Dividing his attention between the slow walking men on the trail and those who crouched behind rocks and in clumps of brush at the low end of the ravine, Barnaby Gold’s green eyes became deadpan, his lips closed into a line of repose to hide teeth that were no longer gritted and the cracks of strain were smoothed out of his skin at brow and to the sides of his eyes and mouth.
And the calm set of his handsome face did not alter when there was a sudden flurry of frantic movement on the trail, the men lunging for the cover of the wrecked wagon to hurl themselves down behind it, out of his sight.
His eyes raked from them to those still in the vicinity of the slab of rock. But, aware of the marksman’s skill with a rifle, they needed a more intensive diversion than this to risk a dash for the trees.
And a single revolver shot signaled them to be ready. It did not seem to be so, for the bullet was exploded by a man behind the wagon into the head of the crippled horse, as if simply a humane act to end the animal’s suffering.
But before the gelding had spasmed into death, the fusillade of rifle fire had begun. To spray bullets in two directions - at the area of timber where Barnaby Gold was concealed and up at the high ground where the sniper had last been seen.
Gold went out flat to the ground and, with his face pressed into the pine needles, stretched his arms with both hands fisted around the shotgun - broke it fully open.
Countless bullets cracked close by him to rustle foliage and thud into tree trunks, counterpointing the muzzle blasts and the sounds of the repeaters’ lever actions being pumped.
The acrid taint of gunsmoke completely masked the pungent stink of kerosene and the pleasant aroma of pine trees.
Gold drew back a hand to delve into his pocket, open the carton and take out two cartridges. Which he slid into the chambers of the Murcott, Snapped the shotgun closed and cocked, unable to hear the sounds of this against the deafening barrage of gunfire. Then raised himself just enough so that he was able to reach into an inside pocket of his coat and take out the tin of cheroots and a match. Turned his head to the side to place the cheroot between his teeth, struck the match on the Murcott frame and lit the tobacco.
Completed all this and had the tin back in his pocket a full two seconds before the fusillade was abruptly curtailed.
The ensuing silence seemed to have a physical presence in the hot air, as palpable as the drifting gunsmoke that wafted more than a hundred feet up the brush-covered slope to mingle with that from his cheroot.
He was certain some of the men at the lower end of the ravine had taken advantage of the covering fire to make a run for the timber. Were even now making fast progress toward him through the trees. And was equally sure that nobody had moved from the wrecked wagon - the spray of rapidly fired lead had been too constant and blasted over too wide an arc to allow for this.
Because of his certainty about the tactics of the men who were intent upon finding and killing him, he did not risk rising from his prone position to check on the scene beyond his insubstantial cover. Listened to the silence and drew against the cheroot, relishing the taste of the tobacco smoke,
Allowed perhaps five seconds to pass like this, holding the shotgun out ahead of him, one-handed, with his index finger curled around both triggers, the whole length of the Murcott resting on the ground.
Then he took the cheroot from between his teeth and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, let out a stream of smoke. Squeezed both triggers.
CHAPTER TWELVE
PART of a second later he powered up on to the one hand gripping the Murcott and both knees. Threw his other hand forward to hurl the cheroot at a predetermined target.
Heard the double blast of the discharged cartridges and the curses and cries of shock from the tense men in the cover of the overturned wagon.
Saw the shot pattern of the twin load mark the wagon timbers and the unfeeling flesh of the two dead horses. But no sign of the men who stayed low, fearful of exposing themselves to a hail of follow-up fire from the timber.
Saw also the cheroot with the glowing end fall short of the split open barrel that had been tossed into the brush midway to the tree line as the wagon turned over.
‘Goddammit to...’ he started to growl.
But saw a flicker of flame from the kerosene-soaked brush two feet above the barrel.
Shouts of rage were vented by the men behind the wagon, quick to recover from the shock. And rifles were jutted around and above the wrecked rig to blast blind shots into the trees.
