by Ralph Cotton
“He’s out back of here, been watching the fire since before daylight,” said Dewey, giving a nod of his bald head toward the rear of the building.
“More fire?” Dock asked, curiously.
“Nope,” said Dewey, “it’s the same fire, just closer, is all. Wind changed again in the night. It crept closer down the hillsides toward us whilst we slept.”
“Damn wildfires,” Dock grumbled under his breath. He picked up his mug of coffee, made his way to the rear door, swung it open and stepped out onto the back porch. As soon as he walked outside, he smelled the burnt air and saw a thin gray haziness that hadn’t been present only twenty minutes earlier. How did something this big and noticeable manage to sneak up all of a sudden? he pondered to himself. The roar of the fire still clung faintly to the distant horizon. Yet Latin knew it would grow louder as he stood with his morning coffee.
A hot breeze swept down a steep hillside behind the trading post. Higher up, at a distance of less than a thousand yards, he could not only see where the preceding gray smoke turned black; he could make out tall orange flames in the belly of the brown-black smoke. Twenty yards from the back porch, Bagley stood with his shoulders slumped, staring up at the wide inferno. He held a shotgun loosely at his side, as if given to the delusion that powder and shot might halt such a relentless beast.
“What say you, Bagley?” Dock called out, first taking his cigar from his lips. “Is it going to blow past?”
Bagley turned and gave him a grim stare and shook his head slowly. He walked back to the porch and looked up at the gunman.
“After all these years of missing these fires, this one slipped right in and got me,” he said. “I expect you fellows will have to get yourself a new stopover on your way to the gulch.”
Dock gave him a pointed look.
“How do you know about the gulch?” he asked.
“Hell, I’ve always known about it,” said Bagley. “I just don’t mention it. Keeping a closed lip is among a merchant’s most important services on this frontier.”
Dock only nodded and sipped his coffee.
“What’ll you do if it burns you out? Rebuild?” he asked.
“No,” said Bagley. “I’m getting too long in the tooth for starting over. I’ll take my beating, gather up what I can, go somewhere and lick my wounds.” He looked past Dock Latin and inside the open rear door. “Where’s Cheyenne? It’s getting to be late morning.”
“About now, I’d guess he’s rousting everybody up, getting them ready to ride on out of here.”
“You’d be guessing right, Dock,” Cheyenne’s voice called out from inside the building behind him. Dock turned, seeing Cheyenne walk toward him across the plank floor. As Cheyenne stepped out onto the porch, he looked up at the fire raging in the distance.
“Something to see, ain’t it?” Dock commented.
“Yes, it is,” Cheyenne replied. Then he said, “I just woke everybody up. They’re getting ready to ride. Are you all set?”
“I’m good,” said Latin. “I’ll just go get my horse.”
As he turned and walked back inside, Bagley walked around to the edge of the porch and climbed the three steps.
“Riding out, are you?” he said as he walked over to Cheyenne.
“Yep,” Cheyenne said, already knowing where this was headed.
“Then I’ll need you to settle accounts with me,” Bagley said, leaning the shotgun against the porch railing. He took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “I wrote down what you and your men have spent here, yesterday, last night.”
“Yeah, well . . . ,” said Cheyenne, turning as he spoke and closing the rear door, “I suppose we ought to talk about that.” He turned back facing Bagley. “I’ll be paying you my next time through here, like we’ve done before.”
Bagley held the paper in his hand and said, “Except this ain’t like before. I was just telling Dock, this fire is going to gut me. I’m taking what I can and calling it a game.” He wagged the paper a little and said, “So I’ll take what’s owed me today and wish you and your men the best.”
Cheyenne said in a firmer tone, “Let’s not ruin a good relationship, Bagley. I’m going to clear the account the next time I see you. Something come up.”
“Something come up . . . ?” Bagley looked all around, his hands spread in bewilderment. What the hell could’ve come up?
