by Jory Sherman
They sat down to a warm supper of venison stew. Carol had made biscuits, and there was a fire in the hearth. Carol intoned a simple prayer of gratitude for the food while the children bowed their heads over folded hands. There was a candle in the center of the table, giving off a glow of celebration even under such homely conditions and with such meager fare.
“I thought we’d have coffee afterwards,” she said, “when Keith and Lynnie have gone to sleep.”
“This is a fine meal, Carol.”
“Why, thank you, Lew. And thanks to you.”
“Mama,” Keith said, “is this man our hero?”
Carol blushed. Lynn flashed a snaggle-toothed grin.
“Keith, little people should be seen and not heard.”
“But you said Mr. Lew was our hero. Didn’t she, Lynnie?”
“Yes, Mama,” Lynn said. “You told us.”
“Shhh,” Carol said, still blushing. She turned to Lew. “I’ve been telling them that one day a hero would ride up here and help us. I told them it would probably be their father, but as time went on, and they kept asking me when our hero would come, I told them it might not be their father. It might be anybody.”
“Tonight, you said it was Mr. Lew,” Keith said. “That he was our hero.”
“Forgive me, Lew. I guess I did say that.”
“It’s all right. I believe in heroes, too. Did you ever read Homer?”
She shook her head.
“Who was Homer?” Keith asked.
“He was a writer who lived a long time ago, maybe twenty-five hundred years ago, and he wrote about heroes.”
“Are you a hero, Mr. Lew?” Lynn asked.
Lew shook his head. “I don’t think so. Heroes are big people with special powers.”
“To us,” Carol said, “you are a hero. Now, you children be quiet and let Lew eat. And you, both of you, finish your supper.”
“Yes, ma’am,” both children said in unison. But they kept looking up at Lew, who winked at them when their mother wasn’t looking.
When they were finished, Lew helped her clean up. She washed the dishes and he dried them. She checked on the children to see if they were asleep, then put the water on to boil for their coffee. The aroma permeated the cabin and added to Lew’s feeling of being at home. They sat in the living room with the fire in the hearth burning down low.
“I wish I had had time to bake a pie, although I have no fruit.”
“Jeff—ah, your father and I ate the last of the peaches before we got to Pueblo and I didn’t think to buy any more.”
“Don McDermott kept telling me he had peaches and pears for me in airtights, but of course I wouldn’t let him come up to the cabin.”
“You did the best thing, keeping him away,” Lew said. “I’ve been thinking about that man and his offers to you.”
“Oh? And what have you decided about him?”
“He’s a liar,” Lew said. “If he was really bringing you groceries and such, all he had to do was leave it at the end of the lane and ride on back down to Leadville.”
“I never thought of that,” she said.
“McDermott wanted to gain your trust so when it came time to, ah, to get rid of you, it would be easy. If he really cared about you and the children, he would have brought food to you and left it, no questions asked.”
“You know, I think you’re right.”
“Good coffee,” he said, and took another sip. He looked at Carol over the rim and wondered what was going on in her mind. She showed no sign that she was upset over her husband’s scheme to murder her in order to collect insurance money. But he knew she had to be concerned.
“You’ll have to stay the night,” she said. “I’m sorry that we have only one bed, for me and the children. It’ll get too cold for you to sleep outside.”
“I have a bedroll out in the lean-to,” he said.
“Why didn’t you bring it in?” she asked.
“I didn’t want to overstep my bounds.”
She laughed. “Why, that’s just silly. If you tried to ride back down that canyon in the dark, you’d liable to break your horse’s leg, maybe get thrown. There’s mountain lions and bears up here and the lions prowl at night. They aren’t afraid to attack a horse or a man.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He changed the subject.
“What are you going to do, Carol? What do you want to do?”
“I can’t stay here,” she said. “I can’t stay anywhere. I suppose I should go to the police and tell them what Wayne plans to do.”
“Be hard to prove.”
“Yes, I know. I don’t know what to do. Do you have any suggestions?”
He drew a breath and looked at her, wondering what he could do for her, if anything. She was in a bad spot. She had no way to get to town, even with the money she now had. And her life was in danger, no matter where she went. As long as Don McDermott was watching her, she was in grave danger. And if she went to Pueblo, that’s where Wayne was, and the danger was even greater.
“I made a friend in Leadville, Carol. Tomorrow, you and the kids can ride down there with me. He’ll be able to help me find a safe place for you and the children.”
She sighed.
“I’d do anything to get out of this prison,” she said.
He finished his coffee, stood up.
“I’ll bring my bedroll in, lay out here in front of the fire.”
“That’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m tired. I’ll say good night now. I hope you can get a good night’s sleep on that hard floor.”
Lew laughed.
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
He walked outside and looked up at the stars. The moon was up, and it sailed high over the mountain peaks. He could see only a small part of the sky through the pines that stretched so high into the darkness.
He walked around back, wishing he had brought a lantern. But he knew the bedroll was still tied on his saddle and he could find it in the dark. He stood there a moment, breathing in the scent of spruce and pine, the fragrance of the fir trees. He was still giddy from the thin air, but the meal had helped and his headache was gone.
