Pemberley Ranch - Jack Caldwell [121]
“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