Ralph Compton Brimstone Trail (9781101612637)

by Compton, Ralph; Galloway, Marcus

  “Leave him to me,” Noss said. “Just make sure you get the fella with the wounded hand.”

  Sprole had a thing or two to say about that, but decided not to argue since the man he’d been assigned was less than twenty yards in front of him. Wes hunched over while loping away from the camp in a pathetic attempt to circle around and flank the bounty hunter. When Sprole shifted his aim toward him, the fugitive raised his left hand and started firing his pistol.

  The shots might have been wild and aimed from his off hand, but they were coming from close enough range to cause Sprole some concern. He pushed off with both feet and hit the ground on his belly. Hot lead continued to blaze above him, and the final shot was dangerously close to drawing blood. Seeing as how that was the sixth round to be fired from a man who could use only one gun at a time, Sprole stood up and raised his .44. “Live or die,” Sprole said. “Choose now and be quick about it.”

  The one-handed fugitive grunted a string of filthy words as he threw his gun to the ground.

  * * *

  Sheriff Noss moved away from the campfire. Not only did the shadows provide a bit more cover, but his eyes were given a chance to adjust to the darkness a little more than when he’d been closer to the flames. Instincts honed from keeping the peace in several towns over more than a decade served him better than his eyes or ears. He only needed to feel a shiver run down his spine for him to drop to one knee and lower his head. A fraction of a second later, a rifle shot cracked through the air.

  As the bullet whipped past him, Noss could still see the afterimage of the sparks that had flown when the shot had been fired. He took quick aim with his shotgun, pulled the trigger, and gritted his teeth as the weapon unleashed its fury into the dark mass of bushes in front of him.

  Noss strained his eyes to catch any hint of movement on the outskirts of the campsite. Without shifting his line of sight, he let the empty shotgun fall from his hands so he could draw the .45-caliber pistol strapped to his hip. The sky was a dark, inky black accented by glittering pinpoints of starlight. Shadows were everywhere, most of which were just parts of the horizon. When one sliver of a shadow moved on its own accord, Noss pointed his gun in that direction and fired.

  “Run for it, Theo!” the one-handed fugitive shouted.

  Glancing over toward Sprole for half a second, Noss was able to see that the bounty hunter was still wrangling his fugitive. Although Sprole loomed over the other man, he suddenly had a fight on his hands as Wes caught his second wind. If the shouted command was a distraction, Noss didn’t want to play into it any more than he already had. The shadow he’d spotted dropped down and darted toward a pair of horses tethered to a few sickly trees nearby. Noss straightened his arm and fired a shot, knowing all too well that it was wide. In the short time it took for him to thumb his hammer back again, the shadow in his sights stopped and turned to face him.

  Starlight glinted off the long barrel of a rifle at the shadowy figure’s shoulder. When a shot popped in the distance, Noss thought he was a dead man. The fact that the sound of the shot was from another direction and quite a ways off didn’t register until the bullet cut a hissing path through the air in front of him. The shadow man in Noss’s sights cursed and dropped down so he could resume his flight toward the waiting horses.

  “Stop where you are!” Noss shouted. “You’re surrounded!”

  But the rifleman in the shadows wasn’t about to give up as easily as his partner with the wounded hand. He wheeled around and kept moving backward toward the horses while firing at Noss. His rifle was held in a looser grip now. The rounds he fired came within a yard or so of the lawman and might have been enough to make anyone with a gentler disposition think twice about going any farther. Although he dropped to one knee to present a smaller target, Noss returned fire.

  His next shot was taken more as a way to gauge the following one. Before he could send that next piece of lead through the air, the rifle in the distance popped one more time.

  Noss recognized the report as coming from the model of the rifle he’d seen in Father Lester’s hands. Surprisingly enough, the preacher proved to be a good source of backup fire. The sheriff was surprised even more when the next shot whipped through the air less than a few feet in front of him. So it seemed the good father had his heart in the right place but less than perfect aim.