“Why are you crowding me on this?” Cheyenne asked, his whole demeanor turning bristly, his hand going to the butt of his Colt and resting there.
“I just told you, I need my money now,” Bagley persisted. He didn’t reach for the shotgun, but he rested his right hand on the porch railing where he’d leaned it.
“Not now, next time,” Cheyenne said heatedly. “Trust me.”
“Trust you?” said Bagley. “Do I look like a fool? You’re an outlaw, an outlaw gang leader. Pay me.” He drummed his stubby fingers on the porch railing. Cheyenne took note of the shotgun standing near.
* * *
Inside the building, Royal Tarpis had just stepped down from his horse as Dock Latin walked out the front door. The rest of the men sat their horses, looking up at Latin with grim hangover leers.
“Well, we’re all here, damn it,” Tarpis said. “Where’s Cheyenne?”
“He’s coming,” said Dock. He saw Caroline Udall sitting atop a horse back behind the men.
“I don’t know why the big hurry,” said Tarpis. “We ought to get breakfast—some coffee.” He thumbed toward Caroline. “The lady is probably hungry.”
“At least let’s take a wake-up bottle with us,” said Tanner Riggs. “It just makes sense.”
Before Dock Latin could reply, a blast of gunfire resounded through the building from the back porch and echoed off along the rocky hills.
“What the hell . . . !” said Dock, running to the rear door, his Colt coming up from his holster, cocked and ready. The rest of the men scrambled from their saddles and followed Royal Tarpis through the trading post. Dewey Fritz’s first response was to drop to the floor behind the bar. But then he rose warily, saw the gunmen crossing the floor and bounded along behind them.
“Damn, Cheyenne! You’ve shot Bagley,” Latin shouted, slinging the rear door open and staring out at Bagley, who stood holding on to the rail with one hand, his other hand clutching his bloody stomach.
“Straight through . . . my guts,” Bagley said in a strained voice.
Cheyenne stood with his Colt smoking in his hand.
“You tried to shotgun me, you son of a bitch,” Cheyenne lied, reaching a boot out and kicking the shotgun away from the railing.
“Like hell—” Bagley groaned.
“Shut up,” Cheyenne said, cutting him short. “I’ll shoot you again.”
“Easy, boss,” Dock Latin said to Cheyenne, his Colt out and cocked, but lowered now that he saw what was going on. “He’s a goner anyway.”
The men looked at each other.
“Not to sound cold and callous,” said Riggs, “but any reason why we can’t pull a cork and wipe some rye worms out of our eyes?”
“Take what suits you,” Cheyenne said. To Bagley he said, “Teach you to jerk a shotgun on me.” He reached his boot out and gave the wounded man a kick. Bagley stumbled backward, fell and rolled down the steps with a tortured grunt, then lay silent and limp on the ground as Cheyenne slipped his gun back into its holster.
“You heard the boss, fellows, load up!” Riggs said with a laugh of delight.
“Hell yes,” said Lou Elkins, looking back at the bar, then at Dewey Fritz, who stood staring wide-eyed in fear. “You going to service us, barkeep, or do you want the same as Bagley got?” He eased his Colt up from his holster halfway and gave Dewey a good look at it.
“I’m on my way,” said Dewey, turning q
uickly, hurrying back behind the bar.
“Looks like drinks are on the house,” Elkins said with a wide, cruel grin.
Chapter 11
Following the thin stream, the rust-colored barb behind them, Sam and Gilley Maclaine walked through the aftermath of fire that had swept the area two days earlier. Smoke still curled from long, blackened pines lying stretched out on the charred ground. The three of them heard the crash of the big timbers falling to the earth here and there on the hillsides. The impact jarred the scorched and rocky ground beneath their feet. The barb sidled up to the Ranger each time another tree fell. The Ranger patted the horse’s muzzle, comforting it as they traveled on.
