by Bill Brooks
Johnny Montana saw the distant glow of firelight, heard the sounds of fiddle music and laughter. He rode the blaze-faced mare up on a slight rise of land until he could more clearly see the camp fire and the people dancing around it.
It was too dark to make out who the celebrants were, but he could see the fire’s light reflected in the river that ran between him and the campers.
He dismounted and squatted on his heels watching and listening to them. And then he recognized a woman’s voice, a woman’s laugh and his heart quickened. It was Katie’s voice. Her voice carried well across the water, across the night. That it was her voice, he could not be mistaken.
He cursed silently. There was only one man she could be having fun dancing with—the Texas Ranger!
His urge was to go over and shoot up the camp, to take back what was his. But as smooth as the river flowed, he could not bring himself to cross it, not at night he couldn’t. The old fear of drowning, the dreams he had about it, left him fearful of doing such a thing. He would wait until daylight, and then search for a safe place to cross, take the camp by surprise at first light. The plan eased his mind.
“Go ahead little woman. Go ahead and have your fun tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll come and get you and you won’t be so happy and your Ranger won’t be so happy neither.”
Pete finally waved a hand in the air at Billy who was sawing a lively jig on the fiddle that sounded like demons were trying to escape the strings.
“I have to stop,” he said with exhausted laughter. “I’m plum wore out, Billy! This dancing business is a whole lot more work than it looks.”
Billy grinned, but finished the tune with a nice flourish and held the little instrument high in the air.
“You are a plum toe tapper, Pete,” he said, bowing at the waist. “My, but you have worked both Miss Katie and Sister into a glisten, look how rosy their cheeks glow.”
Katie leaned against Pete, her arm around his waist.
“You were terrific,” she said and kissed him. He flushed embarrassed at the public display, but Sister and Billy clapped their hands and hooted.
When Billy saw the young man’s deep blush, he said, “I guess it is getting late. Me and Sister ought to be bedding down. Come morning, we head into Mormon Springs and drop you two off. You can catch the stage line out of there for just about anyplace you’d care to go.”
The announcement brought with it a certain sad finality.
Katie had especially grown fond of Billy and Sister, but more, she had cherished these last few days of them all being together like children at play. Her and Pete, Billy and Sister. It was like an adventure of the heart, and one that she knew now was ending.
She had nearly, in those few happy hours, forgotten about what lay ahead. Even though Pete had promised her that he would not let anything happen to her, she knew that she would not be able to live if it meant being on the run from the law.
Billy and Sister bid them good night and headed for their wagon. Pete took her hand and they walked to their lean-to and sat upon the bedrolls.
“I had fun tonight,” he said, wiping his brow with his kerchief. “I had a heck of a lot of fun.”
“So did I, Pete. It was as if ....”
“What?”
“It was as if it was never going to end, and now it has.”
“I think I know what you mean, Katie. It sort of has a bad feel to it to know that we’ll be parting company with Billy and Sister, they’ve been like angels to us.”
“It’s more than just that, Pete. It feels like the end is coming near.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know how to explain it exactly,” she said, feeling the press of his hand in hers.
“You’re worried about what happens when Billy drops us off in Mormon Springs tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Maybe so. But, I am worried about beyond that as well.”
“Don’t. I have already told you that we’ll just ride away, make a life for ourselves somewhere. No one will ever have to know. People disappear in this country all the time.”
“Pete, I have this feeling, this sense of dread about the future. I don’t know how to describe it to you, but I feel that if I could have anything in the world, it would be to not let go of tonight, to not have tomorrow come.”
She felt the shiver of something other than the night air pass through her.
“Pete?”
“Yes, Katie.”
“I want to ask you for something.”
“Sure. Anything.”
“I want you to make love with me tonight....”
“Katie—”
“Just say you will, Pete. Tell me you will let this night be ours to keep, no matter what happens tomorrow or the day after that.”
He bent his head to her, kissed her gently. She returned his kiss. His hand stroked her hair. He whispered her name and she touched his cheek. He smelled the soft fragrance of her hair, her fingers traced lightly along his neck. He kissed her again.
“Let’s not think of anything but tonight,” he said.
“Yes, just tonight. Just you and me, Pete. Nothing beyond tonight.”
“I love you, Katie,” he whispered. “I think I loved you from the first time I saw you.”
He felt the softness of her, felt the smoothness of her bare skin beneath the blanket that covered them, felt the warmth of her breathing against his neck.
“I love you too, Pete. I will love you forever, no matter what happens.”
Johnny Montana sat a long time watching the camp’s fire across the river. He watched as it grew dimmer and dimmer and then fade to little more than an orange glow.
The music and laughter had long since died, but not his anger. He could only imagine what the night had wrought and what was now going on between Katie and the Ranger. His anger burned hot within him. He had tried to ease it with a bottle of tequila he had purchased back in Mormon Springs.
“Tomorrow,” he said, swallowing some of the fiery liquor.
