Luke eased the door closed behind him so no one would notice it standing open and started along the carpet runner toward the far end of the corridor.

He kept the shotgun level so he could fire instantly and watched the doors as he approached and pa.s.sed them. If someone opened a door behind him and tried to get the drop on him, he wouldn't have much warning, so he listened intently.

As far as he could tell, everyone in the hotel seemed to be asleep. He heard snores coming from behind some of the doors. Whether those sleepers were Harmon's men or innocent bystanders, he had no way of knowing, but if they stayed where they were, they would be all right.

Harmon's men wouldn't stay put, though, if they heard shots. They would come to investigate immediately, and Luke didn't think they would likely listen to reason.

If they didn't, they'd have to negotiate with some buckshot.

That walk along the second-floor corridor seemed longer than it was. Finally, Luke reached the doors of Harmon's suite. A tiny sliver of light showed through the crack between them, indicating a lamp was lit inside.

As he leaned closer, he was surprised to hear voices. Harmon wasn't alone. A woman spoke inside the suite, and a man responded.

Delia?

That explanation seemed the most likely. Luke figured she was trying to improve her standing with Harmon the only way she knew how.

But then a second man spoke, and Luke recognized Frank McCluskey's voice even if he couldn't make out the words. The realization that the outlaw was there, too, put a frown on Luke's face.

He ignored the words since he couldn't make them out, telling himself it didn't matter what they were doing. The three varmints he wanted the most were together in one place, so that was a stroke of luck for him. He drew back a little, preparing to kick the door open and get the drop on them.

Suddenly, someone shouted and a gunshot blasted inside the suite.

"d.a.m.n it!" Harmon yelled. He pulled the trigger and flame spouted from the muzzle of his gun.

Luke didn't wait any longer. His boot heel crashed against the door, kicking it open. He went in fast with the shotgun leveled.

Instantly, his keen eyes took in the scene. Harmon was on one side of the sitting room, near the bedroom door, with a gun in his hand. McCluskey was on the other side of the room, also holding a revolver.

Delia was between them with one hand pressed to her breast as crimson blood welled between her fingers.

McCluskey whirled toward Luke, but Harmon was still trying to draw a bead on the outlaw for another shot. Even though she was wounded, possibly mortally, Delia cried out and launched herself at the rancher, ramming into him just as he pulled the trigger again. His shot went wild, smacking into the ceiling.

McCluskey took one look at Luke and thought better of trying to shoot it out with a man holding a shotgun. He kept turning and dived toward the window, just as Luke fired one barrel.

The gla.s.s shattered outward as McCluskey crashed into it and toppled over the sill. Most of the buckshot had torn into the wall next to the window, shredding the wallpaper. It hadn't had time to spread much.

Luke didn't know if he had hit the outlaw. He recalled that a little balcony ran along the front of the hotel and wondered if it was outside the window or if McCluskey had fallen to the street.

He got his answer as he started forward. Colt flame bloomed in the darkness as McCluskey, crouched on the balcony outside, fired at him. Luke felt as much as heard the bullet whip past his ear.

He was about to fire the scattergun's second barrel when a shot erupted behind him and plaster leaped from the wall nearby. With McCluskey on one side of him and Harmon on the other, he was caught in a crossfire.

He twisted around and dropped to one knee as he spotted Harmon coming toward him, face contorted with hate. Harmon had pushed Delia aside and was about to cut Luke down at almost point-blank range.

Luke fired first, blasting the second load of buckshot into Harmon's midsection, then rolling across the floor to take cover behind an armchair.

The deadly charge blew the rancher backward, all the way across the room to the far well. He thudded against it and hung there for a second, staring down at his ruined belly in shocked disbelief.

He slid down to a sitting position, leaving a terrible smear of blood on the wall behind him as his head sagged forward in death.

Luke reloaded the Greener.

No more shots came from the window. McCluskey must have fled, Luke thought. With two fresh sh.e.l.ls in the shotgun, he snapped it closed.

