They were at the top of a slight rise. Spread out before them, visible in the starlight, was a broad valley with a dark line through the center that marked the thicker vegetation along the meandering course of Sweetwater Creek. The dozing cattle were gathered in dark clumps that dotted the rangeland.
“We’ll work the gather from right to left,” Garrett said quietly. “When we’ve got two or three hundred head, point them north toward Packsaddle Gap.”
One of the men said, “I took up the owlhoot because I was sick of chousin’ cows and eatin’ trail dust, Simon.”
“It won’t be a long drive,” Garrett said. “You can stand it for tonight.”
Another man asked, “What about Montayne’s riders?”
“What about them?” Garrett said callously. “I told you, if anybody gets in your way, kill him. We want Montayne to come after us, and if some of his men are dead that’ll just make him more angry . . . and less likely to worry about a trap.”
John Henry’s guts clenched. Innocent men might die tonight, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it, not with odds of more than twelve to one against him. He had to hope for the best and take comfort in the knowledge that he was doing his job and trying to prevent more murders later on.
That was pretty skimpy comfort, though.
“All right, let’s move out,” Garrett ordered. “Spread out and get those cattle moving.”
John Henry, Mallette, and two outlaws named Whitt and Palmer headed for a bunch of cattle. As they rode, Mallette said again, “I’ve never done anything like this before. How do I drive cattle?”
As a young man growing up in Indian Territory, John Henry had hazed many a head of stock from one place to another. “You probably won’t have to do anything to get them moving except ride up behind them. If you have to prod them any, take your lasso, leave it coiled up, and swat them on the rump with it.”
“All right, if you say so.” Mallette didn’t sound convinced, but he heeled his horse forward and kept pace with the others as they moved up to the cattle.
As John Henry had predicted, the big, ungainly beasts lurched into motion when the riders pressed them. All across the range along the creek, men called out softly, waved their hats over their heads, and kept their horses moving. They began pushing the bunches together to form a larger herd.
Evidently none of Montayne’s riders were in the vicinity, or else they would have showed up, probably with guns blazing. It was possible no J/M hands were close enough to realize the cattle were being rustled. John Henry allowed himself to hope that would be the case.
That hope was dashed almost immediately as a shot suddenly blasted from the direction of the creek. John Henry looked that way and saw a handful of riders splashing across the stream. Colt flame bloomed in the darkness as more guns went off.
There was no longer any need for stealth. Several outlaws let out strident whoops and returned the fire. Muzzle flashes split the night with their orange glare.
“Drive ’em!” John Henry shouted as he sent Iron Heart crashing against the rear end of the nearest steer. He yanked his lasso from the saddle and used it to slash at the rumps of the other cattle close to him. The animals bellowed and broke into a clumsy run.
Whoops and gunshots and the rumble of hooves filled the air. None of the bullets came close to John Henry, Mallette, Whitt, and Palmer as they drove the cattle northward.
John Henry looked over his shoulder toward the creek. Flame still spurted from gun muzzles here and there, but the shooting seemed to be dying away. He thought he heard the swift rataplan of galloping hoofbeats and wondered if the J/M punchers were retreating. If any of them survived, they would light a shuck for the ranch headquarters in search of help.
Then the pursuit would be underway, a pursuit that Garrett intended to end with an ambush at Packsaddle Gap, wherever that was.
The shooting stopped, and the cattle kept moving. The creek curved away to the east, but the outlaws continued driving the rustled stock almost due north. John Henry judged the direction by the stars. The animals were bunched together, with the riders forming a line behind them.
Garrett rode along that line and called out, “Did we lose any men? Was anybody hit?”
No one answered that they were.
Purcell asked, “Did we down any of Montayne’s men?”
“A couple,” Garrett replied. “I couldn’t tell how bad they were hurt. The others got away.” He laughed. “This is going just like we planned it so far.”
With Mallette tagging along beside him, John Henry moved closer to Garrett. “How far is it to this Packsaddle Gap?”
“We’ll be there a little before dawn. That’ll give us time to get in position to give Montayne a warm welcome.”
“This fella Montayne, he’s one of the big ranchers around here, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Garrett said. “What about it?”
“And he was on the jury that convicted your brother?”
“He was. That’s why he’s got to die.”
“What’ll happen to his ranch after he’s gone?”
“How the hell do I know?” Garrett said. “Somebody else will take it over, I guess.”
Somebody like J.C. Carson of the Anvil, John Henry thought. That idea led to all sorts of interesting speculation.
He put it out of his mind for the moment, to concentrate on the matter at hand—preventing Montayne and his men from being wiped out in an ambush.
Enough of the outlaws had experience working cattle that they were able to keep the rustled stock moving steadily through the night. Garrett knew where they were going, so he took point and led the way. John Henry and Mallette found themselves riding flank on the left side of the herd.
“Men drove cattle hundreds of miles this way?” Mallette said as if he found that hard to believe.
“They sure did,” John Henry replied. “They did it for years, moving the herds from Texas, across Indian Territory, to the railheads up here in Kansas. Then the railroad built a line down to Fort Worth, so the herds don’t have nearly as far to go.”
