hoisted Peter up until he hung upside down. “Now,” Bart said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ll either tell us how to get rid of your other two friends, or you’ll hang there until you pass out. And then you’ll hang there some more.”
“There’s . . . nothing . . . to tell!” Peter gritted out.
“Leave him alone!” Micky howled, struggling. “He doesn’t know anything!”
“And if you think I believe that, you’re dumber than you look,” Bart ground out at him.
Peter fought the swimming sensation that was flooding into his head. “Bart, you’re not getting her ranch! That oil belongs to her!”
“Ah, you know about the oil . . . that means Kate knows about it.”
“No, she doesn’t! She’s an innocent old woman, you bastard!” Peter snarled. As Bart laughed one of his men seized Peter’s jacket and shoved him, sending him slamming against the wall. Micky roared incoherently.
“These two are temperamental,” Bart said. “Wonder what those other two are like. Or one, if that little one is dead.”
On his pendulum-like return trip, Peter was in the right position and right frame of mind. He shot a wad of spittle right into Bart’s face.
Bart shot to his feet so fast his chair toppled over. “Cut him down and take him outside! I want to hear him screamin’!” His men shook themselves out of their paralysis and cut Peter down, dragging him, kicking and struggling, to the door.
Micky twisted, yelling threats and obscenities. His fingers twisted behind his back, twisted and clawed, trying desperately to untie the knot he could barely feel.
The shouts started outside—first the angry shouts of Bart’s men, then the sound of a body being hit, followed by Peter’s cry. Bart smiled as the shouts and cries grew louder, mixed with the distinctive sounds of a scuffle.
Micky struggled and twisted, but the knot binding his wrists was stubborn as a Nesmith and simply would not budge.
“Hey! G-Get him!” One of the men stuck his head back in the cabin. His cheek was marred by a bright red bruise. “Boss! He escaped!”
Bart roared, “He what?” and shot out after the man.
The other henchman was lying on the ground, cradling his elbow. The ropes were tangled on the ground at his feet.
Bart turned in a circle, drawing his gun. “Where is he? Where is he?”
“He ran that way!” the one on the ground gasped, pointing.
“Get after him!” Bart screamed to the man standing behind him. “And get that idiot after him too!” He stormed back into the cabin. “You . . . you!” he spluttered to Micky, rage making him totally incoherent.
Micky’s eyes glittered. “You messed with the wrong guys, man.”
“You . . . interfering . . . bastard!”
“If you shoot me Mike’ll have your guts for breakfast,” Micky growled.
“Shootin’s too good for the likes of you!”
“You’re going to lose,” Micky said, his voice oddly calm. “You messed with the Four Winds.”
“The who?”
Micky just glared. “Us.”
“I don’t care who you are. I’ll have that oil, and you won’t stop me!”
Micky’s hands tightened within their bonds. “Just watch us.”
On to Chapter Seven
Back to Chapter Five
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