Delia moaned as she lay in a limp, b.l.o.o.d.y heap on the floor a few feet from Harmon's body. Luke's first instinct was to go to her and see how badly she was hurt, but two of Harmon's men rushed in, brandishing guns. They caught sight of their boss's gruesome corpse, then spotted Luke and opened fire. Their bullets sizzled over his head as he unloaded both barrels into the gunmen.

They went down like wheat before a scythe. Neither of them would be getting up again. Once more, Luke broke the shotgun open and thumbed fresh sh.e.l.ls into it.

Outside, more gunfire erupted in the street. It sounded like a small-scale war had broken out in Pine City. Silas Grant, Ben McGill, and other citizens had launched their uprising against Harmon's men. The hired guns wouldn't know yet that Harmon was dead, so they would fight to protect what they thought were their boss's interests.

Knowing the strongboxes full of gold were still in play, Luke thought it was likely McCluskey had gone after them. The outlaw would use the distraction of battle going on around him to try to get his hands on the wagon.

Luke was d.a.m.ned if he was going to let McCluskey drive away with a fortune in gold. He surged to his feet and was about to leap over the bodies of the men he had cut down when he heard a faint voice calling his name. He turned and saw that somehow Delia had pushed herself up on her elbows even though the front of her dress was soaked with blood.

She had even found the strength to pick up the gun Harmon had dropped, and as Luke turned toward her she pulled the trigger and sent flame lancing from the barrel at him.

CHAPTER 34.

McCluskey hung from the balcony and dropped the remaining couple feet to the ground. His right leg buckled under him as he landed, pain shooting through it from the wound in his thigh where one of the buckshot had caught him.

The wound wasn't that bad, he told himself. It hurt like blazes, but that was all. He caught his balance and limped as quickly as he could toward the rear of the hotel where the wagon was parked.

He stopped as more shots rang out along the street. Doubling back, he saw some of Harmon's men trading shots with hombres he didn't know. Must be some of the townsmen fighting back at last, he decided. Jensen probably had something to do with that.

McCluskey turned and headed for the back of the hotel again. He didn't give a d.a.m.n what happened to Harmon's men or to the people of Pine City. All he cared about was the gold.

Well, he was a little sorry that Delia had gotten in the way of a bullet, he reflected. But she had kept that bullet from hitting him, so he was glad about that. She had died helping him, and that was what she would have wanted.

Helping him to be a rich man, he thought with a savage grin as he limped along the alley.

As he came out at the back of the hotel, he saw the wagon immediately, with two of Harmon's men standing beside it holding rifles. As they swung the weapons toward him, he called out quickly, "Don't shoot! It's me-McCluskey!"

"What're you doin' back here?" one of the gunnies demanded.

McCluskey could tell they were nervous and on the hair trigger of shooting him. "The boss sent me," he said, thinking rapidly. "The townspeople have started a war." His eyes fell on the team of mules standing under a shed a few yards away. "Mr. Harmon said to hitch up those jug heads and get the wagon out of here. Take it back to the ranch where it'll be safe."

"How do we know you ain't lyin' to us?" the other guard asked suspiciously.

"Didn't you hear the boss say this afternoon that he was taking me on as the ramrod of this bunch?" McCluskey snapped as if he were offended by being questioned. "Anyway, you're taking the gold to the ranch. I wouldn't tell you to do that if I wasn't acting on Harmon's orders, would I?"

That seemed to make sense to the men, but still they hesitated.

McCluskey yelled, "Get moving before some of those townies come back here and try to grab the gold for themselves!"

Used to following orders, the guards put their rifles aside and began hitching the mules to the wagon. McCluskey kept an eye on the alley, hoping the battle going on elsewhere in Pine City wouldn't move in their direction and disrupt his plans.

After several tense minutes, one of the men announced, "All right. The wagon's ready to go, McCluskey. Are you comin' with us?"

