by M Gunn
Jim Dante stared open-mouthed at Hammer and pointed a shaking arm at the horseman. He did not believe what he was looking at.
‘That’s the same varmint that you just run over, Bart,’ Dante said as he watched the cowboy and clutched Gibbs’ arm. ‘Who the hell is he?’
Holt spat his cigar at the ground and drew both his guns in one swift action. He cocked their hammers and stepped forward.
‘That’s the Cheyenne cowboy,’ he sneered as he levelled his weapons and aimed at the fearless rider. ‘Take a good look at the critter, boys. He’ll be dead as soon as my lead reaches him.’
The men huddled around the buckboard watched as Holt squeezed his triggers. Two massive bolts of fiery flame erupted from both his gun barrels and for a brief moment lit up the shadows.
As the ear-splitting noise of the shots echoed around the vast stockyards, a pitiful sound also rang out.
It was the sound of death.
FINALE
Hammer crashed headlong into the wooden fence poles of the cattle pens. He had seen the bright flashes of the guns being fired but it had been too late for him to do anything about it. As his body hit the fence poles he realized what the sickening sound had been and why he had been thrown over the head of the horse. His eyes focused on the horse that had carried him here and saw the mare staggering backwards. The light of the bright moon sparkled on the two bleeding holes in the animal’s chest.
The young cowboy got on to his knees and watched as the mare finally succumbed to its fatal wounds. The horse fell lifelessly on to the ground.
More shots exploded behind Hammer. Smouldering sawdust showered over the cowboy as the bullets caught the array of poles between himself and the lethal bunch of wanted men.
Hammer spat at the sand and then moved behind the pens.
Suddenly he was forced to stop. Bullets hit the wooden uprights ahead of him. Hammer sensed that every shot was getting closer and closer to him. He fell on to his face as even more bullets carved through the shadows. He could feel their heat through the back of his shirt. They had him trapped and Hammer knew it.
He reached down and drew his .45.
Looking beneath the poles he saw a trough in the pen. He rolled sideways and then started to crawl forward. Hammer could feel the flesh of both his knees and elbows being grazed as he crawled as fast as he could toward the trough.
Just as he reached the trough Hammer heard galloping hoofs echo behind him as the marshal and deputy led his trail pals into the yard.
Suddenly a volley of nerve-jangling bullets passed over the cattle pens at the five riders.
The Cheyenne cowboy watched helplessly as all five horses reared up. Tapers of impending death splintered through the darkness in search of fresh blood.
Hammer watched as both horses and riders crashed to the ground in equal portion. It was impossible to tell how many of the riders had fallen victim to the gunmen’s lead.
Gunsmoke drifted like a choking fog across the countless cattle pens and Hammer realized that it was time for him to move.
As quickly as he could he hobbled from one pen to another, throwing himself through the gaps between the poles. Hammer knew that the acrid gunsmoke was giving him cover. The cowboy doggedly kept advancing toward the gunmen as they continued to unleash their weapons’ venom at the marshal and his men.
The thought of his life savings being stolen somehow kept Hammer moving. The thought of poverty was a far greater spur than the fear of death. Another volley of shots rang out from the men hidden behind the buckboard. They flashed through the shadows like a swarm of crazed fireflies. Hammer dropped on to one knee and watched rested fence poles being reduced to matchwood as bullets impacted into them.
Desperately, the crouching cowboy wondered what he had to do to get the better of the gunmen. Before he had time to come up with a plan, the chilling voice of Holt bellowed across the stockyard.
‘I know it’s you, Cheyenne,’ Holt screamed from beyond the gunsmoke. ‘I recognize your pretty face. Remember me? I’m Emmett Holt. You’ve got a real bad habit of poking your damn nose into my business. You was lucky last time but not this time. This time I’m gonna kill you.’
Hammer did not reply. He knew Holt was attempting to locate him in the swirling smoke that their guns had discharged. That meant they were not sure where he was and that suited the cowboy just fine.
Shots came from the place he had seen the lawmen and cowboys fall. At least some of them had not been slaughtered, Hammer thought.
‘Keep shooting, boys,’ he whispered as he turned and focused on the dust coat-clad men beside the passenger car. ‘Just keep them busy.’
His mind raced. He knew that his only chance was to somehow get around the side of them. Otherwise it was impossible for him to get the better of men using a buckboard as cover.
He rested his back against a corner fence pole. His eyes searched the shadows and then he stared straight ahead. It dawned on Hammer that he had hobbled at least a hundred yards from where he had been thrown by the horse and was now facing one of the cattle cars.
More shots rang out. Holt and his cohorts were firing blindly, he thought. The bullets were peppering the fencing twenty feet behind his crouching form. His eyes glanced through the gunsmoke and fixed upon the passenger car. There were two cattle cars between him and the men in dust coats, he thought.
