The Guns of Vedauwoo (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series Book 6)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  Hattner chuckled. "Was it my safety you were concerned for, dear Alice, or the strain it might put on your precious wedding if the best man so rudely chose the last minute to inconveniently slip and break his bloody fool neck?"

  "Really, William," Alice sniffed as she moved to Jonathan's side, pressing close and slipping her arm through his. "As the cousin and best friend of my betrothed, concern that no harm befell you was all I meant to express—wedding notwithstanding."

  "Wishing no harm goes without saying," spoke up Melanie Parsons. "Otherwise, I for one found the whole thing very exciting, Mr. Hattner."

  William conjured a fresh smile especially for her. "I am pleased you enjoyed it, Miss Parsons."

  "What's more," Jonathan interjected, "if the photographs I just took turn out even a fraction as good as I believe they will, I predict we can generate similar excitement in others. Surely I will be able to place some of these shots in one or more of the Denver newspapers—and no doubt an article or interview to go with them. With that kind of exposure, it's inconceivable to me that this sport William has brought over from abroad—this rock climbing, as he calls it—won't catch on and become wildly popular with other adventurous souls right here in the States."

  "You might be surprised," William cautioned. "I was there when Haskett-Smith made his widely heralded climb of the Naples Needle at Great Gable. While that certainly got a good deal of news coverage, the popularity of rock climbing as a sport still hasn't managed to gain much in the way of wide popularity, at least not in Europe."

  "But with the Rocky Mountains right on Denver's back doorstep," said Melanie, "if it's going to catch on anywhere, I should think there could hardly be a more ideal spot."

  William shrugged. "Perhaps. No doubt the Rockies are already a world-renowned magnet for mountain climbers. And I'm sure there are cliffs and walls there that would be equally suited to rock climbing. Nevertheless, the two activities are actually quite exclusive to one another. But this place" —he swept his arms, indicating the sprawl of Vedawoo— "with its countless high, sheer walls and magnificent fissures and peaks ... it's like the Creator made it for rock climbing. That was why, after I saw the photos hanging on the wall of Jonathan's office from his previous trip here, I pleaded to make this visit."

  "I highly doubt," Alice said in a rather imperious tone, "that God was concerned with the different ways His reckless little humans might find to risk breaking their bloody fool necks—as you so quaintly put it, William—when he created the mighty Rockies, let alone this leftover pile of sun-blasted rubble."

  "Be that as it may," William responded, "He did a spectacular job here all the same ... Spectacular enough that I dare say I would very much like to try my luck on a couple more pieces of His rubble before we depart."

  Alice looked aghast. "Oh no! We cannot afford to tarry here a moment longer than planned. We must get back and put the finishing touches on my wedding arrangements. We must leave first thing in the morning. Even at that, with a two-day return trip to Denver, we will be cutting it uncomfortably close."

  Patting the leather harness around his waist and the spool of rope draped over one shoulder, William said, "While I'm all rigged up for it, I can fit in another climb yet today before the light fades. Then all I'm asking is for a few more hours tomorrow—half the morning, at most—to scale that magnificent escarpment more toward the interior there." He pointed to a towering granite outcropping with a weather-worn face. "I'm begging everyone's indulgence. Please ... Jonathan, think of the fantastic shots and the shadow contrasts you'll be able to get with the morning sun flowing down on that wall as I make my way up."

  Jonathan looked simultaneously intrigued by the prospect yet highly uncomfortable over the dilemma it presented. It was clear he would welcome the photographic opportunity— if it didn't pose such a direct conflict with the wishes of his bride-to-be, who stood glaring at his side, her eyes demanding to hear his decision.

  Fortunately, the appearance of Leonard Cory, the wagon driver and guide who had led the party from Denver, provided a timely and most welcome interruption. Striding up from where he'd been waiting and watching at the wagon, he drawled, "You folks decided yet on where you want to pitch night camp? I oughta get the mules unhitched and start settin' things up, if you have. Ain't a bad spot right here, you ask me. Level ground, grass for the mules, nice little pond right over yonder ... Your call to make, but we're gonna start losin' the light 'fore long in case you want to move somewheres else."

