by Matt Braun
The men reined to a halt on a craggy ridge overlooking the springs. A narrow trail led downward to the wooded gorge, winding around a rocky spur near the bottom. Starbuck dismounted, quickly inspecting the trail where it sloped steeply off the ridge. He grunted to himself, spotting marks left by shod horses in the hard-packed ground. After closer examination, he turned and indicated the tracks with a sweeping motion of his arm.
Earp told the other men to stay with the horses. He walked forward and joined Starbuck at the edge of the escarpment. They went belly down, removing their hats, and began a systematic inspection of the basin below. The springs was plainly visible, a cool water-hole freshened from deep within the earth’s core. The shelterbelt of trees, thick with undergrowth and obscured by shadow, curved in a gentle arc beyond the springs. There was no movement, no picket line of horses, no sign of man. To all appearances, only wilderness creatures came to drink at Iron Springs.
Earp looked perplexed. “What the hell do you make of that?”
“Beats me,” Starbuck said, studying the springs intently. “Looks dead as a doornail down there.”
“No way they could’ve known we’re on their trail.”
“You reckon they’re camped back in those trees?”
“I dunno,” Earp confessed. “If they are, why don’t we see smoke from a fire? They’d have no reason to pitch a cold camp.”
“Well, I know one thing,” Starbuck said with conviction. “Those tracks were made yesterday. Somebody went down that trail before nightfall.”
“Then where the Jesus are they?”
“Is there another way out of here?”
“Could be,” Earp allowed, pointing south along the gorge. “The ground seems to drop off in that direction. Maybe something spooked them and they’ve done hightailed it.”
“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
“What’s that?”
“Somebody has to go down there and have a look-see.”
Earp glanced sidewise. “You volunteerin’ for the job?”
“Got no choice.” Starbuck grinned shallowly. “I’m the dumbbell that signed on as scout with this outfit.”
“All right, but you take it slow and easy. We’ll cover you from up here just in case things aren’t as peaceful as they look. Any sign of trouble, you hump your butt out of there muy damn pronto.”
“Don’t worry! I’m a regular streak of lightning when I put my mind to it.”
Starbuck was playing a longshot. He recalled the last words out of Florentino Cruz’s mouth, and he couldn’t believe the halfbreed had lied. He thought there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that Brocius had posted a lookout here on the ridge. If true, that meant the gang had been alerted, and was now waiting in the copse of trees below. Somehow, without getting himself killed, he had to lure Earp down to the springs. He was betting that Brocius wouldn’t betray his position merely to kill one man. He took cold comfort from the thought that Brocius had only one known obsession, Wyatt Earp. He hoped, at last, to bring them together.
Without a word to the others, he went back to his horse and mounted. As he rode down the trail, he saw Earp positioning them along the rim of the cliff. Then he turned his attention to the dusky basin. Daylight was fading rapidly, and he knew he hadn’t a moment to spare. Even Brocius and his bushwhackers needed enough light to see their sights.
At the bottom of the trail, he rode straight toward the springs. Holding his horse to a steady walk, he circled the waterhole and reined to a halt on the far side. He was within ten yards of the treeline, and a perfect target. He twisted around in the saddle, slowly scanning the shadowed thickets. He saw nothing and heard nothing. Yet an odd shiver went up his backbone, as though he’d caught a whisper of wind whistling through the eyesockets of a skull. His instinct, strong enough to set his skin tingling, told him they were there. He knew they were watching him, trigger fingers tensed and ready, waiting for him to sound the alarm. He let his eyes rove through the trees a moment longer, then he kneed his horse into a walk. All the way around the springs, the hair on the back of his neck was stiff as broomstraw. He told himself with mute wonder that he’d been a damn fool. But he sensed he had won the gamble. There would be no shots. Not yet.
His horse took the steep grade in a series of bounding lurches. Once more on top, he stepped from the saddle and calmly lit a cheroot. His guts were quivering, but he struck and doused the match with a steady hand.
“Well talk up!” Earp demanded, hurrying forward. “What’d you see?”
