by Jake Henry
‘Got it in one,’ the man sneered.
‘OK then,’ Savage said and brought the shotgun into firing position.
In the gloom of the surrounding twilight, the orange flame that spewed forth from the twin barrels was amazingly bright. The sound of the shot rolled loudly along the vacant street as the man was thrust violently backward, his chest ripped to shreds by the buckshot.
The other men scattered, then started to fire back once they’d regained their composure. But by then, Savage was back inside the jail and the door was closed.
Slugs hammered out a staccato sound as they peppered the thin plank walls of the jail. Some smashed through, filling the interior with wicked splinters as well as flying lead.
Savage took cover near the window with another cut-down shotgun. He used the twin barrels to break the glass then poked them through.
He squeezed both triggers and the weapon roared, releasing both deadly payloads at once. A howl of pain could be heard outside as one of the shooters stopped lead balls.
Savage dropped the gun to the floor and took the Yellow Boy from the desktop. He poked its octagonal barrel out the window and started levering and firing methodically at any targets that presented themselves.
A volley of gunfire from outside smashed into the remaining glass sending razor-sharp shards flying across the room. Savage ducked back when he felt the sting of cutting glass on his cheek.
He wiped at the burning spot and his hand came away streaked with red.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he muttered and let loose with his own flurry of shots and was rewarded with another yelp of pain.
Savage knew he couldn’t stay there. The safest place for him was outside of town somewhere. He needed to hide until he could formulate some sort of plan that would effectively bring the Vandals down. If he stayed here, they might get lucky and kill him. Out there in the wilderness was a whole other story.
On his way to the back door, he collected one of the cut-down shotguns and a box of shells. Once outside, Savage climbed onto the pinto’s back and put him into a steady lope towards the outskirts of town and relative safety.
When Craig Vandal’s men realized that the shooting from within the jail had stopped, it was too late. They burst in through the door and discovered an empty room. Their boss was not going to be happy at all.
‘Finch didn’t stand a chance, boss,’ the man called Howard said. ‘He just cut loose with that cannon of his before we knew what was happenin’. On top of that, we got two other men wounded as well.’
All of Craig Vandal’s patience was gone. It had been driven away and replaced by a burning rage that threatened to consume all rational thought inside of his mind.
He stormed across the room and back again. After several minutes of silence and much thought, he managed to calm himself again before he spoke. ‘Organize some men and get searching for him. Find him and kill him. I’ll give two thousand dollars to the man who does it.’
The man’s eyes bulged, his mouth agape. ‘We’ll get right on it.’
‘And try not to get killed. At the rate I’m losing men, there’ll be none left pretty soon.’
Craig Vandal watched him go. His mind, however, was elsewhere. His men weren’t up for the job of dealing with Savage. The $2,000 reward might spur them on for a while but when it came down to it, Savage was more than a match for them. What he needed was someone as ruthless as the man they were hunting. And he knew just where to find him.
When the telegram arrived in Cobalt Creek the following morning, the manhunter known as Rawhide Allen was trying to decide whether to kill a man. Not that the man needed killing, nor was it a job. Rawhide Allen wanted to kill the man just because he could.
‘Mr. Allen,’ the telegrapher said warily. ‘I have a message for you.’
Allen broke his train of thought to stare at the timid looking man. Allen’s cold blue eyes sent a chill down the man’s spine. The telegrapher’s hand trembled as he held out the piece of paper.
The manhunter dropped his fork onto his plate of half-eaten bacon and eggs and snatched the telegram from the man’s grasp.
The telegrapher jumped involuntarily and turned quickly, almost running from the café.
While reading the message, Allen resumed his breakfast and shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth. He started chewing but stopped when he reached the part about being paid $2,000 to kill a man.
He liked getting paid but the killing part was the best. He’d learned his craft well in the war between the states when he’d ridden with the border raiders of one William Quantrill.
Pushing the remainder of his meal away, Allen stuffed the telegram into his top-right pocket and stood erect. He was lean and tall at a shade under 6-foot-4. He smoothed his dark trousers and adjusted the holstered Remington he wore on his hips. Distractedly, he raised his hand and scratched at the dark stubble on his square jaw then ran it through his almost black hair and picked up his battered, dark low-crowned hat.
Remembering that he needed to pay for his meal, Allen placed his hat back on the table and reached into his hip pocket and took out his folding money. He peeled off a five-dollar note and threw it on the table, retrieved his hat and hurried for the door. He had a hundred and fifty miles to ride for the chance to kill a man.
As he stepped out onto the boardwalk, he saw the rat-faced storekeeper who’d looked down his nose at Allen when he’d gone for supplies. The same man who’d judged him on his appearance. Little did the storekeeper know how lucky he was.
For two days, the hunt for Savage continued throughout the hills and ridges surrounding Dead Man’s Gulch. A cold campfire they happened upon was the closest they’d come to finding him.
Things, however, were about to change. On the morning of the third day, above them on a rocky ridge, Savage sighted along the barrel of the Yellow boy, the foresight settled on the lead rider.
Off in the trees to his left, he heard a bird call. The sound stayed his finger on the trigger before he took up the slack. A move that might well have saved his life.
The call was answered by another further along the ridge and a little down slope.
