The Wild Hunt (A Claw Western #3) Read online

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  Tyler Wyatt is a man possessed by a dream—a savage, brutal dream of revenge on the men who turned his hand to a claw.

  So when he hears that one of them, Vance Jennings, could be among a group of hostages taken by hostile Apaches answering the war-call of the bronco, Salvaje; Tyler rides in.

  He doesn’t want any harm to come to Jennings, because he wants to kill him all by himself…

  …and savor the day his dream comes true.

  MATTHEW KIRK

  CLAW 3:

  THE WILD HUNT

  2022

  CLAW 3: THE WILD HUNT

  Copyright © 1983, 2022 by Matthew Kirk

  This electronic edition published November 2022

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series editor: Mike Stotter

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

  New to the team, but definitely going places:

  for Nick Sayers.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  BLOOD COLORED THE grim mask of the rider’s face. It caked, drying over his features, to emphasize the wild light in his grey eyes, lending them an aspect of madness that was heightened by the tension of his strong jaw, the clenched line of his narrowed lips. Hatless, his long brown hair was matted with the stuff, fluttering thick about his head as he urged the lathered roan to a faster pace. His shirt was torn, more blood staining the material. More than could have come from the cuts that showed on his chest and shoulders. Most of it had come from the two men he had left stretched dead in the hot New Mexico sun, their savaged corpses mute testimony to the fury that gripped him.

  Their names had been Strother Cannon and Simon Coltrane. His was Tyler Wyatt, and once he had been a blacksmith.

  Once he had been married. A decent, peaceable citizen of the little town of Black Rock.

  But that was before.

  Before an outlaw called Vance Jennings brought his men into the settlement in search of loot and vengeance. Wyatt had seen his wife’s father butchered then. Hacked to bloody pieces in revenge for the saber wound that had reduced Jennings’ voice to an eerie whisper. He had seen his wife raped and shot. Had seen Jennings ride clear with three thousand dollars and blood on his hands.

  And before leaving, he had taken one of Wyatt’s own hammers. and pounded the blacksmith’s left hand to bloody ruin.

  Wyatt had survived the amputation that had left him with a stump where his left hand should be. He had recovered to build himself a metal hand, a steel appendage fastened to his wrist in deadly travesty of flesh and bone. A metal cup covered the termination of his arm, three blades protruding like claws. They were coated with blood, the polished steel stained with the outpourings of two lives.

  They had accounted for more. Wyatt had lost more than his hand and his wife. A part of him died with Josie; a part of him that was not physical had died with the severing of his hand. He had changed: a lust for vengeance had driven him after the outlaws, had made him a ruthless hunter of men. They had said it back in Black Rock as he rode out: ‘Tyler Wyatt’s turned killer.’ He had killed the outlaws, hunting them down into Mexico, luring them back to his home ground, taking them one by one so that they knew why they died.

  Wade Martin.

  Andy Chance.

  Jean DuPre.

  Simon Coltrane.

  Strother Cannon.

  Only Jennings was left now, waiting up ahead where the big, black mesa that gave the settlement its name bulked out of the flat desert country. And Wyatt meant to kill him too. That was the purpose of his life now, and down the bloody miles of his vengeance trail he had allowed nothing to stand between him and that purpose. Not the crooked lawman who had tried to ambush him. Not the banker in Terlingua, where he had taken back the stolen money. Not the hostile Apaches answering the war-call of the bronco, Salvaje. Nothing. He had become a killer. And in Mexico they had given him a name that fitted his blood-lust: El Garra. The Claw.

  Now Jennings was within his reach and the knowledge drove Wyatt on with the wild fury of a man possessed.

  The outlaw held a hostage: a Mexican woman called Rosita Vasquez. Wyatt had brought her up out of Mexico; seen her safely onto a stage bound for Albuquerque. But Jennings had hit the coach long before it reached its destination, taking the woman off as bait to lure Wyatt into his trap.

  Wyatt saw it differently. When he took back the stolen money, he had left word that Jennings would find him in Black Rock. He had counted on the outlaw coming after him—had anticipated the ambush that left Cannon and Coltrane gutted beside the trail. He knew the ground: Jennings was the one lured into a trap.

  Save for the woman: she was a problem Wyatt had not foreseen. She meant nothing to him. Since Josie’s death he had been emptied of such considerations. But when he had lain helpless in Cole Garrett’s saloon, the body of his father-in-law hanging butchered, Josie had crawled to him, her eyes pleading for help. And he had seen the marks of the outlaw’s rape on her body and his eyes had showed his revulsion—and Josie had pitched over the fine line between sanity and madness. That had driven her to come out of their cabin with a Colt’s Dragoon in her hands. To go down under the blast of the outlaw’s guns. Wyatt blamed himself for that, and the knowledge that another woman might die because of him was a burden he was not prepared to shoulder.

  But if she stood between him and Jennings …

  He did not want to see that look in Rosita Vasquez’ eyes.

  It was a fear akin to his fear of death. It was not that he was afraid of dying: his own life meant little to him now. He was afraid of dying too soon. Of dying before he could kill Jennings. And because the woman might threaten that lethal purpose, he felt anger mingle with the fear of seeing in her eyes what he had seen in Josie’s.