  The rifleman in the shadows had reached the tethered horses and was pulling himself up into his saddle when Noss shifted his aim a bit higher to compensate. Before the sheriff could squeeze his trigger, Paul’s hunting rifle spat another round at him that was even closer than the previous one. It was too late for Noss to keep from pulling his trigger, and when his body reflexively twitched as the rifle round sped past him, his .45 sent a bullet into empty air well above the rifleman who now sat in his saddle.

  * * *

  Even though Wes had seemed all too anxious to toss his weapon, the wounded fugitive was putting up a mighty big fight now. Sprole had approached him to either knock him out or cuff his wrists, but was now having a difficult time just keeping from being pulled to the ground. Wes had popped up to his knees and reached out with both hands to make a desperate grab for Sprole’s gun. The bounty hunter’s only response had been to pull away, which gave the other man a chance to climb to his feet.

  The bounty hunter didn’t want to waste a shot on trying to hit a moving target at point-blank range. Unless a man had a shotgun in his hands, hitting something when it was too close could be almost as dicey as trying to hit something that was too far away. One move in the wrong direction would ruin his aim, and at the moment, Sprole’s target was doing plenty of moving. No matter how good his odds were, Sprole decided to go with the shot that couldn’t miss and swung his pistol around in a vicious arc that was bound to knock into some part of the other man.

  The fugitive caught the side of the pistol on his shoulder, sending him reeling backward as he instinctually lifted his right arm to cover his face.

  Now that Wes had stopped bouncing like a frightened jackrabbit, Sprole held his gun properly and took aim. As tough as it was to hit something at close range when it was moving, it was twice as tough to miss when that same thing came to a stop. The moment he realized he was about to be perforated by the weapon in Sprole’s hand, the fugitive lashed out to bat the pistol away. He succeeded in making contact before the shot was fired, but with his right hand.

  Even Sprole winced when he saw the fugitive use his bandaged hand to smack away the pistol. For a moment, Wes didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he grinned crazily and jumped at the bounty hunter. Sprole wrapped his arms around Wes’s torso, twisting his body so he could divert the fugitive’s momentum to a different angle. After that, it was a simple matter of applying some leverage to bring the other man down.

  Having been caught like a fish in midair, the fugitive hit the ground flat enough to force the air from his lungs. When he tried to draw another breath, he found he simply didn’t have the strength.

  Sprole grabbed the fugitive by the back of his collar as if he were holding a dog by the scruff of its neck. He raised his pistol over his head for a clubbing blow, but realized it wouldn’t be necessary.

  “Son of a . . . my hand!” the fugitive hollered as he cradled his right arm and held it tight against his chest.

  In what little light made it over to him from the campfire, Sprole could see the dark bloodstain seeping through Wes’s bandages. He kept his pistol tucked in so it could be pointed at the fugitive and kept out of reach while patting the wailing man down. The quick search didn’t turn up anything more than a few shotgun shells.

  The hunting rifle was still being fired, and Sprole glanced back toward the rocks where he’d last seen the preacher. Sure enough, Paul’s silhouette could be discerned among the rocks. A brief flash of sparks announced another shot, and Sprole snapped his head around as if he could follow the path of the bullet s
ailing through the air.

  * * *

  “Hold your fire!” Noss shouted.

  It was difficult enough for him to watch something that was just another shadow amid a mess of more shadows, and the steady rain of lead from on high wasn’t making it any easier. Noss fired a hasty shot, which only forced the fleeing rifleman to hunker down over his horse’s neck as he rode away. There was only enough time for one more shot, so the lawman steadied himself before taking it.

  As if reading the deadly thoughts running through Noss’s mind, the rifleman twisted around in his saddle and fired a shot of his own from what sounded like a .38-caliber pistol.

