Prairie Fire Read online

  "Suppose we don't?"

  "How's that?"

  The younger woman's question had confused him, sidetracked his train of thought.

  "Raise somebody," she explained impatiently. "Suppose we don't? Suppose the phone is out until sometime tomorrow?"

  The farmer's grim expression indicated that he had not ignored the possibility. He answered her without a moment's hesitation.

  "Then I sit up with our visitor tonight and drive him to the sheriff in the morning, like I said."

  At the stove, his wife had now abandoned all pretense of cooking as she watched him with a pinched expression, plainly worried.

  "Jason, you need sleep. You can't stay up all night Just watching him."

  "I'll cross that one when I come to it." Then he let a hint of softness creep into his tone. "What's keeping supper?"

  "Almost ready."

  "Wait a second now, dad," the younger woman interjected. "You're overlooking something: this man's hurt and bleeding, maybe seriously injured."

  "He was moving pretty spry a while ago," the farmer countered, skepticism heavy in his voice. "I figure he can last the night."

  "And if you're wrong?"

  She plainly sensed his momentary indecision, boring in to the attack.

  "He needs-medical attention, dad."

  The farmer cocked an eyebrow, looking dubious.

  "Law says that we're supposed to hold a fugitive until the sheriff picks him up. There's nothing that requires we nurse him back to perfect health before we hand him over."

  She matched the older man's determination with her own.

  "It's the Christian thing to do," she said. "Besides, you don't want anything to happen while he's in your custody."

  "I'm not about to be his nursemaid."

  Sensing victory, she made it easy for him.

  "You won't have to lift a finger. Mom and I can handle it. Some iodine and bandages..."

  "I have a bullet in my side," Bolan told her. "Near the surface. It deflected off a rib. I'll take it out myself if you can get me out of these."'

  The soldier raised his hands and gave the cuffs a shake, surprised at how much energy the effort cost him.

  "Never mind," the farmer snapped. "We'll leave 'em where they are.''

  "I'll get the bandages," the younger woman said, retreating out of sight.

  Then the farmer's wife left the stove and brushed past her husband.

  "She'll be needing help."

  When they were alone, the farmer moved closer to Bolan. His shotgun stretched across the dining table, muzzles hovering a foot from Bolan's face. The voice was low and level when his captor spoke.

  "Reckon I can't argue with what Toni and the missus said. But hear me plain, young fella: I was with the First Marines in World War II. I did my share of killing, plus some extra, in the South Pacific. And if you've got any thought of trying something slick, believing I won't shoot you where you sit, you're wrong. Dead wrong."

  The soldier understood and never doubted him. Not even for a second.

  6

  After some debate, the parlor was converted to a makeshift operating room. On the coffee table were arranged the tools that Toni Chadwick required for minor surgery: a razor blade, tweezers, adhesive tape and gauze for bandages, a pan of water, iodine and rubbing alcohol.

  Bolan and Toni were alone. The farmer and his wife had retreated to the kitchen. Bolan could hear them speaking in muffled tones over supper. From time to time they tried the telephone.

  It bothered Bolan to plan alternatives. Whatever was responsible the breakdown in communications left them isolated, temporarily cut off from any outside contact. Which was fine — unless the enemy had somehow managed to determine his location.

  If they came for him tonight...

  Toni's voice was a welcome interruption of his dismal speculation.

  "Lie down over here."

  Gingerly, he sat down on the sofa, then stretched out on his back. The young woman knelt beside him. Her air of confidence, so evident before, was fading fast as she examined Bolan's wounds close up.

  Cautious fingers brushed against his ribs, withdrew when he winced.

  "Why... I mean, who did this to you?"

  "Enemies," he told her. "They'll try harder next time."

  "Next time?"

  "They're after me, and you don't want to meet them, Toni. I'm a danger to you here."

  "There's nothing I..." She hesitated, looking startled. "How'd you know my name?"

  "Your father mentioned it."

  "He's not my father. They..." She faltered, started over. "The Chadwicks — Jase and Emma — are my in-laws. I've been with them since... my husband died. They're all the family I have."

  Bolan heard the pain behind her words and passed it off. He had no time to waste on sterile speculation.

  "The sooner I get out of here, the better it will be for all of you," he told her earnestly.

  She understood him, and he could see her grappling with the problem. But Toni shook her head, and when she answered, Bolan thought he recognized a hint of genuine regret.

  "I'm sorry. I'll do anything I can to help you while you're here, but I can't let you go."

  "I understand," he said. And meant it.

  The lady resumed her examination of his side wound, looking for an angle of approach. Bolan solved it for her, raising both arms above his head. The movement stretched his abdomen and drove a wedge of agony between his ribs. He stifled a groan, but when Bolan looked again at Toni Chadwick, he could see his suffering reflected in her face.

  She was bending toward him, looking closely at the blood-encrusted fabric and the torn flesh visible beneath. After some tentative probing, she tried to peel back the cloth and grimaced as it stuck fast to his skin.

  She sliced the fabric with the blade and threw it back, apologizing for the pain it caused him. Bolan remained silent, but his look urged her to get on with it.