He untied the thongs that held his bedroll, and then walked over to Jeff’s saddle and jerked his rifle from its scabbard. He had started walking toward the front of the cabin when he heard a scrape that brought him up short. He stood there, hugging the side of the cabin, listening. What he had heard sounded like an animal’s hoof scraping against a loose stone. A hoof or a boot.
In the clear mountain air, sound carried a long way, but this had sounded close. Lew didn’t make a move, but stood there like a statue, his ears attuned to the slightest noise.
Then, he heard it again. Not a scrape this time, but the unmistakable crunch of a boot on gravel. Just that, and nothing more.
Lew eased down into a crouch. He took the bedroll from his shoulder and set it down. He grabbed the lever of Jeff’s rifle, ready to cock it.
He tried to pinpoint exactly where he had heard the last sound. It came from in front of the cabin, down the lane that led up from the canyon floor. What had he heard? A man? A deer? A bear? He held his breath, tried not to shiver in the chill night air.
Crunch, crunch, snap. Then, “Shhh.”
Two men, Lew decided, and they couldn’t be more than fifty yards from him, heading toward the cabin. He crept up to the front edge of the wall. Lamplight flooded through the front window, but only splashed a yard or two. Beyond was darkness. Then he heard more footsteps. He levered a cartridge into the chamber of Jeff’s rifle and started looking for a target.
“Damnit, Pete, be quiet.” A loud whisper.
“That wasn’t me. I tell you, Don, somebody’s up there ’sides that woman and her kids.”
“Shut your damned mouth.”
Then, Lew heard a branch snap somewhere off to his right.
He cursed silently. There were at least three men.
The night exploded with the loud
thunder of a rifle. He saw a blossom of orange flame and heard the sizzle of a bullet crease the air just over his head and slam into the log just above where he crouched. Splinters showered down on him, stinging the side of his face just at the hairline.
He saw a dark shape just beyond the afterimage of the muzzle flash and whirled, swinging his rifle from the hip.
From inside the house, Lew heard a scream.
A scream of terror that turned his blood to cold jelly.
23
LEW FIRED HIS RIFLE FROM THE HIP, THEN THREW HIMSELF headlong to the ground. He twisted sideways to lever another shell into the firing chamber. Rifles opened up, smearing the night with orange and red flame. Bullets plowed furrows all around him. He heard a grunt and knew his bullet had found a human target, but the man to his right fired another round that fried the air over his head.
He shot at a shadowy figure running across the road, and heard the bullet strike a rock and ricochet off into the dark with a high-pitched whine. He knew he was in a bad spot and rolled toward the nearest tree. Another shot, and a bullet thudded into one of the logs on the front of the cabin.
“Get him,” a voice shouted, and two rifles opened up, firing at the place where Lew had lain seconds before.
Lew fired at one of the shooters and saw him go down. He stood up, sealing himself against a pine while he worked the lever on Jeff’s rifle. He had to be sparing with his shots because all the firepower he had was what was in the magazine.
A bullet struck the tree where Lew was standing. He dashed to another and drew more fire. He threw down on the muzzle flash and fired where he thought the shooter would be. He heard a loud smack and then a crash. He looked out and saw another man go down.
He jacked another shell into the chamber and waited.
No one shot at him, and he could hear his own breathing in the silence.
Then he heard the crunch of a foot. Someone was moving toward the cabin. He hoped Carol would sit tight and keep her shotgun handy in case anyone got past him and broke in.
“I’m hit,” a man called out, and Lew detected pain in his voice.
Lew hugged the tree, listening to the rustlings in the woods. The sounds were close by, and from the crunchings and snappings, he knew one of the men was trying to circle him and attack his right flank, where he was exposed.
One man was down, he figured. Probably another was wounded, but still able to move. The third man could be the one coming up on his flank. He leaned the rifle against the pine tree and drew his pistol.
Another sound off to his left. Two men were approaching now, one on either flank. If he stayed there, he’d be cut down, with attackers on both sides.
He breathed deep, trying to think.
More crunching, softer this time, as if someone were creeping toward him, trying not to make noise.
Lew wanted them close, but he also wanted the advantage.
He hunkered down into a squat, trying to minimize his silhouette. The two men knew where he was and they were closing in. Lew waited, holding his breath.
The rustle of leaves off to his right. Closer now. He knew that if he did not move, either man would have a hard time seeing just where he was. He held his Colt at the ready, straining his ears to pick up any scrap of sound. The whisper of a foot grazing the ground. The soft crunch of earth as the man put his weight on the foot. Lew did not move. He was staring straight into darkness, but he was looking in the direction of the sounds off to his right.
Silence from inside the cabin.
More movement. This time to his left. Closer than before.
Lew squinted, peering into the darkness of the woods, seeking out any movement, any shape that was not natural. His eyes played tricks on him. He saw men all around him until he realized they were trees. Every shadow looked ominous. Neither man was moving. They were, like Lew, waiting. Listening.
