Showdown at Gun Hill (19 page)

“Max! It's an ambush!” shouted the scout, already jerking his horse around and batting his boots to its sides. But he didn't get ten feet before a shot from Deluna's rifle felled him, horse and all, in a tumbling entanglement of man, horse, rock and dirt.

As the first shot rang out, Sam stepped into sight long enough to draw a bead on Max Bard's chest at a distance too close to miss. Bard and his men, having spread out on the way in to the water's edge, now turned quickly as one, guns coming up, firing at the sound of Deluna's rifle shot. As Sam squeezed the trigger on Max Bard, he saw Bard look his way and quickly raise his rifle toward him.

As both lawman and outlaw drew their beads, Parker Fish's horse sprang into Sam's sights. The shot intended for Bard hit Fish high in his right side and sent him sprawling from his saddle onto the ground. Bard pulled his shot and grabbed Fish as the wounded gunman struggled to his feet. With Fish behind him, Bard spurred his horse away.

Bullets from Bard's men pinged and thumped and ricocheted off rock and pine where the Ranger and the two sheriffs had positioned themselves a few yards apart above the water hole. Even as the gunmen fired they rode back the way they'd ridden in. Sam tried to get Bard in his sights again, but Bard was already gone. As the men rode away in Bard's wake, another gunman caught a bullet through his neck. Leaning deep in his saddle, the wounded man lost control of his mount and crashed headlong into a young supple pine as the spooked animal swerved from beneath him. The pine
bowed with the impact of the man's weight and launched him twenty feet backward, flailing in the air.

Seeing the last of the men ride down out of sight, Sam stood up and looked around warily. So did Deluna and Stone. All three stood with their guns smoking in their hands. To their left the sound of horses' hooves fell away down the hillside.

“Anybody hit?” Sam asked. Both sheriffs shook their heads as Sam looked at them in turn.

Stone called out, “Three down. Two dead and one looking badly wounded.” He nodded at the two bodies lying strewn on the ground in pools of blood. One of the dead men's horses had settled and stood knee deep in the water drinking. Sam took close note of the dusty, sweaty animal. The outlaws' horses were worn and thirsty. This was not the time to let up on the gang, he told himself. This was time to press them hard.

“Three's a good start,” Deluna said, stepping from behind cover, down through the rocks and brush. “Too bad Bard's not lying here somewhere.”

Sam and Stone followed suit, stepping down toward the water hole. At the water's edge Deluna stood reloading her rifle. She also noted the thirsty horse standing in the water hole drinking. So did Stone. The three of them gave each other a knowing look.

“I'll get our horses,” Sam said. “While we've got them on the run, we need to stay right on them.”

Max Bard and his men didn't stop until they reached a lower trail crossing a stretch of sand flats that led toward the mining town of Gnat. They had missed their chance to water their horses. Bard realized it had been a mistake not stopping at the stream they'd crossed in the pine valley. But it was too late to do anything about it now. The horses were tired and thirsty. They would have to push the animals on to the little mining town. At the same time they had to hold off the three ambushers who would now be dogging them hard, knowing their horses would soon be giving out on them.

“You figure it was the Ranger?” Cross asked Bard, all of them bunched up behind a boulder at the edge of the sand flats.

“No
figuring
to it,” Bard replied, gazing back along the uphill trail. “I saw him plain as day—saw his sombrero.”

“Anybody can wear a sombrero,” said Fish, gripping the bullet hole high up in his side under his arm.

Bard just looked at him as Worley, Cross and Rudy Bowlinger took a closer look at his wound. Mallard Trent
stood off to the side, a newly rolled cigarette between his lips. He held the reins to the horse he shared with Bowlinger.

“It's the
Ranger
, Parker,” Bard said, leaving no room for further discussion. “Him and whoever's with him sprung a trap on us. I fell for it when I never should have let it happen.”

“Gant was scouting,” said Worley. “Maybe he should have said something sooner.”

“Gant was still scouting the water hole,” said Bard. “We should have waited until he signaled us in. These horses were so thirsty I didn't hold us back.”

Cross stared off along the trail and chuffed under his breath.

“While you're busy blaming yourself, try this on. You or I should've made sure we stopped and watered these cayuses back in the valley.”

“That's right, one of us should have,” Bard said, his voice taking on a sharp edge. “I don't like losing men.”

“Nobody does,” said Cross, “but that's the game we're in.” He looked over at Parker Fish and said testily, “Are you going to make it? Because if you're not we can't be blowing a horse out carrying you.”

“Pardon the hell out of me for getting shot, Holbert Lee,” Fish said in a pained voice. “Hell yes, I'm going to make it.”

