"Ching Ping," Fox murmured aloud, savoring the sound of her name. The memory of her brought a rush of warmth deep inside him.
Some might say he was a foolish youth, taken in by a woman vastly more experienced. Perhaps that was true.
But Preston Kirkwood Fox did not think so.
Carefully, he opened the pack and took out several sticks of the red-wrapped explosive. The fuses were already in place, which was good since he would have had no idea how to go about attaching them.
But he could strike a lucifer and light those fuses. Yes, sir, he could handle that just fine.
He began looking for just the right spot to place the dynamite.
"Who the hell are you?"
The voice from behind him startled him so that he almost dropped the dynamite. He spun around, losing his balance for a moment and then catching it in desperation. A fall here would probably take him over the edge.
And it was a damned long way down.
Fox saw a man standing about twenty feet away. The stranger was only a shape in the darkness, his features shadowed and concealed by the brim of his Stetson.
But Fox could see perfectly well the gun in the man's hand. It was pointing right at him, moonlight glinting from the barrel.
His mind was working frantically, trying to come up with something that would forestall death. He was not used to lying, let alone making up something on the spur of the moment that would fool a hardened criminal such as this man probably was.
Fox said the first thing that came into his head. "Did Jack send you?"
"Huh?"
Fox stiffened his spine. Re tried to sound angry instead of terrified as he went on, "Damnit, I told Jack I could handle this job. He didn't have to send somebody to back me up."
The stranger with the gun sounded baffled as he replied, "Sonny, I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about. I come over here to see if I could run off them pilgrims who found the gold down there."
Yet another claim-jumper, Fox thought in relief. Elroy had certainly done a good job spreading the word. He said, "Three-Fingered Jack didn't send you?"
"That hardcase from Robbers Roost? What's he got to do with me?" The man suddenly stiffened as he remembered Fox's earlier statement. "Goddamn! You're part of Jack's gang, ain't you?"
Fox didn't know if the other man could see his face or not, but he let a cocky grin spread across his features. "Damn right," he said. "And you'd better move on if you know what's good for you. Jack and the rest of the boys are going to be here any minute, and you don't want to be around when they get here." He laughed. "Jack doesn't take kindly to interference from small-timers."
"Is that so?" For an instant, Fox thought he had succeeded in frightening the claim-jumper off, but then the man suddenly snorted contemptuously. "Well, I don't see nobody else around here but you, and I say to hell with you, you smart-assed son-of-a-bitch!"
Fox realized the man was about to fire the gun. Panic spurted through him, and without thinking he flung the pack he held in his left hand toward the claim-jumper.
Time seemed to slow down as Fox saw the pack sail through the moonlight toward the man. He realized as soon as it left his hand that there were still several sticks of dynamite in it. If the man's six-gun exploded a slug into the pack, it could set off the rest of the explosive-
Fox's mouth opened in a silent, desperate "Noooo!" as he launched himself toward the claim-jumper. If he had thought, he would have jumped the other direction, away from the explosive, but he was acting solely on instinct now.
He was too scared to think.
The man didn't fire. Instead, he raised the hand holding the gun and used it to slap aside the flying pack. Before he could regain his aim, Fox was on him, smashing awkwardly into him.
Both men went down on the hard, rocky ground. Using both hands, Fox grabbed the man's wrist and slammed his gun hand against the stones. The man yelped in pain and hooked a punch with his other hand into Fox's middle, but the pistol slipped out of his fingers and went skittering away.
Fox knew he was in deep trouble. He was no brawler, no match for a burly miner who was probably an expert at this sort of rough-and-tumble. Fox held onto the man's wrist and tried to catch his breath after the punch to his stomach.
The man's fetid breath blasted into Fox's face, and he felt he was going to be sick at any second.
Fox brought his knee up, driving it into the man's groin. For the moment, Fox had a slight advantage, being on top, and he wanted to stay that way as long as possible.
