Vengeance Pass
Lance Howard

CHAPTER ONE

A bullet plowed into the dust an inch from Jim Hannigan's right foot. Hell of a thing for a man five minutes free of a jail cell.

The thunder of the shot echoed like the herald of bellowing demons come to collect souls.

A rifle, not a handgun, from the sounds of it. Not that it mattered, because either would make a body just as dead.

It should have killed him. Lead should have punched through his chest, and left him flat in the dusty street, no doubt about that. Only a flashing glint of sunlight off a blue-steel barrel, caught at the corner of his eye, saved his rangy hide. Years of trail-forged instinct took over, sent him lunging sideways the moment he spotted the glint. Years of hair-trigger reaction sent his hand sweeping the snub-barreled Peacemaker at his hip.

The gun came level in a blur of motion, his balance adjusting for the anticipated recoil only a split second behind. He expected a second shot immediately on the heels of the first, but none came. Another glint as the rifle barrel jerked back from the corner of a gunshop wall, telling him whoever fired was more interested in flight than in engaging a gunfight.

Halting, Jim Hannigan held his fire, gaze sweeping over the street. Castigo Pass wasn't a large town but its founders had seen fit to throw it up with little thought to esthetics and grace. Built with peculiar twists and turns and nestled crannies, it easily accommodated a sniper looking to vanish into the woodwork or present an elusive target.

An alleyway flanked the clapboard-sided gunshop, haphazardly angling through to a back street.

Spotting where the bullet had impacted, Hannigan felt chills crawl over his flesh. The bullet had come too close. Dust hung in a cloud where lead had kicked up a chunk of clay. The pungent scent of manure baked hard by the brassy Colorado sun filled his nostrils, along with the stench of horse urine and stagnant trough water. A trickle of sweat snaked down the side of his face as, in motion again, he leaped onto the boardwalk.

With the shot rose a chorus of screams from folks meandering along the boardwalks and crossing the wide main street. They stampeded like a herd of longhorns who'd just discovered a coyote in their midst. Only by Grace of God had no one been hit by the bullet, though Hannigan reckoned whoever triggered the shot possessed a damn sure aim.

Heart thrumming with anxious anticipation, he scooted along the boardwalk, towards the corner of the gunshop. While he reckoned getting shot at hadn't been on his list of expectations upon getting out of the hoosegow, he welcomed the action after a week in a cramped cell. It set his manhunter's blood racing. He was itching to get on the trail of whoever saw fit to set him up for a hanging; he wagered the attempt of his life was connected.

Women jostled him as he tried to avoid panicked townsfolk. Men, hands on their guns, cast him suspicious glares, but made no move to stop him. Perhaps it was the intense set of his hazel eyes that gave them pause, or perhaps they knew who he was, knew his reputation and the suspicions leveled against him. Perhaps they hoped whoever fired the shot would save them the trouble an eventual hanging.

He reached the building, pressed his back to the wall and brought his gun up near his face. Careful not to present an easy target, he chanced a look around the corner, half-expecting the sniper to fire on him.

He glimpsed a figure disappearing around the back end of the alleyway, too fast for him to determine anything other than the shooter wasn't a large man.

He hopped from the boardwalk, landing in the dirt running. As he scooted down the alley, he wedged his body close to the building walls. Gun ready in case the figure doubled back, his finger remained relaxed and feather-light on the trigger.

Sweat streaked down his face and chest, along the sides of his rangy frame, by the time he reached the rear of the alley. Pausing, breath choppy, he pressed himself against the wall. His nostrils twitched, near as accurate as a hound's after years of tracking outlaws.

Hanging in the scorched air, a fragrance drifted above the heat-baked bouquet of rotting garbage, piss and stale booze, a delicate flowery scent. He dismissed it, certain it had nothing to do with the attempt on his life.

A sound: bootfalls against board, light, jumping, fading. Someone fleeing up a set of steps, he judged, someone who didn't carry substantial body weight and was taking the stairs two or three at a time. A door banged. He listened intently for anything further but only the sounds from the front street reached his ears, screams having diminished into a buzz of excited murmurs.

He pushed away from the wall, deciding his quarry had escaped into a building. He stepped around into a ribbony back street filled with discarded crates and rotting food.

