Cheyenne Pass

by Lauran Paine

  Ethan took out a bandanna, blew his nose thunderously, and stuffed the bandanna back in his pocket. His voice turning brisk again, he said: “You got any more tobacco, son? I’m about out, and right now I sure need a smoke.”

  John handed over the makings.

  Once he had built and lit a cigarette, Ethan leaned back and watched the westward sky flame out, watched little streamers of night step delicately down along the faraway ridges. For a long time, he was quiet. Finally, though, he seemed to bring himself back to the present, for he said: “You know, nothing’s going to happen up here in the dark. Why don’t we head back for town?”

  “You reckon we should?”

  Ethan stood up. “Yeah,” he muttered, and swung astride his horse.

  They rode in a southerly direction until they could make out the stage road, then took that, still walking their horses along, each silent, each thoughtful and pensive. They were almost to the drop-off leading down out of Cheyenne Pass when two gunshots sounded clearly back where they had been.

  Ethan whipped around. “Wrong! We’re not going back!” he barked. “Come on!”

  They went back swiftly toward the center of the pass, showing no mercy to their horses.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There were some lingering last vestiges of dusk upon the peaks and part way down the farthest slopes, but none of this provided any worthwhile degree of lightness to the pass itself, and there would be no moon this night, only feeble starshine that only faintly brightened the hostile atmosphere.

  MacCallister rode along until he heard another gunshot, then he halted, sat his horse a moment, plumbing the onward gloom and trying to place the location of those shooters.

  Klinger gestured toward the east and said: “Off there somewhere, I think.”

  All Ethan said in response was: “Watch for muzzle blast.”

  But it wasn’t the crimson flash of a gunshot that finally moved them, it was the keening cry of a man.

  “This way,” muttered Ethan, and led off easterly back into that broken country they had so recently left. He rode slowly, not hurrying, attempting to make as little noise as possible. The night was full of peril, not only from Thorne’s men but also from DeFore’s riders, who would shoot at moving targets first and investigate later.

  They dismounted where a butte to the west shielded them and stopped the paleness coming down from that direction. They tied their horses and moved out, Winchesters in hand. But no more firing erupted, not for a long while, which left them lost as to which way to go.

  MacCallister halted beside a twisted oak tree, listened, then lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “Don’t know,” he murmured. “DeFore sent his men to scatter out. We could get shot by walking out in front of one of them.”

  “You reckon the others are Thorne’s crew?”

  “Got to be, John, got to be. Who else would come charging up here for a battle?”

  A sudden gunshot exploded a hundred yards ahead and slightly to the left. John would have moved out, but Ethan threw up an arm detaining him.

  Ethan stood rigidly and stared. A second shot erupted, this one farther south than the first one, and they both caught the flash of that blast. Whoever fired that second shot had been aiming straight where the first shot had blasted out.

  Ethan put his head back and whispered: “Can’t tell which is which, but one of ’em is Thorne’s man. That fellow to the south is closest, so let’s take him.”

  They started forward, Ethan in the lead, John following. They were careful not to make a sound. Between where they’d left the horses and the place where that second gunshot had come from was perhaps a thousand yards, all of it around the conical base of an upended granite spire. When he came across loose gravel underfoot, Ethan halted, listened, then angled to the west to get clear of the shale rock. This required time. It was also dangerous, because the moment they left the solid darkness of that spire, they were out of reach of its protection.

  For three hundred feet, they went westward, then the grass firmed up underfoot. Ethan traveled in a half-circling way back to the northeast. He hadn’t gone far when some big, tumbled boulders showed dead gray against the skyline. He set his course for this protection. When he had just about reached the big rocks, a furious flurry of gunshots broke out farther north. This seemed to trigger the raw nerves of every unseen fighter in the pass. At once a fusillade of shots erupted, red flames flashed against the dark night, gun thunder shattered the hush, and caroming echoes bounced off buttes and peaks and rolled flat out down the long canyons.