  Noss swore under his breath while pulling his trigger as quickly as he could. The time for accurate shots was through. All that remained was to take his chances with Lady Luck. Considering the way things had been going for him lately, Noss wasn’t surprised when that particular lady chose to warm up to someone else.

  The fleeing rifleman fired wildly over his shoulder. One of those rounds clipped Noss in the right rib. It stung like a wasp that had been doused in whiskey and set on fire, but the impact of the bullet was even worse. It hit him like a swing from an axe handle to knock one leg out from under him and send the lawman face-first toward the dirt. Noss was just quick enough to reach out with one hand to stop himself before getting a mouthful of gravel. Even before he looked up again, he was firing his pistol at the rifleman.

  The sound of his pistol’s hammer slapping against the backs of spent rounds only made the lawman angrier. He was so angry, in fact, that he was able to push aside the pain in his side when he climbed back to his feet and wheeled around toward Sprole.

  The bounty hunter was right where the lawman had last seen him. Since the shooting had come to a stop, Sprole stood up and pulled his prisoner to his feet. More shapes were approaching the campsite. These were large and kicked up plenty of dust, which showed up like inky clouds behind them.

  “It’s all right,” Sprole said as Noss swept up his shotgun and started hastily reloading it. “That’s the preacher bringing us our horses.”

  “I know it’s him.”

  There was a fire in Noss’s eyes that would have shone through no matter how dark his surroundings were. Flickering shadows from the campfire washed over his features as he stormed past the little clearing, making his face look even more like a terrible visage scrawled in wet charcoal on the wall of a cave.

  The gunman with the bandaged hand was able to stand beside Sprole and stagger along as he was shoved, but the pain from his newly reopened wound was making him dizzy and his head lolled from side to side like something crudely attached to an old doll. Sprole didn’t show him the first bit of leeway as he continued to pull him along. “There’s another horse out there,” Sprole said. “I’ve got my hands full, so why don’t you take it?”

  The sheriff’s mind had been so set on its course that he’d almost overlooked something so obvious.

  “That’s . . . my horse,” the wounded fugitive said.

  Sprole gave him a rough shake and growled, “Shut up!” To Noss, he asked, “What are you waiting for?”

  “Nothing. I’ll see if I can catch up to that one who skinned out of here. Soon as you can, you’d best come after me.”

  The sheriff ran to the other horse that had been tethered just outside the ring of light cast by the outlaws’ fire. As he ran, he watched the ground in front of him to keep from being tripped up by anything that could have been hidden in the shadows. His hands were busy reloading the .45 with fresh ammunition pulled from his belt. By the time he reached the horse, Noss had to pause for only a few seconds to finish preparing his pistol. He holstered the weapon, grabbed the horse’s reins, and climbed into the saddle.

  Once he’d snapped his reins, Noss quickly acclimated himself to the animal he’d commandeered. No matter how anxious he was to close the gap between himself and the fleeing rifleman, Noss wasn’t about to force the horse to go any faster than it was willing to go. With the shadows thicker than mud on all sides, he had to rely on the horse’s instincts as much as his own two eyes when it came to avoiding half-buried rocks, narrow ditches, or any number of other hazards that could break legs and send even the best rider to the ground in a heap of broken bones and twisted joints.

  Noss squinted into onrushing wind that scraped against his face like nails that had been pulled from a bucket of ice water. After riding a short distance after his quarry, Noss spotted the other horse and rider. They were making pretty good progress, but he was pleased to see that they seemed to be going even slower than him. The lawman fought back the urge to snap his reins, knowing he wouldn’t do any good whatsoever if he or his horse wound up breaking his neck.

  Just then a thick row of clouds drifted close to the moon, glowing with the pale light reflected off the luminescent sliver to cast a faded glow onto the desert. Because of that subtle shift, Noss was able to see the upward slope of the ground ahead of the fleeing rifleman. It seemed the other man was making a run for the opposite side of the basin.