  Toni gently bathed the wound, then swabbed the area with cotton soaked in alcohol. It stung, but Bolan braced himself against the greater pain to come.

  He had been through it all before, in hospitals and under battlefield conditions. More than once — in Nam and later, in his urban jungle wars — he had extracted bullets from himself without the benefit of anesthetic. It was possible, with practice and determination, to temporarily divorce the mind from the reality of pain.

  Bolan felt the razor's sudden fire in spite of everything, supplanted by a new sensation — deeper, more intense — as she probed with the tweezers. After a few moments his ears registered the clink as she deposited the bullet in a waiting saucer.

  She started cleaning out the open wound with alcohol, and it was burning fiercely now, but Bolan clenched his teeth and made no sound.

  "It needs some stitches. And there's going to be a scar."

  "No problem."

  Right. The Executioner could bear his scars, had borne them all his adult life. They were only decorations in his private war, each one the legacy of battles he had walked away from, graphic signatures of a survivor etched on living flesh for all the universe to see.

  There were tears in Toni Chadwick's eyes as she finished stitching up his wound and dabbed away the final remnants of blood.

  And after Bolan's wounded side, the rest was easy.

  On his thigh, the bullet graze was superficial. Toni cleaned out the shallow gash, but there would be no need for stitches. Bolan painfully lowered his arms again, allowing her to clean and check his bloodied wrists as best she could with the manacles in place. Toni attended to his badly chafed skin, then coated the raw, blistered areas with ointment.

  The relatively minor pain was like a dose of smelling salts to Bolan; it revived him, driving away the fog that had been threatening to cloud his mind.

  The combined effects of pain, fatigue and blood loss were encroaching on the soldier's brain. He needed food and sleep, a chance to mend, but Bolan knew that he would have to settle for whatever ca
me his way.

  He was in no position now to call the shots.

  Not yet.

  Her ministrations completed, the woman rocked back on her haunches and surveyed her work with shining eyes.

  The Executioner was very conscious of her closeness, of her scent. Soft, feminine and vibrantly alive.

  "Well, I suspect you'll live," she said, almost bashfully.

  "I never doubted it."

  But there were doubts, all right, and Bolan knew that he was far from being out of danger. He could lose it — all of them could lose it, right — at any moment. The hunters were still out there, scouring the darkness, searching for his trail. Unless he moved, they were bound to pinpoint him sooner or later.

  Bolan's time was running out, and there was nothing he could do to stop the clock.

  When Toni Chadwick spoke again, she almost took him by surprise, the gentle voice a sweet intrusion on his dark and bloody thoughts.

  "Feel like trying on some stew?"

  Bolan nodded.

  He attempted to stand up, but it was too early. Sudden dizziness attacked him and he sat down heavily, disoriented for the moment. Toni placed a hand upon his knee, and Bolan felt her warmth communicated through the fabric of his blacksuit like a mild electric shock.

  And something caught, turned over slowly in his chest.

  "Rest a while," she told him, "and I'll bring you something."

  "Thanks," he said, watching her move toward the kitchen.

  Momentarily alone, he had an opportunity to look around the homey parlor of the Chadwick farmhouse.

  It was a home, damn right. Its parlor was a living room, and Bolan had no wish to bring the taint of death there.

  Through the open doorway to the kitchen, Bolan could hear someone dialing the telephone. Then he 'heard the farmer muttering under his breath, banging the receiver down in anger and frustration.

  It was still dead.

  And in the sudden silence, he was conscious of the former chill returning.

  Bolan was afraid it might already be too late. For all of them.

  7

  "We want it taken care of quickly."

  "So do I." The Cowboy's knuckles whitened as he gripped the mobile phone receiver. "I also want it taken care of right. No more accidents, no more mistakes."

  There was a momentary silence on the other end. He took advantage of it to explain himself.

  "I haven't had a chance to reconnoiter the terrain. We get some light, I'll check it out and lay an angle of attack."

  "How complicated can it be?"

  The Cowboy recognized the sarcasm, but chose to ignore it.

  "I'm not committing any troops until I have a feel for their defensive capabilities. We haven't even got a head count yet. That hick could have an arsenal in there."

  "If you are unable to handle it..."

  "I'll handle it, all right," he snapped. "My way, in my own time. I wasn't hired to rush these jobs and screw things up."

  "Perhaps you need some help."

  "I need some room to breathe. Some time to think this out. You wanna push it through tonight, pick out a crew and come on down. I'll pull my men and let you have it to yourself.

  "We have the utmost faith in your professional ability."

  So far. It was not spoken, but he heard it all the same. There was a stiffness, a formality about the other's voice that telegraphed his anger, barely in control. The Cowboy thought he heard a trace of a foreign accent.

  "When can we expect results?"

  "Tomorrow sometime, at the latest."

  "No loose ends."

  "Relax, they're bottled up. Nobody's going anywhere."

  "All right then. I shall look forward to your call."

  And the link was broken. He looked at the telephone in his hand, restraining the initial urge to slam it down. Now more than ever he needed iron control to stifle anger. Too much feeling was a danger in his chosen line of work. Emotion bred mistakes and made a soldier vulnerable to his enemies. There had been too many foolish errors already; he could not afford another.