John Henry couldn’t say anything about it, of course, but in his job as a deputy U.S. marshal he’d had something to do with the successful completion of that rail line into Texas, and he was justly proud of his contribution.
The moon rose and cast its silvery glow over the landscape. It was bright enough for the pursuit to trail the stolen cows, and Garrett was counting on that to lure his quarry into the trap.
The moonlight was also bright enough to reveal two rounded hills that bulked on either side of the trail up ahead. John Henry pointed them out to Mallette. “That must be Packsaddle Gap. See the shape they make.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it, John. I wouldn’t know a packsaddle if I saw it.”
Garrett rode back along the herd’s left flank and called, “Drive ’em on through the gap. Two men keep them moving once they’re through, while the rest drop off and head up on those hills. Find good places to hunker down and wait for Montayne’s bunch.”
“Maybe we should be the ones to keep driving the cattle, John,” Mallette suggested.
John Henry shook his head. “You can if you want to. I’m going to be where the action is.” He had to take part in the ambush in order to fire a premature shot and warn Montayne of the danger. That was the only thing he’d been able to figure out.
“I guess I’ll stick with you,” Mallette said, although he didn’t sound happy about it.
The gap was wide enough for the cattle to go through without having to bunch up even more. It didn’t take long for them to clear it. John Henry and Mallette headed for the hill to the right.
The sound of hoofbeats coming up behind them made John Henry look around.
Purcell galloped up to join them, slowing his horse as he drew even with them. “I’ll throw in with you boys.”
“Glad to have you,” John Henry replied, not meaning it at all. Purcell had acted suspi
cious about Gunderson’s death, and it was possible he still didn’t trust John Henry and wanted to keep an eye on him. Garrett might have even assigned him to do just that.
John Henry would just have to deal with the problem.
Purcell said, “This looks like a good spot,” and reined in. The other two men followed suit. Several good-sized rocks were scattered along the slope. They would provide cover and a good field of fire across the gap below.
“Nick, take the horses on up to the top of the hill and hold them there,” John Henry told the gambler.
“Wait a minute,” Purcell said. “We’re all supposed to take part in the ambush.”
“There won’t be an ambush if Montayne spots a bunch of horses up here,” John Henry said. “He’ll guess they belong to us and know we’re waiting to bushwhack him.”
Purcell thought it over and shrugged. “Go ahead with the horses, Mallette. But if you can find a place to tie them, do that and get back down here.”
“Sure,” Mallette said, but John Henry didn’t expect him to return. He had suggested that Mallette hold the horses because he knew the man didn’t really want to shoot at the J/M ranch hands. The horses were a convenient excuse for him not to have to. Mallette took the reins from John Henry and Purcell and started on up the slope with the three mounts.
“All right,” Purcell said as he took his Winchester and settled down to kneel behind one of the slabs of rock. “Now we wait.”
But not for long. The eastern sky was already gray with the approach of dawn. By the time the sun was rising, Jed Montayne and his men ought to reach Packsaddle Gap.
When they did, the grass in the gap was liable to be red with more than the glare from the early morning light . . . unless John Henry could prevent it somehow.
Chapter Seventeen
In the morning haze, the sun was a sullen red orb a few inches above the eastern horizon when John Henry heard hoofbeats. The rumble from the rustled herd had faded as the cattle continued to drift north, pushed along by the two men who had stayed with them. The quiet allowed John Henry to hear the approach of a large group of riders.
Montayne might have brought along enough men that they would outnumber the bushwhackers. The element of surprise would counteract that advantage, and so would the fact that the outlaws held the high ground.
If John Henry could stop the pursuers from entering the gap and getting caught in a crossfire, it would change everything. His hands tightened on the rifle he held as he glanced over at Purcell.
“Here they come,” Purcell said. A note of vicious anticipation had come into his voice. He was looking forward to the killing.
John Henry saw dust in the air as the riders approached the gap. The men on horseback came into view, galloping along at the base of that dust cloud.
“That damned Mallette never did come back,” Purcell complained.
“I reckon he didn’t find a good place to leave the horses.”
Purcell snorted in disgust. “He’s just yellow, that’s all, like all gamblers. Doesn’t want to risk catching a slug.”
“Don’t worry about him,” John Henry said. “Let’s just worry about doing our job.”
“You’re right.” Purcell propped his elbows on the rock and nestled his cheek against the smooth wood of his rifle stock as he peered over the Winchester’s barrel. “Garrett will start the ball when he’s good an’ ready. Until then, hold your fire.”
“Sure,” John Henry said. But holding his fire was the last thing he intended to do. The pursuers were already almost as close as he intended to let them get.
“What the hell!” he suddenly exclaimed. “What’s that?”
“Where?” Purcell asked. “I don’t see anything.”
John Henry took several quick steps that brought him to the outlaw’s side. He dropped down on one knee behind the rock and pointed. “Right there.”
Purcell leaned over to peer in the direction John Henry was pointing. “What—”
John Henry drove the Winchester’s butt against the side of Purcell’s head in a short, swift stroke. It was a hard blow, meant to put the outlaw down and keep him down.