Unknown to either the outlaw or the those on the other side of the river, several hundred yards upstream from where Johnny Montana now sat squatting on his heels, another man waited in quiet observation of the reverie from the lighted camp.
Eli Stagg had made his way to a point far enough from the camp across the river so as not to be detected, and yet close enough to study the situation.
Who those people were or what they were all about, did not matter all that much to him. He was tired and hungry and saddle sore from another day-long ride into dark. Whoever they were, they had to have grub and maybe whiskey, guns and animals. All of which would be easy larder fur a man willing to take it.
The other thing they had across the river was women. It had been a fair long time since he had had a woman. The Yallar Rose had been the last, but anymore, she didn’t count. Not in his book, she didn’t.
Come morning, he told himself, he’d have a shot at those pilgrims, probably lay right here and pick off the ones he wanted with the Creedmore. Shoot the men, and rescue the women, he chuckled to himself. Hell, why not!
Chapter Twenty-five
The first light of day broke clear and clean above the encampment. The first to stir was Billy Bear Killer, with Sister McKnight stirring right along behind him.
Billy shook his head to clear all the music and some of the sipping whiskey still left over from last night’s celebration. Sister seemed as bright as a new penny.
Billy climbed out of the back of the wagon, lifted his suspenders up over his shoulders, pulled on his boots, grabbed the coffee pot and walked down to the river’s edge. He whistled a fiddle tune he had been playing the night before—a favorite, Sweetwater Creek.
He knelt by the water’s edge and splashed some of the river water onto his face before dipping the coffee pot to gather coffee water.
Pete Winter was already half awake and sitting up when he heard the roar of a big bore rifle. He pushed up from the bedroll and struggled to get his t
rousers on.
An instant later, the wail of Sister McKnight split the air.
Katie was now fully alert and gathering her shirt about her.
“What is happening, Pete?” she cried.
“I don’t know,” he said, pulling his trousers on and then scrambling from the lean-to.
Running toward the wagon, he spotted Billy lying face down at the river’s edge. Sister McKnight was just now reaching her fallen husband.
“Get away!” shouted the lawman as he ran toward them. Too late! A second shot roared through the dawn and splattered mud all over Sister’s dress.
From downstream, where he had finally found a suitable place to cross the river, Johnny Montana heard the shots as well.
“What the hell,” he muttered aloud.
For the life of him, he could not understand why anyone would be shooting in the camp. Whatever it was, he told himself, they were alerted now and he would have to make his approach with caution.
He rode the animal into the water, across a narrowing of shallows that lay in a sharp bend downstream from the camp. Cottonwoods on the other side would conceal his approach.
A third party had also heard the roar of the buffalo gun—Henry Dollar. He pulled back on the reins of the dun and listened until the first shot was followed by a second. Someone was doing some serious shooting! His instinct told him it was trouble. He put spurs to the horse and ran it full out toward the sound of the gunfire.
Pete had reached the spot next to the river where Billy lay. Sister had dropped down over him in protective fashion.
“Sister!” he shouted and pulled her away. “Katie, move her back to the wagon!” A quick check showed Billy’s head and face covered with blood, but the prairie peddler was still breathing. The lawman made a fast assessment of where the shot must have come from: across the river and up on the far slope.
Whoever was doing the shooting was good at it.
Eli Stagg saw the man race toward the body of the man, saw that he had missed the woman. He watched as the two women scurried back to the wagon. Cursing his aim, he resettled the barrel of the Creedmore across the saddle.
He lowered his eye to the rear sights and brought his intended victim in line with the front bead.
Pete Winter’s mind was turning quickly. Whoever it was across the river was one hell of a shot, and probably right this instant was lining him up for the next bullet. He dug his heels into the ground and sprinted away just as the ground where he had been kneeling exploded in a muddy spray.
Eli Stagg cursed the missed shot and quickly jacked another shell into the breech.
He saw the fellow running and before he could draw a bead on him, the target jumped in behind the wagon.
He took pressure off the trigger and settled back thinking of the missed opportunity. Except for one bad shot, he could be headed right now down to the camp, down to the women.
He turned his attention to the hobbled pair of mules whose pricked ears flicked the air.
Sister sat against a wagon wheel, her hands pulling at her hair, a high wail escaping her lips.
“Stay low, Katie. Make sure Sister stays put. Whoever that is across the river is carrying a long gun, and he can hit whatever he chooses to aim at,” he warned her.
“Billy?”
“Billy’s still breathing, but....” He did not finish what he knew did not need to be said.
“Somehow, I have got to get to those mules and get them hitched up to the wagon. Then, we have to figure out a way to get down there and get Billy and without getting ourselves killed.” He paused and caught his breath.
“I think if we can keep moving, Katie, we can keep from getting shot. Whoever is doing the shooting over there can’t be all that good to hit a moving target at such a distance.”
“Billy keeps his rifle in the wagon,” Katie remembered.
“Katie, even if I had two good arms, that piece won’t reach that fellow across the river.” He saw her expectant look turn to one of disappointment.
