Cheyenne Pass

by Lauran Paine

  “If we ride out and around,” stated one of the DeFore riders, “we’ll lose time, Deputy.”

  Ethan shook his head. “Clem Whipple’s going to be on the box of that coach. I’ll see to it that Clem takes plenty of time.”

  Ethan picked up a ring of keys from the desk, tossed them to Dick DeFore, and nodded toward the cellblock door. “Go see Travis if you like,” he said, and as the DeFore men moved over toward that oaken panel, Klinger entered from the softly lighted outside roadway. He shot a look over where DeFore’s men were passing beyond sight into the cellblock, then swung toward his father-in-law.

  “About two hours ago, Thorne got a fresh horse for himself, and so did the three men with him,” John announced. “The nighthawk at the barn said he recognized two of those fellows as the hardcases you and I ordered out of town.”

  “Thorne happen to say anything to the nighthawk?” Ethan asked.

  “Nothing at all. Just hired the critters, paid in advance for them, left four jaded horses, and rode right on out.”

  “I been doing some thinking, John,” Ethan said. “I’ll go talk to Clem about taking his time so as not to get too far ahead of us. That’ll take care of the holdup.” He glanced at DeFore. “There’s still this other thing about you, Dick, and Cheyenne Pass, and Mather back there in the cell and his doggoned stage company. When you go back to see Travis, don’t say anything.”

  “Go on, Ethan,” John urged. “I’ll make sure there’s no trouble at this end.”

  “Better yet, while I’m up talking to Clem, get Mather out of jail, give him back his little pistol, and take him up to the stage office. Then I want you make sure that he’s on that southbound coach.”

  John’s face brightened with understanding. He made a slow, soft smile. “Sure,” he assented, “I’ll do that. If talking won’t convince Mr. Mather his company made a bad mistake in hiring Thorne, maybe being smack dab in the middle of a holdup down at South Pass will convince him.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Ethan. “So you better get back there and make sure he doesn’t know in advance what’s going on. We know he’s going to buck like a bay steer about being put on the coach and sent out of Winchester. Just be damned sure he’s aboard when Clem pulls out. After that, meet me at the livery barn. Any questions?”

  When John shook his head, Ethan stood, stretched, eyed that cheerily bubbling coffeepot over on the stove, and shook his head. He then winked at his son-in-law, and walked out of the office.

  * * * * *

  Winchester was beginning to stir, to show signs of life along its main thoroughfare. Here and there merchants were unlocking their stores, setting out sidewalk displays, calling back and forth to one another as they prepared for another pleasant day. Up at the stage office, a coach was drawn in beside the plank walk, its six fresh horses standing impatiently, facing southward, and a little knot of men were stationed on the walk beside it. Two of them Ethan recognized as the mine company men, along with Clem Whipple and Hank Weaver. The fifth man was a hostler from the back lot, and he was more concerned with checking tugs and harness, singletrees and doubletrees, than with the cryptic conversation going on among the others.

  MacCallister nodded pleasantly at the men as he came up. He nodded and caught Clem’s arm and drew him off to one side. Weaver and the mine company men nodded back, but then ignored Ethan and Clem as they considered the papers Weaver was holding out to them. Their brief, guarded sentences were barely distinguishable over where Ethan swiftly sketched in the situation to Clem.

  The longer he listened, the wider Clem’s eyes became. Finally, when Ethan was finished, he said quietly: “Holy hell, Ethan … Thorne’s going to hold us up? The minute I laid eyes on him, I figured he was trouble four ways from the middle, but I never figured him for a common highwayman.”

  Ethan said: “Do you have any idea how much gold is on your stage today?”

  “Well, not exactly. But maybe about …”

  “Seventy thousand dollars’ worth!” Ethan informed him.

  Clem gasped and swallowed, staring at the deputy.

  “Now the difference between a gunfighter like Ray Thorne and a highwayman, is just about that much money. In fact, for seventy thousand, I think half the tinhorns in Sherman County would take a chance on trying to perpetrate a robbery.”