His fertile mind started to formulate a crude plan. He knew that it might not work but there was no choice if he wanted to retrieve his savings from Holt and his followers.
The planked cattle cars were rocking as the captive steers within them frantically tried to crash out of the walls. Years of working as a cowboy had taught Hammer that there was nothing more dangerous or unpredictable than terrified cattle. Their fright and instinct for survival made them as deadly as anyone with a six-gun.
The nervous steers wailed like the legendary banshee inside the cattle cars as the gun battle continued to blast across the yard in both directions. Suddenly the cowboy had an idea which he believed just might work.
He rose up to his full height beside the fence poles.
Hammer took a deep breath and lowered his head as his eyes fixed upon the closest cattle car. Steers were ornery animals but the Cheyenne cowboy had a notion that he might just be able to use that temperament against the lethal gunmen.
Under the cover of the choking smoke that drifted on the night air, Hammer charged at the cattle car. His momentum was enough for him to launch himself at the high-sided carriage. He flew at the wooden slats and hit the side of the car. His fingers gripped the planks as his boots fought for grip.
He hung there for what seemed like an eternity, then climbed up its planking to where the metal pins secured the large door. Irate steers grunted as he reached the pins. Hammer feverishly pulled one pin from the metal loop that held it in place and then made his way across the side wall to the other metal pin.
Hammer glanced across at the gunmen who were still exchanging shots with Grey and his cronies. A sense of relief washed over the cowboy as it became obvious that they had not seen him.
Using every scrap of his strength Hammer pulled the second pin clear. The massive wooden doorway creaked as it defied gravity and balanced against the bulkhead. Hammer gripped the top of the massive door and pulled it away from the body of the carriage. Like the drawbridge of an ancient medieval castle, the huge door fell heavily toward the ground. The ramp that had been used to load the cattle was now an invitation for the frantic steers to disembark.
Sensing freedom, the steers immediately started to flee their confines and came down the ramp rapidly. The large beasts scattered in every direction. Several of the mighty animals chose to run along the side of the train toward the buckboard.
Fearing that the gunmen would spot him when they became aware of the freed white-faced steers, Hammer climbed on to the roof of the car and steadied himself. His fears had been correct for no sooner had he reached the roof of the cattle car than a shot
tore through the shadows and ripped through the shoulder of his shirt. The cowboy had never felt such pain before. It was like being hit by a red-hot branding iron.
Hammer fell to his knees as blood trickled from the graze. He pulled his gun free of its holster just as Holt blasted another shot up at him.
The bullet flew over his head and the Cheyenne cowboy fanned his gun hammer in reply. He watched as all six of his bullets rained down to where the devilish gunmen were secreted beside the buckboard. To his utter surprise Hammer saw two of Holt’s men buckle and fall into the shadowy sand.
Then as he moved away from the edge of the carriage roof to reload his smoking .45 he heard the remaining men scream as a dozen or more of the snorting steers charged into them. The sound of stampeding steers was etched into his memory, just as the screams of men mowed down by raging beasts was also something the cowboy had heard before.
Hammer filled his smoking chambers with fresh bullets from his belt and snapped the rotating cylinder back into the body of his six-shooter. He gripped the gun, crawled to the rim of the cattle car and stared down into the dusty void.
The sickening sight was something he had seen many times before when a herd stampeded and trampled unwary cowboys underfoot. He rose on to his knees and looked down upon the carnage. The steers had trampled the hired gunmen beneath their merciless hoofs. The lamplight from the passenger car highlighted what was left of them. Broken bodies basked in a crimson hue beside the buckboard. Hammer looked up and saw the hoof dust of the running steers as they fled into the depths of the shadowy stockyard.
There was no sense of satisfaction in the cowboy. Just horror and revulsion.
No sooner had Hammer gotten to his feet when he heard something to his left. It was the cocking of a gun hammer. The startled cowboy swung and stared at Holt as the bruised and bloodied gunman clambered on to the roof of the cattle car. With the gun in his hand, Holt straightened up and stood bleeding less than fifteen feet from Hammer.
‘Now it’s your time to die, Cheyenne,’ Holt said as he raised his gun swiftly. Hammer followed suit. Two mighty blasts lit up the night air as both men fired at exactly the same moment.
The gun fell from Holt’s grip. He swayed and stared at the young cowboy in disbelief. His eyes looked at the bullet hole in his chest as blood quickly spread across his shirt front.
‘You killed me, Cheyenne,’ Holt mumbled before staggering backwards and falling between the two cars.
Gat Hammer limped to the edge of the car and looked down at the stricken gunman. Holt’s body lay motionless where it had brutally landed. Then Hammer heard his name being called from the approaching lawmen and his fellow cowboys.
He looked down at them and holstered his gun.
He touched his temple in salute.
‘It’s about time you boys showed up,’ Hammer sighed and sat down. His legs dangled over the edge of the carriage as he exhaled. ‘I was plumb running out of ideas.’