He strode over to them, stiffening his wounded leg against the pain. "I'm going. You're staying."

"Wha-"

McCluskey shot the guard between the eyes. The other man howled a curse and made a grab for his pistol, but he wasn't anywhere close to fast enough. McCluskey put a bullet through his brain, as well.

Then he hauled himself onto the wagon seat, picked up the reins, and slashed viciously at the team. He knew how balky mules could be, so he didn't give those a chance to do anything except cooperate. The animals surged forward against their harness. As they broke into a run, he wheeled the wagon around and headed away from the hotel.

He was going to be a rich man. Things were going to work out for him again. They always did.

Luke felt the wind-rip of the slug past his ear and brought the shotgun up to return Delia's fire.

That wasn't necessary. She slumped forward and the revolver slipped from her fingers. As the echoes of the shot died away, he heard the blonde's last breath rattle in her throat.

Delia was dead, having fought to the last to help Frank McCluskey.

Luke turned and pounded out of the room. As he turned toward the stairs leading down to the hotel lobby, two more of Harmon's men emerged from one of the rooms. Seeing him armed and on the loose, they opened fire. Luke crouched and swept the corridor clean with another double-barreled blast from the Greener.

He reloaded on the run as he weaved past those crumpled bodies, then took the stairs three at a time on the way down. The lobby was deserted. If there was supposed to be a clerk on duty, the man had wisely hunted a hole.

Luke ran out onto the boardwalk and looked around. He saw muzzle flashes to his right as several men behind parked wagons traded shots with other men in the saloon. He spotted Silas Grant as the liveryman stood up and tried to dash to a better location.

Silas never saw the gunman who emerged from the shadows behind him, but Luke did.

He broke into a run and shouted, "Silas, get down!"

Silas dived to the ground as Harmon's man opened fire. Luke was close enough to let loose one of the barrels. The shotgun went off with a boom and threw the gunman back against a hitch rack. He flipped over it and landed in the limp sprawl of death.

Harmon's men in the saloon chose that moment to break out, slamming through the batwings with guns blazing. They charged across the street, which turned into a hornet's nest of flying lead. Luke went flat on his belly to avoid the deadly storm and fired the shotgun's second barrel, bringing down two of the hired killers. The other gun-wolves spun off their feet as shots from Silas, McGill, and other townsmen ripped through them.

As the gun-thunder died away, echoing into the nearby mountains. Luke heard hoofbeats. He remembered McCluskey and the wagon loaded with the strongboxes full of gold.

Every instinct in his body told him that McCluskey was getting away.

He broke into a run back toward the hotel, feeling in his pocket for more shotgun sh.e.l.ls. When he didn't find any, he threw the empty Greener aside.

He reached the place where the wagon had been parked. It was gone, just as he expected. The sky was light enough for him to spot the vehicle heading south, away from Pine City. He had a revolver tucked into his waistband, but the wagon was already too far away for a handgun to have any chance of hitting its driver.

Two dead men lay on the ground nearby, murdered by McCluskey so he could take the gold. Luke looked around, knowing that cowboys never liked to be far away from their horses, and his heart leaped as he saw two shapes in the shed where the mule team had been kept.

He ran to the shed and swung open the gate in the fence around it. The horses were unsaddled and skittish, but he didn't let that stop him. He managed to calm down one of them enough that it let him grasp its mane and swing onto its back. He dug his heels into the horse's flanks and sent it racing after the wagon.

Loaded down the way it was with the gold, the wagon couldn't go as fast as the horse Luke was riding. He urged the mount on, and slowly the gap began to shrink.

Some instinct warned McCluskey that he was being pursued. He twisted on the seat, and flame spurted from a gun barrel. Luke leaned forward to make himself a smaller target, but he wasn't really worried about McCluskey hitting him. Going fast in a bouncing wagon, that would be pure luck.

Luke was going to trust his luck over McCluskey's. The outlaw's uncanny good fortune had to run out sometime.

