Bloody Trail

by Ford Fargo

  “Much obliged,” Bill said, passing the Colt to Charley. He headed to where Cholla stood, patiently waiting. The horse nickered when Bill approached, then nuzzled his cheek. Bill placed a hand on each side of Cholla’s muzzle, then gently shook the big paint’s head.

  “Just like old times, eh, Cholla?” he murmured. Cholla snorted, and tossed his head. Bill placed his head against Cholla’s forehead, then his nose to Cholla’s right nostril. Man and horse stood, exchanging breaths, each absorbing the other’s strength and spirit.

  “Bill, I hate to interrupt, but if you’re through makin’ love to that horse, we’d better get started,” Charley said, with a grin. “Here’s Jed’s gun.”

  Behind him, Derrick was already mounted, rifle lying across the pommel of his saddle.

  “All right, and thanks. Sure hope Satterlee’s clever enough to figure out what we’re tryin’. Good luck to all of you,” Bill said. He tucked Jed’s gun into his waistband.

  “You’re the one who’s gonna need it,” Jimmy answered.

  “Give me just one minute before you start,” Charley ordered. He slipped silently into the underbrush and disappeared. Bill waited until a minute had passed, then heeled Cholla into a dead run. Derrick followed, reining his horse into the side gully. The minute he did, he opened fire in the direction of the outlaws. Behind him, Gallagher and Jimmy did the same.

  Joe Montgomery spotted Bill as he rode for the creek bed.

  “Sheriff, I told you not to bring Torrance along. The son of a bitch is runnin’ out on us. I’ll stop that bastard!”

  “Joe, you fool, no! Looks like he’s tryin’ to draw those renegades’ bullets,” Satterlee yelled, uselessly. Montgomery leapt to his feet and leveled his rifle at Bill’s back. Before he could pull the trigger, concentrated fire from the outlaws tore into him, dropping him in his tracks.

  As Bill had hoped, Danby’s men, distracted by the gunfire from the gully, didn’t notice him until he splashed across the creek and circled behind them. Cholla’s reins were wrapped around the saddle horn, Bill guiding the paint with knee pressure. He held a Colt in each hand, and began blasting away at the outlaws’ backs as soon as they were in sight. Three of Danby’s men died before any of them realized one of the posse had gotten behind them.

  “Get that bastard!” someone yelled. Several of the renegades turned to concentrate their fire on Bill, but he was an elusive target. Cholla, experienced in battle, twisted and turned—taking a zigzag path and making himself and his rider almost impossible to hit. Bill put bullets into two more men’s chests, another into one’s belly. He grunted when a bullet clipped the top of his shoulder, and Cholla squealed with pain when one grazed his hip. Bill shoved his now-empty Colts into their holsters, pulled out his Winchester, and urged Cholla onward.

  Derrick, reaching the steep end of the side gully, spurred his horse up the slope. The animal struggled, nearly going to his knees, but Derrick’s strong pull on the reins kept him upright until they burst over the gully’s rim. Derrick charged straight into the brush, adding his fire to that of Bill. He shot one man, then ran his horse right over another, trampling him.

  “We can’t just stay here and let Bill try’n handle this by himself,” Rob Gallagher shouted, when he heard Bill’s first shots. “Let’s give him a hand, Jimmy.”

  Crouched low, he and Jimmy left the protection of the gully, running across the open plain, guns blazing. Jimmy shot one outlaw through the throat, then a bullet ripped through his thigh. He dropped to one knee, then rolled behind the scant protection of a large clump of prickly pear. He flattened himself behind the cactus, reloaded, and resumed firing. Rob, his gun empty, dove into an old buffalo wallow, gasping for breath. A moment later he also had reloaded, and reentered the fray.

  “Men, Torrance has given us the chance we needed. Get mounted. We’re goin’ after those bastards,” Satterlee ordered. He grabbed his horse’s reins and swung into the saddle, not waiting for the others to follow. He galloped the mount over the ridge and straight at the outlaws, gun blazing. His gunfire was quickly joined by that of the other possemen.

  Caught between gunfire from three directions, what Danby had thought would be a deadly trap for his pursuers soon turned into a rout for his men instead. Within the span of ten minutes, almost all of the drygulchers were dead or mortally wounded.

  Bill spotted Wes Hammond as Danby’s second-in-command climbed onto his horse, attempting to flee. He pulled Jed’s gun from his waistband.