Bard looked all around at the men, Worley and Bowlinger working quick, tearing a larger opening in Fish's shirt around the bullet hole. Bowlinger stuffed a wadded bandanna inside the shirt and Fish clamped his upper arm on it.

“There, that's all I needed,” he said. “Anybody thinks I ain't going to make it doesn't know spit about ol'
Fish
here
.
” He gave a weak pained grin and struggled up onto his feet. Dark blood oozed from his lips. He tried to lick it away, but there was too much of it.

“Let's get at it,” he said.

“Jesus,”
Cross whispered to himself. His hand streaked up with his revolver in it and bucked once as a bullet tore through Fish's heart and sent him backward to the ground.

The men froze, staring, stunned. The horses stirred but settled quickly.

“Anybody got anything to say about it?” Cross said flatly. “You all saw he wasn't going to make it. I'd've wanted him to do the same thing for me without me having to ask.”

Bard let out a tight breath and looked down at Fish's body, his bloody chest, his wide-open eyes staring at the white-hot sky.

“Drag him out of sight,” he said. “Let's get the hell out of here.” He turned and stepped up into his saddle as Bowlinger and Worley took Fish by his limp arms and pulled him across the rocky ground. Trent grabbed the reins to Fish's horse and swung up into the saddle, still holding Bowlinger's horse for him.

Cross replaced the spent cartridge in his smoking gun and shoved the warm barrel back into his holster. He stepped up into his saddle and reined his horse over beside Bard.

“That's something for us to remember when we get Burrack in our sights,” he said. The two nudged their
horses forward, the other three gunmen mounting quickly and following behind them.

They rode on.

In the afternoon as they reached the crest of a rocky rise, they looked a short ways down onto Gnat, seeing the new rails running along the rear edge of the small mining town. On the other side of Gnat, a high hillside stood honeycombed with darkened mine shaft openings that looked out above the distant sand flats.

“All right,” Bard said, “let's get watered and get out of here in a hurry.”

“I say we stick tight right here,” said Bowlinger, no longer riding double. “Kill the Ranger and whoever's with him. Like as not it's that female law dog and that drunken wolf-man, Stone.” He held his horse back as if refusing to go any farther while the others passed him down a narrow trail into town.

“You stick tight here, Rudy,” Cross said, moving his thirsty horse past him. “Go ahead, kill the Ranger and catch up to us.”

“You think I'm scared?” Bowlinger called out to him.

“Ride down and water your horse, Rudy,” Bard demanded back over his shoulder. “When the time's right we'll take care of the Ranger, not a minute before.”

On their way down toward the town, they heard the roar of the locomotive; they saw the roiling black smoke as the big engine rose on the sand flats and came boring over the barren desert against the afternoon sky. The riders stopped for a moment and settled their horses to the jarring earth beneath their hooves. They
stared as the engine pulling a single Pullman car barreled closer.

“Trent,” said Max Bard, “ain't that Curtis Siedell's private car?”

“Yes, it is,” said Mallard Trent, his horse sitting beside Bard, the five riders lined abreast. “We heard talk that Siedell was coming. I figured it to be just rumors. But it looks like he's here.”

“Talk about a stroke of luck!” Bard reined his horse sidelong to the coming train as he pulled up a telescope, stretched it out and raised it to his eye. “Wouldn't you say this thing is coming awfully fast?”

“Looks like it to me,” Trent said.

“Hell yes, it's coming too fast,” Cross put in. “One wrong move it'll plow that platform down and grind this town into the dirt.”

They watched tensely as the train rumbled alongside the platform and kept going. Freight handlers dived out of the way as the platform quaked and bucked underfoot. A mailbag hanging for pickup exploded as the engine, rocking back and forth on the rails, clipped it and sent its contents spraying out in all directions.

“It's not stopping,” Bard said, watching through the telescope.

“It's not even slowing down!” said Worley.

They kept their excited horses settled as the train rolled on past them and continued out onto the flat.

“How far do these rails go?” Bard asked Trent.

“Three or four miles,” Trent said. “They always leave a few miles of tracks to add to later on.”

Bard turned to the others. “I've got to know if Siedell's in that Pullman car.”

“He's in it,” Trent said confidently.

“What makes you think he is?” Bowlinger asked as they put their horses forward down toward the straight line of rails.

“Because it doesn't go anywhere without him,” Trent said before Max Bard could answer. “Siedell never lets it out of his sight.”

Bard stared after the train as it rumbled on, growing smaller, sinking over a sand rise.

“Holbert Lee,” he said, “you three go into Gnat. Water your horses—or get some fresh ones, whichever is quicker. Trent, you come with me.”