“Quiet as a church,” Starbuck said, exhaling smoke. “I think you hit the nail on the head. Brocius and his boys must’ve spooked and took off for parts unknown.”
The other men collected around Earp, their faces expectant and sober. A moment slipped past, then Holliday let go a muttered curse. He regarded Starbuck with narrow suspicion.
“I don’t like it! Something don’t smell right.”
“Tell you what, Doc.” Starbuck inspected the tip of his cigar. “If you’re not satisfied, why don’t you ride on down there and check it out for yourself?”
“No need.” Earp waved them apart. “I’m satisfied, and that’s all that counts. We’ll just have to pick up their trail come first light and see where it leads.”
“What about tonight?” Holliday persisted. “I don’t much like the idea of campin’ at the springs.”
“Quit borrowin’ trouble,” Earp admonished him. “Nobody shot Jack! Besides, the horses need water, and we could all use a decent night’s sleep. Let’s get mounted.”
In the deepening twilight, the men gathered their horses. Earp led the way, followed by Holliday and Warren. Starbuck managed to position himself in the center, with Vermillion and McMasters bringing up the rear. They went down the narrow trail single-file, the jangle of saddle gear chiming musically in the stillness. No one spoke, and Starbuck took that as a good sign. The men were weary, their senses dulled after nearly four days in the saddle. Except for Holliday, none of them had shown any concern about camping at the springs. They had come here prepared for a fight, and there was a natural letdown upon learning that Brocius had once again eluded their grasp. Starbuck thought it was near-perfect, their mood tailor-made for an ambush. His single qualm was not for his own safety, but rather that one of the outlaws would suddenly turn trigger-happy. Timing was essential, and he worried that the trap might yet be spoiled.
The trail bottomed out and Earp reined toward the springs. One by one, the men rode forward, loosely grouped behind him. The gorge was rapidly turning dark, and ahead, the grove of trees was cloaked in inky shadow. Then, like blinking fireflies, a row of guns spat flame all along the treeline.
Earp’s saddle horn disintegrated and his hat flew off his head. He kicked free of the stirrups, grabbing his shotgun, and dove headlong from the saddle. He landed on his side and rolled over, thumbing back the hammer as he came to rest on his stomach. Across the waterhole, the trees were now alive with the fiery blast of gunshots. He slammed the scattergun into his shoulder and centered on a muzzle flash. When he pulled the trigger, a man screamed and stumbled out of the underbrush. He fired the second barrel and saw the man go down. Then he tossed the shotgun aside and jerked his pistol.
Behind him, the men had quit their horses and hit the ground. With the exception of Warren’s horse, they had survived the first volley unscathed. Veterans of countless shootouts, they reacted almost instinctively after the initial shock of the ambush. The gunfire became general as they quickly joined the fight. Bellied down, they made poor targets despite the storm of lead whistling across the waterhole. The crack of the outlaws’ rifles was punctuated by the dull boom of their own sixguns. Unlike the outlaws, however, they were not scattering their shots in a random barrage. Instead, making each bullet count, they fixed on a muzzle flash and aimed slightly to the right. Accuracy under darkened conditions was difficult, but their fire had a telling effect. A howl indicated that at least one of the gang had been wounded
, and another fell thrashing at the edge of the treeline. Yet the fight quickened in tempo, and the sound of gunfire rose to a staccato roar. A patchwork of snarling lead hissed back and forth across the springs.
From his position in the center, Starbuck hugged the ground and poured a steady fire into the trees. He was aware of Warren, who was shooting from behind the fallen horse, and he heard the bark of guns off to one side. But he was too busy to count, and he had no idea who might have been wounded or killed. When he emptied the Colt, he rolled to a new position and reloaded all six chambers. His next shot drew return fire, two quick rounds. One slug kicked dirt in his face and the other fried the air around his ears. Beside a tree, momentarily revealed in the muzzle flash, he saw the bare outlines of a man’s face. He dropped his sights a notch and thumbed off three shots, rapid fire. Almost instantly there was a downward flash as the rifle fired into the ground, and the man pitched sideways into the undergrowth. Then, too suddenly to comprehend, all firing from the treeline abruptly ceased.
