Porter gritted his teeth and pulled on the reins with his free hand as his horse bristled at the uncomfortable tension. “You tell the rest of ‘em to back off. I only want the murderer of MacDonald and the Chinese. I suspect it’s the same man.”
“It’s all of them,” said Mary, shaking her head.
Porter glanced warily at Mary. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
Slow Badger called out something and pointed at the fresh turned earth. He backed toward the others with hands raised. He spoke a lot more calmly now that Porter had both drawn his gun and shown him the pin.
“I would not get off your horse yet,” Mary said softly. “Slow Badger said he will submit Prairie Dog to you for the white man’s justice, but they must cover the dead gods first.”
“That brave just had you say as close to a mouthful as you ever do. You paraphrasing him good or what?”
“I’m making his words come to sense in English,” she said sourly. “He also wants the pin of protection back.”
“Fat chance,” growled Porter. “I ain’t giving up evidence.”
“They may fight us for it,” whispered Mary. “It means more to them than you can understand.”
Just as she had said, Slow Badger warily watched Porter as he and the others continued burying whatever was just beneath the surface. Slow Badger called out once again, as if still entreating for the return of the golden pin.
Porter watched, curious at what was there in the ground. Dragon bones? Strange copper books green with age? He pondered a moment, scratched at his beard, and lost his seat in the saddle just a fraction as his horse fretted. He leaned down mere inches to right himself as his horse stamped impatiently, but it was just enough.
Just enough that a bullet meant for the back of his head missed, whistling perilously close and taking his hat off.
Porter instinctively dropped to the ground as he heard voices call out behind in glee. “We got him!”
One of the digging Indians was hit in the chest as he rose. He dropped back to the earth in a wide embrace.
Bloody Creek Mary gave hell to her horse and plunged through the wall of trees and beyond, while the remaining dozen or so Indians who had been burying god knows what, scattered like ducks taking wing in every direction to the cover behind.
“I got him,” said a deeper bass tinged growl with a slurring of speech.
“Stoney got him!”
Another shot brought a yelp from Dawg and the animal tore off into cover of the trees. That was bad, the animal was mute and never barked or yelped.
“You got the dog, too!”
At least now Porter knew who was shooting at him. That explained the slurred speech, he was missing a few teeth and probably still had swollen lips and face.
“Where’d that scar-faced squaw get to?”
“She lit out,” answered either Pickax Pete or the rat-faced Thorne.
Porter laid face down in the soft earth. At least that had broken his fall and he didn’t feel any sorer for it. He kept his head low and still, straining to see where his foes were.
Movement snaking through the trees like ghosts caught his eye. Luckily, there was still a good distance between them, almost fifty yards, especially considering he was the one in the center of a clearing and they had the cover of thick trees.
The soft earth had a gentle slope to his right where he could have a little bit of cover in the half ditch the Indians had been filling in. He had a firm grip on his dragoon, and he waited until he espied a clean shot to the foremost man. He hoped it was Stoney. If he shot the leader, the rest of them might break and run down the mountainside.
But they moved chaotically through the pines, aspens, and alder. It was hard to tell, as he lay still, who was who, and when his peripheral vison revealed a man outlined clean and free of the trees, Porter lifted the muzzle and fired.
The crack of the bullet and the slap of lead striking the man dead center, followed by an anguished gurgle, told Porter he hit the man square. He didn’t wait to see who it was, he rolled quick to the slight depression for cover.
“He killed Nelson!”
A volley of shots came his way, blasting heaps of fresh reddish earth over him in a dust shower.
The ambushers paused to reload, but Porter guessed several must still be keeping a steely barrel trained at him. So much for making them panic when he killed one.
A few more wild shots flew his way, clawing at the ground all around him. It was too close for comfort. He pressed himself deeper into the earth and brushed away a soft spot to get his face lower. He touched something firm, it wasn’t a rock, it was bone.