  Noss leaned forward in the saddle that had been left on the horse’s back by outlaws who had been prepared to ride at a moment’s notice. He did his best to soak up as many details as he could while he still had some paltry bit of light to work with. Although he was able to pick out a few more details, he wasn’t at all happy with what he saw.

  The rising slope of the basin was closer than he’d first thought. So close, in fact, that the man ahead of him was already beginning to ascend. Casting aside better judgment in favor of getting his job done, Noss snapped his reins to push his horse to go even faster. The animal responded, but only a little. Every one of its steps was cautious as if to make up for the dangerous whims of the man on its back.

  Ahead of the sheriff, the rifleman rode up the steep slope toward a ridge of low rocks. Noss thought back to what he’d heard not too long ago to come up with a name.

  Theo.

  The wounded gunman had called this one Theo. That name didn’t ring any bells with Noss, which wasn’t saying much. There were too many outlaws seeking refuge in the desert at any given time for one man to keep track of them all. If anything, a bounty hunter might have a better idea of who was about to ride out of the basin. All Noss cared about was catching Theo before he got away.

  Doing its best to navigate the mostly flat ground, Noss’s horse clipped the top of something that had been hidden in the shadows. For a split second, Noss’s gut clenched into a tight ball. He’d known a few men who’d broken limbs or worse when falling from a horse. When he’d heard tell of others who’d met their fate when riding in the dead of night, the lawman had written them off as fools who’d gotten what they’d asked for. Now that he was one of those fools, he could only hang on and hope his horse found its balance before both of them were pitched to an unforgiving earth.

  The horse did just that. Its body skidded to one side, but recovered amid a series of frantically scraping steps, ending abruptly when a hoof found a deep groove that had been cut into the desert floor. It didn’t matter much to Noss how the groove had gotten there. His horse had found it, and his worst fear was playing itself out. Before he could think about what to do next, he was thrown from the saddle.

  A second ago, Noss’s ears had been filled with the rush of wind and the thunder of the horse beneath him. Now there was only his own heartbeat as he sailed through the air.

  For the next few moments, it seemed he would never come down.

  When he finally did, Noss felt as if an entire mountain came crashing down on top of him.

  At first, he thought the horse had clubbed his left side with one of its hooves. His mouth was filled with dusty grit, and his feet scraped noisily against the ground. When he tried to prop himself up again, another impact swept his arm out from beneath the rest of his body. As he lay on his side, it was all he could do to rememb
er where he was or what he’d been doing a minute ago.

  Finally he lifted his head and got a look at the sloping ground ahead.

  The camp.

  The outlaws.

  The shots that had been fired.

  The one who tried to get away.

  Theo.

  His name was Theo.

  All of those thoughts rushed through Noss’s mind as his eyes locked upon a silhouette at the top of the basin’s lip. In that instant, he could see everything as if it were bathed in the light of a harvest moon. He could see Theo atop his horse, bringing a rifle to his shoulder.

  His ears might have been ringing still, but Noss had no trouble hearing the shot that followed.

  Chapter 14

  Paul sat in his saddle with his back ramrod straight. He stared down the top of the hunting rifle’s barrel, watching his target through smoke from the shot he’d just fired. “Go on,” he whispered.

  The other two horses were nothing more than blobs in the distance. They hadn’t gotten too far from the campsite, but the night had swallowed them up whole. Even though Paul couldn’t see exactly what the farthest rider was doing, he could tell by the way Theo stood his ground that he was fixed upon his target.

  “What’s happening?” Sprole asked from where he waited with his wounded prisoner.

  “The sheriff’s hurt,” Paul replied. “Thrown from his horse.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “He wants to finish him off, but I’m keeping him back.”

  “You think you can hit him from here?” Sprole asked.

  Paul remained steady behind his rifle. His finger brushed the edge of its trigger as if he were stroking a woman’s ear. “That’s what he’s trying to figure out right now.”