Bull's Eye Stage Coach

by Hall, Billy

  Both shots missed, but barely. He responded instantly. He fired once directly at the flashes of fire and swiftly to either side. Even as he fired he moved quickly to the side, lest whoever was out there return fire at his gun flashes.

  No sound of a bullet thwacking into flesh rewarded his effort. He did, however, hear the sound of rapid movement as someone beat a hasty retreat.

  He stood where he was for a long moment, listening. The silence of the night settled around him again, carrying no information, no warning, no reassurance.

  As silently as possible he ejected the spent brass from his gun and replaced the spaces in the cylinder with fresh shells from his cartridge belt.

  Once again he began to move, slowly and carefully, placing each foot down only after he had felt the ground with it, ensuring his weight would not create sound that would make him a target.

  He came to the edge of the trees, yards from where he had picketed the horses. He listened for their breathing, for the shuffle of their feet, for the sound of their teeth tearing at the grass, for any huff of recognition from either of them. He heard nothing. Heart pounding at the thought of being exposed and vulnerable, he moved stealthily out of the timber. He already knew what he would find. If the horses had been where he had left them, he would have already heard them, sensed them. If nothing more, they would have responded to his presence. They were gone.

  Sudden fear for Belinda’s safety shot through him. What if whoever it was had circled around and had already discovered her?

  Moving more swiftly than silently, he retraced his steps, stopping twenty feet from the blankets he had so recently slid out of. He listened intently. He heard nothing.

  Softly, carefully, he said, ‘Belinda?’ then swiftly stepped three steps sideways.

  A soft voice responded. ‘Dwight?’

  Relief flooded through him. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yes. What happened?’

  ‘Somebody found us.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t know. Mac, is my guess.’

  ‘You didn’t get him?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Too dark to be sure. The horses are gone.’

  She gasped. ‘He took the horses?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I came close enough to ’im that he lit a shuck. I’da heard the horses if he had ’em.’

  ‘He just turned them loose?’

  ‘That’s my guess. Maybe not deliberate. Mighta had ’em loose, and he had to leave ’em when I showed up. Stop talkin’ now. He might be listenin’. We gotta move.’

  Following the sound of her voice, he had moved beside her as they talked. He noticed with approval that she had moved some distance from their blankets, against his instructions, and had hidden. Taking her hand, he led her quietly through the brush and timber to a spot against a sheer bank that rose twenty feet into the air at the edge of the draw. He sat down, his back against the bank, to await the dawn. A small field of large boulders lay between them and the rest of the draw.

  Taking her cue from him, she eased down beside him, leaned against him, and fell back asleep almost instantly.

  He didn’t stir until the pink fingers of dawn touched their artistic brush across the bottoms of the scattered clouds, turning them into orange and crimson canvasses of gorgeous light and color. He studied the area around them carefully, watching for any hint of motion. There was none.

  He studied the area where they had hidden their saddles and the loot Mac had loaded on to Belinda’s horse. Nothing seemed disturbed.

  He moved then, wakening Belinda instantly. Her eyes jerked open wide, filled with fear. She grasped his arm, her head swiveling this way and that. ‘It’s OK,’ Dwight said softly. ‘It’s comin’ daylight. I gotta go look around.’

  She straightened, twisting her shoulders to relieve the stiff muscles of her back and arms. ‘Can you find the horses?’

  He nodded. ‘Should be able to. They ain’t apt to go far from that crick an’ all the good grass, bein’ as tired an’ hungry as they were.’

  ‘What about Mac? Do you think that’s who it was?’

  ‘Just about gotta be. Indians woulda made a circle an’ waited for daylight. We’d already be gettin’ a message from ’em if that was the case.’

  She shuddered at the thought. Before she had a chance to answer, Dwight said, ‘Here’s my rifle and a box o’ shells. Stay right here an’ keep a sharp eye out. If anyone comes along, you can lie down behind them big rocks an’ hold ’em off till kingdom come. Nobody can get around behind you here, on account o’ the bank.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I gotta see if I can follow Mac. Then I gotta catch up to them horses. We’re dead out here without horses. But I gotta take care o’ Mac first.’