He yanked and withdrew a long white femur not unlike the dragon bone Fei Buk had shown him for a moment the night before. He was sure it wasn’t the same one, this one was larger. He tossed it just in front of himself and a bullet promptly snapped it in half.
Porter returned fire as best he could, and he heard a yelp. Whether it was pain or fear he wasn’t sure yet.
The man continued caterwauling. “I can’t see.”
“He missed you, ya damn fool!” came the comforting reply.
“No, I got splinters in my eyes from the tree. I’m blind.”
Porter chuckled, that was almost as good as shooting the man dead. He guessed it was rat-faced Thorne. Who was left? Stoney, who might be swollen and not as good a shot as he could be. Pickax Pete? There was enough shooters that there had to be at least one more. Who?
A twig snapped and he glanced far to his rear and saw another man standing at the tree line. He had a direct bead on Porter with a raised pistol.
Bloody Creek Mary launched from the trees like a she-lion. Her bowie knife arced high and came down in a savage slash that tore the gunman open from shoulder to sternum and the heart beyond. Blood splashed in a geyser while a look of primal fear whitened the would-be killer’s face. He still managed to pull the trigger, but his shot went wide, yards away from his intended target.
Porter took the opportunity to raise up a little and shoot at the men in front of him.
Mary took the dead man’s gun and shot toward the ambushers, granting Porter enough time to move to a better position. From where they were, they could each shoot both down and across at the Mountain Hounds. It was a bad position for Stoney and the Mountain Hounds, and the bushwhackers knew it.
A wild cry from one of Slow Badger’s people signaled new antagonists were in the fray.
An arrow stuck into a tree one of the bushwhackers was hiding behind. A cry of alarm from the man had him move a pace and Porter almost got him.
More war cries sounded, and Porter never felt so surrounded as he did in that moment. He wondered if he wouldn’t get an arrow in his back while he was spread out wide facing the Mountain Hounds.
Porter glanced at Bloody Creek Mary, and she made the sign for all clear. He signaled back at the sound of the Indians coming closer and she repeated the all clear sign as if to say it was not a threat. That was one thing of many off his mind, if she was right. Just before this it had seemed to be falling apart.
“Stoney! I think the injuns are coming up behind us,” said one of the men with more than a little alarm in his wavering voice.
Porter recognized Stoney’s slurred speech when the big man said, “Take Thorne and get him on his horse. We’re moving back. We’ll get them later. Brown’s gotta come down sometime.”
Thorne still wailed in pain as another man led him behind thick enough trees that Porter couldn’t get a worthwhile bead on any of them. He sent a few shots their way just to get them moving.
“Do you see Dawg?” Porter asked Mary.
“Slow Badger has him. They are caring for his wound.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad.”
Porter cursed and took a chance to move closer.
A shot rang out, sending earth flying not a hand’s breadth from him.
Porter ducked back to the slope for better cover.
Mary sen
t a few wild shots toward the enemy, but she signaled Porter that she couldn’t see their foe, and she wasn’t a good shot anyhow, having almost no experience with a gun.
But Stoney didn’t know that. “We’ll be back and tear your guts out, Brown! If the injuns don’t do it first! Ha!”
He grunted as he climbed into his saddle, then he slapped his horse’s hindquarters with his reins, and the familiar retreat of thundering hooves sounded as they charged back down the mountain.
Porter and Mary cautiously approached the gap where one of the Mountain Hounds lay dead.
“Looks like we only got two of them,” said Porter, as he picked up the dead man’s scattergun. It was a fine double-barreled piece, and still loaded.
“You blinded a third,” she offered.
“Yep, but I didn’t even recognize the one you got.” Porter pointed out toward the trees where he could hear people moving and asked, “You sure things are all right with Slow Badger and the rest? What were they doing here?”
“Big medicine here.”
He shook his head. “That still ain’t much of an answer.”
She shrugged. “Understand what you can.”
“No telling how many more of them Mountain Hounds there are, and if they can’t get to me, they are sure as shooting gonna cause trouble for Jack. I better hurry after them.”
