The Hanging at Leadville / Firefall

by Cameron Judd

  “It isn’t up to us to decide if it’s right. It’s up to us to obey orders.”

  “One more question, Sergeant?”

  “What?”

  “Is it true that the Colonel plans to send us to overrun Confederate Ridge?”

  “Enough of the questions,” the sergeant snapped. “Haul that dead man up and out of here, and let’s get back to work. I’m afraid those fires are going to keep spreading and burn the entire damned mountain range before they’re through.”

  Kenton left his hiding place behind and moved cautiously toward the edge of town. The farther he proceeded the safer he felt, because the fire and light were concentrated south and east of the town for now. He could take to the forest north of town, circle toward the west, and head down the road toward Fort Brandon.

  What he’d do then he had not fully decided. The survivors of Gomorrah would probably be ensconced within the fort, out of reach. Somehow he would have to find out if one of them was Rankin.

  That was a problem for another day, however. At the moment the challenge was merely to leave this place without being caught.

  As he moved along, he wondered again about Gunnison, seen by no one since Callon departed from him in the forest. Kenton wondered if Gunnison might yet be lingering and hiding in the woods, watching the developments in Gomorrah. Or perhaps he’d moved on.

  Wherever he was, Kenton hoped he was safe and well. That gunshot he’d heard earlier in the woods worried him. He wondered where Callon was, too.

  Chapter 17

  Ottinger walked rapidly, hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling. He could scarcely believe he’d actually killed that young journalist. But one does what one must.

  And there was one more journalist to be dealt with, too. Unless Kenton had changed his mind, he’d have to be gotten out of the way, like the other one. Even if Kenton declared now that he had changed his mind, Ottinger wasn’t sure he could trust him.

  The air was rich with smoke from the rekindled fires, and Ottinger sneezed several times. He looked around at the weird, yellow-orange light of the flames. The wind was whipping up fast, the flames rising higher now. The soldiers were working very hard to keep them from spreading farther than they should. Ottinger wasn’t sure they were succeeding; it appeared to him that the fire might be spreading here and there past the previous burn area and into previously unburned parts of the forest.

  He didn’t really care. Let it burn, as long as the fallen trees around the town burned too.

  He turned his back to the forest and studied the little house where Brady Kenton was held. Now was probably the best time to deal with that troublesome matter.

  But Ottinger found he didn’t have it in him at the moment. His nerves were already on edge…particularly when he considered the sounds he had heard in the dark woods. The idea that someone witnessed his murder of Paul Callon was cause for great concern.

  He was about to turn away and continue on to his tent when something about the chimney of the cabin caught his attention. He looked closely, then advanced.

  There was an opening in the side of the chimney, a big hole right through the chimney wall into the cabin! With his heart rising to his throat, Ottinger drew his pistol and advanced to the cabin, crouching and cautiously looking into the opening.

  The cabin interior was dark; Kenton could still be hiding in there, unseen. But why would he? Ottinger knew full well that the cabin was empty. Kenton had made himself an exit right through the chimney.

  As he rose from his crouch, Ottinger was startled to hear the chimney make a cracking, shifting noise. He looked up and saw the chimney move against the sky, tilting…then he dodged with more speed than he’d mustered in years as the chimney, weakened by the hole Kenton had put through it, gave way and fell.

  Ottinger swore loudly, barely missing being crushed beneath the stones. A moment later, a handful of soldiers ran toward him.

  “Sir! Are you hurt?”

  Ottinger glared at them. “Hell, no, I’m not hurt, but the prisoner has escaped!”

  “Escaped?”

  “Yes, damn it! He made a hole through the chimney and crawled out…blasted chimney almost crushed me, falling! Go find him! I want him brought back, fast!”

  “Do you know which way he went, sir?”

  “How the hell should I know? Who’s responsible for leaving this man unguarded, Sergeant?”

  “We were all put to duty in the woods, sir, with the fires.”

  “Forget the damned fires—let them burn! I want these woods scoured until he’s located. Round up every man if you have to! And if he flees, kill him!”

  The soldiers glanced at one another, wondering why the Colonel was so wrought-up over the escape of what had seemed a harmless enough man to them. The Colonel was not to be questioned, though, especially now, when every vein in his neck bulged and his teeth were very nearly grinding in anger.

  “Yes, sir. Right away. We’ll find him for you, Colonel.”

  Twenty minutes later, Kenton paused, panting hard, winded.

  It was very distressing, and downright embarrassing. He’d always prided himself on his physical strength and stamina at an age when many men begin to grow soft and weak, but right now he felt like an old man.

  It was a terrible time to grow weak and slow. The forest was crawling with soldiers looking for him. He’d hoped that his escape from the cabin wouldn’t have been detected so quickly, so he could have gotten much farther away than this before they began looking.

  He wondered if Ottinger had personally ordered this great manhunt for him. Probably so. Only Ottinger would have reason to care so much about his escape, and only Ottinger would have had authority to pull so many men away from tending the fires—fires rapidly spreading out of control, it appeared, engulfing parts of the forest not burned the first time—to search for one strayed journalist.