In the afternoon they had reached a water hole farther down the trail below the same stream they’d followed until it had disappeared underground. They had traveled throughout the day, in and out of thick pockets of smoke, while higher up along the hillsides both in front and behind them, the wildfire continued to rage.
For the past two miles, the wind had lifted the smoke and moved it away to the northeast, allowing them to lower their bandanas from their mouths and breathe easier. Yet more thick black pockets stood low on the hillsides, covering the trail lying ahead of them.
Enjoy it while it lasts, Sam told himself, taking a long, clear breath and letting it out slowly.
At the water’s edge Gilley flopped down, submerging her face into the coolness of it as she drank her fill. Sam walked the barb into the wide water hole and sank his canteen in the clear water. He dipped water into his sombrero and poured it all along the horse’s back and neck, washing away the black soot but knowing it would soon return.
Gilley raised her head, gasped and slung her wet hair back and forth. She wiped her hands over her face, watched the Ranger for a moment in silence and smiled to herself.
“I can’t decide if you always care this much for horses or if you’re keeping this one fit thinking he might be our ticket out of here.”
“Horses under man’s care always seem to fare less than they deserve,” Sam said, patting the barb’s wet side, inspecting a small cut there. “Of the three of us, he’s the only one who asked for none of this.” He picked up the full canteen, capping it.
“I didn’t ask to be here in a fire, Sam,” Gilley objected. “Did you?”
“We both did, in a manner of speaking, ma’am,” Sam said, hanging the canteen strap over his shoulder. “Our paths have pushed us both in this direction. The fire was here, no matter. Our prior actions chose to lead us right to it.”
“That sounds a little crazy to me, Ranger,” Gilley said.
“I can see where it would.” Sam smiled a little.
“Are you talking down to me?” Gilley asked, cocking her head to the side.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m not talking down to you, just directly.”
She watched him pour a sombrero full of water onto his own head. He swabbed his hair back, placed the sombrero atop his head and led the barb toward her.
Ma’am, always ma’am . . . , she thought.
Looking up at him from the water’s edge, she said, “Tell me something, Sam Burrack, when are you going to start calling me Gilley?”
“Right now, Gilley,” he said, reaching a wet hand down to her, helping her to her feet.
“Well, I don’t believe it,” she said, feigning shock. She stood up close to him and looked into his eyes. Her wet shirt clung to her bosom; the top button had come undone as she drank.
Sam saw the roundness of her exposed flesh and looked away.
“Fix your clothes, Gilley,” he said quietly.
“Oh. . . .” She reached up and buttoned the shirt. “Aren’t you just the gentleman?” she said playfully.
Sam didn’t reply.
“You know, we don’t have to be strangers, you and me. We can be close. Just because we met under—”
“No, we can’t,” Sam said, interrupting her.
“Why not?” she asked quietly.
“Back to those paths of ours and where they’ve led us,” Sam said. “I’m a lawman . . .” He let his words trail.
“And I’m an outlaw?” she asked.
After a pause of consideration, Sam said, “You put yourself with outlaws—outlaws that I’m hunting.”
“I can’t see what that’s got to do with anything,” she said.
“That’s too bad,” Sam said sincerely.
“And what if you weren’t hunting these men?” she asked without pause.
“There is no what if I weren’t,” Sam said, “because I am.”
She stepped back and put a hand on her hip.
“Is there any harm in speculating?” she asked.
Sam had started to turn, but he stopped and looked at her, taking in a deep breath.
“Yes, there is,” he said firmly, gazing into her eyes. “You’re a beautiful woman, Gilley. We don’t have to say . . . we both know how things would be under other circumstances. But there are no other circumstances, and there never will be. I’m not going to go past that point.” He turned and led the barb away, back into the water hole.
She stared after him.
“You’re right,” she said in a huff. “What was I thinking—a lawman?” She gave a short, contrived laugh. “You’re hardly my type anyway.”
The Ranger didn’t respond.