  “Hammond!” he shouted. “Hold it right there!”

  Hammond whirled his horse to face Bill.

  “Tolliver! Thought I killed you back in Texas. How many lives you got, you son of a bitch?”

  He pulled the trigger of his gun a split-second before Bill. Hammond’s slug slammed into Bill’s stomach. Fighting to stay in the saddle, Bill shot twice, both slugs from Jed’s gun hitting Hammond in the belly. Hammond slumped over his horse’s neck, then fell to the dirt. Bill pressed a hand to his middle, jackknifed, and slid off Cholla’s back. He staggered up to Hammond, kicked the gun out of his hand, stumbled back to Cholla, and collapsed.

  ****

  Derrick McCain was the one who found Bill. He spotted Cholla, who was standing over his rider, occasionally nuzzling Bill’s face. Derrick spoke soothingly to the horse as he approached.

  “Easy, horse. It’s all right, bud. I’m gonna check on your friend, okay?”

  Cholla snorted, and backed away.

  “Torrance?” Derrick asked. “You still—”

  Bill’s eyes flickered open.

  “Yeah, I’m still here. So far, anyway. Don’t reckon for long, though.”

  “You just wait until I get the doc before you decide that, y’ hear?” Derrick answered.

  “All right,” Bill said. “Check Hammond first, however. Make sure he’s done for.”

  “You got Wes Hammond?”

  “Right over there.”

  “I’ll see to him. Be right back.”

  Derrick walked to where Hammond lay, crimson spreading over his shirtfront. Hammond’s breath came in gasping wheezes, the death rattle deep in his chest.

  “Hammond,” Derrick said.

  “You’re still alive too?” Hammond asked, in disbelief. “Can’t—understand it. Well, at least I got—one of you bastards. Put a bullet in Tolliver’s gut. He’s not gonna cheat death—this time. Reckon he’ll join me in hell right—quick.”

  “Tolliver?” Derrick repeated. “You mean Torrance, don’t you? Bill Torrance.”

  “Hell, mebbe that’s the name he’s usin’ now, but his real name’s Ben—Tolliver,” Hammond answered. “He was a Texas Ranger, durin’ the War. Later I heard—he became a town marshal, down in—Blanco.”

  “Torrance? You certain?”

  “Certain as you’re standin’ there, watchin’ me die,” Hammond answered. “You want proof? I sliced Tolliver’s belly open with a saber when—he and some other Rangers came on us. He still managed to put a bullet—in my shoulder. Couldn’t finish him off, but figured he was dead—anyway. Could’ve knocked me over with—a feather when I spotted him standin’ next to you back in—Wolf Creek. Knew you, didn’t recognize Tolliver’s face, but I sure knew it was him when I saw that scar—across his belly. I’m the one give it to him.”

  Hammond coughed, choking on the blood welling in his throat.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Derrick muttered. “Torrance, a Texas Ranger. That explains a lot. Hammond—”

  His last words to the outlaw were left unsaid. Hammond had breathed his last. Derrick headed back to Bill’s side.

  “Well?” Bill said.

  "Hammond's dead," Derrick answered. "The others are too. Charley tried to take a prisoner or two, but they went down hard—I reckon they saw a big black Seminole with a hatchet and figured givin' up wasn't the wise choice."

  “Danby?”

  “Not here. Like you figured, he kept on ridin’, along with most of his men. We’ll start after ‘em in
the mornin’. Gonna spend the night here and lick our wounds.”

  Derrick paused before continuing.

  “Torrance, gotta ask you somethin’. Before he died, Hammond claimed your real name is Tolliver, Ben Tolliver, and that you were a Texas Ranger. Any truth to that?”

  “Guess there’s no reason to lie—about that now. Always figured it would come out—sooner or later,” Bill answered. “Yeah, my real name’s—Tolliver.”

  “Knew you were more than you claimed when I saw how you handled yourself durin’ that ambush,” Derrick said. “You mind if I tell Satterlee about you?”

  “Yeah, go ahead. He’ll find out soon enough—anyway. Besides, like I said, I’m gut-shot, doubt I’ll—pull through. Rather have my real name—on my tombstone.”

  “Don’t put yourself in the ground yet,” Derrick advised. “You’re one tough hombre.”

