Vern and Charlie were standing by the door of the cabin when the two men acting as lookouts in Reno galloped across the rolling grassland to the Peavine line shack as if the devil were on their tails.
“They’re coming, Mr. Barton. They had the wagons rolled out and all loaded. They was movin’ through the town when we reached the tree line and I took a quick look back.”
“How many, Waco?” Call asked.
“Five wagons. Each with a big box lashed on it. And only a driver and a guard fer each wagon,” he finished, anticipating Call’s next question.
“Only two men per wagon?” Vern questioned. “Either they’re havin’ trouble gittin’ drivers and guards, or O’Brian is up to somethin’. And only five wagons. That means he’s only got two of the pumps. We’ll be able to git the others in Reno or from Atkinson once we wipe out O’Brian.”
“Most likely they can’t git anyone to risk his life fer a water pump,” Charlie answered.
Barton took out his pocket watch. “What’s our time?”
Call patiently answered the question. He was used to being in complete charge of these things, but this time Barton had insisted on coming along. “They’ll reach the ambush site in about four hours. Waco and Sam took an hour and a half to git here. We’ll take almost an hour to reach the site, so we’ll be there an hour or better afore the freight wagons arrive.”
“Very well. Assemble the men. Let’s git on the trail. Tell the men to leave their bedrolls and stuff here. We’ll come back here after the job’s finished before returnin’ home.”
Call hurriedly assembled his twenty-five outlaws. The only one left at the V bar B was Cookie. Even the big boss rode along to add his gun to the tally. Barton was determined the pumps would not get through.
Charlie and Barton led the way, riding in front of twenty-five cold-blooded, calloused outlaws toward the mountains to the west, where the road to Virginia City wound its way up the slopes to the mining boomtown.
Carson shifted in his saddle. He was perfectly situated to watch over the trail leading out of the ranch’s line shack. Ross had found the high ground with a perfect view earlier that morning and they had arrived just after sunrise. Only twenty minutes earlier, two men had galloped down the road from the direction of Reno and cut off the trail. Since then, nothing had happened.
Carson and Ross waited patiently, just like the other men who gathered in a clearing about a quarter mile from where Marty anticipated the outlaws would make their attack on the freight wagons. Carson passed the time worrying about what he would do if the outlaws went some other direction. He had talked about that very real possibility with Johnny and the scouts while they rode away from Carson City the prior day. They finally decided to stay in one bunch, near their horses until the outlaws settled into their ambush location, then sneak up on them on foot.
Just before dark the previous day, Carson, Johnny, and Pat Quinn had walked to the suspected ambush site and looked things over. They found a location above and to the south of the outlaws’ probable location, where they could cover most of the terrain the outlaws would use to hide in and still be outside the firing area of the Gatling gun. Carson silently prayed that the outlaws were as overconfident and lazy as Marty had said they were likely to be.
Ross elbowed Carson and pointed toward the road below them. “Lookie thar. A bunch of riders headed our way.”
The two counted as the riders came closer. “Damn, there’s twenty-five of ’em, at least,” Carson said.
Ross said nothing, simply nodded his head and continued to watch, his face impassive. The snaking column of men rode on the Ranch Road for a couple of hundred feet, then turned off into the wooded slopes of the hill where Carson and Ross hid. The men were visible now and then as they worked their way upward, following the game trail that Marty and Carson had followed down from the top of the mountain only a couple of weeks earlier.
“By gum,” Ross whispered softly, “it shore looks like they’re a-headed right fer the very site Marty said they’d use.” Ross chuckled. “That fella is somethin’ special, let me tell you.”
“No need to convince me,” Carson answered. “Come on, let’s follow ’em a little ways just to make sure.”
Carson and Ross slowly trailed after the outlaws, content to just catch a fleeting glimpse of a rider every few minutes. They did not need to stay close, just maintain enough contact to ensure that they knew exactly where the outlaws stopped to set up their position for the coming ambush.