This as Barnaby Gold went flat to the ground again, as the initial flicker of flame spread a sheet of fire across the brush with a low toned whooooosh!
‘Shit, what’s ...?’
‘The bastard’s
‘This whole pile of junk is...’
‘Get outta here before...’
‘Move!’
Rage was displaced by fear and in the second or so after the shooting was curtailed every man sought to be heard above the others.
Then there was a minor explosion as the rapidly expanding area of flames found a pool of kerosene inside the damaged barrel at which Gold had aimed the cheroot.
A spray of burning liquid and sparks and smoking chunks of wood was sent in every direction. To start fires wherever other barrels had split open to spill their contents. Fires that moments later were blazing as fiercely as the first.
Within the timber, the flames took longer to get a hold on the tinder-dry pine needles and brush which had not been soaked with kerosene.
Barnaby Gold was already clear of the area where these lesser blazes were starting - had backed away on his knees as soon as the wild shooting ceased. Was now upright and walking fast, still not trusting his aching limbs to carry him to safety if he demanded too much of them.
From behind him he heard enraged curses and screams of pain, interspersed with more minor explosions as fresh pools of kerosene were engulfed by flames. All these sounds against the roar and crackle of the fast-spreading fire.
The only smell in the air now was of the oily black smoke that rose high to subdue the brilliance of the sun.
He reloaded the Murcott on the move.
Carried it one-handed while he lit a fresh cheroot.
Cast frequent glances over his shoulder.
But for most of the time concentrated on the way ahead while he moved diagonally across the thickly wooded, steepening slope of the ravine side.
As the gap between him and the fire widened, the smoke thinned and the sounds of flames and men diminished, and he began to rely on his ears rather than his eyes to warn him of pursuit.
Out of his sight and rapidly fading from earshot, the wagon was enveloped in fire and smoke, the spilled kerosene burned off now and the flames consuming the timber.
Close by, five men had been able to retreat without being burned by the blaze and stood staring with shock-widened eyes at another who lay at their feet - the clothes and hair seared from his body and the skin charred coal black. A moment before a running human torch, who died on his feet and collapsed with his mouth still gaping in the shape of a scream he never voiced.
Even for the hard men of Oceanvilie the corpse presented a sickening sight. And in a group they whirled away from him and started in a stumbling run back down the trail. Afraid they would not be able to subdue the threat of nausea as a new stench assaulted their nostrils. The cloyingly sweet taint of roasting meat - from the burning carcasses of the horses and the bodies of the four men who were engulfed by flames before they could even try to escape the blazing wagon.
Hal Delroy, his fleshy face crimson and cut deep with lines of rage that glittered in his eyes and pulsed in his neck, rose from behind a rock and triggered a shot into the air.
‘Go get him, you yellow sonsofbitches!’ he shrieked. ‘Go get that bastard Gold! And the coward who killed my sister!’
The men ignored the shot and shrill-voiced orders until they crouched, breathless, in cover.
Then Vic rasped
, ‘You don’t own any of us, Hal! Between them, those two guys have finished eleven of us! And I sure as hell ain’t gonna put my ass on the line until I know where the bastards are! Exactly where they are!’
‘I’m the brains for you…’ Delroy started, but let the sentence trail into infinity as he swept his gaze over the faces of the men crouched about him. And saw that their hatred for the enemy was close to being turned toward him. One of them growled, ‘Then use the brain, Hal. We been goin’ off at half cock ever since the kid took off.’
‘Yeah, Hal,’ another added. ‘Get the rest of the men down here. And let’s get back to town. Take the time to figure somethin’ out.’
‘Sure,’ Vic said sourly as he peered out from behind a rock to make a morose survey of the dying blaze, the thinning smoke, the scattered corpses and the thickly wooded slopes to either side. ‘Way things are now, this ravine is workin’ against us.’