  * * *

  "Wait a minute." A hard frown tugged on Elmer Post's haggard, heavily stubbled face. "You tellin' me there's some idiot out there climbin' up and down these rugged cliffs for no reason other than just to be doin' it? He ain't even climbin' after something or to get away from something?"

  Flynn Remsen nodded firmly. "That's the way of it. We seen it with our own eyes."

  "For a fact," Milo Evert confirmed. "We watched for a good spell and that's what he was up to, nothing else but."

  "Why the hell didn't Danton spot him and come report it?" Elmer wanted to know.

  "This fella we're talkin' about is way over on the south fringe, other side of some of those high rocks that shoot practically straight up," Remsen replied. "No way to spot him from our lookout post."

  Elmer seemed to grudgingly accept the explanation and stood silent for a minute, pondering this new development. He was a tall, lean, ruggedly built man with a hard glint to his eyes and a square jaw that seemed permanently clenched in a way that always gave him a grim expression.

  The discussion was taking place in a secluded, cavern-like notch formed naturally within a jumble of tall, broken boulders overhung with aspen growth and crowded with ground level evergreen bushes. The ashes of a cold campfire were spread near the mouth of the notch. A short distance away, in another stand of aspen and good grass, five horses stood quietly hobbled.

  "Climbin' rocks just for the hell of it," Elmer finally grunted. "Craziest damn thing I ever heard ... And he's got others with him, you say? You sure they ain't caretakers from some loony bin sneakin' around to try and drop a net over him so's they can haul him back and lock him up where he rightfully belongs?"

  Evert shook his head. "Near as we could tell, they was on hand sort of for support. Cheering him on, taking pictures and so forth."

  "Takin' pictures?"

  "Uh-huh. Got one of those big old boxy cameras on stilts. Real professional looking. The fella doing the climbing looked sort of professional, too, come to think on it. Had some kind of leather harness around his waist for hooking up to the coil of rope he had over his shoulder. Had little metal spikes, too, that he drove in where he didn't have nothing else to grab hold of. Mostly, though, he managed to find footholds and handholds at the doggonedest places right in the rock itself."

  Elmer pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Seems pretty clear he came here meanin' to do some rock climbin'. Came prepared."

  "Oh, he came prepared all right," said Remsen with a nasty chuckle. "He even brought along those two women to help handle the chilly nights that will be settin' in."

  "Never mind the damn women," Elmer snapped. "Far as that goes, never mind the whole bunch of 'em. Sounds to me like they're nothing more than a fancified picnic party. I don't see how that makes 'em much of a threat to us."

  "One way to make certain they ain't no threat to us," Remsen suggested.

  Evert shot him a glance that made it clear he didn't like that idea at all.

  Elmer made it clear he felt the same, saying, "Now how smart of an idea is that, Flynn? How long you figure it'd be before somebody back wherever this bunch came from would miss 'em and come a-lookin'? Then where would that leave us? We'd have a whole passel of folks—with law dogs most likely in the mix—crawlin' all over this place."

  "Maybe we'd be gone before anybody like that showed up."

  "Yeah, and maybe we wouldn't be, either. You see how bad Virgil's hurt." Elmer jerked his head toward a still form that lay deeper in
the recess of the notch, wrapped in saddle blankets lying on a bed of pine boughs. Some of the blankets had been torn into strips for bandages, soaked through with blood that had dried to blackish stains. "It's gonna take a while to get him healed strong enough to ride. We can hole up right here and take all the time he needs ... Long as we don't do something dumb that causes us to get flushed out ahead of then."

  Remsen squinted. "I don't hold much for bein' called dumb, Elmer. Not even from you."

  "Then don't come up with dumb ideas," Elmer replied flatly, "and there won't be any problem."

  The two locked flinty gazes for a long count, then Remsen looked off. "Okay. Before we gave ourselves away to those picnickers by takin' a shot at some critter, we thought it best to check with you. Was that a dumb idea, too?"

