“Just get the fire going, and make it high.”
Ben knelt down, struck a match, touched it to the squaw wood. Flames licked at the smaller sticks. The air pockets exploded in sporadic pops and the flames got higher. Ben added more wood, set heavier pieces on both sides. When he walked away, he glowed a warm peach color as the flames reflected off his clothing and skin. When he got to where John was waiting, he sat down, picked up his rifle and gazed down at the fire. The campsite looked like two men were sleeping nearby. The water in the tank reflected the flames so that the orange glow could be seen from a great distance, even to the summit of that last foothill.
“Now, we wait,” John said, jacking a cartridge into the chamber of his rifle, then easing the hammer back down to half cock.
Ben did the same with the Henry, then set it on the ground beside him.
“If I was a bandit,” Ben said. “That sure would look tempting.”
“Better dig into your saddlebags and put some grub in that growling stomach of yours,” John said.
Ben sighed. “Good idea.”
Every so often, either Ben or John would steal down to the fire and feed it more dry wood. The flames danced and spewed swirling troupes of golden fireflies into the night, as if someone slept close by and was tending it. And then John told Ben to get some shut-eye, that they would put no more wood on the fire and just let it burn down as if its tenders, warm from its heat, and weary from travel, had fallen asleep.
Fritz Schultz had seen the two riders marking his trail, following his horse's tracks onto the meadow that butted up against that last hill. He had pushed his tired horse up it, clear to the top and over on the other side where he had a clear view of Fountain Creek and the plain beyond. He slid from the saddle, ground-tied his dun mare, and crept back to the crest of the hill with one of his rifles, a Sharps .50 buffalo gun he had stolen in Kansas.
He had killed the man who owned the rifle, an excavalryman who had ridden with Quantrill's Raiders, then become a hide hunter after the war, and retired to live out his days in peace. The Big Fifty, as Fritz called it, was deadly accurate, had a smooth action, and killed anything it was aimed at. He crawled to a soft bare spot and watched the two riders head into the aspen trees where they watered their horses at an old sheep tank. His heart was pounding as he waited for them to come out and get back on his trail.
But they didn't come out, and later, he saw the flicker of a fire when it was full dark and the stars sprinkled across the sky like diamonds. When he looked real hard, he thought he saw the two men sleeping under blankets near the fire.
Still he waited, his body chilled by the cold ground and the high wind that brushed across the top of the hill, carrying in its freshets the coolness of white snow atop the high peaks that shone like distant ghosts under the soft alabaster light of the rising moon.
Fritz rubbed his eyes and bit off a chew of tobacco to ward off his sleepiness. He watched as someone fed the fire fresh wood, wondering how long those two would stay awake as he continued to watch the moon rise slowly, dusting the meadow with dull pewter, blaring down at him like some gaunt, cold, all-seeing eye.
And finally he saw the fire die down, saw it shrink to glowing orange embers, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He touched the extra cartridges in his pocket, within easy reach. The Sharps was a single shot, but he could load almost as fast as a man with a lever-action repeater. And he had confidence in the killing power of the .50-caliber soft lead slug. Such a bullet would tear a hole in a man big as a baby's fist, and smash through bone as if slicing through paper.
He got to his feet and walked downslope at an angle, careful to make no noise. He kept the dying fire in view as he traversed the hill, descended lower. He stopped every so often and listened to the deep quiet of the night. He rubbed his eyes again and again. He chewed on the plug, and bit off another. The tobacco bit into his mouth and throat, helped keep him awake and alert.
In the distance, a wolf howled, and another picked up its crooning call. Fritz froze and listened. He was close to the sleeping men. Another hundred yards should bring him so close he could not miss, even in the dark. He could still see the glowing sparks of the coals, winking bright and fading in the surge of the restless, sniffing breeze.
The wolves went silent, and Fritz stepped closer to the two hulks on the ground. His heart sped up, and his finger caressed the trigger of the Sharps. His thumb sweated on the hammer, oiling it with a thin film of moisture.
“You will not see me,” Fritz whispered in the silence of his mind. “You will never know what hit you, boys. You will hear only a last explosion and then you will sleep on, forever.”
