Pyke and Collins had recovered several horses and had placed them in a small corral near the chicken coop. Once the pair returned, Denny judged that it was time to begin getting the men into place, as the sunrise was almost upon them. Pyke was sent to tell the others to prepare to move in; Denny would arrive soon to begin the assault. Whitehead would be in charge of the distraction.
As Whitehead and Denny finalized their plans, Collins half rose from his hiding place, using one hand to block the morning light. “Mr. Whitehead, I think… yes! Someone’s coming! Look!” He pointed into the rising sun with his free hand.
“What?” Whitehead looked up but could see nothing. “Denny?”
The gunfighter had a better angle. “Four… no, five riders comin’ in hard.”
“About time,” Whitehead grumbled. “I told those fools to get over here once they got the papers back from Lucas.”
Denny frowned. “I thought ya sent two men.”
“I did—they must’ve gone back to the B&R for more.”
Denny watched as the men were almost upon them, trying to see who had come, and if they should join in the attack on the barn. All he could see were outlines. He flinched as his eyes caught a glint of light that flashed from the lead rider’s silver hatband…
A black hat with a silver hatband.
Instantly, Denny was scrambling to his feet, pulling at his Colt. Kid Denny was a quick dead shot—one of the few men who could confidently hit someone on horseback ten yards away with a handgun. And he was greased lightning on the draw.
Unfortunately for the gunfighter, the man before him was Richard Fitzwilliam on Jeb Stuart with a Winchester in his hand.
Faster than it took to describe it, Fitz pulled hard on the reins, yanking his faithful steed to his right, dropped his rifle on his upraised left arm, and snapped off a shot. Denny was knocked clear off his feet by the impact of the .44 caliber slug slamming into his chest, exploding his heart, causing his pistol shot to go wide. By the time the body hit the ground, Joshua “Kid” Denny was no more.
Whitehead was stunned at the rapid change of fortune. One moment he was on the verge of victory; now all his plans were as dead as Denny. He cowered in the shadow afforded by the wheelbarrow. Fitz was turning his head every which way, looking for foes. Whitehead was a decent shot, and he stood a chance of hitting Fitzwilliam should he try. But even if he was able to fell the Pemberley foreman, his companions were sure to enact their instant and deadly revenge upon him, and Whitehead had no desire to quit the world anytime soon.
The sound of gunfire caught Fitzwilliam’s attention. He pointed at the barn, yelling for his men to follow. The riders took off, firing upon the remnants of Denny’s gang. This was Whitehead’s chance; he reached over and seized a terrified Collins by the shirt.
“Come on, Billy, my lad. It’s time we made ourselves scarce.” Before Collins could utter a word, Whitehead was running hunched over towards the chicken coop, half-dragging the banker behind.
Will Darcy tried to disregard the growing despair in his belly as he raised his rifle. Sighting down the barrel, squinting in the sun, he noticed something familiar about the horse galloping over the ridge. He slowly tightened his finger on the trigger as he tried to recall. It seemed important.
At the instant, a man stood up from behind an overturned wheelbarrow. Darcy was so surprised he forgot about the horse; his attention instantly shifted to the moving figure, trying to determine if it was Whitehead. It was then that he recognized the rider out of the corner of his eye.
“Fitzwilliam?! My God, it’s Fitzwilliam!” He turned to his men. “Boys, boys, don’t shoot the riders—they’re from Pemberley! They’re ours! Fitzwilliam’s brought reinforcements!”
The household cheered at the news of deliverance, a sound redoubled as Denny fell. Peter’s voice was heard over the din.
“Boss, the barn is under attack!!” Gunshot punctuated his cry. The defenders instantly turned to help their fellows, and soon the outlaws were under fire from three directions. B&R ranch hands and gang members were falling one after another.
Beth, by the far window, had no angle to assist, so she leaned against the wall, stunned in wonder by the miracle. Tears of thanksgiving ran down her face as she tried to catch Darcy’s eye. He wasn’t shooting; instead he surveyed the land before the house in quiet satisfaction.
