by B. S. Dunn
This last statement snapped all of the outlaws wide awake, “How could they be gone?” asked Chris warily.
“Because they damn well had help,” Harbin fumed, “When I woke up and saw Davis gone, I checked on the woman and found her gone too! Then I went outside and guess what? Slate was gone too! As were the horses! After that, I found Lone Wolf tied up in the barn!”
Cato, Chris and Benny remained silent; they thought it best, under the circumstances. With Blackie's mood the way it was, there was a good chance he would shoot someone.
Harbin's rant continued, “So right at this point in time Lone Wolf is lookin' for sign as to which way they went. What you three are goin' to do, is get our damn horses back that they let go! Now get the hell out there!”
The outlaws snatched up their weapons and filed quickly out the door, eager to escape their boss's wrath. Harbin followed close behind. Half way across the station yard, Lone wolf jogged in, concern etched on his normally impassive face.
“Hold them up Blackie,” he said hurriedly, “get them back inside, now!”
Harbin was confused, “Why? We need them horses back. They lost 'em and they can damn well get them back.”
“There's Blackfeet in the trees,” the Crow explained rapidly, “we need to be back inside.”
Before Harbin could speak, a soft whistle filled the air followed by a dull thunk as a Blackfoot arrow hit Chris in the chest. The outlaw looked down in bewilderment at the protrusion that he had sprouted. He looked up at Cato, “Damn Cato, I think I'm dead.”
Chris' knees folded and he fell to the ground.
A dozen Blackfoot warriors emerged swiftly from the trees, and caught the outlaws unprepared. More arrows reined down, but narrowly missed targets. Harbin was the first to react, “Take cover, damn it! Don't stand around gapin' at him, he's dead.”
Harbin brought up his six-guns and cut loose. The Blackfeet scattered as one of their number went down wounded, a crimson patch stood out against his skin.
The outlaws slowly retreated toward the cover of the station house. Benny had both his Colts out, and worked them methodically. The Indians soon found good cover, and after the loss of the first brave, the outlaws found it difficult to find a target.
Lone Wolf shouted a warning above the gun fire and Harbin turned. The Crow pointed at something behind the corral. There were almost two dozen more Blackfeet, but these were armed with rifles. Whilst the outlaw's attention had been drawn by the direct attack in front, the others had slipped out of the thick forest behind them.
Hell, thought Harbin before he called out to the others at the top of his voice, “Get back inside! The devils are behind us too.”
The outlaws turned to face the new threat. The air was instantly filled with the snap of bullets that passed close. One tugged at Harbin's sleeve, while another made a red furrow along Cato's arm, and caused him to cry out in pain.
The outlaws immediately ceased fire and hurriedly made for the way station's main door. Benny wasn't so quick to retreat. The kid had a hero complex and thought that he was invincible, bulletproof. A bullet nicked his thigh. Not enough to disable him, but enough to cause pain and make Benny realise that perhaps he wasn't immortal after all.
The kid was hot on Blackie Harbin's heels when the outlaw leader dived through the doorway. The tough hardwood door slammed shut and the locking bar was thrust across and wedged in place.
Glass shattered as the outlaws took up positions by the windows. Rifle barrel's poked through and started to bark.
“Cato, how's that arm of yours?” Harbin shouted over the din.
Cato kept firing and said, “Flesh wound Blackie, I'll worry about it later.”
“Good, you and Lone Wolf watch the back. Make sure it's secure.”
Without a word Cato and the Crow, hurried across to the other side of the building and into rooms at the rear. It wasn't long before their guns fired again, and held the attack from that side at bay.
Harbin reloaded his rifle and sneaked a glance around the corner of the window frame. The Indians were closer now and some were in the yard. One Indian rose up from behind a water trough and loosed an arrow which embedded itself in the outside wall only inches from the window frame Harbin was at. It caused him to flinch as he ducked back and cursed out loud.
“God damn Redskins, what the hell are they doin' here?”