He built up his courage with these and other bolstering phrases. He crept still closer, going more slowly, testing every footfall before he put his full weight on his boot heel.
The aspen stood like blanched signposts, their leaves whispering in the soft caress of the steady breeze blowing down from the mountains. It was so quiet, Fritz could hear his careful breathing, could hear his heart throbbing in his temples, beating in his chest.
Close, and ever closer, he tiptoed, his thumb on the hammer growing heavy, his finger on the trigger rubbing off its sweat until the metal was as slick as a skinned willow branch.
He stopped, stood looking at the two blanketed mounds. Neither moved. He took another step, halted, rubbed his eyes again. He brought the rifle to his shoulder, raised it so slowly it might have been a feather. He snugged the butt into his shoulder and sighted down the barrel at the farther blanket.
He pulled in a breath and held it. The gun barrel steadied. He pulled the hammer back quickly and fired so fast, its click was nearly drowned in the explosion. Fiery sparks and white smoke belched from the muzzle. Fritz worked the action, levering the chamber open. The spent shell ejected, flickered in the corner of his eye like some maddened insect spinning to the ground. He slid another cartridge into the chamber, levered up and swung the barrel on the nearer blanket. He fired without thinking, knowing his aim was true.
He heard a crackle of something breaking and he did not fish another cartridge from his pocket, but stepped closer to see if both men were dead.
He heard something else, then. At first he thought it might be a deer, startled from its bed, or rousted from a feeding place in the aspen grove. He heard the crack of small branches and then saw something dark rushing toward him. Something black and deadly, coming so fast he thoughtlessly let his rifle fall from his hands as he clawed for the pistol on his hip, knowing he would have to kill whatever it was at close range.
And then Fritz saw something flash above the onrushing figure just before it pounced on him. Something shiny and silvery in the moonlight, like a single beam descending on him just as his fingers tightened around the grip of his pistol.
He cried out, but it was too late.
He knew, in that instant, that he had made a terrible mistake.
The lump of tobacco froze in his mouth, its juices trickling down his throat, blocking off his scream of terror.
18
JOHN BARRELED INTO THE OUTLAW. HE SLASHED DOWNWARD with his knife, aiming at Fritz's right arm. He felt the knifepoint strike flesh and bone even as his momentum jolted his body into Fritz's, knocking him backward.
Fritz screamed in pain as the knife cut into his wrist. His hand released its grip on his pistol and he drew it toward his midsection. His back slammed into an aspen with sickening force as blood streamed from his wound. Lights exploded in his brain as the back of his head slammed against the tree.
John raised his knife to strike again. Fritz slammed a fist into John's chest and pushed, knocking him back a half foot. John watched Fritz slide away from the tree while he grabbed for the handle of his own knife. In a half crouch, Fritz pulled his knife from its sheath, then swiped it back and forth as he stood up, then hunched over into a fighting stance.
John crouched, too, holding his knife out in front of him, looking for an opening. The two men circled, stalking each other, as Ben emerged out of the darkness, pistol in hand.
“Stay out of it Ben,” John husked. He was breathing hard from the excitement and exertion, but he was not winded.
“Just in case,” Ben said laconically.
Fritz thrust his knife out, trying to jab John in the belly. John flexed his gut, tucking it in tight, then chopped downward. His knife blade grazed Fritz's arm as he jerked it back out of the way. A tiny trickle of blood oozed from a razor-thin cut.
Fritz paid no attention to Ben. His gaze held on John and his knife. He weaved back and forth as if enticing John to come at him. John blew out a breath, then breathed back in as if gathering strength in him to rush the outlaw. He feinted with his knife and Fritz bobbed his head like a boxer, made a short jab toward John.
“Watch him, Johnny,” Ben said quietly, duplicating John's motions, feinting and dodging first one way, then the other, like a spectator at ringside.
Fritz was like a cornered animal. He knew he was going to die. If this Johnny didn't kill him with his knife, the old man was standing ready to shoot him with his gun. Either way, he was a dead man. But he might be able to do in the kid. A bullet was preferable to getting knifed in the gut.