  The stage driver closed his mouth, thought a moment, then vigorously bobbed his head up and down. “I’ll do like you say, Ethan. I’ll kill time so’s you boys will be sure and get into position before I hit South Pass. But for gosh sakes, don’t fail to be there. I got a wife and kid, you know, and sitting up there on the box, I’m a perfect target.”

  Ethan put a hand upon Whipple’s shoulder. “We’ll be in position, Clem. Don’t you worry about that. But if things get too hot, turn that coach around and head back before you’re down into the pass. And one more thing … you’ll have Charles Mather aboard. He’s the bigwig from the Denver office. If he starts shouting orders at you, just remember this … in Sherman County, he’s just another passenger as far as the law’s concerned. You do what I’ve told you, and never mind Mather.”

  “Sure, Ethan.” The stage driver shifted his footing, looked worriedly around and back again. “Anyone else know about this? I mean, do those mine guards have any idea …?”

  “No. You’ll be the only man on that stage who knows. I think it best to keep it this way too. Don’t you?”

  Clem’s worried look kept deepening. “I guess so,” he eventually muttered. “Just don’t fail us, Ethan.”

  “We won’t. I promise you. Now go on back, and act like nothing is going to happen.”

  Shakily, Clem said: “You know any way to act brave when you’re scairt to death?”

  Ethan did not reply to this; instead he walked on toward the livery barn, leaving Clem and those others making their final preparations at coach side.

  The livery man was just heading inside when Ethan came along. He had just finished breakfast and was sucking on a toothpick. He halted as Ethan came up, smiled, commenting: “Going to be another pretty day. I sure enjoy this time of year … warm and peaceful, and not too hot.”

  MacCallister nodded agreeably. “You never can tell how hot things will get, Lemuel,” he stated as he walked inside and asked for two fresh horses.

  Lemuel spat out his toothpick and nodded. As he headed to the stalls, he said to MacCallister: “Seen anything of that danged two-gun man lately, Ethan? There was a rumor going around town last night that he hired some drifters and was going to force a passage up through Cheyenne Pass.”

  Ethan examined the horses as the hostler brought them over for saddling when he answered, saying: “You never can tell about those gunfighters. Sometimes, they only do what they’re paid to do. Other times, they get to thinking for themselves, and when that happens, there’s likely to be hell to pay.”

  “Yep,” agreed Sinclair. “That’s sure the truth, Ethan.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The stage pulled out just as the sun was beginning to show itself over the peaks to the east. Ten minutes later MacCallister and Klinger, riding on either side of DeFore, along with three of the rancher’s men, left Winchester, heading southward. Neither the stage nor those six horsemen farther back seemed in any particular hurry.

  As they cleared the south end of town, DeFore leaned out of his saddle to speak to Ethan. “Travis was fit to be tied that he couldn’t get out and come along. He even said he’d ride in the coach.”

  Hearing this, John made a short snort. “If you think Travis was mad, you should’ve heard Charles Mather. He swore he’d see the governor … have the militia called out … and come back to Winchester with an army.” John shook his head ruefully. “You know, for a fat man who dresses like a genuine city dude, Mather sure can cuss.”

  They rode along, looking whiskery, travel stained, and grim. Someone sighting them for
the first time could easily have mistaken the lot of them for an outlaw gang.

  They cut easterly a mile below town, followed MacCallister as he led them around through the tree-scattered country down where Winchester Valley ran along toward its meeting with those hulking black southernmost bulwarks, and did not speak until Ethan halted well east of the road and sat his horse, studying the onward dark slopes, down by the pass.

  Then, DeFore said: “So far so good. But why not keep on going?”

  “Waiting,” responded Ethan. “Waiting to catch reflected light off metal down there. We can be sure Thorne’s in the rocks, but we’ve got to know where.”