“Jack can handle himself.”
“I can hope so, but I can’t let anything happen. Can you take care of Dawg? I better get going after them.” He charged into the brush and saw his horse not fifty paces away.
“They might be waiting at the bottom to ambush you.”
Porter pushed through a thicket to reach his appaloosa. “Gotta take that chance and help even the odds for Jack. I can’t let those Mountain Hounds all ride down like a storm on top of him with a damn tent for cover with just a shotgun and revolver.”
“There is more to this,” said Mary. “Slow Badger said...”
“They’re your people, see if you can get it sorted for now,” said Porter, as he leapt into the saddle.
“There are worse things waiting,” she called.
“Don’t let them eat my dog.”
Bloody Creek Mary shook her head. “Fei Buk was correct about the Old Ones.”
Porter shrugged. “I can’t be worrying about that now while my friends and business are in danger.”
“But the stars…”
“I’ll come back for you, but I’ve gotta go help Jack before they jump him and burn the Round Tent,” he called over his shoulder as he raced down the trail.
“The stars are right tonight!” she cried.
Porter had no time for that nonsense. He had a place to be, at the head of a wall of justice. Overhead the sun was obscured by lead-colored clouds, and the day seemed to fill with gloom.
Death Dealer
Sharp gusts of wind nipped at his neck and Porter was aware of soreness from last night’s fight as he guided his horse down the rocky trail. Pitiless clouds above coalesced into the shape of looming thunderheads threatening heavy rain in the distance. Porter gingerly had his horse hurry down the slope. He was cautious of every bend in the trail and thick stand of trees. Anywhere he guessed an ambush could happen he eyed carefully before proceeding. He wished Dawg were there to hurry ahead and help smoke them out, but it couldn’t be helped. He just hoped the mangy hound would be all right, but if he didn’t hurry, maybe none of his friends here would be all right. Jack was a good man, and capable one on one, but not against a half-dozen of the Mountain Hounds and Stoney.
Sure, Zeke and Boles were likely there, but could they be counted on when things got rough? Unlikely, and Porter wouldn’t leave Jack hanging like that. He cursed himself, he should have known Stoney and his pack would be out for blood. Well, he would set things right next time he saw the bushwhackers.
He was almost to the bottom where Williamson’s camp was. The roar of the river was louder here, and he still hadn’t seen any sign of the Mountain Hounds. Maybe they had hurried away to lick their wounds and take on an easier target. Maybe if they took the fight to Round Tent right away he could get them in the back while they focused on Jack and the others.
Glancing down at the hoof prints coming down the mountain, Porter’s tracking skills allowed him to number six retreating horses; but to Porter’s trained eye he could tell that only four of them carried men, the other two were being led.
He paused a moment at the last bend in the trail right before he reached bottom. He strained to listen to the woods but could discern nothing but the river and its continual droning song. He watched his horse’s ears. The black appaloosa twitched but seemed content as if it had nothing more on its mind than carrying him back home.
The wind shifted and the friendly scent of a campfire came to him, promising warmth and food. He caught a hint of coffee, too.
Easing his appaloosa along the bend, he saw his antagonists. He had caught them unawares. They were encamped at Williamson’s. Someone had even dragged his stiff body from the canvas tent and tossed it unceremoniously to the side of his rockerbox. The horses were gathered close by the river. The men were oblivious to his presence. Two by the fire and two more nearer the horses.
Porter drew his six-gun in one hand while resting the scattergun on the saddle horn. He held both his reins and the trigger for the shotgun at the ready. He blocked the trail, looking down on them. He eased the appaloosa a few steps toward his foes.
One man knelt on his haunches before the fire, getting ready to pull the coffee pot off the flames. He caught sight of Porter and let the pot drop back into the coals. He slowly stood, keeping his hands away from his gun belt. Thorne, who was blinded with a bandage over his eyes, sat beside the fire unaware. Some of the coffee splashed from the kettle and hit his leg, he cursed softly. “Dagnabit. What was that?”