Lew put his thumb on the hammer of his pistol. At the same time, he gently squeezed the trigger, ticking it back a short distance until he felt the tension, the resistance. Then he thumbed the hammer down. There was a soft click, but so muted he himself could barely hear it. By pulling on the trigger slightly, he avoided the loud metallic snick of the mechanism engaging the sear.
Now, he was ready.
And he knew it would not be long. One of the men would lose patience. Which one? He did not know. But the man on his right was closer. He could be the one who shot first.
Lew felt himself relax. He was ready. He batted his eyelids to clear his vision. He breathed very slowly, evenly.
The waiting, nevertheless, was agony.
Moments ticked by. The silence deepened.
Then, a small scrape as something moved off to his right. He saw a pine tree expand, broaden its trunk. A shadow within a shadow. A tree growing larger, low down. A man sliding away from the tree, ready to take a shot.
Lew fixed the growing shadow in his mind, locked onto it with his keen eyesight. He brought the pistol up as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Slow and even, like a foot coming out of quicksand.
He leveled his pistol at the shadow.
Then the shadow broke its connection to the tree. Just enough to present Lew with a silhouette.
He fired, squeezing the trigger as he held his breath. The pistol roared, bucked in his hand. Sparks and flame spewed from the muzzle, and he thought he heard the bullet sizzle through the air like an angry bee. He cocked the pistol again as the bullet smacked home, striking flesh, cracking ribs.
“Aaaah.” The sound of a man struck in the chest, expelling air from his lungs.
Lew slid around the tree to the opposite side as he heard the man fall headlong, crashing into twigs, pine needles, rocks.
He looked off to his left, ready to fire.
There was more noise, a scrambling, then footsteps running away. Down the road toward the creek. Lew peered out from behind the tree and saw the dark figure of a man before the image merged into the dark shadows and disappeared.
Lew waited, listening for any more sounds of movement. The man he had dropped, off to his right, was probably no longer breathing. Lew could detect no sign of life. Nor of the first man he had shot. He didn’t know where the man was, exactly, but he knew he was down and either dead or dying.
Moments passed before Lew rose to his feet. He kept his pistol at the ready, walked over to the last man he had shot. The man was lying facedown, his rifle by his side. Lew stuck the tip of his boot under the man’s belly, kicked upward, and turned him over. There was a bullet hole in his chest. A lot of blood on his belly. The man was not breathing.
Lew started to look for the first man, wary, staying to a crouch, just in case there was still life and danger there.
He found him a few yards in from the clearing, between two trees. He lay on his side, his arms outstretched, as if trying to reach for some last bit of life. Lew touched him with his boot and pushed until the man lay flat on his back. This man, too, was dead. There was blood across his abdomen and on his mouth and chin. He could not see the bullet hole in the darkness.
Lew walked a wide circle around the cabin, stopping every so often to listen. A few moments before, he had heard hoofbeats down on the road. They had faded into a deep silence that lingered still.
When Lew had completed his rounds, he retrieved Jeff’s rifle and walked up to the cabin, eased the door open.
“It’s just me, Carol,” he called out before he entered. “All clear.”
He heard the muffled whispers of the children, then Carol trying to soothe them, calm them down. He closed the front door, dropped the latch, and stood there, waiting, listening.
Finally, Carol appeared, the shotgun in her hands. She was wearing a pale pink nightgown and her hair was tousled. There were shadows under her eyes.
“Lew what happened out there? Are you all right?”
“Light a lantern,” he said. “And come with me. I want you to look at something.”
She hesitated.
“It’s
important,” he said. “You won’t need the shotgun. This is your daddy’s rifle, by the way.”
“I recognize it,” she said. “I’ll be just a minute.”
Lew waited. Finally, Carol reappeared wearing a cotton dress and a sweater. She held a lighted lantern in her hand. The two walked outside.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“It’s gruesome, but it has to be done. I want you to look at these men out in the woods.”
“What men?”
“Dead men.”
Carol gasped, but walked on, trying to keep up with Lew’s long stride.
When she saw the man lying on his back, she held the lantern up so that it would shed more light on him.
“Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
They walked over to the man. Carol stared down at him. She did not turn away, as Lew would have thought.
“Do you recognize him, Carol? Is this Don McDermott?”
“No, it’s not Don McDermott. And I don’t recognize him. Who is he?”
“I don’t know. Come, there’s another one you have to see.”
They walked over to the other dead man. Again, Carol held the lantern up over her head. She looked at the man, then shook her head.
“This isn’t Don McDermott, either. I don’t know who this man is. Or was.”
“Then maybe McDermott is the man who got away.”
“There were three of them?”
“Yes, and I think they came up here to kill you and your children.”
She shuddered and shrank against Lew. He put an arm around her shoulder until the spasm passed.
“Lew, this is frightening.”
“I know. It’s lucky I was here, maybe.”
“No maybe about it. Oh, I might have held them off. But three men. How could Wayne do something like this to me? And to his children?”