* * *
Clint rode Shadow down the steep slope to the canyon floor below, on the alert for the three he felt sure were responsible for stealing the cattle. He weaved his way through the cover of Limber pines and junipers.
His anger flared as his thoughts shifted from Turner's thievery to his attack on Jessie. Not only profoundly murderous toward Turner, he was furious with himself for not having protected her. He felt guilt, too, at pushing Max and Pete beyond exhaustion on their week-long chase. But, the skunk needed to be found and justice served.
Shadow slid on his hocks the last few yards down the crumbling slope to the base of the canyon. The foliage was sparse here, so Clint dismounted, tied the horse in a grouping of Rocky Mountain Maples and pulled his rifle from his scabbard. He stalked the rest of the way on foot. Quietly, he forged ahead to the edge of a makeshift camp. He scanned the area. What he saw made his pulse race. Rumpled bed rolls, a smoldering fire, clothes hanging over low branches . . . they'd definitely made camp here while plundering Harper ranch.
A shout brought his head up to scan the ridge. The boys were in trouble. He sped back to Shadow, mounted, and spurred him up the steep grade. When he drew near the spiral of campfire smoke, he reined in and slid off his horse. Before he could tie him and sneak into camp, Shadow blew out a hefty breath of uneasiness. Clint stroked the horse's muzzle. "No nickering now, boy," he whispered, effectively calming the horse.
Rifle in hand, and pistol in his waistband, he inched forward through pine branches, toward voices. Too many voices, just as he figured. He paused behind a massive lodgepole and listened hard. One voice was definitely Turner's. Clint crept to the next pine to get a better view. Dropping his hat on the ground, he peeked around the tree. Turner. Next to him, Randy and Darrell. No surprise there. From what he could see, Randy was the only one palming a gun. He shifted his gaze. Aw, hellfire! Max and Pete. Tied back-to-back, sitting next to the fire.
Sending up a quick prayer, Clint sucked in a breath and shouted from the tree line, "Stay right where you are!"
Randy whipped his revolver up and trained it on Clint. Clint fired off a shot. The gun flew out of Randy's hand and spun into the dirt. Randy scrambled after it, got it in his grip, then turned back. No, Randy. I don't want to kill you! Clint shifted the rifle to his left hand and yanked the revolver out of his pants for a better aim. He cocked, and fired a shot through Randy's leg a split second before he'd have shot Clint. The swine yelped, chucked the pistol, and grabbed his thigh.
Shoving the gun into his pants, Clint darted toward a now armed Darrell. He slammed the rifle butt down, and Darrell landed hard, out cold.
Randy rose again. Bouncing on one leg, he hopped toward his rifle. Clint swiped a leg around. Randy landed at Pete's feet, and Pete rammed a boot to his jaw.
With two down for the count, Clint started to turn toward Turner, but the man beat him to it with a driving punch to the kidney. Pain shot through Clint's side straight into his lungs. Gasping for breath, he barely turned in time to dodge the knuckles that flew past his face. He stumbled back, tripped over Pete's boots, and smashed his tailbone into the dirt.
"Sorry," Pete hollered. "Watch out!"
Clint had only managed to gain his feet when Turner leaped toward him. His head rammed into Clint's chest. Clint went down like a tree, the breath driven straight out of him. He tried to suck in air. Couldn't. Agony and the fear of suffocation paralyzed him.
Turner rolled off him. He seemed to be as stunned as Clint. Clint needed a breath before the other man could gain his wits about him. He rolled from side to side on his back, trying to force his lungs to work. Clint heard Turner stumble to his feet and knew he had to get off the ground. Turner stood over him now. Dread seized him as visions of a boot to his face flashed in his mind.
He caught a glimpse of Pete and Max. They'd managed to move as one to get closer. Pete raised a foot and jammed it into the backs of Turner's knees, sending him sprawling over Clint. Sucking in small drafts of air, Clint got a stranglehold on Turner's neck and shoved his thumbs into the hollow of his throat. Turner tore free of a still gasping Clint, and crawled toward Randy.
"He's going for the rifle!" Max yelled.
Clint drank in a deep, ragged breath, then another. He jumped to his feet and faltered. Gaining his footing, he roared, and charged the man. A crack sounded as Clint's head connected to Turner's nose. Dark red blood spurt in all directions. Turner cursed, stumbled back a step, then lunged again, right into Clint's cocked fist. The impact to Turner's jaw sent a shockwave up Clint's arm as the man twisted to the ground.
"Get up, you wretch. You'll never hurt Jessie again!"
Turner didn't move, just stared up at Clint with defiance and pain in his eyes.
"Get up I said!"
Clint's pulse throbbed at his temples. Turner still didn't move. Breathing hard, Clint snatched a handful of the man's shirt and jerked him to his feet. The rascal took a swing. Clint ducked then slammed a fist into Turner's cheekbone. The man catapulted backward, barely missing the fire. Pain radiated from Clint's knuckles clear up to his elbow.
The good-for-nothing lay on the ground, writhing in pain.
Clint stood over him and snarled, "Get up."
"He's had enough," Max bellowed from his place on the ground. His look spoke volumes. Clint knew Max had never seen him this angry before. "Get us out of these ropes and we can help you, boss," he coaxed. "Come on, get us out of these."
Clint couldn't even hear him right, the blood pulsed so hard in his head. Shaking with fury, he hovered over the degenerate—every muscle fueled with adrenaline—and stretched down to drag Turner to his feet. The man wobbled as Clint stared into his pulverized face. Turner's nose still gushed blood, and his eyelids had swollen to slits. But all Clint could see was Jessie—shaking, torn blouse dotted with blood, eyes reflecting a loss of innocence that should never have been stolen.
Crazed with rage now, Clint pulled his arm back to finish the man when he heard—as clear as if it were audibly spoken—Clint, my son, you must stop.
Like he'd touched a white-hot branding iron, Clint dropped Turner. His arms fell to his sides like anvils.
Turner crumpled to the ground in a heap.
Clint stood as a marble statue, staring down at the disfigured man.
"What is it?" Max called out.
No answer.
"Clint, what happened? Did you kill him?" Pete demanded.
Clint rotated to face them. His astonishment was mirrored on the faces of Max and Pete. Mute, he dropped to his knees to untie his friend's bonds.
Once freed, they clambered to their feet. As they rubbed sore wrists, both waited for Clint's explanation. When none came, Max asked quietly, "What happened to you?"
Clint watched Pete go to Turner, surprised at his own relief that the reprobate was still breathing. When Pete finished tying Turner's hands behind him, he wrested him to his feet and sat him hard on a nearby rock—then did the same with his partners.
When the three captives were secured tightly together, and Randy's leg bound, Pete joined Clint and Max.
"I thought you were going to kill him, then you stopped, like you'd seen a ghost," Max said. "Clint?"
Clint shook his head. "God spoke to me. I heard Him."
Max and Pete's gazes met.
Max turned back to Clint, "What did God say?"
"He told me to stop. That I needed to stop," Clint said in a near whisper.
Clint swung his eyes from one man to the other. Max and Pete looked flabbergasted.
"Well, what do you make of that?" Pete asked Max.
Max shrugged. "I'd say, he heard God speak."