Pete was steadying himself for a run to the mules when another shot from the big gun roared and rolled across the sky. One of the mules screamed, took a faltering step and dropped to the ground.
“Damn it! He’s killing the mules!” said Pete. A second shot finished the job.
Johnny Montana had easily made it across the river. Whoever was doing the shooting was not shooting at him, he reasoned.
He worked the horse up through the stand of cottonwoods toward the camp.
Henry Dollar had galloped up onto the rise of land overlooking the river. Across the river, at water’s edge, he saw the body of a man lying face down and just beyond, a wagon. Beyond that, there was a dead mule. He had arrived just as the bounty hunter shot the second mule.
The lawman’s attention was drawn to the knoll where the gun was being fired. Less than a hundred yards. He saw a blue haze of smoke rising.
He gave spurs to the dun.
Eli Stagg eyed his work on the encampment across the river. He was a patient man by nature, he could wait an hour or a day or week if need be. Sooner or later, he would have his shot at the last man and then go and take the women. With the mules shot, they weren’t going anywhere.
“He holds the upper hand, Katie,” cautioned the ranger. “We can’t just stay here and do nothing. He knows where we are, but we don’t know much about where he is. If we don’t get down there to Billy, he probably won’t live.”
Katie fought to maintain her nerve, to stand by Pete.
“What can we do?” she asked.
“We need to maintain cover,” he said. “Our only chance of getting to Billy and keeping our heads protected is if we can push this wagon down to the river ahead of us—use it for cover.”
“Yes!”
“We’ll have to hope the wagon rolls down in a straight line, which means you and Sister will have to push while I guide the tongue. Do you think you can do that, Katie?”
“We’ll have to do it, Pete.”
·’Good. Let’s give her a try.”
They leaned themselves into the wagon, and with much effort, it began a slow movement down the slight slope toward the river.
“Push, push!” he urged.
The bounty hunter noticed the motion of the wagon. He was more curious than concerned. He considered firing a shot into the wagon itself as a warning, but prudence over the preciousness of cartridges caused him to refrain.
Several times the trio had to pause to renew their strength, each time, they adjusted the wagon’s tongue and front wheels in order to guide it in the direction they wanted it to go.
Finally with one final effort, they forced their weight against the wagon and rolled it to the water’s edge. Their good fortune had been to place it between the water and the body of Billy.
Pete reached Billy and just as he did so, Billy moaned and rolled over. Pete and Katie pulled him closer to the wagon. Sister began her wailing again. Quickly examining the head wound, Pete looked up with a smile of surprise.
“I think he has only been greased across his scalp and knocked cold! He’s bleeding, but it looks worse than what it is.”
Billy’s eyes fluttered.
“Yieeee!” screamed Sister as she scrambled to him.
“It’s alright, Sister. Billy’s just got a new part in his hair, he’ll be around in a minute.
When she saw Billy’s eyes flutter all the way open, she offered him a moon-faced smile.
Eli Stagg was still concentrating on the camp below and the strange goings on when the thud of hooves snapped his attention.
Herny Dollar already had his pistol in his hand when he topped the small knoll and discovered what he had been looking for. He saw the big man lying sprawled behind the rear sights of the Creedmore.
The bounty hunter swung around, bringing the big gun to bear on the oncoming stranger. The rider looked busted up by the way he rode, but he rode coming on like the devil afire, the dun’s hooves tossing up clots of dirt.
The impact knocked the air from his chest, the battered ribs drove into his lungs. The pistol he had been holding flew free from his grip and was lost amid the grasses.
Instinct willed him to move. In spite of the pain and breathlessness, he struggled to his knees.
He could hear the deadly scrape of shell being jacked into the chamber of the Creedmore.
The bounty hunter was not more than ten feet from him. Standing. Lifting the big gun, the barrel glinting the morning sun. The lawman felt as though he could barely move, as though everything were in slow motion.
He heard the deep breathing of the man with the Creedmore as he approached.
From somewhere within his duster, his hand found the small pocket gun the prostitute, Janey, had bought him back in Mormon Springs.
Then, Eli Stagg made a fatal mistake. He took time to aim carefully at a man not ten feet away from him.
Henry Dollar shot the man squarely in the face. His body stiffened slightly, a few staggering steps, and his body seemed to shudder before falling forward and striking the ground.
Chapter Twenty-six
Pete Winter heard the gunfire from across the river.
Sister McKnight had washed Billy’s head clean of the blood and wrapped it in a bandage of white muslin. Then she gave him a bottle of Sorrowful Plains Elixir to sip, which he did not seem to mind at all.
As soon as he gained back his senses and had swallowed half a bottle of elixir, he declared, “I’ve been pole-axed!”
“No, Billy,” said Pete, “You have been shot in the head is all.”
“It feels like church bells going off inside my brain!” And then, as was his manner, he offered up a slow grin that parted the upper portion of his bushy beard. “Haw, shot in the head, you say! And I lived to tell about it? Now ain’t that something special!”