The claim-jumper howled a curse as Fox's knee slammed home between his legs. He jerked his wrist loose from Fox's grip and used that fist to clip the former second lieutenant's jaw.
Fox saw even more stars than he had earlier as the man heaved him off to the side. Fox landed on his back, shook his head, and watched his vision clear just in time for him to see the stars overhead blotted out by a big, angry shape.
Rolling frantically to the side, Fox avoided the claim-jumper's first lunge, but the man caught him on the second. With his feet kicking futilely against empty air, Fox felt himself lifted.
The man's brawny, horribly strong arms wrapped themselves around Fox. As they began to tighten in a deadly bear hug, the claim-jumper growled, "I'm goin' to crush every bone in your body, you little bastard, and then pitch you over the edge there. Maybe you'll still be alive to feel it when you hit bottom."
Fox couldn't seem to get any air into his lungs. He gasped for breath, to no avail. The bear hug had his oxygen cut off. Fox felt his head getting lighter, as if it was going to float off his shoulders. Strange red lights danced before his eyes, and there was a roaring in his ears.
Slowly, the man began to walk toward the edge of the slope. When he got there, Fox knew he would be powerless to stop his assailant from flinging his broken body out into space.
Somehow, his brain managed to get a message through to his hands. Fox pounded feebly against the claim-jumper's back, then punched at his head. The man shrugged off the weak blows.
From somewhere in the dim recesses of his memory, Fox recalled Joshua's mother giving him the hatpin following the attack on the stagecoach. That seemed like years ago now.
Ever since that time, Fox had had the hatpin stuck unobtrusively in the knot of his neckerchief. Feebly now, he reached for it, found the makeshift weapon, and tugged it loose.
He drove the sharp pin into the claim-jumper's side.
The man howled in pain, and for an instant, his grip on Fox relaxed. Fox gulped in a lungful of precious air, the chill oxygen giving him new strength. Leaving the pin stuck in the man's side, Fox reached for the would-be murderer's waist.
His fingers brushed something.
The bone handle of a knife . . .
Fox found the strength somewhere to lift the weapon from its sheath on the man's hip. The man must have felt it leaving, because he yelled and tried to twist around suddenly.
He was too late. The blade was razor sharp, and Fox plunged it into the man's back with every ounce of strength he had left. He drove it home all the way to the hilt.
The man stopped in his tracks, swaying, his mouth open in a soundless scream of agony. As Fox watched, horrified, a thin dark trickle came from his mouth. Fox's face was only inches away from the blood.
A sour smell erupted from the claim-jumper's lips, like a rotten soul escaping the body only to plunge into purgatory. Fox felt his own stomach rebelling again.
The man's arms relaxed, and Fox slipped from his grasp to collapse on the ground less than ten feet from the edge of the slope. The claim-jumper took one tentative step, tripped over Fox's body, and pitched forward on his face. He shuddered and then lay still, the handle of the knife sticking straight up from his back.
Fox threw up until he thought he was going to die from that after escaping all his other dangers.
Finally, he pulled his body out from under the dead weight of the man's legs. He crawled several feet away and lay there for a long m
oment, gulping deep drafts of the cold, clean air, letting it wash him out.
The fight seemed to have taken hours, but somewhere inside Fox's head his brain was functioning well enough for him to know that it had actually only been a couple of minutes. There should still be plenty of time for him to carry out the plan that had brought him up here to these rocky heights.
A sound drifted to his ears-hoofbeats.
A lot of hoofbeats.
Enough horses to belong to Three-Fingered Jack's gang, he thought. And they were heading down Alder Gulch, toward the cabin where Landrum and Celia waited.
Fox lifted himself on hands and knees and looked around. His gaze touched the corpse of the would-be claim-jumper and jerked away. He was looking for the dynamite he had dropped when he leaped toward the man.
He had to find those sticks of explosive. Either that, or the pack where the others still were.
Fox began to feel sick again. He scrambled up on his feet and ran around the area, peering frantically at the ground. He couldn't find the dynamite he had dropped. It could have gotten kicked anywhere during the fight, even over the edge of the slope.