Delroy squatted back down on to his haunches and for long moments seemed on the point of agreeing. But then he shook his head. ‘No chance. Kent, Joe, Billy and Phil are up there in the timber. And the kid and his friend do not know where. Perhaps do not even know about them.’ He smiled. ‘So we will withdraw, men. All the way back to town. And, if we are fortunate, that will lull Gold and the stranger into a sense of false security!’
His tone of voice added a note of query and he supplemented this with a questioning look at each man.
‘Sounds okay, Hal.’
‘Long as Joe and the rest don’t figure we’re pullin’ out on them.’
Others merely nodded, some with a lack of enthusiasm.
The youngest of them asked tentatively, ‘What about the bodies up in the ravine, Hal?’
A man spat forward, but short of, the shotgun-shattered corpse of Steve at the base of the rock slab. ‘Ain’t none of them just wounded as I can see, Jim. Nothin’ to be done for the dead.’
‘Except to bury them,’ Vic rasped, and whistled for his horse. ‘Let’s hope them four guys up in the timber bring us back an undertaker.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Hold it right there, kid,’ a soft-spoken voice instructed.
Barnaby Gold came to an easy halt and turned his head slowly to look to his right, the half-smoked cheroot angled from a corner of his mouth raid the Murcott canted in a two-handed grip across his chest.
He had been on level ground for several minutes, trudging through snagging brush on the north rim of the ravine where the pines grew even more thickly than on the slope. There had only been the sound of his own footfalls and breathing for a long time since the gunshot in the far distance, which Hal Delroy had used to gain the attention of the men fleeing the fire.
The voice that intruded from the surrounding silence came from the side of a large boulder, all but enveloped by the creepers of a climbing plant.
‘Appreciate all your help, sir.’
‘You what?’ There was a note of surprise in the voice.
‘I said I...’
‘I heard what you said, kid.’
He stepped into view, right hand wrapped around the frame of a Winchester leveled from his hip and left holding the reins of his horse. A man of about thirty-five. Two inches under six feet with a build as lithe as that of Gold. He had iron grey hair and skin burnished to dark brown. His features were craggy and his eyes looked exceptionally blue.
His Stetson, kerchief, shirt, pants and boots were all grey, a couple of shades lighter than the markings of his stallion. There was an Army Colt with ivory butt plates in the holster tied down to his right thigh. And the hilt and handle of a knife showed at the top of a sheath he wore on his left hip.
He had not shaved in many days and the bristles sprouted in a mixture of black and grey on his cheeks, jaw and neck.
He sniffed. ‘You talk as cocky as you look. Now you figure you’re clear of that bunch.’
‘You helped me, sir. And I thanked you. If there’s anything else I can do.’
‘You ain’t outta the woods yet, kid.’
‘I can see that, sir.’ His green-eyed gaze shifted from the perplexed face of the stranger to the leveled rifle.
‘I don’t mean me,’ He tugged on the reins and the horse came up alongside him. So that he was able to slide the Winchester into the forward hung boot. ‘The fellers that are after you pretended to take off back to town. But not the four who made it into this timber while their buddies were blastin’ away from behind the wagon.’
Gold allowed the shotgun to sag to his side, holding it with just one hand now. ‘Just the four, uh?’
The stranger sniffed again. ‘Maybe not cocky. Just plain crazy? One man gunnin’ for you in this kinda country oughta be enough to keep you from strollin’ around enjoyin’ a smoke. Like you was out for some Sunday afternoon exercise.’
‘Least I was moving away from them before you stopped me, sir.’
‘Goin’ where?’ Another sniff.
‘Europe.’
A flicker of anger showed in the man’s eyes. But he quelled it with a shake of his head. ‘I wish I hadn’t asked. Come on, let’s get off this hill.’
‘I think you’ve done enough for me already, sir.’
‘Damn right I have, kid.’ Sniff. ‘And it weren’t out of no kindness of heart. Consider it a debt. Which I’m callin’ in.’