Purcell slumped, his rifle slipping from his fingers to clatter against the rock. He toppled over loosely onto the ground.
John Henry glanced around. More of the outlaws were scattered along the slope, some of them less than fifty yards away, but no cries of alarm sounded from them. Chances were that all of them were concentrating on the approach of Montayne and his men and hadn’t even noticed John Henry knocking out Purcell.
John Henry aimed his Winchester into the air and fired three times as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever, the universal frontier signal for distress or danger.
The shots rang out loudly in the early morning air and echoed back from the hill on the other side of Packsaddle Gap where more of the bushwhackers were located. The riders down below couldn’t fail to hear the shots.
As John Henry lowered the rifle he saw evidence of that. The men on horseback hauled back on their reins and brought the mounts to a halt outside the gap. He heard a faint shout, saw a man fling up an arm and point at the hillside.
Somewhere not too far off, Garrett shouted, “Saxon double-crossed us! Kill that son of a bitch!”
Well, the masquerade was over, John Henry thought as he pivoted and saw one of the outlaws aiming a rifle at him. John Henry’s Winchester blasted first, the slug ripping through the man and kicking him backward.
Garrett continued to shout orders, but John Henry’s actions had plunged the planned ambush into confused chaos. Nobody was shooting at him at the moment, so he turned and sprinted up the slope toward the spot where Mallette waited with the horses. That drew attention to him, and shots began to blast.
John Henry threw a glance over his shoulder and saw spurts of flame and puffs of smoke coming from the group of riders down on the plain. Montayne and his men were getting into the fight, peppering the slopes of both hills with lead.
With lunging strides, John Henry reached the top of the hill. He spotted Mallette standing there holding the reins of all three horses.
The gambler’s eyes were wide with fear and confusion. “John!” he exclaimed. “What the hell’s going on?”
“I’ve got to get out of here, Nick,” John Henry told him. “Give me my horse.”
At the same time, Simon Garrett, mounted again, charged up the slope toward them, smoke billowing from the muzzle of his revolver as he fired. “Stop him!” Garrett yelled. “Get him, Mallette!”
“John . . .” Mallette said uncertainly. He held the gathered reins in his left hand as his right drifted toward the butt of his holstered Colt.
John Henry didn’t give Mallette time to make up his mind. His right fist shot out and cracked against Mallette’s jaw.
The punch slewed Mallette’s head around and sent his hat flying. He let go of the reins as his knees unhinged and dropped him to the ground, out cold.
John Henry grabbed Iron Heart’s reins and was in the saddle a second later, hauling the big gray around.
He meant to ride down the far side of the hill and swing back to the west, toward the Silver Skull Ranch. With most of the outlaws engaged in the battle with Montayne’s men, he thought he could get to the spread before them and arrest Lottie Dalmas. While he was at the ranch he could free Deputy Baird as well. That would be a nice reversal of fortune.
There would still be the matter of hunting down Garrett and the rest of the gang, but with Lottie behind bars, John Henry didn’t think they would continue their campaign of terror.
But it all hinged on getting away from where he was, and as a bullet whipped past his ear, he knew that might not be easy. A furious Simon Garrett was determined to stop him.
John Henry twisted in the saddle as Garrett barreled toward him. Might as well take care of this now, he thought grimly as he jerked the Winchester to his shoulder.
Before he could fire, somebody else yelled, “Saxon!” and a f
igure lurched into view at the hill’s crest. With a thread of blood trickling down the side of his face from a cut John Henry’s rifle butt had opened up, Purcell thrust a revolver toward him. The gun in the outlaw’s hand boomed.
John Henry felt the bullet’s impact like the kick of a Missouri mule. It twisted him in the saddle and almost knocked him off Iron Heart’s back. He had to drop his rifle and grab the saddle horn to stay mounted.
Pain flooded through him from the spot where the bullet had torn through his left side. He didn’t know how bad the wound was, but for the moment, anyway, he wasn’t in much of a shape to continue the fight.
He jabbed his boot heels into Iron Heart’s flanks and sent the gray lunging down the far slope. More bullets whined around his head as Garrett kept trying to kill him.
Iron Heart responded with all the speed and guts that John Henry had come to expect, bounding down the hill with reckless abandon, seemingly out of control but really as sure-footed as ever.
John Henry clung to the saddle. It was all he could do.
Garrett howled curses and gave chase, but his yelling and shooting abruptly stopped.
Dimly aware of that, John Henry looked over his shoulder and saw that Garrett’s horse had stumbled and fallen, throwing the outlaw. Garrett rolled over a couple times and came to a stop.
“Hope you broke your damn neck,” John Henry muttered.
As Iron Heart reached the bottom of the hill, John Henry thought about trying to join up with Jed Montayne and his men since he was wounded. He discarded the idea when he realized that none of them would know who he was. If he came galloping up, they would probably take him for one of the outlaws and blast him out of the saddle before he had time to explain.
The best thing he could do was get away from there while he had the chance, he decided. Once he had put some distance between himself and the battle, he could pause and see how badly he was hit, maybe patch up the wound and push on to the Silver Skull.
If there was any way in hell to finish this job, he was going to do it.
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