  ‘Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he just chased off our horses and left us to die trying to walk out of here.’

  He shook his head. ‘He ain’t goin’ anywhere without all that gold an’ money in your saddle-bags. He wants you plumb bad, too. He trailed us back here to get it an’ get you, an’ he won’t quit till he has both or he has a chunk o’ lead in ’im.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he stood up and walked to where the blankets were still spread on the ground. He picked up each of his boots, shook them upside down one at a time, to be sure nothing had crawled into them during the night. As he shook the second one, the distinct sound of a rattlesnake’s rattle emitted from it. He swore and threw the boot. As soon as it landed, a timber rattler crawled out and disappeared into the brush. His gun was in his hand even before it appeared, but he held his fire. Shooting the snake would instantly telegraph his position to Mac, assuming he was waiting and watching. He shook the boot again, and put it on. It took him several minutes to recover his concentration and for his heart to stop hammering in his chest.

  He had spent the intervening time since his discovery of the missing horses thinking about what the outlaw would most likely do. It seemed the best bet that he would circle the spot where he knew they were, and watch for a chance to dry-gulch them. He headed for the spot where he last knew the outlaw to be, the spot from which the shots in the darkness had come.

  ‘He’s gotta figure I’ll go there an’ start trackin’ ’im,’ he told himself silently, ‘so he’ll be where he can get a pot-shot at me when I do.’

  He studied the area surrounding them in the growing light. His eyes kept coming back to a high spot that had resisted the erosion that created the rest of the draw. It would be a perfect spot for someone to lie in ambush.

  Keeping out of sight of that spot, he used the timber and brush as cover, working his way to the edge of the draw. He climbed the gentle slope it boasted at that spot. Halfway up the side he spotted Mac’s horse, cropping grass and eating as best he could with the bridle bit still in his mouth. Hoping the horse was too tired and too hungry to be concerned about his presence, he worked his way toward the vantage point he sought. He emerged at that lip of the ravine less than a dozen yards from the spot on which he had set his sights.

  He was rewarded instantly. Lying prone on the rock-strewn crest of the rise, Jarvis McCrae watched the area where Dwight and Belinda had spent the night. Gun in hand, Dwight said, ‘Watchin’ for me?’

  Mac whirled, firing as he turned. The shot went wide. Even as he fired, Mac dived sideways, tucked his shoulder, rolled once and came to his feet. Dwight’s own shot pursued him, but failed to connect.

  As Mac came to his feet he fired again at Dwight, the bullet tugging gently at his hat.

  Dwight returned the shot, but swore even as he squeezed the trigger. Mac had disappeared. It seemed as if he had disappeared into thin air. Seconds later Dwight heard the outlaw’s horse retreat down the draw.

  Dwight slid down the side of the gully, then climbed the gentle knoll to where the outlaw had lain in wait. From the marks on the ground it was apparent he had been there since being shot at by Dwight the night before.

  ‘Had his spot all picked out, so he could go right to
it in the dark,’ he marveled. ‘Doesn’t that man ever need to sleep?’

  It took him the better part of an hour to find their horses. Following the easy trail they had left in the tall grass along the creek, he whistled softly for his own mount. The horse trotted to him at once. He swung astride him bareback, knowing Belinda’s would follow the other horse.

  He had scarcely started back toward where he had left her when he heard the bark of her rifle, followed almost at once by three more shots.

  Swearing, he kicked his reluctant mount into a trot. Just short of the spot he had picketed them the night before, he stopped and slid from the horse’s back. Hoping they wouldn’t stray again, he had no choice but to leave them and hurry to her rescue.

  Belinda’s rifle barked again. There was no answering fire.

  Frowning, Dwight moved as swiftly as he could without making noise. He ascended the side of the draw, aiming for a spot above the cliff where he had left her. He was nearly there when an Indian rose from the brush and walked to the edge of that cliff. As he raised his rifle, aiming downward, Dwight fired twice in rapid succession. The Indian yelled, dropped his rifle, threw his hands upward, and toppled off the edge of the low cliff.

