Luke glanced up and locked eyes with Silas, but again the reaction was fleeting so the guard wouldn't notice it. In that heartbeat, Luke acknowledged what Silas and Georgia were doing. The knife was slender, the sort of thing that would be used in a kitchen, and Luke had no doubt Georgia had brought it with her from the cafe, holding it under the tray.

The guard's insistence on not letting her into the tack room had thrown a kink into her plan, but she had recovered and managed to pa.s.s both tray and knife to Silas without Harmon's man noticing. Silas had been quick to realize what she was doing and got the knife to Luke.

Their attempt to help him was also a way of asking him to help them, he realized. They needed someone to break Dave Harmon's stronghold on Pine City.

Luke wouldn't let them down.

"I really appreciate this, Silas." He hoped Silas and Georgia would understand what he meant.

"All right, Jensen. Back away again," the guard said impatiently. "Come on outta there, darky. You don't want to make me nervous."

"I'm comin'." Silas nodded to Luke, the motion so small it was almost invisible.

But Luke saw it. He knew that if he could get out of there, he could count on Silas for help.

"Close the door on your way out and put that padlock back on it," the guard told Silas.

Luke thought maybe Silas would try to leave the padlock unfastened but make it look like it was closed. That hope died aborning as Luke heard the guard pull on the lock to make sure it was secure.

So, he was still locked up, but at least he was armed. He stepped over to the door and called through the crack, "Thank you, Mrs. Walton. Your kindness means a great deal to me." He hoped she understood what he meant by that.

"I wish there was more I could do, Mr. Jensen."

"Well, what you've already done will just have to be enough."

If nothing else, the food was very good. The condemned man ate a hearty meal, as the old saying went, Luke thought.

As he ate, he examined the knife. It was slender, with a bone handle and no hilt. The serrated blade was about five inches long. It was an eating utensil, not a weapon, something designed for cutting a steak rather than inflicting mayhem.

But it would slash a throat just fine, and plunged into a man's back it would reach his heart.

A good workman made do with whatever tools were at hand.

The knife's serrated edge put Luke in mind of a saw blade, and that made him glance toward the door. While the lantern still burned outside and he had some light, he got up and moved closer to examine the obstacles facing him.

The door hinges were on the outside, so that did him no good. The floor was dirt. He might be able to dig out eventually, but that would take too long and someone was bound to notice.

That left the lock. He couldn't get to the padlock itself, but the hasp might be vulnerable. It was nailed into the jamb.

He could tell exactly where the lock was. He could see the hasp's tongue blocking the light coming through the crack and that allowed him to estimate closely the location of the nails.

He counted on the sounds of the guard's pacing around to mask any noises he might make, placed the knife against the four-by-four that served as the jamb, and began sawing.

Even if he had the proper tools, it would be a challenging job. With nothing but a kitchen knife, it was almost impossible. The blade might not even hold up long enough for him to loosen the nails.

But it was his only chance, and he had learned a long time ago that when faced with death, attempting the impossible was better than giving up.

CHAPTER 31.

About an hour later, another of Harmon's men showed up to take over the guard duties. "Has Jensen given any trouble?"

"Nope. He's been quiet ever since he ate his supper. I reckon he might be asleep."

"Well, go on over to the cafe and get yourself something to eat. The place is doing a good business tonight, what with all of us bein' in town."

The first guard laughed. "Yeah, it's too bad that pretty widow don't make much money off us, ain't it? She brought Jensen's supper over earlier, and I tell you . . ."

Luke tried to shut his mind to it as the man launched into an obscene commentary about Georgia Walton. It wasn't easy. But in a way he was grateful for the offensive rant. As long as the man was spewing filth, he wasn't listening for the steady sc.r.a.ping sound of the knife cutting through the wood around the nails.

Eventually, the first guard either ran out of l.u.s.tful steam or a different appet.i.te got the best of him. He left, heading for the cafe. The second guard settled in, probably for the night. Luke heard him moving around some and risked a look through the crack.

The man had pulled up a three-legged stool and was sitting on it about fifteen feet away with his back leaning against one of the pillars that held up the hayloft. He held a shotgun across his lap and kept his eyes on the door to the tack room.

Luke had a hunch the man wouldn't be able to maintain that vigilance, and sure enough, by the time half an hour had pa.s.sed the guard's head was tipped forward so that his hat brim shielded his face. Snores came from him.

Luke kept sawing, being careful with the knife so that it would last as long as possible before going dull. As it penetrated deeper into the board, he took pains not to let it bind up. He didn't want to risk snapping the blade.