  Ethan and his son-in-law moved quickly in among the boulders and crouched there, waiting out this storm.

  John leaned his head over to say to Ethan: “This is senseless. How can any of them hope to accomplish anything in the dark?”

  Ethan thought a moment, then replied: “I think Thorne figured on catching DeFore and his crew all bunched up. He probably figured to make one smashing attack … get the old man, scatter his riders, and have it all finished before night came fully down.”

  “Well, he sure missed the mark if that’s what he had in mind,” John said.

  “Yeah. But Thorne didn’t know the old man wouldn’t fight all bunched up. He’d have no idea DeFore would scatter his riders around the peaks, each man to fight independently, because, you see, Thorne was figuring on fighting like soldiers do, and he tackled the wrong man for that. DeFore’s an old-timer. He’s fought in these hills before. He knows the best way to wage warfare in country like this is the same way the Indians used to do it … each man for himself, then, if an enemy overruns one position, all he gets is one man, because the others shift around and hit him again and again.”

  John continued to crouch there as he listened. He was thinking about this strategy Ethan had just explained as much as he was listening to the dwindling gunfire. When that swift exchange eventually died, he said: “I keep getting more and more respect for that old devil, Ethan.”

  The former sheriff said nothing. He stood up cautiously, peered around, tapped John’s arm, and headed off eastward, moving craftily from boulder to boulder, until a gun erupted no more than a hundred feet ahead. Quickly, he stepped behind a rock, carefully leaned his carbine there, removed his spurs, his hat, and his shell belt, took only his pistol, and got flat down to peer carefully around the base of the rock.

  John also removed his spurs and put aside his Winchester, but he kept on his hat and shell belt as he eased down close to his father-in-law. He whispered: “Give me cover in case I make a noise crawling up there and he fires back here.”

  Ethan put out a restraining hand and shook his head. “I’ll do it,” he said vehemently. “I’m a single man.” He eased out and began crawling. John had his lips parted to protest, but Ethan was already crawling rapidly, swinging his hips and his shoulders. John could see this was something his father-in-law had done many times before. Then Ethan was swallowed up by the dark.

  For fifty feet Ethan had no trouble, since there were big old thunderhead boulders around for him to keep between himself and whoever that gunman was up ahead, but the second fifty feet was open and covered with sharp-edged small, gravelly stones. It was this second fifty feet that mattered.

  Ethan jumped back and forth as he advanced, but he was compelled to halt where the man-sized rocks gave way to that open space. Here, he selected a vantage point that offered good sighting ahead, toward the rocks where that invisible gunman was hiding. He drew his six-gun, made a solid arm rest, lay the gun across it, half balancing upon solid granite, and waited. If the gunman up there heard Ethan coming, raised up, and twisted around, Ethan would have him. But it didn’t happen like that at all, and when the time finally came, Ethan did not dare fire.

  Ethan crawled out upon the exposed, stony clearing, halting from time to time, and crawled along when he was satisfied it was safe to do so. He was praying for another of
those unreasoning bursts of wild gunfire, but none came. He almost reached the boulder behind which the unseen gunman was crouching when, off to his right somewhere, but also in the rocks, a man’s quick, startled shout rang out one second ahead of a blasting gunshot.

  Dust and stones exploded two feet off, showering Ethan. There was another gunman in the boulders now, evidently recently arrived and trying to make his way over where the first gunman was hiding. This man had sighted Ethan creeping down upon his friend, had cried his warning, and almost simultaneously fired at Ethan.

  John was aghast. From back where he stood, it seemed that Ethan had been struck, but he wasted only a second on that possibility. He whirled, slammed a shot in the direction of this second gunman, and effectively drove Ethan’s attacker to cover.

  But on ahead the damage had been done. Whether the first gunman thought that shot had been fired by friend or foe made no difference. One thing that gunman was positive of—there was lethal danger somewhere behind him.