Luke drew closer and closer until he could see the strain on McCluskey's face when the man looked back. He emptied the pistol toward Luke, but none of the shots came close.

Luke brought the galloping horse alongside the wagon bed. He could see the strongboxes as he left the horse's back in a dive that carried him into the wagon, landing hard enough to knock the breath out of him and stun him for a second.

McCluskey seized that opportunity to abandon the reins and dive over the back of the seat. He tried to slam his empty gun down on Luke's head, but Luke twisted aside at the last second and grabbed McCluskey's wrist. He banged the outlaw's gun hand against the edge of a strongbox, causing McCluskey to cry out in pain and lose his grip on the revolver.

It was a desperate hand-to-hand battle in the back of the careening wagon as each man gouged, kicked, tried to gain strangleholds, and basically fought for their lives. McCluskey broke away from Luke and surged to his feet. Luke followed and clung precariously to his balance as he and McCluskey stood toe-to-toe, slugging away at each other.

McCluskey buckled first, his wounded leg giving way underneath him. Luke straightened him up again with a left hook and added a roundhouse right that landed on the outlaw's jaw with smashing force. McCluskey went backward, tripped over one of the strongboxes, and flipped completely out of the wagon.

Luke leaped to the seat, grabbed the trailing reins, and brought the runaway mules to a halt as quickly as he could. He turned the wagon and drove back to where McCluskey lay motionless on the ground, afraid the outlaw might have broken his neck in the fall.

He was relieved when McCluskey groaned and lifted his head. Luke picked up the gun that had fallen from his waistband during the fight and checked the cylinder. It still held three rounds. He vaulted to the ground and approached McCluskey. "Get up," Luke said harshly.

"Why don't . . . why don't you just . . . go ahead and shoot me?" McCluskey asked.

"Because I want to see you hang."

By the time they got back to Pine City with McCluskey lying in the back of the wagon next to the strongboxes he had desired so badly, his hands and feet tied with strips Luke had forced him to tear from his own shirt, the fighting in the settlement was over.

It didn't take long to confirm which side had won the war. Silas Grant emerged from the marshal's office, carrying a rifle and grinning. "Mr. Jensen! We were all hopin' you were all right. Did you get him?"

"I got him." Luke looked around. "What about here?"

Silas leaned his head toward the marshal's office. "All the cells are plumb full in there, between the outlaws left over from that riverboat, Harmon's gunnies we rounded up, and ol' Marshal Kent his own self. He ain't the marshal no more."

"I can think of someone else a lot more suited to wear that badge . . . if you think you can fit a lawman's duties in with your work at the livery stable."

"I was thinkin' on it," Silas admitted. "Mr. McGill, he done said somethin' about that already." He looked into the back of the wagon. "What are you gonna do with this one?"

"Think we can cram one more prisoner into those cells?"

"Oh, we'll find a place for him," Silas said, nodding. "We'll find a place. And as soon as we do, you best get over to the cafe. Miz Walton and my Tillie, they're already gettin' breakfast ready."

Luke looked at the cafe, thought about Georgia Walton's smile-and her coffee-and decided that was about the most appealing combination he had heard in a long time.

None of the townspeople had been killed in the fight with Harmon's men. The element of surprise had helped them, along with the fact that Luke had accounted for several of the enemy himself. Three days later, a rider who'd been sent to the county seat on a fast horse returned with not only the sheriff and a posse of deputies, but also several railroad detectives who were trying to track down that stolen gold.

They promised Luke a sizable reward for recovering it, but he told them, "You'll be splitting that reward between me and the good folks here in Pine City. They deserve it as much as I do. Maybe more."

The sheriff approached him later about Dave Harmon's death. "Harmon was an influential man in these parts," the lawman said. "Some of his friends are liable to say what you did was murder, Jensen."

Luke frowned. "He had just gunned down a woman, and he was trying to shoot me. That's a pretty clear-cut case of self-defense."

"You don't have any witnesses to that. Harmon and the woman are both dead."