He hadn't seen or heard anything from Silas for a while and wondered if the liveryman had gone home for the night. It seemed likely. Some men who owned stables had living quarters in them, too, especially the single ones. Silas had a wife and, for all Luke knew, children. It was likely he had a house somewhere in Pine City.

Luke hoped Silas wasn't anywhere around when he made his break. If gunplay erupted, at least the liveryman would be out of the line of fire.

Time didn't have much meaning. Despite the hour, Luke wasn't sleepy. He couldn't afford to waste the chance. He continued sawing, seemingly endlessly.

The knife blade struck metal.

Luke had found one of the nails.

He didn't let the satisfaction he felt at that achievement distract him from the job at hand. Carefully, he shifted the knife and started sawing at a different angle.

After a while, he had cut deeply enough. Using a buckle from one of the harnesses hanging on the wall, he pried a rough triangle of wood out of the board. Again, he shifted the knife and began working from a different angle. He could tell the blade was beginning to dull.

The work began to go quicker because he had created some room. He could wiggle the slices of wood back and forth and remove them easier. Even so, hollowing out the area around the nails was a long, tedious task. Luke estimated it was well after midnight before he succeeded in exposing the nails that held the hasp to the wall.

During the time he had been working, he'd had to pause several times when the guard roused from sleep and came over to stand next to the door and listen for any sounds coming from inside the tack room.

During those intervals, Luke had backed away from the door and forced his breathing to be slow, deep, and regular, as if he were sound asleep.

Each time, the guard had gone back to his stool, satisfied that the prisoner wasn't up to any mischief.

Asleep again, the guard's head tilted far forward.

He was liable to wake up with a crick in his neck, Luke thought. But if everything went the way he wanted it to, a crick in the neck would be the least of the guard's worries.

Luke turned the latch carefully so that it didn't make any noise. As he held it tight, he put his other hand flat against the door where the lock was and began to push with a firm, steady pressure.

He knew if he rammed the door with his shoulder, the hasp would probably pull free, but the racket would rouse the guard. If possible, he wanted to get the door open quietly and have a chance to jump the guard and disarm him without any shots being fired.

The nails were held in place only by the outer wall of the tack room. With a slight squeal, they began to come loose as Luke pushed against them. The door moved a little. He hung on to the latch so it wouldn't fly open when the nails came completely out of the wall.

Metal screeched against wood again. Across the center aisle, the guard muttered something and shifted around, but he didn't appear to awaken. Luke paused in his effort and waited for the man to settle back down.

After a minute or two, he resumed pushing again and could see the nails sliding through the holes in the wall. Steady, steady, he thought.

The nails pulled loose and the door moved despite Luke's grip on the latch. The nails fell from the holes in the metal plate, but the small thudding sounds weren't loud enough to disturb the guard. He continued sleeping as Luke pushed the door open enough for him to step out of the tack room.

Luke gripped the knife as he cat-footed forward. The edge was pretty dull and the point was blunted somewhat, but it was the only weapon he had. With enough force behind it, it would still penetrate flesh.

The lantern was still burning, but its reservoir was almost empty. The light flickered and dimmed. Maybe even in his sleep, the guard sensed that. He grunted, made a flapping sound with his lips that was half snore, half mumble, and started to lift his head.

Luke had closed half the distance between them. As the guard's eyes flew open, Luke leaped toward him.

As the guard brought up the shotgun, Luke's left hand closed around the barrels and wrenched them toward the ceiling. With his right hand, he drove the knife at the man's chest.

Although half asleep, the guard twisted aside instinctively.

The thrust still landed, but it took him high on the left side, just under his shoulder, rather than in the heart as Luke intended. The man yelled in pain and surged up off the stool, lowering his head and bulling into Luke with enough force to knock him backward off his feet.

As he fell, he shoved the shotgun out to the side. He didn't want it trapped between them in case it went off.

In fact, he didn't want it to go off at all. A shotgun blast would draw way too much unwelcome attention in Pine City. Harmon and the rest of his men were right down the street at the hotel, and Luke was sure they would rattle their hocks to investigate if they heard a shot from the livery stable.

Luke twisted the shotgun back and forth to prevent the guard from finding the trigger.

On top as they struggled, the guard tried to drive his knee into Luke's groin. Luke barely got out of the way of the crippling blow, taking it on his thigh, instead. He had lost his grip on the knife, which was still lodged in the guard's shoulder.

Pain made the guard fight like a madman. He smashed a punch into Luke's face with his left fist, then tried to get that hand around Luke's neck. His movements were fumbling, no doubt hampered by his injury. Luke knocked the man's arm aside and shot a punch up between them that caught the guard under the chin and rocked his head back.