  The stage was going along at a fast walk, moving through its own dust. Elsewhere the land was utterly empty under a brightly dazzling sun. Klinger grunted, lifted an arm, and pointed straight toward the east side of the pass where ragged lava rock lay in tumbled disarray. “Watch,” he said as he lowered his arm. “In front of the pass on the left.”

  They all watched while sitting screened from sight, eventually catching the momentary flash of sunlight off metal.

  Ethan eased out, saying: “Well, I reckon that settles that.”

  * * * * *

  They rode ahead for a long half hour, stopped once more to gauge their progress in relation to the same progress of the stage, then went on again. Ethan led them far out and around until, as they came in behind the eastward broken country which sloped down toward the pass, the sun was behind them.

  He explained his reasoning as they moved along slowly. “You know, I never worried too much about fellows shooting at me if the sun was in their eyes.”

  Where he finally halted and stepped down, they could see the coach no more than a half mile from the pass. They left their horses tied in a cluster of brush and went ahead on foot, each man with his Winchester in hand.

  It was a rough route through the lava rock. Stones that cut as sharply as any knife cut their boots, snagged their clothing, and scratched their arms and legs. It did nothing to improve tempers already worn thin from being up all night in the saddle and stomachs long empty.

  At a point MacCallister left them to scout on ahead. The pass’s visible entrance was less than a thousand yards ahead when he did this. He had traveled less than half that distance when he found four tethered horses standing drowsily where sunlight warmed their sides and rumps. The carbine boots of those saddles were empty, which told a story.

  Ethan hurried back, informed the others, and brought them up where Thorne and his men had left their animals. Here, DeFore’s riders methodically stripped off the saddles and bridles, leaving Thorne’s horses tied only by ropes. Then the six of them crept along until, hearing men’s voices dead ahead within a hundred feet of the roadway, they halted again.

  DeFore leaned in close to Ethan’s ear and spoke in little more than a whisper: “We got to fan out in order to cut ’em off north and south like we’ve already done by getting between them and their horses.”

  But MacCallister shook his head at this. “Too risky,” he said. “From now on they’ll hear any noise we make.”

  Although DeFore didn’t agree, he eased ahead a few more feet with the others, getting down into the rocks where they would wait. Klinger had the best view to the north, so he was constantly reporting the progress of the stage. No sooner had he told them the stage was less than a quarter mile away, a Thorne man rose up dead ahead, having also eyed the position of the coach.

  His voice sounding both garrulous and suspicious, he said: “Ray, how come ’em to be poking along like that? I never seen a bullion stage acting like it wanted to be stopped before.”

  Thorne’s unmistakable response was immediate and dismissive: “Who cares why they’re poking along? All we care about is that it’s going to make this a lot easier.”

  MacCallister and Klinger exchanged a look. Dick DeFore raised his carbine and focused in at the tumbled rocks where he believed Thorne was positioned.

  The stage’s creaking, rattling noises came distinctly to all those waiting men now. It was close to the pass, and it was still coming along slowly. In gazing over at it, MacCallister saw how it listed badly to the right. He smiled to himself, for he knew that the rotund Charles Mather was the cause of that tilting.

  The deputy slowly straightened up. It was not his intention to wait for Thorne to halt the coach for the elemental reason that, with a man like Ray Thorne, this would be too dangerous. Thorne was a gunman. He would fire first and look second, and Ethan distinctly recalled Clem Whipple’s concern about being a target up there on his coach seat.

  But before Ethan could call out, or even alert his companions, Thorne suddenly jumped out into the roadway and threw up a carbine.

  “Stop this coach! And you inside there, get out!” he yelled.

  Clem watched as Thorne and his men appeared by the road, creeping out from their hiding places. He quickly set back on his lines, his heart pounding, and his mouth going dry.

  At the same time, John Klinger sprang up, his gun leveled as he cried out: “Thorne! Throw down that gun!”