Several more shots were fired by the Earp party before they realized the fight was over. A stillness settled across the spring, and moments later the rumble of hooves filtered through the trees. A blur of horses, almost invisible in the darkness, suddenly bolted from the far end of the grove. The riders whipped their mounts into a gallop and were quickly gone, clattering south through the gorge. Within seconds, even the thud of hoofbeats faded to nothing.
Starbuck stood, holstering his gun, and went slack-jawed. He saw Earp not twenty feet in front of him, and for an instant, he couldn’t credit his own eyes. He recalled hearing the shotgun, but he’d assumed that Earp, who was in the vanguard, had taken the brunt of the gang’s fire. Now, stunned speechless, a sullen coal of rage exploded in his chest. All the conniving and trickery had come to nothing. The ambush, endangering his own life to force a showdown, all for nothing. Earp, seemingly immune to death, had emerged without a scratch.
His fists balled into hard knots, and he uttered a low brutish curse.
Starbuck’s sense of outrage and disgust was quickly compounded. Earp ordered a fire built, and it soon became clear that Warren’s horse was the only casualty. Holliday had been grazed along the cheekbone, and Vermillion had suffered a flesh wound, but the others were untouched. By the light of the fire, it was also apparent that Earp enjoyed a state of grace almost beyond belief. His clothes hung in tatters. There were three holes through his coat, another drilled through his hat, and a slug was imbedded in the heel of his boot. Not one had drawn blood.
Starbuck’s anger slowly gave way to bemused wonderment. Never a staunch believer, he nonetheless asked himself what god it was that watched over these men. Or perhaps it wasn’t a god at all. Perhaps there was some special devil, a satanic force that protected such men from harm. Certainly no five men had ever had a closer brush with death. Within the space of three or four minutes, these men had been on the receiving end of probably a hundred rifle slugs. Yet none of them had been killed, and the wounds they’d suffered were hardly worse than the nick of a dull razor. It defied understanding, and a thought occurred that left him momentarily chilled. Perhaps, after all, Wyatt Earp wasn’t meant to be killed. Perhaps he was unkillable.
The idea was foreign to Starbuck’s character. No man, himself included, led a charmed life. Nor was there any great mystery that he too had come through tonight unscathed. There was a time and place for every man to die, and when a man’s number was called, he answered. Earp wasn’t unkillable. Tonight simply hadn’t been his night. Starbuck vowed to himself he would cancel that reprieve, at the right time and the right place. However long it took.
In the light of the fire, it was revealed that three outlaws had answered the call. One of them was the man Starbuck had shot, three neat holes stitched beneath his breastbone. Another, whose identity was unknown, had been dusted front and back by several pistol slugs. The third man, however, was instantly recognizable. Curly Bill Brocius had taken a double load of buckshot directly above his beltbuckle. His shirtfront was a plate-sized starburst of blood and gore. He was eviscerated, quite literally blown to bits.
Earp seemed to derive no satisfaction from the outlaw leader’s death. There was no question his shotgun had done the job, but his expression betrayed no hint of vindication. Staring down at the body, he appeared curiously disgruntled, somehow unappeased. After a long while, he looked up, his features set in a tight scowl. His gaze settled on McMasters.
“Sherm, get a rope.”
“A rope?”
“String him up in the tallest tree you can find.”
McMasters looked startled. “You mean hang him?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Why hell, Wyatt, he’s already dead.”
“Do it!” Earp commanded. “Before the buzzards pick his bones, I want every backshooter in the territory to get the message. So hang him high.”
Starbuck watched the hanging with a sense of the unreal. McMasters and Vermillion dragged the body under a tree and tossed the rope over a stout limb. Then they hoisted the body high in the air and snubbed the rope tight around the base of the tree. The job finished, they walked away as though they had taken part in something unnormal, not altogether human. The dead man overhead seemed to mock them all.
Earp turned and walked to the fire. He held out his hands to the flames, and a sudden tremor rippled along his jawbone. Looking on, Starbuck was reminded of a man he’d seen in a courtroom long ago. A man on his way to the madhouse.