Shortly after Ross and Carson crossed the summit of the mountain, a long ridge with a tabletop flatness, Ross held up his hand in warning. “Carson,” he whispered again, “they’ve gotta be there by now. Be careful—we don’t want to stumble right into ’em.”
They swung off their horses and tied them to the branch of a small cedar, then eased their way on foot toward the outlaws. They heard them before they saw them. The outlaws were talking and laughing as if they were out on a social gathering rather than a killing mission. As Carson and Ross peered from behind the trunk of a towering pine, they heard a harsh voice. “You gals shut up yur cacklin’ and get ready. Them wagons’ll be along in an hour or less. If I was you, I’d make myself a little cover to fight behind. Them guards is liable to be firing double-ought buckshot yur way afore this is over.”
“They’d have to shoot it outa a cannon to get through this here tree I’m hidin’ behind,” some wit called back, and a nervous twitter rippled through the trees back to Carson and Ross.
The two men slowly retreated toward their horses and, leading them, walked the quarter mile to where the men of Marty’s reaction force awaited. Johnny and Quinn were the first to greet them. “You see ’em?”
“Yes,” Carson answered. “They’re exactly where Marty said they would be. Ruud, light out now and reach Marty before he gets to the ambush site. Tell him we’re ready, above and to the south of the outlaws. Tell him there are about twenty-five of them. Get going now.”
Ruud rode over the hill. He had to work his way down to the Ranch Road, ride like the blazes around the mountain where the fighting would occur, and then find Marty and the wagon train. Carson watched him disappear in the woods, and then pulled out his pocket watch. “Marty wants us in our position thirty minutes after the outlaws take up theirs. It took me and Ross about ten minutes to get from there to here, so we need to go in about fifteen minutes.”
One of the men spoke up loud enough for Carson to overhear him. “Twenty-five of ’em, huh? That’s sort of long odds fer us, ain’t it?”
“Not after that Gatling gun does its work,” Carson quickly pointed out. “By the time it gets done, we’ll have the advantage, believe me. If each of you finds just one man and puts a well-aimed shot into him, we’ll not have any left to chase off this mountain. Take your time, get some good cover, and wait for Johnny’s command, then pour it on ’em. We’ll be just fine.”
It was not a particularly hot day, but Marty Keller was sweating like a hog wrestler in August. In his mind he could name a hundred reasons why his plan would fail like a rusted-out water bucket and not many reasons it would succeed. He went over and over in his mind what he would do if the outlaws did this or that, until his head was aching like a Sunday morning hangover.
He was so absorbed in his mental gymnastics, he did not see Ruud galloping up the road from the rear toward him, flailing his horse with his sombrero. Luther had to call the approaching rider to his attention. Marty signaled for the wagons to stop.
“Hello, Ruud. You got news?”
“Yessir, Mr. Keller. Young Block sent me. We saw the outlaws. They’re right where you said they’d be. Carson says there’s about twenty-five of them. He said to tell you that he’s got the men above and to the south of the outlaws and he’ll be ready.”
Marty signaled for the guards and Malcolm to come to him. As soon as they arrived, he repeated what Ruud had told him. Marty looked at the faces of the men, his headache forgotten. “You Sorensen brothers, yo
u need to put the pump box between you and the hill there.” Marty pointed with his forefinger up the hill to his front. “The outlaws will fire at the drivers first, but they’ll have the protection of the boilerplate. You won’t, so stay behind the boxes. I’ve told you about the Gatling Gun. It will sweep the area where the outlaws are, without letup. But if you see a good target, cut him down.
Do not let the outlaws get to your wagon. You understand?”
The four sandy-haired brothers all nodded in unison, as if tied to the same string. Marty smiled encouragingly at the brothers. “I’m counting on you to stop any rush toward the wagons. We cannot lose the Gatling gun or any of the pumps to the outlaws.”
“Ve unnerstand,” the oldest brother replied. “You can count on us, by gum.”
“All right, I will,” Marty answered, and stuck out his hand. The big Dane nearly crushed it with his handshake.