Suddenly, he stiffened. Before Beth could inquire, he stood up and shouted to no one in particular, “Cover me!” To Beth’s horror he ran out the door.
Stumbling, the pair made it around the chicken coop before Collins lost his footing for good next to the pigsty. With a suppressed snarl, Whitehead reached down to pull his companion to his feet.
“What are we going to do?” Collins panted. “George, what are we going to do? They’ll kill us!”
Whitehead gritted his teeth. “Calm yourself, Billy! All will be well—we just have to relocate, that’s all.”
“But… but how? Where?”
Whitehead was fighting to restrain his anger. His carefully laid strategy was dust, and he knew he no longer had prospects in Rosings—or anywhere in Texas, for that matter. His future plans were still a work in progress—head west into New Mexico or north into the Indian Territories—but he knew he needed money. And Billy Collins was the key to that. The first thing to do was to stop by the Rosings Bank and make an unscheduled withdrawal. And perhaps one last visit to the B&R and that bitch, Catherine Burroughs… Perhaps Anne Burroughs might be of a mind to escape her overbearing mother’s attentions and seek a bit of adventure; she certainly would help keep his bedroll warm.
Whitehead had not considered how long he would suffer to have Collins in his company. The half-baked plan was that he would accompany him out of town. But now Whitehead was beginning to reconsider, and wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just shoot the idiot after he unlocked the safe in the bank. But regardless as to the ultimate fate of Collins, he needed him alive until they got to the bank.
Whitehead shook Collins by his lapels. “Settle down, you fool. Listen, we’re partners, right? We’re getting out of town, together, after we make a couple of stops first…”
“Hold it, Whitehead!”
Whitehead was stunned not only by the threat but also by the particular voice making it. Ignoring his terrified cohort, he slowly turned his head right to behold the inconceivable. It couldn’t be… it was impossible… he knew Will Darcy was back at Pemberley, protecting his precious sister. Yet—there he was—hatless in a white shirt and black vest, a rifle at his waist pointed unwaveringly in his direction. The totality of his failure struck him; once again he had underestimated Darcy. This was no mirage—if Whitehead wasn’t extremely careful, this was his death.
Darcy’s look was as black as night. “Now… move real slow… raise your hands.”
Whitehead froze, thinking furiously. A second! A second is all I need to think!
“Don’t shoot me, Mr. Darcy!” Collins cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Please, don’t shoot me!”
Collins’s fear gave Whitehead the distraction he needed. No one expects a left-handed man.
“Shut up, Collins!” Darcy demanded. “Whitehead…”
“You see what I have to put up with?” Whitehead grinned as he shrugged. “Well, I give up, Darcy; you’ve got the drop on me—”
As the words left his lips, Whitehead shoved Collins slightly; the man was now off-balance. Whitehead ground his left leg firmly into the ground while shifting his weight to his right, dropping his left hand to his holster. At the same time, he yanked as hard as he could with his right hand, pulling the banker across his body as he raised his Colt with his left, lining it up with the surprised rancher…
As soon as Darcy dashed out the door, Beth moved to follow him, but her progress was stopped by her father.
“Beth, what are you doing, girl?” Bennet held on to her arm.
“Father, let me be!” She threw off his hands and followed her lover out of the house, rifle in hand. She stopped after she descended the porch stairs, for Darcy seemed to have disappeared. The shooting had stopped, and Beth turned to her right. She saw Pemberley hands on horseback milling about near the barn, pointing rifles at men with their hands in the air. The battle was won; Beth decided to see if Will had run off to join his men.
Before she took three steps, two gunshots, quick upon the other, rang out behind her.
She spun about, dread in her heart. Will! She knew, somehow, that Darcy was involved. Her father called for her to return to safety, but she heeded him not, and moved with quicker and quicker steps towards the chicken coop. By the time she rounded the corner, she was at a full run, and the sight before her brought her to a dead stop.
There, in the long shadows of the early morning sun, lay a hatless figure face down.
Frozen, Beth inched towards it; her unbelieving eyes refused to take in any details save the man’s black hair. Lips moving, she finally managed, “W… Will?”
“Beth.”
