Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) (15 page)

“What? Kill two of their own men?” Fletcher asked in a sarcastic tone.

“That's right,” the Ranger said. “They didn't want them talking to us.” He hugged close to the edge of the crevice entrance and searched the distant hills. But it was no use. If the men were still up there, they'd changed positions by now.

“What now?” Fletcher asked. “We can't stay stuck down here hiding like rats!”

“You're right. We can't. Cover me while I get to my horse,” Sam said. “I'll ride around out of their sights and flush them out.”

“You're covered,” Fletcher called out. “Get going.”

Sam heard DeShay's running footsteps coming up the stone tunnel. Looking at Mattie, he said, “You and your sister stick close to the posse until I get back. Tell DeShay what I'm up to.”

“Sam, don't go,” Mattie called out. But it was too late. The Ranger had already begun running across the wide bed of stone toward where the horses stood behind a large boulder, out of rifle range. Freeing the dun's reins, he stepped around and tightened the cinch on the saddle.

“Yep, you guessed it,” he said to the dun when it turned its muzzle around to him. “Time to go,” he added, swinging up into the saddle. He quickly righted the horse and raced away toward a thin trail down the backside of the rocks. In seconds he was out of sight, circling wide and headed toward the hill line, his Winchester in hand.

Chapter 15

Knowing that all signs left behind by Dad Orwick and his people—including hoofprints and wagon tracks—were pointed south toward the border, Sam swung wide of the direction of the shooting. Instead of taking the trail leading up the hillside, he rode around the hill in time to see a rise of dust behind two fleeing horsemen.

The ambushers?

Sure they were, he decided, or at least that was how he had to play it. In a game as deadly as this, choices had to be made fast, and weighed decisions and gut hunches rode hand in hand.
Here goes,
he told himself, instinctively booting the big dun forward at a run. In this desolate land, who else would be riding down from that very same direction?

The copper dun raced across a sandy stretch of flatlands between hill lines, the Ranger barely able to see for the heavy dust drifting behind the riders. Knowing he had little chance of reaching the riders before they took cover in the next set of rocky hills, he considered reining the dun down a little for safety's sake. But the dun showed resistance when he touched back on its reins, testing the animal.

“All right, let's fly,” he said to the dun under his breath, letting the reins go slack, giving the animal its way.

Rifle in hand, he leaned low and forward in the saddle, feeling an extra burst of speed. Even though the horse had been racing flat out to begin with, the strong-willed animal actually bellied down a little more now that it knew it was given charge of itself. The Ranger felt his sombrero lift off and fly back from his head and hang in the wind on the rawhide string around his neck.

With nothing to follow but the rider's dust, the Ranger sped forward on the dun for over a mile before noting that the dust had begun thinning. As his vision in front of him cleared a little, he saw one of the riders limping away on foot, his horse thrashing hard on the ground, only its rear hooves kicking up dust. It whinnied long and loud. Far ahead of the limping man, Sam saw the other rider edging upward onto a rocky path along the hillside.

Seeing the injured man turn toward him, stop and throw his rifle up to his shoulder, Sam quickly did the same with his Winchester. Two shots resounded as one, but the limping man's bullet only whistled past the Ranger; Sam's bullet nailed the man hard and flung him to the ground. The man's rifle flew from his hands; a boot spun upward from his foot.

Sam tapped the dun forward, seeing the man fumble with the gun holstered on his hip. On his way past the whinnying horse, he sighted down his rifle barrel. The shot exploded and the suffering horse fell silent as Sam tapped the dun again and rode in closer to the downed man.

“Don't draw that pistol,” he warned, stopping the dun and looking down at the man.

The wounded man gave up and let his hand fall to the ground.

“This is supposed to be . . . one of them newfangled holsters that never gets stuck,” he said with disgust.

“That's too bad.” In the corner of his vision, Sam saw the other rider disappear from sight into the distant hills. He swung down from his saddle, picked up the discarded rifle and walked over to the downed man.

“Are you one of Dad's outlaws, or one of his churchmen?” he asked, tucking the man's rifle in the crook of his arm beside his Winchester.

The man stared up, squinting at the Ranger's badge in the failing evening light.

“How about you go kiss . . . my sister's dirty ass, lawman?” he said haltingly. Blood gushed from the left side of his chest.

“I'm going to guess.
Outlaw?”
Sam said.