“I don’t get along well with the self-righteous, high-minded, father type. You and your our prior actions, our paths led us here.” She took a step into the cool water. “What is all that malarkey anyway—something you say to starry-eyed town girls at some church social, under some stupid apple tree?”
Sam stopped and stared straight ahead, hearing her at the edge behind him, her voice filling with tears.
“Well, I don’t need that kind of man,” she cried out. “I don’t need another father. I don’t need you, Ranger Sam Burrack! I don’t need anybody!”
She saw him turn and stand facing her, a look on his face that she could not read. In the distance, thick smoke filled with thrashing orange flames erupted and spilled down the hillside, a landside of fire.
“No . . . No, Sam . . . ,” she whispered to herself.
The Ranger watched her run out into the shallow water and splash toward him with abandon. Keeping the reins to the horse in hand, he caught her as she threw herself into his arms, sobbing.
“I didn’t mean it, Sam! I didn’t mean any of it,” she said, her tears wet against his chest as she pressed her face there.
“I know, Gilley,” the Ranger whispered, his arms around her, holding her in a way he had held few women in his life. “I understand . . . I was being hard on you—it was wrong.”
“Hold me, Sam. That’s all I want. Just hold me. I’m scared,” she said into his chest. “This fire, what it’s doing to everything around us. The way it comes and goes, but never really leaves. I can’t take any more of it. It’s like being stalked by something evil.”
“It’s going to be all right, Gilley,” Sam whispered into her cheek, his arms pressing her to him. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be all right. We all three are, you’ll see.”
“Even the horse?” Gilley asked, childlike, needing his reassurance. She held her eyes closed as if hoping when she opened them again, the terrible beast would be gone, the world would be back to itself.
“That’s right, even the horse,” Sam said.
Even as he spoke, he lifted his eyes toward the smoke and flames and toward the black, churning heavens. As he looked up he instinctively drew her tighter against him, feeling the heat of her through his clothes, the wetness of her tears on his chest through his shirt. He closed his eyes and saw himself lift her into his arms and carry her out of the water. He saw himself tasting her mouth so clearly that he had to open his eyes and remind himsel
f it was not real, only passion playing itself out. The fire was getting to him too, he decided, cautioning himself.
They stood in the water hole until the water she had stirred up settled around them. At length, when Sam realized her fear had subsided, he whispered in her ear, “We’ve got to go on, Gilley.”
She nodded slightly against his chest.
“I know, Sam,” she whispered. “Give me a minute.”
A minute . . . Sam nodded; he closed his eyes tight for a moment and tried to clear his mind of the two of them in each other’s arms. He had to focus on the job at hand, yet he found it difficult to turn her loose.
Finally he did manage to hold her at arm’s length. He looked at her closely and said almost in a whisper, “Are you ready to get back in the fire?”
Absently she shook her head no. She looked out across the last stretch of trail to Bagley’s Trading Post. But then she took a breath and looked into Sam’s eyes.
“Ready when you are,” she said.
When the Ranger turned to walk away toward the trail, Gilley stepped in beside him and pulled his free arm up around her shoulders. She looped her arm around his waist as he led the barb. He looked at her. Behind him, even the barb forced itself closer to his side.
“Couldn’t we just walk like this for a ways?” Gilley asked quietly, looking up into his eyes. Sam glanced ahead at a dark, broiling world filled with smoke and fire with a thin ribbon of trail winding through its middle. He took strength in the horse and the woman relying on him.
“I can’t see why not,” he replied, drawing her closer beside him as they walked on.
* * *
From atop a ridge overlooking the smoky trail, Red Gantry looked down a battered telescope at the Ranger and the woman trudging along, their faces half covered by bandanas, the horse walking behind them with a soot-blackened shirt wrapped and tucked around its muzzle. Through a wafting black veil, he recognized the Ranger by his pearl gray sombrero, the soot-smudged badge on his chest; Gilley he recognized by her clothes. He remembered the last time he’d seen her—when he and the other two men had left Cheyenne behind to kill her.