Marty turned to Ruud. “You want to take off now, Ruud. You’ve done your job, and mighty well too.”
Ruud shook his head. “Nope, I don’t think I will. I’d sort of like to see this thing through with the rest of you.”
“You certain?”
“Damn straight, I am.”
“Very well. Ride at the last wagon. Do all you can to protect the extra mules. We may need them once this thing is over.”
Ruud and Malcolm headed back to the rear wagon. Marty watched, a faint smile on his lips. He admired courage, whenever he found it. He looked at the lanky sharpshooter. “Well, Luther, shall we get this little shindig started?”
Luther shifted the Sharps rifle in his arms, his face deadly serious. “Once, long ago, I kilt a bunch of good men fer a bad reason. I reckon it’s time to kill some bad un’s fer a good one. Let’s get her on.”
Chapter 26
Who’s Ambushing Who?
“Luther, it’s time we got some cover ourselves. The ambush site is just at the top of this slope.” Marty checked up and down the column of freight wagons. He could see the four Danes crouched behind the huge box of pump parts in their individual wagons, their shotguns at the ready. He glanced inside the portable fort the two soldiers had made for their Gatling gun on his wagon. They were looking out the viewing slot, intently scanning the ground above the road, trying to visually pierce through the dense screen of trees and undergrowth.
“You two ready?” Marty asked. “It should be any minute now.”
“Yessir, Mr. Keller. Ole Bess here is cocked and loaded.” Sergeant LeCroix fondly patted the bronze butt of the heavy machine gun, a wide grin on his coal-black face.
“Good. Remember, don’t wait for my command. Once you hear the first shot, open up, sweep the area from side to side, and pour it on until I tell you to quit. If one of you is hit, call for me, and I’ll get in there to replace you.”
“We’ll be jus’ fine, Mr. Keller. You needs to worry ’bout them outlaws, if you wants to worry a’tall.”
Marty looked at Luther. “You choose any target you can find, Luther. Keep an ear cocked for my command to fire at a specific target.”
“I’ll be listenin’, Marty. Good luck to ya.”
“Same to you, Luther.”
Neither said another word as the mule teams struggled to pull the heavy wagons up the final yards of the steep slope to the level ground near the summit of the mountain.
The wagons proceeded up the steep slope, each driver trying to stay close to the wagon ahead. Marty could almost reach out and pat the noses of the lead pair of mules on the wagon following his, they were so tightly bunched up. Malcolm, in the last wagon, was almost as close to the wagon ahead of him. The two lead wagons slowed down after they crested the steep slope so the other wagons could catch up. He nodded in satisfaction. If this indeed was where the ambush would occur, his drivers had done all they could to put themselves in the best defensive position possible.
As the last wagon crested the hill, a single shot rang out. The lead driver ducked behind his boilerplate shield. The shot signaled for the entire line of outlaws to open up. Gray-white, greasy gun smoke boiled from the woods and bullets clanged off the curved iron of the shields, slammed into the boxes containing the precious pumps, or zipped past the heads of the crouching guards.
Marty was gratified to hear shotguns firing back at the assailants from the wagons. The four Sorensen brothers were answering the gunfire with fire of their own. Marty ducked his head and shouted at LeCroix, “Any time, Sergeant.”
“Yessir,” the veteran soldier replied, flashing Marty a quick smile of white teeth against ebony skin. “We’re determinin’ the extent of the firing line up thar. As soon as we gets the target identified, we’ll let ’er rip.”
“Make it count.” He flinched as a bullet ricocheted off the top of the box just above his head. He looked over at Luther, who was peering around the pump box, searching for a good target. “See anything?”
“Yep. I got one spotted. Here goes.” He quickly aimed and fired, the heavy Boom! of the Sharps buffalo gun overwhelming the fire of the guards’ shotguns. Luther flashed a quick grimace at Marty. “Got him!”
As if to punctuate the remark, the Gatling gun open up in all its fury. Sounding like hail hitting a tin roof, the gun belched fiery death up the slope toward the shocked outlaws. Chewing up dirt, scattering leaves and wooden slivers from tree trunks like a deadly tornado, LeCroix swept the gun from right to left and back again, showering the outlaws’ position with a rainstorm of death-dealing lead.