“I'll give you one guess?” Benny answered.
“Yeah, well let's see if we can kill us some more.”
Harbin thrust his rifle back through the broken window pane and fired another volley of shots. Two Indians went down in a heap out in the open. One didn't move, but the other writhed in pain, which only ceased when a bullet from Benny's rifle mercifully ended his suffering.
Benny shifted his aim and fired at a warrior who approached from the right. The Brave cried out and through the gun smoke, Benny watched him go down clutching at his middle. After Blackie wounded another one, the Blackfeet pulled back behind cover and into the trees.
The gunfire from inside the way station died off and all went quiet. The main room was filled with the blue grey mist of gun smoke and the smell of burnt powder.
Outside, Harbin could see at least six unmoving warriors on the ground. Who knew how many wounded had gotten away. He looked around and saw a rivulet of blood that coursed down the side of Benny's face, “are you okay kid?”
Benny wiped the side of his face and saw blood as his hand came away, “Yeah, just a scratch. A bullet came through the window and caught some glass left in the frame, smashed it and a splinter must have nicked me.”
Harbin then noticed the wet patch of blood on the the thigh of Benny's black pants, “What about that?”
Benny shrugged nonchalantly.
“Keep an eye out, I'll see how the others are farin',” Harbin said.
Blackie checked on Lone Wolf who was fine, and resolutely guarded his window. When he checked on Cato, he found that he also, held vigil at a window.
“How's the arm?” Blackie asked, he'd noticed red on the shirt sleeve.
“Hurts like a bitch but once we get a bit more time, I'll patch it up proper.”
“How many do you figure are out back here?” Harbin asked.
Cato wasn't sure, “I think we took care of four or so, but if I had to hazard a guess, I would say maybe fifteen or sixteen are left.”
Harbin nodded thoughtfully, “Well one thing's for sure, they got us surrounded.”
“You know why they're here don't you?” said Cato.
Harbin nodded but before he could speak, Benny's voice called out in alarm, “They're comin' again Blackie.”
Benny's rifle started its deadly work once more.
The outlaw boss smiled coldly, “And here I was hopin' they was goin' to give up. Keep your head down Cato.”
“How are we goin' to get out of this one, Blackie?” Cato asked, concerned.
Harbin called over his shoulder on the way out of the small room, “Hell, just hope they run out of Indians before we run out of bullets.”
*
It was a faint sound, carried on the morning breeze up the valley between the two snow capped mountains. Laramie pulled back on Bo's reins and the big horse eased to a stop beside a large outcrop of granite. Sally and Slate stopped their mounts as well.
“What's up?” Slate asked, curious as to why they had stopped.
Laramie held up his finger for them both to stay quiet. His ears strained to pick out the sound again, but his persistence was rewarded, “there, did you hear that?”
Slate nodded slowly, unsure. He'd heard something but didn't know what.
“There it is again,” confirmed the gunfighter.
“I heard it that time,” Slate agreed.
“Heard what?” Sally asked, confused.
“Gunfire,” explained Slate.
“What do you make of it?” Laramie asked.
“Do you think it's coming from Four Trails?” asked Slate.
&
nbsp; Laramie took off his hat and ran a hand through his brown hair before he replaced it, “Could be,” he allowed, “but I don't plan on goin' back to find out.”
Laramie heeled Bo forward and the horse responded smoothly. Sally and the outlaw, Slate followed behind.
Eventually the trio entered a valley, one of many in this part of the mountains, not too distant from Four Trails. It was narrow and filled with immense stands of ponderosa and douglas fir. At its end, where the valley narrowed to what seemed to be a triangle point, the trail climbed up to a pass named after a French trapper who'd worked the area in the early eighteen twenties. None of the mountain men of the time could pronounce his name properly so the pass just became known as Frenchie's.
From there, the trail dropped down into another valley which was a vast expanse of meadows and streams. A small lake sat on the valley's south side surrounded by various vegetation that included, Fir trees, Red Cedar and Western Hemlock. Elk and Mule deer were prevalent and it was not unusual to see Grey Wolf or a roaming Grizzly.