  Scrambling on hands and knees, Dwight approached the drop-off. He could clearly see Belinda below. She was still lying behind the cover where he had left her, but she was twisted around, her eyes searching for whomever was behind and above her.

  Twice Dwight caught a slight glimpse of movement, going away from them. In moments the drumbeat of three horses retreated into the distance.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he called to Belinda.

  ‘Yes. Did you get him?’

  ‘Mac?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. He got to his horse and took off again. The Indians must’ve heard me shoot, and started lookin’. They spotted you instead o’ me, ’cause I was gone after our horses.’

  ‘Did you get them?’

  ‘Yeah. I might have to catch ’em again, though. They ain’t tied or nothin’.’

  ‘I think I shot one of the Indians. Maybe two.’

  As they talked, he walked along the edge of the gully until he found a spot where he could slide down. She rushed into his arms. ‘Oh, Dwight, I was so scared! I never even heard them coming, but I saw something move, and was watching. I figured out it was Indians, and when I had a clear shot, I shot at one. He went down, and the others shot back at me. They came close enough for chips of rock to hit me in the face. Then there was nothing. Just … nothing. I watched and listened, and couldn’t see or hear anything. Then I saw the grass moving, and shot where it was moving. I think I might have hit that one too. It sounded like the bullet hit something, anyway. Then you shot the one that had circled around above me. He would have killed me before I even knew he was there.’

  As she talked, her arms around him, the side of her face against his chest, her shaking slowly subsided. ‘You did good,’ he said. ‘You did real good. But we need to get the horses saddled and get out of here. Those Indians might be back with others before long. They’ll sure be comin’ back to try to collect their dead.’

  ‘But Mac is still out there, somewhere?’

  ‘He’s still out there.’

  ‘He won’t stop chasing us until he’s dead, will he?’

  ‘Not likely.’

  She shuddered. ‘Are we ever going to just be safe again?’

  He wanted to assure her that Mac had ridden away and they were already safe. He just wasn’t that good a liar. He well knew it was still a long way back to Headland. He also knew the man who pursued them was an absolute madman.

  CHAPTER 16

  It was just called ‘Kelly’s Draw’. It was uncertain whether anyone even knew who ‘Kelly’ was, or why the tawdry mining camp bore his name.

  It wasn’t anything too many folks would have been proud to see bearing their name. It was made up of tents, hastily assembled shacks, a few overused outhouses, and an occasional open-fronted lean-to, selling essentials for the survival of hopeful miners and prospectors.

  The single street of the camp was beaten to fine powder by countless hoofs of horses, mules, and a rare milk cow or ox. ‘The first time it rains, that street’s gonna be belly deep in mud,’ Dwight observed.

  He hadn’t wanted to even pass through the camp. He just didn’t feel that they had a choice. Since their scrape with the Indians, he and Belinda had taken a circuitous course rather than head straight back toward Headland. Their horses were jaded. They had far too much weight to carry, given the amount of gold that still burdened Belinda’s saddle-bags and bedroll. They were out of any kind of food, other than the one cottontail rabbit Dwight had shot. He was out of oats for the horses, and unless they stopped for a complete day and night to allow the animals to rest and eat they would give out. They really needed to have oats as well, to keep them going until they got back to Headland.

  They were dead tired. Afraid to sleep and too exhausted not to sleep, they had managed to catch an hour or two of fitful sleep only rarely.

  He pocketed some of the paper money that belonged to the bank, making a careful note in his tally book of the amount. Whatever they could find at the mining camp would be three or four times a fair price, but they couldn’t afford to quibble. Neither could anyone else. That was why everything sold for three or four times its fair price.

  Although there was nothing approaching a permanent building, Dwight quickly counted five saloons along the street. They consisted of little more than planks on upended whiskey barrels, behind which the owner dispensed the liquid that seemed to be more important than food.