Both sides momentarily stopped their firing to gape in awe at the destruction wrought from the gun. Realizing they were in desperate peril, the outlaws directed their fire toward the little mobile fort housing the gun. Bullets from twenty rifles slammed into the green lumber fort, to no avail. The two soldiers had built their fortress too well. The bullets flew so fast and furious, the gun smoke was so thick that Marty and Luther leaped down and crouched at the front of the wagon, hoping to get a shot at an exposed outlaw. Squint rose just long enough to fire both barrels of his shotgun, then dropped back behind the safe cover of his iron shield while he reloaded.
“Damn, but that device do make a racket,” he shouted at Marty, a grin splitting his gun-smoke-darkened face.
Luther fired Marty’s big rifle again, another quick nod of satisfaction, another outlaw down. The Tennessee mountain man’s eyes never blinked; he was too busy killing to take the time.
Scanning the hill, Marty saw one of the outlaws lose his nerve and start to run toward his horse. Marty dropped the man before he had taken three steps. “Sorry, fella. You ain’t been excused yet. You started this little dance and you’re going to have to stay put until the music quits playing.”
“What’s that ya say, Marty?”
“Nothing, Luther. Just keep shooting.” Marty squinted to see through the cloud of gun smoke created by the Gatling gun’s firing over three hundred rounds of black-powder cartridges a minute. “I wonder where Carson and Johnny are,” Marty shouted up to Squint. “Do you see any sign of ’em?”
Marty glanced to the right and left. All his men at the wagons were steadily banging away at the outlaw positions. Already, Marty could tell there was a dramatic drop in the volume of fire from the hidden killers above him. He heard Luther fire again, but did not see the result. He aimed and fired at a bush where an orange-red twinkle of flame indicated someone was firing down at the wagon train. A bullet skipped off the wood front of the wagon box, too close for comfort, so he ducked back behind the welcome cover of the heavy Springfield freight wagon.
Over and over, the Gatling gun swept the hillside, the din and smoke almost as unbearable as the deadly slugs it spit out of its rotating circle of hot barrels.
Carson and Johnny had halted their men about a hundred yards from where the outlaws had gone into hiding. “We’ll wait here until they start firing,” he whispered to Johnny. “Once they start, move everyone up fast and get into position. Then let the bastards have it.”
Pat Quinn and the rest of the m
en crouched behind the thick trunks of old pines and awaited the orders to move up. Johnny Harper moved to the end of the line of men opposite to Pat, while Carson stayed in the middle. Fighting their nervous anxiety, the men awaited the order to move.
Carson nervously flinched at the sudden onset of the battle. He motioned with his hand and the line of determined men moved forward, darting from cover to cover as they closed in on the outlaws’ position.
The stunning impact of the machine gun’s incessant roar of death and destruction caused the men to pause for a moment, but they quickly recovered and moved on, knowing the outlaws’ attention would be on the gun and not on their approach.
Carson saw a man lying prone behind a tree truck, then two more. He hoped every man in his command had sight of some of the outlaws. The excited young man dropped to the ground and crawled a few feet until he had a tree trunk in front of him. He looked to his right and left. The rest of the men were settling in behind whatever cover they could find, picking their targets and awaiting the order to commence firing.
Only one man among the outlaws had ever seen or heard a Gatling gun before, in the Union army several years earlier. He was one of the first killed by the initial volley of fire directed at the outlaws: he could not advise Charlie on what to do. Most of the men were panicked and terrified by the deadly hail of bullets that swept over them as the gun traversed the outlaws’ firing line. Some tried to fire back as the gun’s path took the bullet stream away from their position, but all that seemed to do was bring the swarm of lead hornets back their way again.
Carson watched as the gun swept the far end of the outlaws’ position. As the gun moved its hammering shower of .45-caliber bullets toward him, Carson called out, “Open fire.”
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