  What MacCallister had anticipated happened. Although he was taken entirely by surprise, the two-gun man whipped around and fired. He didn’t aim at anything except the direction of Klinger’s voice, but even so his bullet struck the rock in front of John, throwing jagged pieces of stone into the sheriff’s face. At the impact, John staggered back, and DeFore, evidently believing Thorne had scored, sprang up with a raging howl and fired point-blank at the nearest of Thorne’s crew. His slug caught one flush in the chest. Taken totally off guard, the man flung up his arms and went over backward, dead before he hit the ground.

  MacCallister dropped his carbine, drew his .45 in a blur of speed, and shot at Thorne. The two-gun man staggered, switched position, and levered off a shot that drove the deputy sheriff into a quick crouch.

  Thorne’s remaining men were evidently too surprised to delve immediately into action. They moved among the rocks, trying to locate the position of DeFore and his riders who were filling the pass with thunderous gunfire. One of them dropped his gun and raised both arms high over his head. The second man ran out into the road, whirled, and fired his carbine from the hip, levering and firing as fast as he could work the firing mechanism. This man and Ray Thorne stood fully exposed; their fierce fire drove the Winchester posse down and kept them down.

  Clem was shouting at his horses as he fought them into a big lunge, trying to turn his heavy vehicle around and head back toward town. Both the mine guards were firing at Thorne and his companion, but aiming accurately from the hurricane deck of the shifting and rocking coach was impossible.

  MacCallister peered around the base of the rock that shielded him, caught Thorne in his sights, and fired. Again, the two-gun man staggered, but this time he also sagged.

  DeFore’s raging, bull-bass voice added to the confusion caused by the dust and smoke, the yelling, and the thunderous echoes of gunshots in the pass. The old cowman swore at those two out in the roadway, who were trading lead with his riders. Finally, in an excess of wrathful excitement, he sprang out into full sight and flung away his emptied carbine, drew his six-gun, and began an inexorable advance toward the exposed roadway.

  MacCallister saw Thorne’s uninjured hireling swing to blast out at DeFore, and he dropped that man with any one of three rapid shots he threw at him.

  Then, under the barrage of bullets, Ray Thorne finally fell. He rolled over, tried to get up, succeeded in only getting up onto all fours. He hung there as DeFore covered the last fifty feet, stooped over him, and put his cocked pistol to the gunman’s temple.

  Klinger cried out. So did MacCallister. DeFore froze. For an interminable moment, the diminishing life of Ray Thorne hung in the breathless balance. But DeFore didn’t pull the trigger. He straightened up, eased off the hammer, and slowly, almost reluctantly, holstered his six-gun.

 
Ethan went over to John, who was dabbing at blood on his face from those flying, razor-sharp particles of stone.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, some rock fragments hit me with all the shooting, not Thorne’s slug. Come on, let’s get out there before DeFore changes his mind.”

  They shuffled down to the roadway, and as they did so, Clem Whipple, craning over his shoulder, recognized the two lawmen and leaned back to halt his stage. It hadn’t stopped moving before Charles Mather, holding his ridiculous little pearl-handled pistol, tumbled out, almost lost his balance, and came staggering over where six armed men were standing over Thorne. Behind Mather came the two mine guards, and finally the last man to hasten over was Clem, looking very pale.

  MacCallister knelt, eased Thorne back over, and lifted his head. DeFore, standing over Thorne, looked as savage and as unrelenting as death itself. Mather came up, shouldered through the DeFore cowboys, and would have also shouldered aside big, rawboned old Richard DeFore, except that the cowman wouldn’t give. Instead, he stood his ground and swung his smoky gaze at Mather, glaring.

  “Who the hell are you?” he growled.

  “Charles Mather, an officer of the stage line. Who are you?”

  DeFore stepped back, ran a cold look down Mather and up again, then said coldly: “I’m Richard DeFore. That mean anything to you?”

  Mather’s eyes sprang wide open. He and DeFore seemed to forget entirely about Thorne and the others as they measured and assessed one another.

  The sheriff’s question brought the attention of the two men back to Thorne.

  “Why didn’t you throw down your guns?” Klinger asked Thorne. “You didn’t have a chance, and you knew it.”