  Visibly relaxed, he keyed the walkie-talkie to find his pointmen in the darkness.

  "Heads up."

  "I read you, Hunter."

  There was boredom in the small, metallic voice.

  "What's your situation?"

  "Nothing to report. They're showing lights, but no one's poked a head outside since we came on."

  "Stay put and keep your eyes peeled," he instructed. "I'll have someone relieve you in an hour."

  "Roger that.'

  He set the radio aside and spent a moment staring at the darkness, grappling with his doubts. The situation was not evolving as he had expected. There were vital pieces missing and he had to find them before he risked his men on a rash assault.

  He had expected some reaction when they cut the phone lines, isolating the occupants of the farmhouse. Logically, the Cowboy's target should be in the ancient pickup truck and on his way to town right now, under guard. It was the natural next step.

  Except that something had gone sour along the way.

  He started ticking off alternatives, attempting to anticipate the farmer's every move.

  There was a chance — a slim one, granted — that the runner might have overpowered his captor and seized the shotgun. The Cowboy dismissed the thought. If his prey had turned the tables by acquiring armament and transportation, he would be long gone by now. Remaining at the farm was tantamount to suicide, and there was nothing self-destructive in the runner's moves so far.

  There had to be another reason why the farmer would prefer to hold his captive here, instead of handing him over to the authorities.

  It was a narrow alley going nowhere, and the Cowboy finally gave it up. The information would reveal itself with daylight; in the meantime, there were preparations to be made.

  The Cowboy would be ready when his opportunity arrived. He was not leaving anything to chance. It had to be perfect the first time. No mistakes. No foul-ups.

  He left the Continental, wincing at the momentary brilliance of the dome light, and joined his soldiers. They were waiting for him, clustered by the cars, invisible from any distance in the darkness. It was still an hour to moonrise, and the only light available was the glow of half a dozen cigarettes.

  The little caravan was parked along the narrow access road that linked their target to the highway. The Cowboy's Lincoln was sandwiched between the carbon-copy Cadillacs, the three tanks blocking off the track effectively with gunners to complete the seal.

  The troops were getting restless, chafing at the long delay. He read it in their posture, in the way they watched him, waiting. And he faced them each in turn, projecting all the confidence and self-assurance he could muster, willing them to share the hunter's patience.

  A disembodied voice addressed him from the gloom.

  "What's the word?"

  "No change. They're sitting tight."

  Another voice: "Okay, let's take 'em."

  "That's a negative."

  Momentary silence, then a murmur rippled through the ranks. He sensed the confusion, mingled with resentment, radiating from the men that surrounded him. The nearest gunner put it into words.

  "We've got it covered. What's the point in waiting?"

  "That's the point: to be damn sure we've got it covered."

  No one answered. They were waiting for him, and he moved into the silence with authority.

  "We need their numbers, troops and weapons. Stumble in there blind, you may bite into something sour."

  "I counted three of them, with one old shotgun." That from the scout who had run their prey to earth.

  "Uh-huh," he countered, cold as ice. "But I don't recall you checked out the house."

  He felt the iron control returning. They were his again.

  "We can't rule out the possibility of other hands around the place," he told them. "And I never knew a farmer who felt right without a half a dozen guns to keep him company."


  "They should have moved him out by now," a trooper said to no one special, voicing the confusion that had plagued them all.

  "I can't account for the delay," the Cowboy told them honestly. "They have to hand him over eventually, and we'll be waiting when they make the move."

  "All right."

  "I want to take out some insurance. Give our side a little edge."

  "Like what?"

  He smiled.

  "Like some of that C-4 we brought along."

  "You wanna blow the house?"

  "It's not exactly what I had in mind."

  And he explained the plan in simple terms, assigning roles as he rehearsed it. By the time he had finished, they were satisfied, at ease. They knew his plan would work if each man performed his part precisely.

  It was time to send the starters in.

  "You'd better take the C-4 and get it rolling. Have the pointers cover you, then send 'em back."

  "It's done."

  The gunners split off in groups of three and four to smoke and talk in whispers. He was satisfied to let them iron out the rough spots among themselves.

  The Cowboy ambled off in the direction of the farmhouse and his target. Make it plural now, his targets. He could not permit a living soul to leave the farm when they were finished with their business.

  He had not survived this long by being soft or sentimental. Although he had nothing personal against the farmer or the woman, they were obstacles that had to be removed at any cost. If left alive, they could identify him to authorities.

  The Cowboy no longer cared why the farmer was waiting. Let him stall for daylight if he chose; the end result would be identical. There would be no escape.

  They were in it now, and there was no way out but through the Cowboy. Younger, better men had tried that route before, and had come to grief in the attempt.

  Beyond the whispering rows of corn, his quarry was invisible, but he could feel them with a hunter's sensitivity. He touched them with his mind, and knew that he could take them any time he wanted to.

  Still, the hunter waited. He had them under siege, and none of them were going anywhere. The Cowboy could afford to give them one last night on earth.