  Ethan, anticipating this reaction, lunged ahead the final fifteen feet, got in close to the rock behind which this man lay hidden, pressed flat there, and waited, scarcely breathing. Behind him, John fired again. This time the bullet struck unyielding stone and made a chilling noise as it changed its course and went upward in the night.

  This firing, though, finally accomplished what Ethan had wished earlier might happen, but which he certainly did not care about happening now as he lay exposed behind that rough-faced stone. It prompted other nervous men in the roundabout night to open up again, firing quite blindly, for the most part.

  For what seemed an eternity, the man on the opposite side of Ethan’s rock did not fire at all, nor did he make any kind of a sound which would have told Ethan where he was, exactly, and what he was doing. But as that second wild fusillade died away, Ethan caught the scrape of metal—maybe a belt buckle—over shale. His enemy was inching around the big stone to look out toward the rear. Ethan pushed his six-gun forward toward the rounding base of the same stone and scarcely breathed.

  Once more John got off a shot. He was very effectively neutralizing the other hidden gunman. Then silence settled, drew out to its absolute maximum.

  Just as Ethan could feel his muscles instinctively bunching from remaining in one position so long, a softly sibilant little abrasive sound came from beyond the rock. This told Ethan that his adversary was coming around the south end of the boulder, the direction Ethan was facing.

  He raised his six-gun, placed his thumb pad down hard over the hammer, and held his breath.

  The man crawled a few inches more, then he became still for so long, Ethan was thinking he had stopped and picked a new position. But he hadn’t, for he could see a good deal of the little clearing and was taking time to study it. Then the man continued on again, less carefully now, as though upon finding that expanse to the rear empty, he was encouraged to feel safe.

  Ethan caught sight of a gun barrel first as his adversary pushed his gun hand forward. The former sheriff kept his eyes trained on that length of blue steel. It stopped moving briefly, then came on again. All around was a great silence. It was as though Ethan and the unseen man were the only two people for miles around. The gun edged forward again, both barrel and cylinder were now in sight. Ethan raised his own weapon slightly, tightened his grip, and waited.

  The man’s fisted hand and wrist came into sight, and Ethan threw all his weight into a savage downward chop. He felt his six-gun barrel strike solidly. The shock of that impact traveled all the way to Ethan’s shoulder. He felt gristle and bone give way under the savage blow of his gun barrel striking that exposed wrist. Then the still unseen man gave a tremendous bound upward and let off a nerve-searing scream as he rolled out into sight. He grabbed for that smashed wrist with his good hand, and even when he saw Ethan rise up to crouch above him, his .45 less than five feet away, the injured cowboy continued to writhe.

  The effect of that agonized scream seemed to have its instant effect elsewhere; men cried out at one another and threw shots wherever they had seen, or thought they had seen, movement.

  Klinger fired again, but it was beginning to appear that his particular adversary had departed, evidently believing he’d stumbled into the midst of the opposition. At least John got back no return fire.

  While this flashing bedlam ran on, Ethan retrieved the injured man’s weapon, pushed it into his waistband, and motioned for his prisoner to get up. He did not know this man. Earlier, he had thought he might be one of those hardcases he and John had ordered out of Winchester, but he was not. He was a perfect stranger to Ethan. When he staggered upright, Ethan prodded him along with his .45, herding his prisoner back toward the boulder where John was waiting. When John stepped out to lend a hand, Ethan kept on going. The three of them got back where the carbines were and here, finally, Ethan sat down, dropped his hat upon the back of his head, buckled on his spurs, holstered his six-gun, and retrieved his Winchester. Not until then did he make a slow study of his prisoner.

  The unknown cowboy was moaning behind gritted teeth and wagging his head with pain from his shattered wrist. He seemed oblivious to MacCallister and Klinger. For a time they paid their captive slight heed as they remained alert for any movement or sound. The night beyond this place was as silent and still as it had been before the fight started.