And the pack-Oh, God, the pack was gone too!
Fox was helpless. He sobbed as shooting broke out below. A barrage of gunfire echoed through the hills as Three-Fingered Jack attacked the cabin.
And there was nothing Fox could do to help. Nothing!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Three-Fingered Jack was mad.
It had been almost twenty-four hours since that goddamn lawman had come snooping around Robbers Roost, but Jack's fury was unabated.
Not only had Preston Colfax-and Jack was sure that wasn't the bastard's real name — been asking questions about things that were none of his business, but he had done it after bedding Ching Ping. Jack was fond of the Chinese prostitute, as fond as a man such as himself could be.
She was damn good at what she did, and a man needed something like that occasionally when he was spending most of his nights in Madame Varnish's bed. Varnish had done a good job operating Robbers Roost and giving Jack a base of operations, but she was past her prime as far as lovemaking went.
Three-Fingered Jack reined in his horse. The twenty-three men following him did likewise.
They were a formidable group, Jack thought as he turned in his saddle and regarded them in the light of the rising moon.
"All right," he said in a low voice, "we'll be at Alder Gulch soon. I don't know how many we'll find there waiting for us, but there's one thing sure-you boys will be more than a match for 'em. I want everybody we find there dead! Except for that feller who came to the Roost last night." An evil grin curved Jack's wide mouth. "Him I want alive. We'll take him back and have some fun with him before we kill him."
Several of the outlaws chuckled. They knew what Jack meant by fun. It would be a bloody spectacle, the kind of thing that a man didn't see every day.
Not that anybody would want to.
Jack could almost taste the sweet juices of revenge in his mouth. Colfax's friends had killed a good man during his escape from Robbers Roost the night before, and Jack was going to settle the score.
He lifted his Colt from its holster and checked the loads. The grin of anticipation was still on his face as he jammed the gun back in its sheath.
Three-Fingered Jack waved that deformed hand forward. "Let's ride," he barked.
The outlaws pushed on to Alder Gulch.
* * *
Landrum had thought it was impossible to be any more worried than he already was, but as the night deepened, he discovered that it was all too possible. His concern grew as the shadows grew thicker and darker.
He and Celia sat in the darkness, not wanting to give anyone a better target than necessary to shoot at. The air inside the cabin was cold, and a fire would have felt good, but neither of them wanted to chance it.
Despite the chill, Landrum's palms were sweating where they gripped the Winchester.
"Gerald must have had trouble," Celia finally said in a small voice. Landrum could tell she was terrified and was keeping her emotions under control only with the greatest of effort.
"He'll be here soon," Landrum assured her. "Glidinghawk's not going to let us down."
"Like Fox did, you mean," Celia said bitterly.
Landrum shrugged, then realized that Celia could not see the gesture. "I didn't really expect Fox to run out on us like that, but nothing he pulls surprises me too much. I thought he was doing a little better on this mission until he took off for Robbers Roost."
Celia laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. "He flushed out Three-Fingered Jack for us."
"Yeah," Landrum agreed. "I guess he did at that."
Another few minutes of silence passed, then Celia said, "If Jack and his men do show up, we could surrender and promise to give him the claim."
Landrum considered the suggestion for a moment before replying, "I don't think that's the way he operates, Ceil. If we surrender, he'll just kill us both and take the claim anyway."
"But I thought it was Preston he was really after."
Landrum shook his head. "I honestly don't think that would make any difference to a man like Three-Fingered Jack."
They resumed the nerve-stretching, gut-wrenching wait. The night was quiet, but both of them feared that it wouldn't be that way for long.
Landrum heard the hoofbeats first.
"Sounds like a lot of horses coming," he breathed. He heard the sound of cloth rustling as Celia moved closer to him.
"What do we do?" she asked.
"Stay low when the shooting starts. These walls will stop some of the bullets, but there are enough cracks and holes to worry me. Some of the slugs will get through. You cover the back window, I'll watch the door."