And damn near got his head shot off.

The shot cracked from above, the landing of an outside staircase. Lead punched into the clapboard inches from his Stetson-covered head.

He jumped backwards into the alley, cursing himself for foolishly throwing caution to the wind. A misjudgment, thinking whoever fired had gone into the building, nearly a fatal one. The sniper had merely slammed the door as a lure to bring him out into the open and he had stupidly obliged.

'Christ...' he muttered, face flushing with heat, half from embarrassment over his stupidity, half from the jolt his nerves got from a second bullet nearly ending his life in the space of a few minutes.

Dammit, that week in the cell made you soft, Hannigan. You fell for one of the oldest tricks in the manhunter's book. What the hell's wrong with you?

Another mistake like that and he reckoned he'd never have to answer that question.

He drew a breath of heated air and gripped his modified Peacemaker tighter. Counting to three, he brought the gun up in front of his chest, holding it with both hands. Setting himself, he pivoted around the corner, knees bent, legs apart, gun aimed at the landing.

Nerves strung tight, he damn near pulled the trigger, catching himself at the last moment.

The landing was empty. The sniper had been smart enough to know Hannigan wouldn't fall for the trick a second time.

Holding his gun one-handed against his chest, he edged towards the stairway, staying close to the building. Again he had not gotten a clear look at the shooter, being too busy saving his hide. A glimpse told him the hombre was small-framed, dressed in a bib shirt and low-pulled hat.

He eased up the stairs, careful not to let the boards squeak. He remained ready in case the door at the top burst open.

Judas Priest, Hannigan, you've sure made a lot of friends since you rode into this town.

A week and one day and already he'd been jailed, accused of murder and shot at twice. He'd taken easier cases, and since he was stuck in Castigo Pass he reckoned things could only go downhill. Bless that banker for hiring him. Damn good thing twenty dollars-a-day made up for a world of woe.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he paused, struggling to relax and let his instincts guide him. His heart calmed and an icy detachment swept over his frame. His eyes narrowed, the small lines on his weather-scoured face deepening. His left hand drifted to the doorknob while his right clutched the Peacemaker in readiness at his chest.

The handle felt hot as hell, but the sting barely registered as he twisted it. He gave the door a shove and let it swing open into the interior of the building, which he took to be the back of the Black Horse Saloon. Odors wafted out, the flowery sent — perfume, he reckoned — old whiskey and scents of things he cared not to think on.

No shot came. He waited another twenty seconds then chanced a look inside.

'Damn...' he said under his breath. The interior looked dark as a bear's den against the outside sunlight, except in this case the bear toted a rifle and appeared intent on blowing his head clean off.

He crouched, Peacemaker entering ahead of him. Eyes starting to adjust to the gloom, he made out a long hallway. If the shooter lurked anywhere along it the advantage belonged to him, because Hannigan was backlit by daylight. The instant he spotted movement he reckoned he would start shooting. He prayed no one else was up here or he might well have another murder to explain, and this time he'd be guilty.

Noooo! Don't shoot...

A memory froze him an instant, a darkness that struggled to claw its way free. So many years ago...so many nightmares past...

He shook from the spell, focusing on the hallway.

No shot came. He eased the door shut behind him, making every effort to remain as quiet as possible.

Waiting until a ten count, he let his eyes further adjust to the darkness. The hallway was empty, four doors to either side, no windows. Apparently the good men of Castigo Pass had little inclination to dip their wicks this early in the morning. The whores would likely be downstairs attending to breakfast duties, if the sign outside the drinkerie advertising steak and eggs at cheap prices were any indication.

He wondered why the shooter had picked this building to enter. Possibly only because it proved the most handy, but he'd risked causing a hell of a commotion had the upstairs been occupied. Lucky for the shooter the door hadn't been locked, or Hannigan would have caught him flat-footed on the landing the second time.

Maybe the shooter came from here?

Course, that was a possibility, too. Maybe the sniper worked at the saloon. A whore? Possible. The figure wasn't large. Maybe that explained the flowery scent he dismissed so quickly, or maybe the odor had simply bled out into the back street from up here. Whores liberally applied toilet water to hide the stink of sin.