  He let the anger take hold, combining with the cold rage of his blood-lust to drive any secondary thoughts from his mind. Jennings was waiting by the mesa: think only of that.

  Thick droplets of uncoagulated blood dripped from the tines of the metal hand, swirling back in the windrush of the horse’s gallop to smear the animal’s flanks with long streaks of crimson. Wyatt’s mouth stretched in a feral smile, the movement splitting furrows in the gore over his face. Heat haze shimmered off the flatlands, hiding Black Rock in a translucent curtain of dazzling light, burning shadow in black marker lines from the chaparral edging the yellow ribbon of sand that marked the trail between the settlement and the mesa. Dust plumed in a swirling cloud behind the roan horse’s pounding hoofs, its eyes wide as it responded to Wyatt’s u
rging. The mesa took firmer shape, the forbidding outlines of its sheer walls becoming clearly defined as he drew closer, the morning sun striking brilliance from the stark darkness of the rock as though from the black marble of a tombstone. Wyatt scanned the terrain ahead, calculating the distance remaining before he got within rifle shot of the massive rock.

  Soon, he thought. And his lips parted over teeth clenched in a wolfish expression closer to a snarl than a smile.

  ‘Yore boyfriend’s comin’.’

  Vance Jennings was a man around Wyatt’s own height, but his six-odd feet were spread thinner over his frame. Where the younger man was muscled from years working as a smith, Jennings was whipcord, almost skeletal. Beneath the Stetson that shaded his lean face, his hair was dark, streaked with grey. His black eyes shone with an ugly anticipation, his whispery voice holding a note of triumph.

  Rosita Vasquez watched as he folded the spy-glass and fingered the bandanna wound high about his throat, covering the scar where Cole Garrett’s saber had slashed his vocal cords. Sweat beaded her forehead, clogging in her long, dark lashes so that she blinked, huge dark eyes glazed with terror. She shook strands of raven hair back over her shoulders, ignoring the cleavage the movement showed through her torn dress as she tugged against the ropes binding her feet and wrists.

  ‘No hurry.’ Jennings went on smiling as he stroked the hilt of the shortened saber scabbarded at this side. ‘He’ll be here soon enough. Then you an’ me will be alone.’

  The woman tried to spit at him, but her mouth was too dry. She moaned as the cuts on her lips split, tender flesh exposed to the salt dripping of her sweat. Jennings chuckled and fetched a canteen from the shadow pooling the foot of the mesa. The woman watched as he drank, her thirst clear in her eyes. Jennings looked at her and chuckled some more as he stoppered the water bottle.

  Not speaking, he opened the spy-glass again, training the telescope on the dust rising from the trail. Then he lowered the glass, the smile leaving his face as the tendons down his neck drew taut. Rosita felt hope and fear mingle as he muttered to himself:

  ‘Christ! The bastard must’ve got them.’

  He slammed the glass down into its case, right hand snatching the saber from its sheath. The woman strained back as the blade arced towards her, eyes screwing tight closed as she waited for the pain. Then she gasped as she felt the ropes holding her ankles part and Jennings hauled her to her feet.

  ‘Ain’t but one pony out there.’ Anger husked his whisper to a croak. ‘He musta killed Simon an’ Strother both.’

  ‘As he will kill you.’

  She heard the words come crackling from her parched throat and waited for a blow. None came: Jennings was too busy marching her across the dark shale. He moved along the face of the mesa to where stone had fallen from the rim. High above a split showed in the rock, its edges lit by the sun, a vee of cloudless blue sky showing against the black. The segment that had broken loose had shattered on the ground below, fragmenting into boulders that now jutted jagged and dark from the sand. They formed a natural bulwark between the mesa’s foot and the trail, spreading perhaps fifty yards across and as many forwards. Taller than a man in places, they broke the approach like a maze.

  ‘Not with you around.’ Jennings pushed her down between two boulders. ‘He ain’t gonna risk killing you.’ She wondered if he was right as he scuttled back to snatch up his canteen and his Winchester.

  ‘I take the horse, he’s gotta come in on foot.’ The outlaw levered a shell into the carbine’s breech. ‘An’ I got you as a shield.’

  ‘And no horse.’ Thirst and her accent made the words guttural. ‘How far will you get on foot?’

  She enjoyed the momentary panic that showed in his cold eyes, knowing he had forgotten that all the horses were gone, that he had planned to have his men bring Wyatt back alive, strapped over a pony. Then the pleasure faded as he nodded, the smile coming back to his face.

  ‘I still got you.’ He dragged her upright again. ‘Got you to put between me an’ him.’

  He moved deeper into the jumble of fallen stone until he found a rock jagged enough he could gain footholds to level the Winchester over the rim, see down to where the trail ended.

  ‘He ain’t gonna try nothin’ fancy with you in the way.’ The whisper sounded confident again. ‘Not that goddam blacksmith.’

  The woman slumped back against the boulder, grateful for its coolness as she waited.