  “McCain, help me up, will ya?”

  “Are you loco, Torrance?”

  “Just do what I ask, please? Gotta—check on my horse.”

  “All right.”

  Derrick slid his hands under Bill’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. Bill stumbled over to Cholla. He took the horse’s muzzle in his hands.

  “You all right, pard?” he asked the horse. Cholla whinnied, his nostrils flaring in excitement and flecked with blood.

  “Guess you’re not hurt—too bad,” Bill said. “Lemme just get some ointment—and clean out that bullet slash.”

  “I can handle that,” Derrick offered.

  “No offense, Derrick, but I’d rather patch up Cholla my ownself,” Bill replied. He dug a tin of salve and piece of cloth from his saddlebags, then cleaned out and dressed the wound on Cholla’s hip. Once that was finished, Bill attempted to pull himself into the saddle.

  “Torrance, just what the hell do you think you’re doin’?” Derrick demanded.

  “Goin’ after the rest—of the bastards who killed—Ann,” Bill answered.

  “You ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Derrick ordered. “It’s one thing to let you doctor a horse, but you sure as hell ain’t ridin’ him noplace. You’re gonna wait right here while I fetch Doc Munro. Be back quick as I can.”

  “Reckon I don’t have a choice,” Bill conceded, when he swayed dizzily, and slumped against Cholla’s side. “Better lie back down.”

  “Now you’re talkin’ sense,” Derrick answered. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  Once Bill was again stretched out on his back, Derrick looked at him and grinned.

  “Reckon we’re all obliged to you. You did a good job here—Tex.”

  Bill managed a weak smile.

  “So’d you—Reb.”

  ****

  Bill lay thinking while he awaited Derrick’s return.

  Reckon it’s true what they say about everything comin’ around eventually. I gut-shot Pete, my best friend, and swore I’d never take up a gun again. Move to Kansas, take a new name, and live in relative quiet, until Wes Hammond turns up in the same town where I settled. So, I forget everythin’ I vowed, dig out my guns, and join a posse to go after Hammond. Now, just like Pete, I’m lyin’ here with a bullet in my own belly. Man can’t cheat fate, I guess.

  Bill’s morbid thoughts were interrupted by Derrick’s return. Accompanying him were Doctor Munro and Sheriff Satterlee. Munro knelt at Bill’s side and opened his bag.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, Bill, but I was tending to Deputy Zachary. He’s been pretty severely wounded, not to downplay the seriousness of your injuries,” Munro apologized.

  “No need to apologize, or to worry—about me, Doc,” Bill answered. “Doubt there’s anythin’ you can do for me.”

  “You let me be the judge of that,” Munro ordered. He opened Bill’s shirt, to reveal the oozing bullet hole in his stomach.

  “See, Doc,” Bill muttered. “I’m gut-shot. Done for.”

  “What did I just tell you, Torrance? Your wound is not quite as serious as you imagine. The bullet went into your stomach, but then out between two of your ribs. I’m going to do what I can here, then once we’re back in Wolf Creek I’ll be able to work on you more.”

  Munro reached into his bag and removed a brown bottle.

  “Wait a minute, before you start,” Bill requested. “Sheriff, how bad did—Danby’s men hit us?”

  “Not as bad as it could have been, thanks to your spottin’ that ambush,” Satterlee answered. “Reckon if I wasn’t so thick-headed, and had listened to you, none of this would have happened.”

  “You’ve got no way of knowing that, Sheriff,” Derrick said.

  “He’s right, Sheriff,” Bill agreed.

  “Appreciate that, but it still don’t make things better,” Satterlee replied. “We lost four men, five if you count Mack Haskins. Pennycuff, Salem, Myers, and Montgomery are dead. Zachary may not make it, and Spotted Owl took a slug through his leg, so he’ll be laid up awhile. Billy Below took a bullet across his ribs. Few inches to the right and he’d have been Billy Six Feet Below.”

  “Sheriff, it hurts too much to laugh,” Bill moaned.

  “I guess,” Satterlee conceded. “Anyway, Robert Gallagher really showed his salt. Lost his spectacles, but that didn’t slow him down none. He waited until one of those renegades was right on top of him, then shoved his gun right into the bastard’s belly and pulled the trigger. Blew that son of a bitch’s guts clean out through his backbone. Reckon we all sold Gallagher short.”