He reckoned those questions would soon be answered one way or the other, because the shooter had to be hiding up here somewhere. The only way out was the door behind him, otherwise he'd have to go down through the saloon proper, which meant attracting the attention of early morning patrons. Of course, the rooms might have windows, but it was a two-story drop to the ground.

He moved forward, senses alert for any sounds. Voices reached his ears from the saloon below, murmurs, chairs scuffing across sawdust-covered floorboards, occasional bursts of laughter. But not a sound from up here. He paused at the first door he came to, listening intently for anything from within. Nothing.

A door ahead suddenly popped open and he started, damn near firing the Peacemaker. A fellow in a unionsuit tugging up a pair of trousers stopped dead, gaze locking on the dark figure of Jim Hannigan holding a gun. Light from a low-turned lantern within the room spilled out in buttery puddles into the hallway and highlighted the man's face, which registered shock. His mouth dropped open and he let out a small squawk.

'D-don't shoot me,' the man said, yanking his trousers up the rest of the way and getting a violent case of the shakes.

Don't shoot...

The memory tried to push back in but Hannigan forced it down.

The manhunter blew out a sigh of relief, thankful he hadn't pulled the trigger.

'What the hell?' A girl in a low-cut blouse and frilly skirt peeked out behind the man, her features a mask of shock.

'Get out,' Hannigan said in a low voice. His tone brooked no argument.

'S-sure thing, fella. I don't want no trouble.' The man stumbled towards the top of the stairs, casting darting glances back at Hannigan. The girl appeared frozen to the spot.

'You, too. Downstairs. Don't let anyone come up here.' Hannigan motioned with his Peacemaker towards the top of the stairs. The girl jerked a nod then bolted after the man, who had already disappeared down the stairway. Hannigan had been wrong about Castigo Pass's men not starting early, nearly dead wrong.

Composing himself, he went forward in a crouch, briefly surveying the room the two had exited. Blue-foiled fleur-de-lis papering covered the walls, torn in more places than it was whole; a lantern with a guttering flame stood on a small table and a worn mattress without sheets finished the room's contents. But no shooter.

The scuffing of a boot caught his attention.

He spun, Peacemaker arcing ahead of him.

A door stood directly across the hall behind him; he felt certain the sound had come from behind it.

Another Castigo Pass denizen getting his bells rung early? No, not this time. The noise was furtive, like an animal hiding from its prey.

He moved sideways, getting his back to the wall beside the door, holding the Peacemaker before his chest.

Hand going out, he eased the handle around and let the door swing inward of its own volition. It creaked.

A moment dragged by. His heart drummed again and anticipation sent fire sizzling through his veins. He heard nothing coming from the room now. Sweat trickled over his upper lip, dripped. He swore he heard the splash it made hitting the threadbare hallway carpet.

He edged around the jamb, peering into the room, gun held out before him.

The chamber was dark, shadowy shapes of furniture inky outlines against an ebony background. With no windows, the room was scarcely larger than his jail cell of the past week. Had he been wrong about the sound? Had it come from somewhere else?

No, he's in there. He has to be. You can damn near sense him. Maybe you can even hear his clutched breath, the quickening beat of his heart as his finger wraps around the rifle trigger...

A beat. Two.

Hannigan stepped deeper into the room, apprehension skittering along his spine.

He slid the door shut behind him, stood in the murk, breath held. His eyes grew further accustomed to the darkness and he could make out a bed, a standing wardrobe, a bureau and a nightstand holding a pitcher.

But no shooter.

Another door stood across from the bed. Had the shooter gone through it into another room? If the sniper made it back into the hall and out the back door, Hannigan doubted he'd get a second chance to catch him. It would then be a matter of waiting for another attempt on his life, and, assuming that attempt wasn't successful, hoping he could corner the attacker. He didn't much care for the prospect.

Remaining on the alert, he moved to the inside door and gripped the handle, stepping back as he pulled it open.

A creak.

What the hell was—?

Something rammed into his back, jolting him forward against the door, its handle still in his hand. The door slammed shut and he damn near lost his Peacemaker.

He recovered instantly, the impact more startling than stunning, realization crashing in with the blow to his back. The shooter had not left the room. He had hidden in the wardrobe, waiting, watching through a crack, thrusting open one of the doors the moment Hannigan's back was turned, hitting him between the shoulder blades.