“Whoa,” said Bowlinger. “What about the Ranger?”

“If he shows up, shoot him,” said Bard.

“Oh, shoot him, just like that,” said Bowlinger.

“A while ago that's all you wanted to do, Rudy,” said Bard. He looked at Cross and saw the concerned look on his face. “Don't worry, I'll be all right. The colonel's stallion's got plenty of run left in him.” He rubbed the big stallion's damp withers and looked at Trent and nodded at the horse beneath him. “What about Fish's horse?”

“It'll do,” Trent said. “If it don't, I'll find myself another one.”

The two booted their mounts and rode away as the train sank out of sight over the edge of a sandy rise.

*   *   *

When the end of the tracks came into sight out on the desert floor, Curtis Siedell leaned out over the platform's
handrail and stared ahead through the softened glare of afternoon sunlight. He saw a single rider seated atop his horse holding the lead rope to a string of saddled horses. Behind Siedell, Bo Anson chuckled and puffed on a cigar he'd helped himself to from the businessman's private supply.

Siedell's left hand was cuffed to the handrail. He'd been allowed to get dressed and pull his boots on before walking up the engine and back.

Anson reached around and unlocked the cuffs. He spoke above the rumble and roar of the locomotive as Siedell turned to face him, also with a cigar in hand.

“As you can see, I already knew how far it was to the end of the line,” Anson said. “I just wanted to know if you'd lie to me.” He grinned as he nodded in the direction of the rider and the string of horses. “I've had my plans laid from the get-go.”

“And if I had lied to you?” Siedell asked.

“Instead of us smoking cigars together, I might have put one or two out in your ears,” Anson said, still with the grin. “But it didn't go that way, and I'm as glad as you are about that.”

As the locomotive began to slow down, Anson motioned Siedell toward the Pullman car door with his cocked revolver. Siedell walked inside the car and stopped, waiting to hear what Anson's next order would be.

“Get your duster and hat on,” Anson said. “We're heading through some uphill country tonight.” As he spoke, the single-car train slowed more. A slight screech of metal brakes came from under the engine.

“May I ask where?” said Siedell.

“No, you
may
not,” Anson said, mocking him. Then he gave a dark chuckle and wagged his gun barrel toward the line of hills ahead to their right, along the border. “Up there,” he said. “We're going to get high up and out of sight—wait for the message to get to your flunkies that we've got a wire around your neck. We'll tell them we'll start twisting it tight if they don't come up with what we want.”

“Which is . . . ?” Siedell let his words trail. The train slowed more, coasting along on its own now.

“Never you mind, King Curtis,” said Anson.

“Damn it, man,” Siedell said. “I keep telling you I hold the purse strings. Tell me how much, we'll settle this thing and go on about our business!”

“I'm not just doing this for the money, King Curtis,” said Anson. “I want everybody to know what I did. I want folks to know that while your people were getting ransom money together, two men showed up with the bodies of Bard and his pals draped over their saddles.” His eyes gleamed with madness. “Won't that be dandy?” he said. “Nobody will know it was me collecting their reward until it's all over—too late to do anything about it.”

Siedell only stared at him, not knowing what to say.

They both turned at the sound of Ape Boyd stepping in through the front door, a telescope in his thick hand. The train slowed down to a crawl.

“Jim Purser made it here with the horses,” Ape said. “Looks like somebody winged him. Want me to go on and kill him?” he added bluntly.

“No, Ape, for God sakes,” said Anson. “Jim did what he was supposed to do. Why would we kill him?”

Ape shrugged and eyed Siedell up and down as his next possible target.

“Just thought I'd ask,” he said. “I looked back along the rails. Nobody's caught up with us yet. And I broke down the big gun. I'm ready to carry it down and load it on a horse.”

“Good, then,” said Anson. “Get Holt and the others ready.” He glanced at Siedell. “Tell them our little train ride is just about over—”

Before he got the words out of his mouth, one of the men, Dan Brody, stepped inside the car.

“Bo,” he cut in, sounding urgent. “We've got two men following us, riding hard. Holt and Jenkins are keeping an eye on them.”

“Detectives? They've caught up to us so soon?” Anson said. He gave Siedell a curious look.

“That's impossible,” Siedell said confidently. “Horses don't stand a chance against iron and steam.”

“It's not detectives,” said Brody. “Holt said it's Max Bard, and some fella he's never seen.”

Anson looked concerned, but only for a second. Then his face split with laughter.

“This is too perfect,” he said. “I thought I'd have to lure Max Bard here—get word to him that I have you under lock and key.” He shook his head as he laughed. “How did he know? Do you hombres smell each other coming?”