He tugged on the reins to turn his horse and then put his own back to Gold. Who hesitated for just a moment, then clicked his tongue and shrugged his shoulders, moved in the wake of the man and the stallion.
They went down the slope behind the boulder for a few yards then veered on to level ground for awhile. Perhaps a minute later, through a narrow gap in the trees, the black-clad young man got a brief view of the ravine. From atop one side of the narrow entrance. Saw with deadpan eyes the extensive area of fire-blackened ground humped with the charred remains of inanimate wreckage and dead flesh. There was still a little smoke drifting out of the timber above the burned-out heart of the fire, but unless a breeze came in from the ocean to fan the few flames which continued to lick among the pine needles, they would doubtless die soon, he decided.
Then the ravine was lost to sight as he was led down a very steep drop, the stranger whispering softly to his horse to calm the animal’s fear. And they emerged at the side of the trail where it rose and curved to run into the ravine entrance. Where the stranger slid a booted foot into a stirrup and swung up astride the stallion.
Looked down at Gold and sniffed. Then, ‘Climb aboard, kid. Even with two up, this nag’ll make better time than men on foot.’
He reached down with a hand and eased forward so that his crotch was against the saddlehorn.
‘Appreciate it, sir.’
Gold made use of the stirrup left clear and the man’s hand to get on the horse, his rump on the cantle.
‘Name’s Warren Pruett. Outta El Paso. My livin’s bounty huntin’.’
He set the horse moving, along the trail in the opposite direction to Oceanville.
‘Barnaby Gold Junior, Mr. Pruett.’
‘Heard what the woman called you, kid.’
‘New York City and Fairfax, Arizona. Was an undertaker before I started out for Europe.’
‘Guess that explains why you look like you’re in mournin’.’ A sniff. ‘Guns apart.’
He veered the horse sharply off the trail to the south. Going between two more brush-covered boulders.
‘Figure you know your trade, sir.’
‘Lived high off the hog from it for a lot of years. When I ain’t out makin’ the money to buy what I like.’
Gold returned to watching over Pruett’s right shoulder after looking at the stallion’s hoofprints in the dust of the trail.
‘So it’s okay if I just drop this cheroot stub?’
‘Sure, kid. Them fellers’ knowin’ we got together won’t stop them from trailin’ us.’
To the right, the terrain rose up toward the edge of the curving cliff that overlooked Oceanville, by turns
shallow and steep. There was vegetation on the lower slopes, but just lush turf featured with barren rock higher up. The pine-clad mountain foothills through which Gold had ridden with Seth Harrow were spread out in the other directions.
Pruett sniffed at irregular intervals as he steered the stallion at an easy walking pace along a natural bridle path that curved gradually inland and then began to rise. And every now and then he ran his shirt sleeve across his moist nostrils.
‘You have to put up with this, kid,’ he said at length. ‘Got what the medical fellers call an allergy. Always happens to me when there’s pine trees around.’
The stallion left clear-to-see hoofprints in the springy turf, this sign superimposed on others made previously. Going in both directions.
An arc of cliff, not so high or long as that behind Oeeanville, showed ahead. With a pool of crystal water at its base. And Warren Pruett followed his own earlier sign until the turf gave way to rock at the start of the way to the top of the cliff.
‘Have to walk on up from here, kid.’
It was necessary for Barnaby Gold to dismount first and in doing this he had the best opportunity yet of killing Pruett, stealing his horse and riding it away from Oceanville, far ahead of pursuit. But he was not entirely certain that this distrust of the man had enough foundation. The fact that he admitted to being a professional bounty hunter from El Paso, Texas, did not have to mean he knew about the high price the Channon family had placed on the head of Barnaby Gold Junior.
And if it turned out that he did and was biding his time... Gold possessed more patience than most. And if there was a shell in the Murcott or either of the Peacemakers with Warren Pruett’s name on it, it would not have time to decay in the chamber.
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