  "No, it wasn't," Elmer replied, most the edge slipping from his voice. "I appreciate the consideration. But, judgin' from the way you've described that rock climber and his friends, if they hear shootin' they sound like the kind more apt to run away from it than toward it."

  Evert nodded. "Most likely. The climber and the picture-taker looked like a couple of dandies, that's for sure. The only one who appeared to maybe have any bark on him at all was the older fella tending the mules and driving the wagon. No towns or settlements anywhere close, so the dandies must've traveled a distance to get here and probably hired the older fella to drive them out."

  "Hired help," Elmer said disdainfully. "That means he likely ain't got enough stake in their little picnic to stick out his neck for 'em."

  "Safe bet," Evert agreed.

  "All right, then. You boys go ahead back out and bag us some meat for supper, you hear? Don't get too carried away with your blastin', though. No sense drawin' any more attention to us than need be. But do what you have to."

  After Remsen and Evert had departed again, Elmer turned and walked back to kneel beside the wounded man on the pine boughs. He gently placed the back of his hand on the victim's forehead, feeling for any sign of fever. There was none. If anything, the pale flesh of the forehead felt too cool. Elmer moved his hand to the wounded man's chest and rested it there lightly. The rise and fall of breathing was shallow, but steady.

  Elmer rocked back on his heels and gazed down on the wounded man. Little more than a boy, really, the clean lines of his face unravaged by years and scarcely capable of growing beard bristle. The resemblance to Elmer's own face was there if one looked closely enough, but it had been a long time since Elmer's craggy visage had appeared that fresh and young.

  "You hang in there, baby brother. You hear me?" Elmer said softly, huskily. "You hang tough, the way us Posts always do. I'll let you rest as long as you need to build your strength back up. We're safe here. The bleedin' is stopped and I got some fresh meat comin' ... You just rest and keep gettin' stronger, that's your job. Soon as you're up to it, we'll head back home to Oklahoma, just like I promised."

  If Virgil Post heard any of these words, he gave no response.

  Elmer squatted there for a long time, just gazing down at his younger brother, knowing he was clinging to life only by a thread. Elmer had never learned how to pray and he told himself it was too late to start now ... But a part of him wished that it wasn't.

  -FIVE-

  Cash had just reached the top of the Turtle when the rifle report rang out—a single, sharp crack of sound cutting through the surrounding stillness of Vedauwoo. It caused the marshal to drop reflexively into a low crouch and duck for cover behind a weather-flattened boulder. A fraction of a second later, however, even as he settled to one knee behind the boulder, Cash came to the realization that the shot hadn't been meant for him. If it had, judging by the distant, rolling boom of the discharge, he knew the bullet would have struck or whined somewhere close before the sound of the shot ever reached his ears.

  Yet, while there was some consolation in recognizing that no one seemed to be shooting directly at him, the fact there was gunfire taking place at all was still reason enough for caution.

  With his Winchester clutched to his chest, Cash bellied over to the rim of the mound and scanned slow and careful to the north, the direction from which the shot seemed to have originated. Given the rugged terrain of mounds and ridges cut with twisting trails and gullies and shallow canyons, he was well aware that sound could bounce in funny ways here. Still, he was reasonably convinced that—yes, there it was! Movement on the far edge of a teardrop-shaped clearing, a meadow of short grass starting to turn brown this late in the season. Two men brandishing rifles had just hurried across the neck of the clearing and now stopped to hover over a brownish object barely discernable in the grass a few feet short of the tree line that marked the northwest boundary of the clearing. As Cash watched, the two men set aside their rifles and dropped to their knees beside the object in the grass.

  Laying aside his own Winchester, Cash withdrew from the leather case dangling at his chest a pair of binoculars. He raised these to his eyes and adjusted the lenses for a closer look. He quickly saw that the object in the grass was a freshly slain mule deer and the two men were beginning to field dress it. Both men were dressed in rugged trail clothes, one a bit shabbier-looking than the other. Each man wore a gun belt and holstered pistol on his hip. The shabby looking one was slight in build and favored a limp on his left side, the other was a strapping black man with a crisp hat perched almost jauntily atop his head.