A mile further on from the lake, was a large beaver pond. It was stream fed by cool, clear water which ran down from the snowcapped ridges that bordered the valley. It was surrounded by grass and wild flowers and at its outlet end, Beavers had built a sturdy dam from the Lodge Pole pines and Aspen sited nearby.
It was here that a log cabin sat. This was Laramie's destination.
The three of them had only travelled a further thirty yards along the feint trail, when they were stopped by Laramie again. He listened for a moment then called, “Get off the trail, quick!”
The trio immediately guided their horses off the trail and into a thick stand of Pine. Laramie and Slate dismounted then worked to keep the horses quiet. Soon after, Sally heard the reason for the group's hasty retreat into cover.
At first there came a low rumble which grew steadily louder. Around a blind bend, appeared maybe fifteen Blackfoot warriors as they thundered down the trail, bent low over their mounts to urge them on faster.
From where he sat, Laramie could see the war paint daubed on their faces. He frowned. This was the first he knew of trouble with the Blackfeet. Things had been peaceful for a long while.
The Indians disappeared down the trail and the drum of hooves gradually receded until the noise was gone.
“Looks like we weren't the only ones to hear all that gunfire,” Slate observed.
“Looks like,” agreed the gunfighter, “But what I don't understand, is why those braves were painted for war.”
“I noticed that too,” said Slate.
“But there has been no trouble with them for a long time, so why now? What made them put on paint now?” Laramie wondered aloud.
“Who knows,” shrugged Slate, but the expression on his face clearly showed that he had more knowledge of the situation than he let on.
Laramie was suspicious but refused to say anything at the moment. There would be time enough for that later. They needed to put distance between them and whatever it was that had the Blackfeet so riled. He climbed back into the saddle and gave Bo a slight touch with his heels and the Horse walked out of the trees, “Come on then, let's go. But keep an eye out for any more Indians. The last thing we need is them on our trail.”
Chapter 6
The posse was strung out along the rough trail when the light breeze brought the sound of the distant gun fire. Jeb Coltrain brought them all to a halt by a raised hand. His brother Zeb, rode up beside him and asked frustratedly, “Why are we stopping?”
Jeb looked at him and for a moment wondered if his brother was losing it. He shook his head and said evenly, “I can hear gunfire up ahead.”
“Yes, so,” the judge dismissed it, “I can hear it too. Hence my question, why are we stopping?”
“Well shoot Judge, I ain't about to ride headlong into a gunfight I know nothin' about,” the Sheriff whipped around in the saddle, “Jim, go and take a look.”
“Will do,” Jim Clancy said as he moved his mount forward past the Coltrain brothers.
“And stay out of sight,” the Sheriff added unnecessarily.
“We're wasting time sitting here Jeb,” said the Judge.
“If it keeps us alive, then it isn't a waste of time, Judge.”
“And meanwhile that murdering son of a bitch is getting further away,” spat Zeb in frustration.
The Sheriff let it go. He could understand his brother's angst, but he needed to be a little more patient. They would catch Davis eventually, and then the Judge could unleash his vengeance upon the gunfighter.
Fifteen minutes later, Jim Clancy returned at a gallop then dragged back on the reins and brought his Bay round and skidded to a halt.
“The way station is under attack from Indians, Jeb,” Clancy said concernedly.
“How many Indians are you talkin' about Jim?” asked Sheriff Coltrain, unperturbed.
“They look like they've been whittled down some, but my guess would be fifteen, maybe a few more.”
Jeb Coltrain thought for a moment, then drew his Colt and checked the loads, “Alright,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Let's go kill us some redskins,”
“Now just hold on a minute Sheriff,” Orson Blake protested.
The Sheriff gave Blake a withering look, “Do you have somethin' to say Blake?”
Orson thought about it briefly, then dropped his gaze and shook his head.
