Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(59)

“Answer him,” Boedecker whispered to Joe.

Before he could, Earl said, “We know you’re in there, Joe. We don’t want any trouble with you. We just want that son of a bitch Price. He has to pay for what he’s done.”

Joe glanced at Price. His face went slack and he closed his eyes as if to accept the inevitable.

“We know you’re not armed,” Earl called. “We took all your guns and gear. The best thing for you to do is to come on out and leave Price to us. You don’t owe that man anything.”

“C’mon, Joe,” Brad called out. He sounded closer than Earl, and to his left. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. We can start shooting right now. We’ve got enough firepower to fill you all full of holes. Or we can light this shack on fire and pick you off when you come running out one by one.”

Kirby remained silent. Either he was hurt, not with them, or slinking along the outside of the cabin looking for a way in, Joe thought. He guessed the latter.

“Answer him,” Boedecker pleaded with Joe.

“I’m a dead man,” Price moaned.

Boedecker turned to Price. “You’ve put us in a bad spot,” he hissed. “Give yourself up to them. Be a fucking man.”

Price grimaced but he didn’t make a move.

Joe ignored both men while he surveyed the interior of the cabin once again. The log walls were old and crumbling but solid. There was no way they could batter their way out through the sides or back. Then he looked up and swept his eyes along the center beam and the sagging trusses that held up the warped sheets of plywood roofing. He could see gaps and exposed nails in the plywood sheets where they’d pulled away from the two-by-fours.

“Fuck it,” Boedecker announced.

“Don’t—” Joe started to say.

“We’ve got your boy in here, Earl,” Boedecker shouted. “You can have him if you let Joe and me come out the door.”

“Is that you, Brock?” Earl asked.

“It’s me.”

“Is Joe in there with you?”

“He is.”

“Why ain’t he talking?”

“Who the fuck knows?” Boedecker said, and he plucked the speargun from the top of the table and held it at the ready. Joe couldn’t fathom what the rancher’s strategy was.

“Please,” Price said to Boedecker as he stood up and backed away until he was pressed against the log wall. “Please don’t hand me over to them.”

“Shut up,” Boedecker said as he raised the speargun at Price. Joe leapt toward Boedecker, but as he did the rancher aimed and pulled the trigger. The speargun made the metallic thunk and the projectile flashed across the room and pinned Price to a log just above his clavicle and inside his shoulder. Price screamed out.

“That’ll hold him,” Boedecker said to Joe.

Joe was beside himself. “Brock, what did you do?”

“I saved our lives, Joe.” Then he tossed the speargun receiver to the floor and yelled out, “Come and get him, Earl. He ain’t going nowhere now.”

“I hope you ain’t killed him,” Earl called from outside. “That’s my prerogative.”

“You can’t do this,” Joe said urgently to Boedecker. “We can’t do this.”

“Sure we can,” Boedecker said as he strode across the filthy floor and snapped back the bolt on the door to unlock it. While he did, Joe spun on his heel and lunged at the rolled-up bedroll.

In his peripheral vision, Joe could see Boedecker throw open the door and fill the doorframe. He held his hands up to show he didn’t have any weapons. Price whimpered and tried to pull the spear out of his body with both hands gripped around the shaft.

Joe slid the .22 rifle out of the bedroll and opened the bolt. His fingers trembled as he tried to fit a small cartridge into the chamber. He dropped the first round to the floor and snatched out a second. He shoved the rest of the loose cartridges into his parka pocket.

As he worked the bolt and pulled back on the knob until it was cocked, Boedecker yelled, “I’m coming out, Earl. I’m unarmed. Joe’s right behind me.”

Before he stepped out into the gloom, Boedecker looked over his shoulder. When he saw Joe with the rifle, his eyes got big and he said, “What in the hell are you thinking, Joe?”

“Go,” Joe said. “Get out of here.”

For once, Boedecker didn’t seem to have words available. His eyes beseeched Joe to toss the rifle aside and follow him outside.

Then a sloppy bloom of red exploded from between Boedecker’s shoulder blades at the same instant there was a massive short-range shotgun blast. It was close enough to the open front door that Joe saw the tip of the tongue of orange flame.

Boedecker spun on his feet until he was facing inside, then dropped to his knees in the doorway. A second blast took off the side of his head and he fell face-first onto the cabin floor.

Joe heard Earl say, “Jesus, Brad. Did you have to do that?”

“You said no witnesses,” Brad answered.

“That was fucking Brock,” Earl said. “He was one of us.”

“His name isn’t Thomas, Dad.”

As Brad talked, his voice got clearer and louder. He was walking heavily through the snow toward the front door.