  “Pulled out, I reckon,” Ethan mused, squaring back around to regard the cowboy. “I think our friend’s scream did that for us. About all it takes in the night to scatter brave men is a scream like that.”

  MacCallister stepped over, considered the man’s right arm, yanked off his neckerchief, then held out his hand for John’s neckerchief. Wordlessly and efficiently, he began bandaging the unresisting man’s shattered wrist. He finished up by making a sling out of the stranger’s belt and neckerchief. It was crude, but it was adequate, and with the first pain gradually subsiding, the strange rider looked at his captors—looked longest at the badges they both wore.

  “What’s your name?” John asked the man.

  “Carl Nolte.”

  “Where’s Ray Thorne, Carl?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where anyone is. This was crazy, tryin’ to get that old man in the night when he had his crew and the law up here with him.”

  “Did you know the law was up here with him, Carl?”

  “Hell no! If I had, I wouldn’t have gotten into this thing.”

  “But you knew the law was after you fellows and Thorne.”

  The cowboy shook his head emphatically. “I knew no such a thing,” he said. “Thorne told us the law favored the stage line, but that it couldn’t get involved, so the stage line had to force the pass open by itself.”

  John looked at Ethan. Obviously, John was skeptical of Nolte’s statement.

  All Ethan said was: “Come on, let’s find DeFore and get out of this place. This fellow needs a doctor, and we need some supper.”

  They took their prisoner back over the same ground they had traversed getting to this spot and ultimately got safely back to their horses. There was not a sound anywhere in the night.

  With their animals untied and in hand, Ethan raised his voice in a shout: “DeFore? This is Ethan MacCallister. Are you all right?”

  For a long moment, no reply came back, then DeFore’s rough voice called back profanely, saying he was fine, but that he didn’t think the stage company hirelings were.

  To this, Ethan called back: “Meet at your place, DeFore. Pull out when you think it’s safe. We’ve got an injured prisoner, so we’re pulling out now.”

  “It’s safe right now,” came back DeFore’s growling voice. “They’ve pulled out, I heard ’em go.”

  “Which way?”

  “West, damn ’em … off into the badlands west of here.”

  Ethan turned on the prisoner. “That sound right?” he asked.

  “It’s
right,” mumbled the captive. “The plan was to hit fast, get the old man, and keep right on goin’ west into the hills where no pursuit could overtake us.”

  John mounted, kicked out his booted left foot, and thrust a hand downward toward Nolte. Without a word the prisoner grasped that hand, used the left stirrup, and sprang up to settle behind John’s cantle.

  Ethan let those two ride on ahead twenty or thirty feet, then he mounted his horse and moved out easterly toward the stage road, and on across it to the run of tilted land which led down through dingy canyons to DeFore’s home ranch.

  Nothing was said the full length of that trip. Each man was absorbed by his own grim thoughts.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was well past midnight before DeFore and his riders came walking their horses on into the yard. One of them had a bullet hole through the fleshy part of his upper leg, and while this did not, upon examination by lantern, turn out to be serious, to his chiding companions the injured man blisteringly suggested that if they didn’t think his wound was much, they should try riding a horse over rough ground in the dark with a wound just like it.

  DeFore left one of his men to care for this indignant rider, brought the remaining two with him to the porch of his ranch house where MacCallister, Klinger, and their prisoner were waiting. He unlocked his front door and stamped in, mumbling a terse invitation for the others to come inside.

  As soon as some lamps had been lighted, DeFore stepped up and glared at the prisoner. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to, his look was venomous enough to compensate for anything he could have said. He sent one of his riders to awaken his cook and have some food prepared, then he walked over and stopped, wide-legged, in front of Ethan. As he’d done with the prisoner, DeFore stood and looked but said nothing for a long while. Finally, he pushed out his hand.

  “Shake, Ethan. I’m plumb sorry I put you in that spot up at the chapel. I had no idea how it was with Ruthie.”