  Hunters. Bagging fresh meat. Perhaps to eat immediately, perhaps to cure and store for the upcoming winter.

  Cash continued to watch as the pair went about their business, knives flashing, blood flowing. They clearly knew what they were doing and appeared to have teamed for this sort of thing before.

  Hunters.

  Up until now, Cash's concentration had strictly been on encountering Vilo Creed in this place; plus maybe a couple of cohorts if he managed to attract any followers on his way here. What he hadn't reckoned on was running into anybody else in Vedauwoo. Which, when he stopped to think about it, had been decidedly short-sighted. After all, hunters like the Arapaho tribe of his boyhood had been coming to stalk the rich variety of game to be found here for as long as anyone knew. And now that the Indians had all been corralled onto reservations, it should come as no surprise that white men—or, in this case, a white man and a black man—might come around for the same reason.

  Cash frowned. The presence of hunters, in and of itself, was of no particular concern to him. What was cause for concern, though, was the question of how long they figured on sticking around. Hell, for that matter, what if there were more hunters in the area? The last thing Cash wanted was to have unsuspecting innocents on hand and thereby at risk when Creed showed up.

  There was nothing else for it, Cash decided sourly, but to go down there and warn those two fools what was afoot and then chase them the hell away ... along with anybody else who might be in the vicinity, if that turned out to be the case.

  As these thoughts ran through his mind, Cash continued to keep his field glasses trained on the two men down in the clearing. The strapping black was a stranger, of that much he was certain. But there was something familiar about the other man. He was working with his head lowered, so Cash caught only brief glimpses of his face. Still, it was enough to trigger some niggling sense that he ought to recognize those features. Small man ... lame ... shabby dresser ... pinched, homely face ...

  And then, abruptly, Cash had it.

  Flynn Remsen.

  Flynn Remsen, originally from down Kansas way. Rustler, back shooter, highwayman, train robber, and general all around no-good hombre. Reported to have been riding with Elmer Post's gang over in Nebraska for the past two or three years, specializing in hitting trains carrying large sums of money sent from big eastern banks to branch operations sprouting on the Western frontier.

  Damn. That made Remsen something different from just a simple hunter. He might be hunting at the moment, but Cash was willing to bet he was up to something more than that. Something no good, if p
ast history meant anything.

  A wild thought crossed Cash's mind: Could it be that Remsen was here to meet up with Creed? Could it be their lawless paths had crossed at some previous point and now Creed had somehow sent word ahead for Remsen—hell, maybe the whole Post gang, for that matter—to join him in his scheme involving the stolen guns? Or maybe they'd already joined up and Creed was already here too, in spite of what Cash had convinced himself earlier. Any of these possibilities seemed improbable to the point of being mighty tough to swallow ... But having two or more high profile outlaws turn up at exactly the same time at exactly the same remote location was stretching the bounds of coincidence to the point of also being hard to swallow.

  Cash lowered the field glasses and swore under his breath. No matter what, his immediate course of action remained the same. He had to go down there. Only now it would be to do more than warn off a couple of "hunters" who showed up in the wrong place at the wrong time—now he needed to find out what the hell else it was they were up to.

  * * *

  Jonathan Kelsey straightened up abruptly from peering through his camera. He took a step back and swung his gaze in a hundred and eighty degree sweep. "What was that?" he said.

  From where he was setting up a pair of large tents nearby, Leonard Cory glanced up also and said, "Rifle shot."

  Alice Amberson and Melanie Parsons sat sipping tea at a fold-out table half way between where Jonathan had his camera positioned and where Cory was erecting the tents. With her teacup raised part way to her lips, Alice's eyes went suddenly wide. "A rifle shot?" she echoed. "My goodness, are we in danger?"

  On the edge of the clearing where the others were gathered, fifty feet in the air, dangling precariously from a granite cliff face, William Hattner twisted his face and shoulders to look down at them. "By the sound of it," he called, "it came from a good distance away. Off to the north. You needn't fear, Alice, no one is shooting at us."