"Which way do you think they'll come from?"
Landrum shook his head. "No way of telling. There's a good chance they'll circle us, like Indians." As he spoke, Landrum saw, out of the corner of his eye, the canvas over the door twitch.
He spun that direction, bringing the muzzle of the rifle to bear. His finger was just about to tighten on the trigger when a familiar voice called softly, "Landrum? Celia? You in there?"
Celia let out a small cry, her nerves unable to stand the strain. Landrum cursed and eased off on the Winchester's trigger. "Elroy?" he asked incredulously. "Is that you?"
"Yeah," the young miner replied. "You folks all right?"
"For the moment. What the hell are you doing here?"
Elroy Strickland stepped into the cabin and let the canvas fall closed behind him. "I just wanted to tell you that there's a bunch of riders comin' down the gulch. I-I reckon it's maybe some more of them claim-jumpers." He sounded ashamed of himself for spreading the rumors of the gold strike in the first place. "I got me an old Sharps buffalo gun, Landrum. I figured I'd come down here and help y'all out if I could."
Landrum took a deep breath. There was a lot more going on here than Elroy knew about, but there was no mistaking the sincerity of the man's offer. He was willing to risk his own life to help people he had come to consider friends.
"Thanks, Elroy," Landrum said. "But those men outside aren't ordinary claim-jumpers. More than likely they're Three-Fingered Jack and his gang. So why don't you slip on out of here while you've got the chance?"
Elroy's nervous gulp was plainly audible. "Three-Fingered Jack? Damn, Landrum, that is bad. But I ain't just about to go runnin' off and leave you and Miss Celia here. I'll play the hand with you."
Landrum and Celia both moved closer to him in the dark. Landrum clapped a hand on the miner's shoulder, while Celia put one arm around him in a hug. "You're a good friend, Elroy," Celia whispered.
Elroy shuffled his feet and muttered for a moment, then Landrum said, "All right, Elroy. You and I will cover the front together. You got that old Sharps loaded and ready to go?"
The miner hefted the heavy weapon. "You bet I do. Just let me get that Three-Fingered Jack in my sights, and you'll s
ee some shootin'."
The two men moved to the doorway. Landrum lifted the canvas out of the way. It wouldn't stop any bullets, and they needed to be able to see. Celia did the same at the rear window.
The beat of hooves was close by now, the sound of it having risen to something like the roll of thunder.
A shot rang out, and the bullet thumped into one wall of the cabin.
"Reckon the ball's starting," Landrum said. He lifted the rifle and aimed it at the dark mass of riders galloping toward the cabin. Muzzle flashes sparked all along the line of attackers.
Beside Landrum, Elroy went to one knee and braced the big Sharps. The two men squeezed the triggers at the same time, and the sharp crack of the Winchester was all but drowned out by the roar of the .50 caliber buffalo gun.
It was impossible to tell if their shots hit anything, but considering the odds, it didn't really matter.
Another rifle blasted from the doorway. Landrum glanced over and saw Celia standing there, working the lever of a Winchester. He started to tell her to get back to her position at the window, then thought better of it.
If they were going to die here tonight, they would at least go down fighting side by side — the way partners should.
* * *
Far above, Preston Kirkwood Fox scurried desperately around looking for the dynamite. He refused to believe that it was lost. The grim sounds of the battle below assaulted his ears, the gunshots and the yells of the attackers blending into a repulsive symphony.
Fox tripped on something and caught himself on his hands and knees as he fell. He scrambled for the object that had unbalanced him, but as he snatched it up, he saw that it was only the gun that had been dropped by the now-dead claim-jumper.
Absently thrusting the pistol behind his belt, Fox got to his feet and kept looking, but his heart was sinking. He found himself drawn to the edge of the slope to peer over and watch the impending massacre.
He could see the group of riders charging toward the cabin. In another minute or so, they would overrun the place, and Landrum and Celia would meet their bloody fate.
The glint of moonlight on metal suddenly caught Fox's eye.
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