“Didn't think so,” Jeb focused his gaze on the Judge, “Reckon you can keep up on that mule of yours?”
The Judge pulled the Webley revolver from his pocket, “My mule could outrun that damn nag of yours on his worst day.”
“Alright then, let's go.”
*
“Hey Blackie, I'm getting' low on ammunition,” Benny shouted across to the outlaw as the latest attack died away.
“You ain't the only one kid,” Harbin agreed, “another rush like that last one and I'll be all out.”
Things were bad. Since the initial assault, targets were hard to acquire. The Blackfeet would move in quickly and loose shots, then fall back. This caused the defenders to waste valuable ammunition even if they made the occasional kill shot.
“Keep an eye out,” Harbin said and ducked off to check the others.
Both had the same issues; too many Indians and not enough ammunition. Blackie called the group together, “Listen up, you know how bad it is so this is what I propose to do. On the next attack, we go out that door and take the fight to them. Have all your weapons fully loaded and ready to go.”
“Not much of a plan,” Cato pointed out.
“Would you rather stay in here until we run out of ammunition?” Harbin asked scornfully.
“Didn't say that Blackie, just said it wasn't much of a plan,” Cato said defensively, “But I guess it's better than the alternative.”
“Exactly,” Harbin agreed, “anybody else have an idea?”
Benny said, “I always figured I'd go down in front of a gun. Just didn't think it would be a damn Redskin on the other end of it.”
“Perhaps you would like me to shoot you?” Lone Wolf asked, a smile on his face.
“Damn,” said Cato who shook his head in bewilderment, “now you smile. You who've never smiled in your life, pick when we are about to die, to start.”
A short while later, the Blackfeet came again, but this time the Harbin gang came out to meet them.
With Blackie in the lead, the gang emerged from the way station, all guns fired as fast as they could. The Indians were taken aback at such a foolhardy move and hesitated, which gave the outlaws a short lived reprieve.
The Blackfeet increased their rate of fire but still the gang's luck held. Bullets kicked dirt up, like mini eruptions at their feet while others whizzed past, close enough for them to feel the displaced air. An arrow opened a thin cut on Lone Wolf's thigh while another gouged flesh from Cato's rib cage.
Things changed rapidly when Blackie Harbin went down.
*
&
nbsp; The Posse came off the trail at full gallop, men yelled at the top of their voices while they fired their guns at the Indian Braves. Warriors scattered as the posse men cut a path between them and the outlaws. The increased amount of fire, set the Blackfeet back on their heels. In the first pass, the posse put down four Indians and as they turned to come back, the attack broke and the warriors scattered.
The posse men, however, didn't escape unscathed. When they turned to ride back through the yard, a lucky shot took Grover Yates in the chest and caused his bright red blood to spray across Orson Blake, then he slowly slid from the saddle, dead before he hit the earth.
Jim Clancy was wounded as well. An arrow burrowed into the fleshy part of his thigh, but unable to do anything about it, the unwanted intrusion remained in place for the time being.
Sheriff Jeb Coltrain sighted down the barrel of his Colt and fired a shot at the back of a retreating warrior. The gun bucked in his hand and he smiled as the bullet smashed into the Brave's head, spraying crimson. The Indian flopped to the ground, a lifeless heap amidst the carnage of battle. A shrill, almost human scream filled the air. Coltrain turned to look and saw the Judge's mule go down, which threw the heavy man to the hard packed yard. He tried to rise but the dead animal had him pinned by the leg.
The sheriff came out of his saddle and rushed to his brother's side, “Are you okay Zeb?”
“Help me out,” the Judge bleated, “the damn mule has my leg pinned.”
Jeb Coltrain holstered his gun, bent down and took his brother under the arms and heaved with all his strength. The Judge slid out and Jeb let him flop on the ground.
The sheriff drew his gun again and looked around the swing station yard. The gunfire had ceased and the Indians were gone. Men started to get together to make sure they were all fine.