“Ha, ha,” the man said, humorlessly. He coughed up blood and smeared it across his lips as he tried to wipe it off. “So . . . this is what dying feels like.”

“Must be,” Sam said. He stooped and drew the pistol from the man's side.

“Damn it to hell,” the gunman cursed, seeing how effortlessly his Colt slipped from its holster for the Ranger.

“What's your name?” Sam asked.

“I don't feel required . . . to give it,” the man said.

Sam only nodded and tucked the man's empty rifle up under his arm.

“Those were two of your own men you killed back at the caves,” he said, checking the man's gun in his hand.

“Yeah, so?” the gunman said. “Dad said shoot Isabelle too if she shows her face. She used to be . . . his wife. I never seen him so fired up.”

Sam just stared at him—a real hard case, this one. “So, how many of you outlaws you figure Dad is going to sacrifice to keep his
brethren
safe?”

“As many as it takes, I guess,” the gunman said, clutching his chest to save the flow of blood.

“It doesn't bother you,” Sam asked, “being put in the gun sights, killing your own, while Dad's churchmen gain the rewards?”

“Huh-uh,” the man said. “As you can see, I appear to no longer have a dog in this fight.” He attempted a bloody-toothed smile.

Sam took a step back, lifted a canteen by its strap from his saddle horn and walked back. Taking the cap off, he held the canteen down to the dying man. The man accepted the offer and coughed up a red spray as he raised it to his mouth.

“Watch the blood,” Sam said.

But the man took a swig first, then held the canteen back and looked at the blood running down the cap.

“Well, excuse . . . the hell out of me,” he said wryly. “Where
are
my manners today?” Only then did he wipe a shirtsleeve across his bloody lips. “You just as well . . . leave this here for me,” he said slyly, as if he'd won something by bloodying the canteen.

“It's yours,” Sam said, “if you tell me what I need to expect from Dad Orwick between here and Gun Valley.”

The man looked off to where his horse lay dead in the sand.

“For that kind of cooperation . . . I'd require my gun back too,” he said.

“Done,” Sam said. He raised the man's gun, dropped five of the six bullets into his palm and put them in his pocket. He closed the gait on the revolver and pitched it down by the man's boots.

“That was too easy, lawman,” the gunman said, coughing up a short laugh. “I might have . . . changed my mind.”

“I can take it back,” Sam said flatly. “Let you watch whatever's eating you tonight for as long as you can stand it.”

“You're a cruel . . . son of a bitch at heart,” he said. “We would have . . . gotten along well, you and me,” he added with mock admiration.

Sam ignored him and asked, “How long will Dad be leaving men behind to guard his back trail? Seems like he would have drawn them back by now. He's bound to be across the border.”

“He ain't . . . drawing nobody back this time, lawman. Everything'll turn around at the border—Dad will be the one doing the hunting there.”

“Why?” Sam asked.

“I think we both know why,” he said with a crafty look.

Sam only stared at him.

“Jesus, you really
don't
know, do you?” the man said in surprise, and coughed.

“I'm through with you,” Sam said, stooping, picking up the big revolver. “Tell the wolves I said
enjoy their dinner.
”

“Damn it. . . . Wait, okay,” the man said, seeing Sam ready to grab the gun, turn back to the dun and ride away.

Sam stopped and stared down at him.

“Dad knows you killed his boy, Young Ezekiel,” the dying man said. “Some of his men found where . . . you hid his body.”

The news came as a hard blow to the Ranger's gut, realizing what had happened and who was responsible for it.

“You're lying,” he said, not wanting to believe what terrible thought this man had just introduced to him.

The man took on a strange look. “Nobody's ever called me a liar before and been
wrong
, Ranger. But this time, you are.”

“Where was he shot?” Sam asked, hoping to hear something that would discount what he was saying, for Mattie's sake.

“Up on a lookout ridge above the water hole—”

“I mean where was he
hit?”
Sam asked, cutting him off.

“Above his left eye,” the man said, appearing to gather strength discussing such gruesome matters. “That was some fine shooting. Then you dragged him off . . . out of sight.” He gave a weak, bloody grin and seemed to relax in satisfaction.

“I didn't shoot him,” Sam said.

“Dad figures you did,” he said. “You were on our trail awfully tight.” He watched the look on the Ranger's face, and said, “I see that all this is ringing a bell for you. . . .”

“How old was Dad's son?” Sam asked.