  At the end of the street a pair of freight wagons had a similar plank – this one supported by two large boulders that had been rolled into place – behind which two men offered assorted items of clothing, picks, shovels, ropes, dynamite and fuses, and whatever else might lie hidden beneath the tarpaulins that covered the contents of the wagons. They seemed to be doing a brisk business.

  A little ways down the street, sandwiched between two places selling whiskey, another wagon sold foodstuffs from its tailgate. As they stopped at that wagon, Belinda said, ‘You haven’t even unhitched your horses!’

  The man with the wagon said, ‘No need, lady. My boy’s givin’ ’em feed an’ water where they stand. I’ll be sold out afore the day’s over and headin’ back for another load.’

  Dwight’s attention was suddenly arrested by a loud voice, back a little ways from the street, a little farther down the narrow gulch. ‘Days of judgment are upon us,’ the voice declared in stentorian tones. ‘It is time to repent and seek the forgiveness of a merciful God, for he will not long abide the vices and excesses of this pit of iniquity. Unless there is great repentance, the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah will descend upon you. The Word of God will be proclaimed from this location two hours from now, before the sun goes down. Come one, come all, and give your sinful souls an opportunity to seek God’s grace while you can.’

  ‘Bandy!’ Dwight breathed. ‘Can you beat that! He’s right there in front of us, hidin’ in plain sight.’

  ‘Is that the man who drove the wagon?’ Belinda marveled.

  ‘That’s him,’ Dwight affirmed. ‘All dolled up in that broadcloth suit an’ preacher’s collar, figgerin’ nobody’s gonna recognize ’im, or even think to look here for ’im.’

  ‘He rode straight here,’ a voice at Dwight’s shoulder said.

  Dwight whirled. Val Lindquist stood directly behind them. ‘Where’d you come from?’ Dwight demanded.

  ‘Virginia, originally,’ Val replied with a perfectly straight face.

  ‘Long ride,’ Dwight responded just as soberly. ‘You must not’ve stopped to sleep much.’

  ‘You two don’t look like you’ve had a lot of sleep either,’ Lindquist observed. ‘I see you caught up with McCrae.’

  Dwight’s eyes turned hard. ‘I got Belinda back. I didn’t get McCrae. Mighta nicked him once, but I missed every other shot I had
at him.’

  ‘He’ll show up,’ Val observed.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Count on it.’

  ‘What’s goin’ on? How come you ain’t nailed Bandy?’

  ‘He has his share of the loot hidden. Frank Singler and Harvey Frieden are here as well. The one they were tracking rode in the opposite direction for a ways, then turned and rode directly toward here. They lost his trail in all the other tracks about five miles from here.’

  ‘They rode here?’

  Val nodded. ‘As did Bandy. As did also Johnny Rivers.’

  ‘Who’s trackin’ him?’

  ‘Howard Glendenning and a cowboy from the Muleshoe Ranch, who is a tracker.’

  ‘And Rivers came here?’

  ‘It would seem so. As with the one Frank and Harvey tracked. They all rode a false direction for a little ways, then came directly here. It would be very surprising if McCrae doesn’t show up here as well. All who are here are keeping well out of sight. None of us has spotted any of them. Only Bandy is hiding in the open, presuming nobody will recognize him in his role as a preacher.’

  ‘So how come you ain’t nailed Bandy?’

  ‘He does not have his share of the loot with him. Neither, so far as we can tell, do the others. None of them is spending any of it at any of the saloons, which is amazing, to say the least. The only way to recover it is to watch and wait.’

  ‘Watch and wait for what?’

  ‘For whomever is behind the entire plan.’

  ‘I thought that was Bandy.’

  ‘It has Bandy who was supervising everything. It is not likely he is behind it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because neither he nor any of the others has any way to dispose of that much gold. You cannot just walk into a bank with a thousand pounds of gold and make a deposit. Somebody has to be behind it who has a way to do that.’

  The thought had never occurred to Dwight. He found himself with his mouth open, staring at the smaller man.