John relaxed, as if he were going to give up the fight. He took a step backward. He held the knife pointed at Fritz, as if waiting for the outlaw to make a move. Fritz held to his crouch and raked his knife back and forth as if gauging the distance for a thrust, or looking for just the right opening.
“Well, come on, Johnny boy,” Fritz said. “You gonna fight or just stand there?”
“Which one are you?” John asked.
“Huh?”
“Your name. What's your name?”
“Fritz. Fritz Schultz. Why? What difference does it make?”
“I just wanted to make sure your name fit your face.”
“You fooled me once, Johnny boy. You ain't foolin' me again. Come on. Make your move.”
“Be careful, Johnny,” Ben said and took a step backward.
“Yeah, Johnny boy, be real careful,” Fritz said.
John looked at Fritz's eyes. He remembered his face, the look on it when he had killed up at their claim. The man had ice for blood. He had shown no emotion as he blew Donny French's brains out. Just a smirk of satisfaction on his weasel face.
Fritz's eyes shifted back and forth in their sockets. He licked his lips. John dropped his right shoulder and that drew a response from Fritz.
Fritz bunched his muscles, leaped from his crouch, and charged straight at John. He made a low animal sound in his throat, rammed the knife toward John's belly.
John seemed to uncoil. One moment he seemed completely at ease, the next he was all muscle, lean as a whip, springing into action.
He slashed high and he slashed low. Fritz stabbed at empty air. Then John stepped in with a wide swipe of his knife, cutting across Fritz's belly with the tip and then six inches of steel blade that opened a cut so deep that blood spurted from the wound like a crimson fountain. Fritz staggered backward, unsteady on his feet.
Ben hunched forward, eyes glittering.
Fritz groaned and dropped his knife in the dirt. He clutched his belly with both hands. Blood painted his fingers, flowed to his wrists. There was the smell of a severed intestine. He dropped to his knees, wide-eyed, a look of surprise on his face. John stepped in, kicked Fritz's knife away, knocked his hat off and grabbed a handful of hair, jerked the man's head back, exposing his throat.
John held the knife poised above Fritz's throat. His jaw tightened as he clamped his teeth together, nearly consumed with rage and the instinct to finish off his enemy, to slaughter him as Fritz had slaughtered Donny.
“Finish it,” Fritz rasped. “Damn you, boy, finish it.”
“I want you to die real slow, Fritz. I want you to think about what you done to my people, to my pa and ma, my little sister.”
“I didn't kill that little girl. You know I didn't.”
“You killed her. You take the blame for all of them, you sonofabitch.”
The wound in Fritz's stomach widened. A bubble of intestine poked out, protruded like some hideous growth.
John pulled hard on Fritz's hair, jerked his head back even farther. He pushed the point of his knife into the flesh right into the Adam's apple. A tiny drop of blood oozed out. John let out a long sigh.
He thought of Alice and his mother. Their faces flashed in his brain and then vanished. Tears welled up in his eyes. He wanted to kill this man. He wanted to cut his throat and watch his blood spurt out like his father's and the others'. He wanted Fritz to suffer greatly during his last seconds of life.
Disgusted with himself, with his raging emotions, John spat and flung Fritz's head to the side and stepped back.
“How long do you think it'll take you to die, Fritz?” John said in a breathy whisper. “How long?”
Fritz keeled over to one side. He drew his legs up in agony. His belly wound opened wider and more intestine oozed out, pouring its stench into the crisp night air.
Ben walked over, picked up Fritz's pistol and the Sharps. He stuck the pistol inside his belt, held the Sharps up to look at it.
“He come to do business, looks like,” Ben said.
“Stoke up that fire, will you, Ben?”
“Sure. Won't take much. Coals still hot.”
Ben brought the fire back to life. The flames scrawled liquid shadows and ochre waves across Fritz's face. Ben warmed his hands over the fire after laying the Sharps down and holstering his pistol. John wiped the blade of his knife on his trousers and slid it back in its scabbard. He continued to watch Fritz, who opened and closed his eyes, wheezed air through his mouth that sounded like someone squeezing a toneless accordion.