Hunter James Dolin
Page 14
Hunter had stood, slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, and then picked up his rifle without reply.
"Which way you headin', mister?" asked Jed.
"Not sure yet, just wanderin'."
"Just wanderin', huh? Well, you be careful, there's a lot of bad men hereabouts."
"Thanks for the warnin'," Hunter had said, with a tip of his hat to the third man, who had yet to speak. Hunter slowly backed his way out the front swinging doors of the old rustic saloon, and stepped out into the rain.
"What the devil, Jed?" yelled Billy, slamming his fist on the card strewn table, "We just gonna' let him go?"
"Shut up, stupid! We ain't lettin' nobody go. We're gonna' give him a day's ride to forget about us, then we'll track him down, kill him, get our gold back."
"And my rifle, Jed, don't forget 'bout my rifle."
* * * * *
The rain had come down hard for three days now, the wind was steady. It had been a hell of a storm, but these men were determined to finish what they had started.
Hunter hid his Appaloosa and his packhorse in a natural cave of vines and pine needles that draped over several, large yellow pine trees. He was determined to draw first blood. Hunter knew from experience that the attacker had the advantage over the attacked. On foot, he took with him the sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. Strapped around his waist he wore two forty-four Colt Walker revolvers, along with a thirteen-inch Bowie knife he kept tucked in the front of his belt.
A hundred paces down the trail, he found a forty-foot oak tree and climbed, stopping a little less than halfway up. There he waited, squatting on a large branch, with killing on his mind and determined to survive at all costs.
He didn't have long to wait. They came up the trail single file, moving slowly on horseback – a perfect scenario for an Indian style ambush. Well, a half-Indian ambush in Hunter's case. The path was located directly under the tree branch where he quietly waited.
The first two men passed by, the man named Jed leading the way. Hunter dropped off the branch onto the third man, Bowie knife in hand. He buried the knife to the hilt between the neck and shoulder bone. By the amount of hot blood that flowed over Hunters' hands and the amount splattering his chest, he figured the knife must have pierced the man's jugular vein.
One down, two to go, ran through the gunslinger's mind.
The momentum of the jump took him and the bleeding body off the other side of the horse, onto the ground. As they were falling, Hunter caught a glimpse of a fourth rider, lagging behind and bringing up the rear, The planned ambush had been for three horseman, but it was too late to change it now. He would follow his plan and worry about the straggler when needed.
Hunter hit the forest floor and rolling to one knee, he pulled the double-barreled shotgun from his side shoulder holster. He blasted the second rider, the man named Billy, with both barrels as he was turning, the shrapnel taking out the man's throat.
That's two down, Hunter counted to himself.
Luckily, the first rider Jed, caught some of the buckshot, which slowed him just enough. Dropping the sawed off shotgun from his right hand, Hunter drew a Colt with his left. He shot Jed three times in the chest, knocking him off the horse to the ground, dead.
Three down, one to go, thought Hunter.
Suddenly, from Hunter's left there came a flash of light instantaneously followed by the sound of gunfire, and then a yell of pain. The yell had come from his own lips. The unexpected fourth and last rider, the one who should have been taken out first, blasted Hunter's revolver out of his left hand, along with the tip of his middle finger.
Hunter quickly drew his right-handed Colt, but before he could turn, the fourth rider spoke, stopping him in his tracks.
"Drop the gun, or I'll kill you right here and now."
Hunter turned his head slowly; he looked up at the tall thin man on the horse, who he had not seen before. It had been a long time since the man's face had known a straight razor, and Hunter couldn't tell if he was Cajun or just hadn't taken a bath for a long spell.
Without making any sudden moves, Hunter said, "You can kill me now 'cause I'm not givin' up my gun."
"You will give'r up," demanded the man on the horse, "One way or the other."
With a deadly stare at the man, Hunter continued in a calm and steady voice, "I don't know you, Mister, but you best think about this – is your life worth two ounces of gold?"
Before his question could be answered, Hunter swung his gun around, launching himself into a turning roll, coming upright quick, firing, shooting the man between the eyes. The Cajun went backwards off his horse and to the ground, a red hole forming on his forehead. He managed to get off a shot as he fell, his bullet missing its target, ricocheting off the tip of Hunter's left boot.
The woods went eerily still and silent, along with the Cajun's heart.
Hunter got to his feet, blood dripping from his hand. He picked up his other revolver off the wet leafy ground, along with his shotgun. He then went over to the dead man sheathing his knife in his neck and retrieved it. He walked down the path to the pine tree cave and entered, pulling a bandana and a bottle of whiskey off the packhorse. Taking a long swig off the bottle, and then soaking the rag with whiskey, he wrapped up his bloody stub of a finger. His breathing returned to normal and Hunter leaned tiredly, back first, against the nearest pine, sliding down to a sitting position just seconds before passing clean out...
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