  Kenton leaned against a tree and sucked in air, lungs burning. He ached to cough in the smoke-tinged atmosphere, but feared his pursuers were too close. Someone might hear him. He fought against the urge…then coughed anyway.

  “There!” someone yelled. “I can see him!”

  Blast it all! These young soldiers with their keen eyes…how could anyone possibly see him in this darkness? The fires were nowhere close. Then Kenton realized that in stopping where he had to rest, he’d unwittingly limned himself, from certain angles, against the vaguely luminescent sky.

  He ran on, ignoring his body’s demands for him to stop. He’d later decide to blame this lack of stamina more on his injuries than his age. It took a lot out of a man to be beaten unconscious by a highwayman, after all. At the moment, however, all Kenton could think was that he was surely going to burst his heart like an overwound clockspring, trying to escape these fleet young soldiers.

  He determined that, catch him though they might, they’d not catch him before he’d run for them the best chase he could. He redoubled his efforts and ran along a ridgetop, then crossed it and dropped out of sight on the far side. He ran down, then cut left, right, up another hill, down the far side, across a gully and into a stream, then right again.

  There was no way to keep up with exactly which direction he was moving. All he wanted right now was to throw off this blasted uniformed hunting pack. He used the light of the fast-spreading forest fires as a landmark, though, so that despite all the turning and crisscrossing and redoubling, he was always moving farther away from the light, farther away from Gomorrah.

  Kenton wondered how many of the soldiers knew who they were chasing, or why. Most were probably just following orders.

  The chase went on, Kenton never relenting despite his mounting exhaustion. He’d run until he dropped. Then he’d crawl, if crawling was all he could do.

  He still had a little life left in him, though, and he pushed himself hard. Whenever he wanted to relax, to slow or stop again, he forced one thought through his mind: You let them catch you, and you’ll never find Rankin. You never find Ra
nkin, and you’ll never find what he knows about Victoria.

  Kenton looked behind him. He saw movement back there in the dark. Two men, maybe three, still in close pursuit. This was actually encouraging, though. There’d been many more than that to start with.

  You’re doing it, old boy. You’re outrunning them! Keep going, keep those legs moving. No matter what.

  A shot blasted behind him, and a bullet ripped through one tree and smacked into another, just a few yards to his right.

  Dear Lord, they were serious about this!

  His heart hammering that much harder, he ducked and ran as hard as he could, up a slope, around a jumble of boulders, and across a ridge, looking for a safe way down.

  Someone shouted for him to halt, and he considered it. But some instinct said no, that Ottinger was more dangerous to him now than he could have thought possible, and that he must run now, or in the end he would die.

  He pushed himself all the harder, so weary and straining now that his head ached, his lungs burned, and he was beginning to grow dizzy. A strong urge to vomit gripped him, but he fought it down, somehow.

  Kenton reached the base of another rise—Oh, no, I can’t possibly climb another one!—but he did climb, because he had no choice. His pursuers were now down to two men, he thought, but they were fast and drawing too close.

  Before the next shot came, he somehow sensed it, cringed even before the blast came. Something sang loudly less than an inch from his ear, and he thought how strange all this had turned. All he’d wanted was to reach this mining town and meet a man who might—Let it be true, Lord!—lead him to Victoria. How was it he was now running through dark woods, pursued by soldiers of the same nation he’d almost died for more than once, being shot at—

  His thoughts were cut off when his feet tangled on a protruding root. He fell forward, striking chest-first against a stone. The wind was jolted out of his lungs. He rolled, tumbling down a steep slope, striking stumps and stones, scraping down rough ground.

  Sometime later, how much later he couldn’t tell, Kenton was dimly aware of movement around him. He was lying on rough ground, very uncomfortable. His eyes were open, but he saw mostly darkness, though there were faintly lighter areas above him, and in them shadows moving. And sounds. Voices, he thought.

  He felt hands on him. Rough and strong, moving him, trying to lift him.

  Kenton closed his eyes and sank again into unconsciousness.

  Once again, Alex Gunnison wished he had a spyglass.

  Far above and behind him, the top of Gomorrah Mountain was in flames again. He could see the distant orange flicker on the mountaintop in the darkness. What could have rekindled the fire? It was puzzling. If he had a spyglass, or binoculars, at least he could get a closer look and maybe tell whether the town was burning as well.

  One thing he knew: the surviving townspeople of Gomorrah were no longer in their town. They’d been moved down the mountain to Fort Brandon; from a distance, he’d watched them being herded in, accompanied by soldiers. Once the delivery was through, most of the latter had immediately turned back and headed toward Gomorrah again. Meanwhile, the fire had started anew, and seemed to be burning much farther down the mountain than the first one, spreading rapidly, and widely. Something odd was going on, and it intrigued his journalistic sensibilities.

  He took a deep breath. “Keep your mind on what you’re doing, Alex,” he said aloud. “You’re looking for this man Rankin, not for a story.” He sat down on a nearby log and pulled off his shoes, rubbing the rather flat arches of his feet gingerly. “And while you’re looking, it would surely be fine to have a horse.”