CHAPTER 17
In the darkness, the campfire was a small island of light. The men, after wolfing down their supper, were seated on the ground. No one spoke, and the cheery blaze did nothing to dispel a sense of gloom.
Vermillion and McMasters, assigned the first guard shift, were posted along the south end of the grove. Holliday, immediately after the hanging, had insisted on mounting a watch. None of them believed the gang would return, but they all felt more comfortable with someone standing guard. Their horses, picketed at the edge of the treeline, were also kept near at hand. Standing hipshot and drowsy, the animals were visible in the flickering glow of the fire.
Over the crackle of flames, the only sound was the measured creak of a rope. The body, little more than a dim shape in the erratic light, was pushed gently to and fro by an evening breeze. Earp, who hadn’t spoken in the last hour, stared at the hanged man with a vacant expression. His eyes had a faraway look, as if he was gazing at something obscured by distance. He sat perfectly still, legs crossed and hands dangling over his knees. The sawed-off shotgun was cradled in his lap.
The long, stony silence was at last broken by Holliday. His tone was caustic, laced with hostility. His remark was addressed directly to Starbuck.
“You’re one piss-poor scout, Johnson.”
Starbuck was hard put to suppress a smile, but he managed an offhand answer. “All’s well that ends well.”
“Like hell!” Holliday said furiously. “You come pretty goddamn close to gettin’ us killed.”
“Easy to say when you’ve got hindsight on your side.”
After the fight, Holliday had taken a torch and walked off into the trees. Halfway through the grove, he’d found a camp site, the fire hastily extinguished and still smoldering. On the far side of the wooded thicket, he had stumbled upon a picket line, with the horses of the three dead outlaws standing walleyed in the night. Since then, he had kept to himself, sullen and withdrawn. Now, in a burst of temper, his anger spilled out.
“Hindsight’s got nothin’ to do with it! Anybody with a lick of sense would’ve spotted something fishy. You’d have to be blind to miss it!”
“The way it worked out,” Starbuck said lightly, “there wasn’t anything to miss. Brocius must’ve had a lookout posted up there on the ridge. He had plenty of warning, all the time he needed.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Holliday grated. “We’re talkin’ about you, not Brocius.”
“What I’m s
aying,” Starbuck explained, “is that Brocius probably had a good half hour to make his move. He could’ve cut and run long before we got here. Instead, he used that time to fix up a real fine ambush.”
“That’s right!” Warren put in. “You saw it your ownself, Doc. The way they’d doused the fire, and had their horses picketed on the back side of the trees. Brocius was cagey as hell! He rigged a trap and just waited for us to ride into it.”
“And we did!” Holliday said sharply. “With Johnson’s help, it worked slick as a whistle.”
“Help?” Starbuck looked offended. “You’re off your rocker, Doc! It was me that rode down here and took a chance on getting ventilated. Or maybe you forgot that?”
“You’d like me to forget, wouldn’t you?”
“What the devil’s that supposed to mean?”
“You led us in here like a goddamn Judas goat and got us drygulched. That’s what it means—plain and simple.”
“Doc, you’ve got a mighty short memory.”
“Oh yeah?” Holliday bridled. “What’d I forget now?”
“Couple of things,” Starbuck said lazily. “Just for openers, I was getting shot at, too. So it’s not like you were all by your lonesome. On top of that, out of the three we killed, I cooled one of them myself. If you care to count the holes, they’re dead center through the brisket. All in all, I’d say I carried my share of the load and then some.”
“Damn good thing,” Holliday grumbled sourly. “If you hadn’t, I would’ve put out your lights myself.”
“C’mon, Doc!” Warren laughed uneasily. “Christ, nobody’s perfect. Brocius and his boys were hid so well anybody could’ve missed spottin’ them. Isn’t that right, Jack?”
“Well—” Starbuck gave him a jolly wink. “Doc might’ve tumbled to them, but then we’ll never know, will we? He seemed real happy to stay up on the ridge and let me come down here for a looksee.”
Holliday skewered him with a glare. “You’ve already pushed your luck enough for one night.”