  Wyatt slowed as he came up on the mesa, wary of long-range fire. So far he had outguessed Jennings: seen that the outlaw wanted him alive and turned that knowledge against him. He had counted on Jenning’s desire to see his face as he died being as strong as his own, allowing him to get in close. But by now the killer must have realized his ambush had failed, and maybe that would panic him into using his Winchester.

  The big man eased the tiring horse down to a canter, his senses alert for warning of danger.

  The mesa was clear now, a great slab of darkness against the sky, the sun positioned so that the long sweep of stone facing towards Black Rock was shadowed, the day’s light seeming to end where it encountered the featureless dark of the stone. Shale girded the foot like a black beach confronting the tide of sand and chaparral. Directly ahead, fallen stone thrust from the flat, rocks like fangs gaping somber from the sand. Kids from town had played there, games of hide-go-seek and ambush rushing eagerly amongst the maze. It would be a good place for Jennings to wait.

  Wyatt reined in, swinging clear of the saddle to put the horse between him and the rocks. He stared over the saddle, trying to spot movement.

  And a Winchester barked once, the shot whistling above his head, muzzle flash pinpointing the outlaw’s position. Wyatt wondered why Jennings hadn’t aimed for the horse—then realized the man must be on foot: one pony had been sent in to Black Rock with the message that Jennings was waiting, and Coltrane and Cannon had only two animals between them, no third on which to pack him. He grinned tightly, the expression ugly, and began to walk the roan forwards, holding close against its side.

  The Winchester barked again, the shot closer.

  As the echoes died, Wyatt heard Jennings’ voice. It carried on the still air, the whisper seeming magnified by the backdrop of the mesa.

  ‘I got the woman, blacksmith! You try anythin’ an’ I’ll put a bullet in her.’

  Wyatt halted. It was a stand-off. As the rage gripped him, all thoughts of Rosita Vasquez disappeared. Fury drained them from his mind as it forced him to think with the lethal clarity of a killer. Jennings needed the horse., he wasn’t prepared to chance killing the animal. And he was counting on Wyatt thinking twice about attacking while he held the woman. Both facts counted in Wyatt’s favor. Against him was the fact that Jennings had cover, while he was in the open. That, and the maze of rocks that would slow a head-on charge to allow the outlaw to put a bullet in him.

  ‘I got the horse,’ he shouted back. ‘You kill that and you got a long walk.’

  ‘You want me to shoot her?’ The susurrating voice made Wyatt think of a diamondback’s rattle. ‘I’ll trade you – the woman for the pony.’

  Wyatt kept the roan moving slowly forwards as he called. ‘You think I trust you?’

  ‘No,’ came the reply, ‘but you don’t have much choice. Not if you want to see the woman alive.’

  ‘Send her out,’ Wyatt called. ‘I’ll loose the horse.’

  ‘You go to hell!’ Jennings’ face showed above the rock. ‘You walk that pony in slow. To where I tell you. Then you take the woman.’

  ‘You got a deal.’ Wyatt kept behind the animal. ‘I’m coming in.’

  ‘Take off yore gunbelt!’ Jennings ordered. ‘Set it on the saddle.’

  The big man paused, tugging the belt from around his waist. He draped the leather over the saddle, eyes cold as he weighed his chances. He wanted Jennings close. Wanted to use the claws on the man. To see his face as he died. For that, he had to get in am
ongst the boulders – and Jennings was offering him the chance.

  ‘Slow! Slow an’ easy,’ warned the outlaw. ‘I got the woman right here.’

  Wyatt paced over the sand towards the rocks. Proximity accentuated their height and he saw that Jennings’ view would be blocked as he moved amongst them. He felt tension strain the muscles across his back. Had the tendons of his left arm still worked, the claws of the metal hand would have flexed in anticipation. As though to compensate, he felt his facial muscles tense, stretching his jaw tight, cords standing out along his back.

  Shadow angled across his path, reaching from the boulders like beckoning fingers. A few more paces and he would be in amongst the rocks, Jenning’s advantage cut still lower.

  ‘Hold it!’ The killer’s whisper husked over the stone. ‘Hitch the pony an’ come forwards.’

  Wyatt looked up. Jennings was craned over the boulder now, head and torso exposed, the angle of fire made difficult by the intervening stone. The big man grunted, easing the reins back along the roan’s neck. He looped one about the saddlehorn. Then slung the second loose over the beast’s mane as he spun round, left arm flailing out.

  The claws hit the pony hard across the rump. The needle tips cut skin, scoring three lines of sudden scarlet. The horse screamed, plunging forwards as it charged from the pain. It careened into the maze of boulders, screaming as it saw its path blocked and veered off to one side sharply enough, its shoulder scraped along the rock. Its screaming filled the air with panic-stricken sound that was cut through with the report of Jenning’s carbine. Wyatt heard the slug spang off basalt as he powered after the runaway pony, following its headlong flight into the maze.

  Shadow replaced the light as he hurled amongst the boulders. The metal hand struck sparks as he lurched around a curve, and he heard the outlaw’s shout of rage distorted by the funnels of rock. He paused, trying to locate Jennings. There was silence.