She jerked her head to the right—and there he was—half leaning against the back of the coop, his bright blue eyes seeking hers, his left arm extended in welcome.
The Winchester slid from her nerveless fingers; it hit the ground as she threw her arms about his neck, crying tears of relief. She buried her face into his vest, sobbing incoherently, feeling his strong arm embrace her, taking in that sweet aroma of cologne and leather and sweat and masculinity that would be forever the smell of her William. His attempt to console her only drove Beth to tighten her grasp.
“Shush… shush…” he murmured, “everything’s going to be fine, Beth… everything’s going to—freeze, you son-of-a-bitch, or I’ll blow your goddamned head off!”
Beth’s head jerked up from her comfortable position. A glance at Will’s stony face told her his words were meant for another. It was then she realized that Will’s right arm had not embraced her; it, in fact, was pointed straight out. Beth’s eyes ran down the length of his arm and the barrel of his Winchester to see over her shoulder that there was not one body on the ground by the pigsty but two—and one was weeping.
“Please, please don’t shoot me, Mr. Darcy!” sobbed Billy Collins.
“I won’t, if you lie still!” Will half-turned Beth away from any line of fire.
Collins ran his hands through his hair, which caused him to scream. “Please! You have to let me up! Please! He’s all over me!”
Darcy was relentless. “Stay still, damn it!”
Beth narrowed her eyes in concentration. Collins didn’t seem to be injured, but there was something strange on the back of his head and jacket. Something pinkish-gray… Her eyes slammed wide open in recognition—she knew what was all over the protesting man. Holding back the bile that rose in her throat, she turned her face back into Darcy’s vest. But as tightly as she closed her eyes, she could not shut her ears.
“I’m… I’m going to be sick—” Collins’s words were cut off by retching. Darcy’s concerns were only for his beloved.
“Are you all right, Beth?” She nodded into his chest, not trusting herself to speak. The sound of footsteps heralded the arrival of others.
“Will! Are you… oh, for crying out loud!” Fitzwilliam’s sarcastic voice was balm on Beth’s frayed nerves, as was her father’s cry of relief.
“I… I’m fine, Father,” Beth managed, remaining deep in Darcy’s one-handed embrace.
“Everything secure?” Darcy asked.
“Yeah,” Fitzwilliam answered, “Our arrival really took the fight outta ’em; we only had to shoot a couple. What about here?”
“Help me, Fitzwilliam,” moaned Collins. “Whitehead tried to use me as a shield and… and Darcy shot him and… and his brains are all over me!”
“Oh, shut your piehole, Collins, or it’ll be your brains all over Whitehead! How d’you wanna handle this, Will?”
“This rifle’s getting heavy,” Darcy said. “Cover him, will you?” Beth heard Fitzwilliam command Collins to move slowly off Whitehead—there was the sound of metal on wood—and now two arms held her close.
There was the sound of more arrivals as Fitzwilliam whistled. “Ooo-wee! You plugged this sum-bitch square in the right eye, Will! Blew the back of his cotton-pickin’ head clean out! No wonder Collins is cryin’ like a baby. Damn good shootin’.”
Darcy’s voice was ice-cold. “Right eye? Then I missed, Fitz. I was aiming for the bridge of the bastard’s nose. Sorry to make such a mess, Collins.”
Beth whimpered and drove her face deeper into his vest.
“Darcy…” Bennet’s voice carried a warning.
“Sorry.” To Beth, Darcy repeated, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”
“It’s okay,” she shakily returned. “Just hold me.”
In a lighter tone, Darcy asked, “Far be it that I look a gift horse in the mouth, but what the hell are y’all doing here, Fitz? I thought I told you to guard Pemberley.”
Fitz laughed, “You did, an’ that’s just what I was doin’, ’cept we got real worried about the wagon not showin’ up last night. About an hour before dawn, Gaby had enough an’ ordered me to take some boys an’ see what the delay was.”
“Ordered you? Gaby?”
“Damn right, she did! Said, ‘With my brother gone, I’m in charge of Pemberley, and you’d best do as you’re told!’ Sounded just like you, boss!”