The guard lost his grip on the shotgun. Luke still had hold of the barrels, but the weapon wouldn't do him much good at such close quarters. The guard wasn't going to give him a chance to turn it around.

The best thing to do was get the gun away where neither of them could use it. Luke slung it across the aisle and hoped being jarred around wouldn't cause it to fire.

As the shotgun slid away, the last of the oil burned away in the lantern. Darkness suddenly dropped down over the stable like a shroud.

The deadly struggle continued in the impenetrable gloom. Since Luke's left hand was now free, he used it to throw a couple punches where he thought the guard's head was. Both blows landed, but neither was solid enough to stun him.

The guard brought his knee up again. The vicious blow missed Luke's groin but landed in his belly with enough force to make Luke sick.

Luke ignored it and bucked up from the ground, throwing the guard off. As the man rolled away, Luke leaped after him, guided by hearing and instinct. He landed on the man's back and clubbed a punch to the back of his head.

He remembered the reins he had put in his pocket earlier. He grabbed them, shook them out, and whipped them around the man's neck from behind. Taking hold of the reins with both hands, he planted a knee in the small of the man's back and heaved. The leather lines cut deeply into the man's neck, shutting off his air.

The guard thrashed and bucked, but Luke clung to him for dear life, keeping him pinned to the ground as he put more and more pressure on the man's windpipe. The guard clawed at the reins, but they had sunk too deeply into his flesh for him to get his fingers under. Little whimpering noises were all he could get out through his tortured throat.

It took only a minute or two for the guard to die, although it seemed longer than that. Finally, he slumped as all his muscles went limp in death. Luke smelled the stench as the man's bowels evacuated. He kept the pressure on the guard's neck for a good two minutes longer, just to be sure.

When there was no doubt that the guard was dead, Luke pushed himself wearily to his feet. He left the reins where they were, embedded in the dead man's throat. Bending, he found the holstered revolver on the man's hip and slid it out of its holster.

Feeling around in the darkness, he located the shotgun. As he straightened with the Greener in his hands, he felt better than he had in quite a while.

Now that he was armed again, he could take the fight to his enemies. Sure, he was still greatly outnumbered, but at the moment, he didn't really care. The pulse pounding inside his head might as well have been a drumbeat urging him to war.

Dave Harmon was the key, he sensed. If he could get his hands on the cattle baron, Harmon's men wouldn't be able to move against him. Luke headed to the hotel.

McCluskey and Delia were there, too, he recalled.

Might as well round them all up, he thought with a grim smile.

CHAPTER 32.

McCluskey tilted his head back and let whiskey gurgle from the bottle into his mouth. It was a bottle of what was supposedly the finest stuff in Pine City, according to Harmon, but McCluskey thought he'd had better.

Still, the liquor was pretty smooth and kindled a nice warm fire in his belly. He took another drink.

The lamp on the bedside table was turned very low, so the corners of the s.p.a.cious hotel room were in shadow. The yellow glow spread over the bed, revealing the shape of Delia curled up under the sheet, asleep after their lovemaking.

McCluskey sat in a wing chair across from the bed. He set the bottle aside, picked up the cigar smoldering in an ashtray on the table beside him and savored another few puffs on it. The cigar was a good one, another gift from Dave Harmon.

The rancher was treating them almost like royalty, but McCluskey didn't believe for a second that the man really felt that way. His only interest lay in turning things to his own advantage. McCluskey understood that att.i.tude. He felt the same way.

He didn't trust Harmon. The rancher had spared their lives, but he had the power and that mercy could disappear at any second, with no warning.

McCluskey didn't like that. Whenever he worked with anybody else, he was used to running things.

As he drank Harmon's whiskey and smoked his cigar, he wondered how hard it would be to take over Harmon's outfit. He had managed pretty well with Derek Burroughs' gang-at least until the riverboat had steamed right into Luke Jensen's dynamite trap.

Thinking about Jensen put a frown on McCluskey's face. He put the cigar back in the ashtray and reached for the bottle again.

Harmon shouldn't have double-crossed him about Jensen. There was no good reason to keep the bounty hunter alive. He had a good mind to go down to the livery stable and put a bullet in Jensen's head.

He took another drink.

But there were two good reasons he didn't do that-the pair of strongboxes still resting in the back of the wagon parked behind the hotel with several of Harmon's men guarding it.

After everything that had happened, the gold ought to belong to him, McCluskey thought. All of it, not just a share. With that much money, he and Delia could head for Mexico, disappear south of the border, and never come back.

Of course, he would tire of Delia sooner or later- but the good thing about Mexico was that there were plenty of lithe, eager, brown-skinned beauties to replace her.