“Stoney,” said the one at the fire who had first seen Porter. Not eliciting a response fast enough, he repeated urgently, “Stoney!”
Pickax Pete and Stoney both had their backs to Porter. Pete was brushing down his horse while Stoney was taking a leak.
“What?” barked Stoney, as he gave himself a shake.
“You all are a piss poor bunch of bushwhackers,” drawled Porter. “Throw down your guns or your lives.”
Stoney spun about. His eyes darted to where each of his men were and where their guns were.
Porter had three barrels trained on them. His pistol was on Stoney while the double-barreled scattergun was on the two men beside the fire. A snarl washed over Pickax Pete’s face, but he was also the farthest away, being beside the horses. He wasn’t wearing a gun either—that still hung on his saddle horn.
“Who’s there?” asked Thorne, turning his head back and forth despite his inability to discern anything.
The kettle with the coffee started to whistle.
Eyes flashed to guns and back to the eyes across from them.
Hands moved ever so slowly toward guns.
The whistle increased in steam power.
Eyes locked in death’s embrace.
“Is someone gonna pull that off afore it burns?” asked a bullet-headed bald man who stepped out from Williamson’s tent. He saw Porter had the drop on his friends and he reacted, trying to draw his own gun.
Porter blasted with the shotgun and moved his own pistol to shoot the man who was drawing down on him.
The shotgun blast took the man beside the fire and he fell back, a red mist lingering a moment over his corpse.
Porter hit the bald man in the chest, but his antagonist fired as he fell, hitting the appaloosa in the neck.
The horse screamed and shot upward, launching Porter from the saddle to the hard-packed ground.
Stoney drew his gun and fired but, in the turmoil, missed his mark. The crazed, wounded horse bounded between him and Porter and spooked the rest of the horses so they panicked and pulled at their own tethers in every direction, causing Pickax Pete to dodge away and lose his chance at r
etrieving his gun belt.
Slammed to the ground, Porter rolled just as the bald man fired again, missing by a mile.
Porter hit the bald man with the second blast of the shotgun, and the bullet-headed foe fell back against the tent, splashing it with crimson.
“Where is everybody?” shouted Thorne, standing. His outstretched hands groped for help amid the chaos.
Stoney, knocked back by the horse crazed fury, shot toward Porter again but missed. He ran to the opposite slope to flank Porter between himself and the flume. He shot again and again.
Porter was forced to move, rolling away. He shot but missed Stoney twice.
“Where is everybody? Help me!” cried Thorne.
“Shut up!” shouted Stoney.
Porter charged ahead, using Thorne as cover. Porter grasped Thorne’s suspenders and held him like a shield as he moved to get around the flume for cover.
Thorne said, “Thanks for moving me friend.”
Stoney didn’t hesitate in shooting at them both and a bullet nicked Thorne in the shoulder.
Thorne cried out but struggled limply while Porter pushed them forward. He stumbled along, thinking a friend was moving him toward cover. He shouted, “Brown shot me in the shoulder. Kill him Stoney!”
Stoney shot again, this time striking Thorne in the stomach. Thorne cried out, “You kilt me, I’m dead.”
Thorne went limp but Porter held onto the man’s suspenders until he could get around the other side of the two-foot high flume for cover. He let Thorne fall into the rushing water and the body was dragged down the channel swiftly.
Stoney put a few holes in the flume, which sprung jets of water, but he could no longer see where Porter was hiding.
Porter crawled along the flume, readying himself to shoot, when he heard a hard thud behind him.
Turning back, he saw that Pickax Pete had just landed behind him, armed with his namesake.
Pickax had the tool raised high and it was coming down.
Porter could shoot him and be nailed to the ground, or he could move. He moved.
The pickax stabbed into the soft earth, catching just a hint of Porter’s coat with it and pinning it to the ground.
Let Sleeping Gods Lie Page 4