Darcy laughed, and Beth couldn’t help joining him. She chanced a glimpse at Fitzwilliam, keeping her eyes away from the wreckage that was once George Whitehead.
“Well,” said Darcy, “I’m mighty glad to see you, Fitz. When I saw y’all charging across that rise, I never been so happy to see an order of mine disobeyed in my life!”
“Me too,” Bennet added. “You saved us all, Fitzwilliam.”
The crowd moved closer to get a better look—Beth estimated it was about a half-dozen—when there was a disruption. The men parted before a short, female figure.
“Lily!” cried her father. He tried to pull her away from the scene, but she would have none of it; she fought him off and approached the body, whimpering.
“George? George? Are you dead, George? Are you dead?”
Bennet tried again. “Lily, please—come away from there.”
“No!” she screamed. The glare in her eyes, tinged with a hint of madness, held everyone at bay. She drew closer to Whitehead. The girl had changed into plain dress, and the makeup was washed from her face. She looked like the Lily of before, but there was something that told Beth that that girl was gone forever.
“George? Why, George? Why did you do it? Why did you throw me away—why did you give me to… to Denny? How could you betray me? I loved you, George. I gave you everything. Do you understand? Everything!”
Beth could no longer watch and turned again into Will’s strong chest.
“No—don’t touch me, Father! Did you know what that did to me, George? Did you know what he did to me? Did you? Damn you, did you?” She punctuated her screams with kicks to Whitehead’s limp body. She kicked him again and again, crying, “Damn you to hell! Damn you to hell!” in time with her kicks. The sound of foot striking body pounded into Beth’s head, again and again.
Beth’s nightmare only ended when Bennet was finally able to control her hysterical sister and carry her back to the house. Everyone stood silent—the only sound was Lily’s anguished howls.
A lone rider dashed hell bent for leather in the early morning light.
Normally, Pyke would be scared stiff riding on uneven terrain on a strange horse, but he was too terrified to worry about what he was doing. Unlike everyone else, he had recognized the Pemberley riders as soon as they made the top of the ridge. At Denny’s fall, he instantly knew the game was up, no matter what happened to Whitehead, and Pyke’s only thought now was escape. In the chaos of the battle, he had been able to secure a horse and slip away unnoticed. He took no chances; he rode like a demon, crouched down low in the saddle, expecting a bullet in the back at any time. He would not look back and see if he was followed, for he was afraid he’d see a whole posse giving chase.
Pyke rode hard towards the B&R. He had to get out of the county, and he wasn’t going empty-handed.
Darcy sat on the porch steps, drinking a cup of coffee and listening to the reports, while Beth was glued firmly to his side, holding one of his hands.
“All my boys are okay,” Fitzwilliam was saying. “I figure we shot about four of ’em, not includin’ Whitehead.”
“And we got at least three more,” claimed José. “How many bodies we got?”
“Nine,” said Peter, “and five prisoners. Our only casualty is Ethan.”
“How is he?” Darcy demanded.
A worried Mrs. Bennet spoke from the door. “Will, he’s in bad shape. We need Charles.”
“All right; I’ll go get Doc Bingley right away,” Fitz said. At that Darcy stood.
“You’ll be coming with me, Fitz. We’ve got to check on Sheriff Lucas, too. Bring two men. This ain’t over with yet.” Fitz made to object—Darcy’s exhaustion was plain to see—but a glare from his boss silenced him. Instead, he ordered Darcy’s horse brought around.
Bennet crossed over to Darcy. “I know the sheriff is important, but get Charles first, all right?” Darcy nodded and Bennet patted his shoulder. “Son, it is over. All that’s left is rounding up the stragglers. So, take care, eh?”
Darcy turned to take his leave of Beth, only to find her gone. Puzzled, and not a little disappointed, he climbed aboard Caesar, only to see her coming from the house with his hat. Wordlessly, she handed it to him, not responding to his small smile. As he put it on, Beth frowned and placed her fists on her hips.
“You come back to me, Will Darcy! You hear me?”
A grin spread over Darcy’s features. He tipped his hat and spurred his horse. Beth watched the four riders head out towards town.