Another amateur mistake. He cursed himself for overlooking the wardrobe as a hiding place for the smaller man. He had chosen the most obvious route from the room, ignoring his manhunter's intuition — and had paid the price. A flashing thought told him a week in a cell had eroded his edge.

Hannigan spun, striving to get his gun around, but something hard glanced off his chin, preventing the move. A rifle butt, he reckoned. Had he not been turning, the stock would have collided with the back of his head and plunged him into unconsciousness.

Splintering pain shot through his jaw and teeth. His senses reeled. The Peacemaker flew from his grip, landing a few feet away with a blast and flash of flame. The shot echoed like thunder in the confined area, deafening him momentarily. The bullet buried itself in a wall.

He stumbled, staggered, tried to regain his balance, but his head swam and colored lights exploded before his eyes.

A gritty, 'Die, dammit!' came from his attacker, a high voice, hissed through clenched teeth. He barely caught the words, his ears still ringing from the shot.

With an instinctive sidestep that was more a stumble, he managed to avoid a second clout in the face from the rifle butt.

The butt slammed into his shoulder and shattering pain spiked all the way to his fingertips.

The pain cleared his head instantly. As the rifle butt struck and skidded past his shoulder, his arms swept up in a cross-grip, locking about the barrel. Wrenching, he tore the rifle from the attacker's hands. He couldn't hold onto the thing and it tumbled from his grip, rebounding from the wall, but not firing as it hit the floor.

He considered making a dive for it, but never got the chance.

The attacker lunged in a flurry of fists and kicking limbs. A ball of bone collided with his chin and snapped his head back. The fist was small, and though it carried power it wasn't enough to take him out with one shot.

He swung at the shadowy figure, who jumped about in a frenzy of kicking boots and flailing blows. His punch missed as the figure doubled and buried a fist deep in his breadbasket.

Air exploded from his lungs and a burst of nausea sent bile surging into his throat. The shooter couldn't hit hard enough to take him down, but seemed adept at targeting the most painful spots.

He snapped out a backhand, which hit the top of the attacker's head, near as he could figure, because the low-pulled hat came flying off. The shooter staggered back a step, towards the bed. Hannigan stepped forward, hoping to seize the advantage.

The shooter recovered quicker than the manhunter would have thought possible, righting himself and swinging from the floor. The uppercut connected with Hannigan's chin as he came in, doubling the force. His teeth clacked together and a few stars sparkled in front of his vision. He staggered, shaking his head.

The dark figure leaped at him, springing off the floor like a mountain cat. Airborne, the shooter crashed into him, engulfing him like a dangerous shroud.

Nails raked his face and teeth champed at his left ear. He swore the attacker spit out a piece. Blood from scratches trickled down his face.

The shooter had locked his legs around Hannigan's waist. The fellow was a lightweight for sure, but a wildcat in fighting ability.

Hannigan struggled to shake the man off, but fists started pummeling his face and knocked his hat from his head.

'Goddammit, go down, you sonofabitch!' the attacker screamed and realization swept over him, freezing him for just the instant it took the shooter to slam a fist straight into Hannigan's nose.

He blew out a grunt, feeling blood spurt from his nostrils. He whirled the attacker around, getting a fistful of bibshirt and jerking. The shooter came loose and flew backwards. He landed on the floor with a solid thud.

Hannigan stepped forward as the shooter instantly rebounded to his feet.

'That's enough!' he shouted, but the attacker didn't miss a beat.

The shooter lunged. Hannigan timed his blow, suddenly a little reticent about hitting the person but not enough to pull the punch.

His knuckles clacked from the attacker's chin in right hook. The shooter let out a muffled 'Oh!' and sat down hard with a resounding thump.

Hannigan gasped for breath, blood flowing from his cheek and from his nose, as well as the corner of his mouth and a tooth he suspected was now loose.

With the back of his hand, he swiped the blood away from his lips. Locating his Peacemaker, he holstered it, then set his hat back on his head and scooped up his assailant's rifle.

He gave himself a moment to catch his breath and recover from the shellacking he had taken, the thought of it bringing a healthy measure of disgust and embarrassment.

Some manhunter you are, Hannigan. Damn near got taken to the cleaners by a gal!

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