  Satterlee didn’t mention exactly how Joe Montgomery had died. He saw no point in that. He hesitated before bringing up his next question.

  “Bill, Derrick here tells us Torrance ain’t your real name. Says Wes Hammond claimed you’re really an hombre name of Ben Tolliver, a former Texas Ranger and marshal. Says you and Hammond crossed paths before.”

  Bill sighed deeply.

  “Like I told McCain, there’s no point—denyin’ it. Yeah, Tolliver’s my real name, and I was a Ranger. That’s where I ran into Hammond—the first time. He’s the one who put this scar—across my belly. Always wondered whether we’d—meet up again.”

  “Why’d you quit law work? Seems like you’re a natural for it,”

  Satterlee pressed.

  “That’s a real long story, Sheriff,” Bill began.

  “No time for long stories,” Munro interrupted. “Let me work on Bill, G.W., so I can get back to treat the less severely wounded.”

  He lifted the bottle and uncorked it.

  “Bill, this is going to hurt like the devil,” he warned. “However, with any luck, it will keep your wounds from festering until we reach town.”

  “Stop jawin’ and just get at it, Doc,” Bill urged.

  “All right.”

  Munro poured a generous amount of the stinging liquid into the hole in Bill’s stomach, allowing more to run over the exit wound in his side. Bill screamed at the burning, almost unbearable pain.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that, but it was unavoidable,” Munro apologized. “Now, I’m going to bandage your wounds, as tightly as possible to stanch the bleeding. Once I’m done, if you feel strong enough, keep one of your hands pressed to your stomach. That will also help slow the blood’s flow.”

  By the time Munro finished, Bill had passed out.

  “He dead, Doc?” Derrick asked.

  “No, merely unconscious. That’s just as well,” Munro explained.

  “You really think you can save Torrance, or I guess I should say Tolliver, Doc?” Satterlee questioned. “Rarely hear of a gut-shot man survivin’.”

  “On the contrary, Sheriff,” Munro answered. “In my experience as a battlefield surgeon, I have seen more than one man, with abdominal injuries worse than Bill’s, survive.”

  “You mean Ben, Doc,” Derrick broke in.

  Munro flashed a tired smile. “Yes, you’re absolutely right, Derrick. I imagine we’ll have to start using his correct name. Anyway, it will be a challenge; however, I dote on challenges, so I am confident I can save Ben’s life.
In fact, just this morning, Charley Blackfeather gave me some ingredients for a new potion he states is fine medicine for ulcers. I plan on trying his concoction on Ben, here. An ulcer is a hole, very similar to some bullet wounds.”

  Munro didn’t reveal the “ingredients” Charley had provided were green frogs. Most white men scoffed at Indian or Chinese medicines, while he was willing to try almost any cure. Munro’s travels had demonstrated to him the white race didn’t hold a monopoly on effective medications.

  “Doc, if you’re finished here, we’d best get back to the others,” Satterlee ordered.

  “Indeed. We’ll just need to get Ben to our camp.”

  “You and the sheriff go ahead, Doc,” Derrick said. “I’ll take care of Ben.”

  “Are you certain?” Munro asked.

  “Positive,” Derrick assured him.

  “All right. You know where we’ve set up camp,” Satterlee said. “Meet us there.”

  Ben Tolliver never awakened when Derrick lifted him to Cholla’s back and tied him in the saddle, nor when Derrick pulled him off his horse, laid him gently on the ground, and wrapped him in blankets. When he finally did regain consciousness, it was full dark. The sound of a harmonica drifted through the still air.

  “Must be Jimmy Spotted Owl,” the injured man mused. “Always did like the way he plays that mouth harp.”

  He didn’t recognize the melody Jimmy was playing, a refrain so mournful it was almost a dirge. All he knew was that tune certainly fit the occasion. He fell back to sleep with the notes echoing through his fogged mind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Derrick McCain sat on a rock at the edge of their impromptu camp, rifle across his knees. The campfire was too far away to provide any warmth, but close enough for its flames to send flickers dancing among the shadows. Derrick focused all his attention on his ears, alert for any suspicious noise from the darkness that surrounded them. He heard soft breathing, and a few light snores, coming from his sleeping comrades—dark bundles burrowed beneath protective blankets. Sometimes one of the wounded would moan in pain. Five of those bundles made neither motion nor noise, and never would again.