“How the hell would I know?” the dying man said. “Why? You want me to tell him . . .
happy birthday
when I see him in hell?”

Sam stood running the ages through his mind. How long had Mattie been away . . . ? How many children did she say she'd borne for Dad Orwick and had to leave behind? Could the dead young ambusher she shot—a boy still in his teens—have been one of hers?

This is bad.
 . . .

Sam didn't like what was going through his mind. He looked off toward the border, then back down at the man lying in the dirt. He pitched the gun down near the man's hand this time, seeing he was getting too weak to reach very far.

“I'm leaving,” he said quietly. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“You must mean . . . reading material, or whatnot?” the man said, his voice sounding weaker with each word. He shook his head slowly. “No, I'm just fine here. Got water . . . . Got a bullet in my pistol . . .” He sighed. “You go on now. . . .”

Sam backed away. Still not trusting the man, he kept his eyes on him as he slid the Winchester into its boot and held the man's rifle in his gloved hand. He stepped into his saddle, turned the dun and rode back the way he came, a grim expression on his dust-streaked face. He had much to consider on his ride back to the caves.

He had anticipated Orwick's tactics of striking, then escaping, gaining ground with each surprise attack. It was nothing new; the Apache had been using these tactics for years. Sam knew it took a steady, patient hand to turn this sort of fighting around. He had done well with it up to now, following the riders, anticipating their moves as he went, waiting and weighing his chances, finding out a little bit more about his enemy after each encounter—each and every ambush.

But it wasn't Orwick and his men that bothered the Ranger as he rode back toward the caves. He could handle anything these men threw at him. What troubled him was knowing what Mattie had done the day she'd shot the ambusher. Not just any ambusher, he reminded himself, letting the dun choose its own pace again, this time with no sense of urgency.

After all this poor woman had been through, he knew he couldn't bring himself to tell her that by her own hand she might very well have killed her son.

—

Evening shadows had grown long and black across the tops of boulders and below the cliffs by the time the Ranger heard the distant sound of the single pistol shot resound on the flatlands behind him. He rode on with the nameless dead man's rifle across his lap, crossed the natural stone bridge and headed upward toward Munny Caves.

As soon as the sun dropped below the far western hill line, he felt the coolness of the gorge rise from the black darkness behind him. Before he reached the flat upper trail stretching toward the last few hundred yards to the caves, he sensed himself being flanked and followed by something risen from that deep abyss. Beneath him the dun grew restless, aggressive, and fought slightly against the Ranger's stay of the reins. On either side of them the Ranger heard the soft brushing sound of padded paws whisk across stone and dirt. With a quick turn of his head, he caught sight of long, ghostly shadows darting in and out and over rocks like streaks of black liquid, growing bolder, edging closer with the encroaching darkness.

Wolves. . . .

He raised the dead man's rifle from across his lap, realizing that by now the strong scent of both the dead man and his horse's blood had drawn in the prowling night hunters and by morning the two would be well on their way back to the elements of the earth.

So be it.

He cocked the rifle across the crook of his left arm and at the next sight of one of the bolder wolves, he pulled the trigger and let go a blast and a streak of fire that sent the animals scurrying away.

For the next thousand yards he rode alone, but then as if they had sunken into the land and magically resurfaced beside him, he saw their outlines reappear, a long line of them sitting as still as stone, eyes glowing red, their ears piqued tall, backlit against the purple sky.

“Not tonight, fellows,” he said quietly to them.

And he rode on.

Ten minutes later he caught sight of a single rider moving in and out of the greater darkness, descending the hill trail toward him.

Sam stopped and sidestepped the dun off the trail and sat waiting as the rider drew nearer. When the rider was close enough to hear him, Sam cocked the rifle across his lap and watched the horse come to a sudden halt.

After a tense silence, DeShay's voice said softly, “Ranger, is that you?”

“Yeah, Sheriff,” Sam said. “What were you going to do if I said no?”

DeShay let out a breath and nudged his horse toward the edge of the trail.

“Start shooting, I guess,” he said. He let the Ranger hear him uncock the big custom Simpson-Barre .45 lying on his lap. “I wasn't counting on any strangers out here making friends tonight.” He slid the gun into his holster. “Anyway, we started hearing shooting leading this way the past couple of hours, figured it was you. Everything all right?”

“As good as it's going to get for now,” Sam replied. “How about at the caves?”

“Tense,” DeShay said. He turned his horse around onto the thin trail.