  Gunnison was a strong young man, and following around Brady Kenton through the years had called upon him many times to engage in all kinds of strenuous physical exertion, but the truth was he was no natural hiker. He was somewhat flatfooted, and walking for long distances wore him out and gave him all kinds of aches and pains. Right now his calves were cramping and his lower back ached almost as badly as his feet. His thoughts of obtaining a horse were quite serious. There was no telling how long it would be until he’d track down this Rankin and his cohorts. His feet might not be able to stand the test. And even though it would raise some protests from the bookkeepers, he could recoup the expense of a horse and saddle from the budget of the Illustrated American. There were definite advantages in being the son of the publisher.

  As he sat rubbing his feet and watching the distant fire at Gomorrah, the horse-buying idea made the transition from vaguely considered possibility to a thing firmly decided. He’d do it. There were ranches in this region, and a little town not far ahead. It shouldn’t be difficult to find someone with horses to sell.

  And food. He was growing very hungry, and was tired of the trail fare he carried with him. He longed for a thick steak, a stack of biscuits…even a good, hot bowl of beans would seem luxurious at the moment.

  He put his footwear back on and stood. He wasn’t sure how far it was to that little town ahead, but if he was lucky, maybe he’d get there in time to find someone willing to give or rent him a room for the night and steer him toward a trustworthy horse seller. And maybe he’d be able to find some new lead on Rankin.

  Gunnison had cause to believe that Rankin and his companions had passed this way. Earlier, Gunnison had encountered a lone rider on the road, a ranch boy out searching for a strayed mare, and had been told by the fellow that a group matching the description of Rankin and company had passed up this road.

  Gunnison began hiking again. He thought of Kenton again, and felt all over again that deep and aching sorrow that had now been with him long enough to become familiar. He wondered if that rekindled fire up on Gomorrah Mountain had consumed Kenton’s corpse. He rather hoped it had. It still distressed him that he’d not been able to see to a proper burial for his old friend and partner.

  Kenton…dead. Despite what he’d seen with his own eyes, he still couldn’t quite put the two things together. Brady Kenton was the most vigorous, fully alive man he’d ever known. It was going to take Gunnison a long time to come to grips with the fact that Kenton indeed was gone.

  He’d not yet gotten around to wiring or mailing word to the Illustrated American about what had happened to Kenton. There hadn’t been a convenient opportunity, obviously…and besides, it was simply too painful to deal with it yet…to make Kenton’s death public and official, so to speak. But he’d have to do it soon, or else Callon would get the word out first.

  He trudged on, trying to ignore his aching feet.

  Chapter 18

  The ranch stood in a wide valley that was bisected almost exactly by a straight-running creek with high banks. Cottonwoods grew along the creek, and the prairie land all around was gently rolling, mountains framing the scene. The house was typical of Montana Territory ranches, made of logs, one story high, long and rather sprawling because it was, in fact, three cabins built side-by-side and joined. Nearby were sheds and corrals, a large garden, and a big barn. It was the barn that had caught Gunnison’s eye above all the rest, because it was at the moment well-lighted, and seemingly full of people.

  He walked through the dark toward the barn, keeping in the center of the wagon road and deliberately making noise so that his arrival would surprise no one. He’d heard stories about Montana people’s tendency toward vigilantism, and just in case something of that sort was going on here, he wanted nothing he did to look in any way sneaky or surreptitious.

  As he drew near enough to the barn to hear some of what was going on inside, though, he realized that this was no vigilante meeting. Far from it: what he was hearing was a man praying, very loudly.

  There were thirty or so people in the barn, all crowded together and seated on benches improvised from lumber set on kegs, boxes, logs, and other such items.

  The praying man said his amen about the time Gunnison entered. Heads lifted, turned, looked back at him.

  “Welcome, young man,” said the leader. “Come and join us…come
and pray.”

  “Thank you…but the truth was, I’m just looking for someone to sell me a horse…if I can find one affordable.”

  “There’s horses to be had, but now is the time for praying, young fellow. Do come join us. There may not be much time left for any of us in this old world.”

  Gunnison looked around. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about turning our lives straight and averting the wrath of God, young man. If you wish to join with us, you may, but if not, we won’t be kept from our own prayers.” With that, the man turned away, dropped to his knees, and began to pray aloud again.

  Gunnison, uncomfortable here, turned to the door and slipped out into the night. He considered going elsewhere to look for a horse, but decided not to. The man had said horses were available. He’d wait out the meeting and hope to buy one afterward, and maybe also to find some place he could spend the night. It was growing late and he was tired of traveling for today.

  Gunnison walked around the side of the barn, listening to the muffled voices from inside. He paused and looked across the distance toward the dim glow that was the burning top of Gomorrah Mountain.

  He heard footsteps behind him, and turned. A boy of about ten, whom he’d noticed at the rear fringes of the group in the prayer meeting, had followed him out and around the barn.

  “Howdy,” the boy said.

  “Hello, there,” Gunnison replied.

  “My name’s Rory Wilson.” The boy put out his hand.

  Gunnison shook it. “Alex Gunnison. Pleased to know you.”

  “Why didn’t you stay to pray?” Rory asked.