Savage drew the rifle barrel back, listened then squatted down behind the rocks where he was hidden.
Over the course of the next minute, there were no more sounds. He could only assume that the Chiricahua were closing in on the unsuspecting riders below. So be it. They were here to kill him. If the Apaches could help his cause, then all the better.
Savage didn’t have to wait long. A yell signaled the onset of the attack and the surrounding ridges erupted with the sound of gunfire.
As Savage looked on, he saw Apaches emerge from the trees. There were ten more of them than he’d figured on. They hit the searchers from the flank and in the blink of an eye, they were amongst them.
The gunshots died away as the fighting became hand-to-hand. Savage saw a rider go down with a Chiricahua brave on top of him. A knife glittered as it rose and fell three times. An Apache fell from his horse, clubbed about the head with a six-gun. More flailing bodies fell from horses as the fighting intensified.
A blood-curdling cry echoed around the hills, as a wounded man had the hair ripped from his head, audible above the din of battle. An Indian stiffened when his own knife was driven into his throat, sending a cascade of bright-red blood down his naked torso.
Suddenly two men on horseback broke away from the group, riding furiously away from the scene of carnage. Savage watched them go, the surviving Apaches hot on their tail.
He waited for ten or so minutes to see if they would return and when there was no sign, he led his horse down off the ridge to check for survivors. To his astonishment, he found one.
Savage left the pinto ground hitched a dozen yards from the macabre scene and walked amongst the bodies, cradling the Yellow Boy. Cocked and ready to fire.
The coppery smell of fresh blood was so powerful, the salty taste was on his palette and he spat on the ground to rem
ove it. He walked slowly between the bodies until he came across the man whose scalping he’d witnessed. He paused and looked down at him. The face was streaked with red lines and a bead of sweat ran –
‘Son of a bitch, you’re alive.’
The dead man was indeed alive and when Savage spoke, it was enough to start the man’s body trembling. His eyes snapped open, a deep-seated pain obvious to see.
‘You – you gotta help me,’ he pleaded.
‘Why?’
‘You can’t …’ he swallowed hard. ‘You can’t leave me here for them Apaches.’
‘Why?’
‘I – I know where to find Bobby Vandal.’
That got Savage’s attention. ‘Where is he?’
‘Get me on a horse.’
‘Tell me where.’
‘C’mon Savage, them Cherrycows could be here at any time,’ the man pleaded.
‘Then talk fast.’
There was a pregnant pause as a wave of pain washed over the disfigured man, then he said, ‘His old man sent him to Bad Tooth.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Damn it, Savage,’ the man cursed through gritted teeth.
‘Where!’
‘Northeast of here, about a day and a half ride. It’s a bad place, a whole lotta outlaws hole up there. All right?’
‘Sure.’
‘Now, what about the horse? You’ll have to help me, I can’t seem to move.’
Savage let his eyes drift over the man’s body. The gaping gash in the man’s middle might have something to do with that. Some of the bloodstained coils of intestine had spilled like snakes onto the coarse grass beside the dying man.
Savage nodded grimly. ‘Sure, I’ll help you.’
The man smiled hopefully. ‘Thanks …’
The sound of the shot whiplashed and the man’s head snapped to the side, the grass beside it sprayed with flecks of blood. The Drifter stood motionless, staring down at the corpse.
‘You’re welcome.’
Five
By the time, Rawhide Allen reached Dead Man’s Gulch, he was mean. Killing mean, and the throbbing pain emanating from his ass wasn’t making his mood any better. The boil had come up the previous day, beginning as an angry red dot that continued to grow until it was a hard red mass the size of a double-eagle.
Which did not bode well for anyone who crossed him and the first person to bear the brunt of his foul temper was the hostler.
‘What can I do for you, stranger?’ he asked Allen, who led his horse in through the door.
‘Need a stall,’ Allen grunted.
The hostler shook his head. ‘Sorry, they’re all full. I can put him in the corral out the back if you like. Horse’ll still be looked after the same as the rest.’
‘Stall.’
Again, the hostler shook his head. ‘I already told you. They’re full up.’
Allen let go of the horse’s reins and moved forward, closing the gap between them in the blink of an eye, startling the man before him. The killer drew his six-gun and lashed out with it. There was a sickening crack as the barrel smashed into the side of the hostler’s head.
The man dropped like a stone but Allen wasn’t done yet. He gritted his teeth, leaned down and hit the man twice more. When he was finished, blood flowed freely from the lacerations to the man’s head and face.
Allen gave him a solid kick to the ribs for good measure and the hostler moaned.
‘When you’re ready, put the damned horse in a stall,’ the killer hissed. ‘Or next time I’ll kill you.’
Allen left the livery and walked along the street until he found Vandal’s office. He pushed his way through the door and inside found Craig Vandal in the middle of berating another man.
‘What the hell is going on around here? All you men seem to do is get killed. If it isn’t that son of a bitch Savage, it’s the damned Apaches. What does it take to get rid of one damned man?’
‘Well now, I believe that would be me.’
The two men looked at Allen.
‘Who are you?’ Vandal snapped.
‘I’m Rawhide Allen. The feller you sent for.’
‘Finally. About damned time we had someone that could be relied upon to get the job done. I’m Craig Vandal,’ Vandal said, seemingly relieved. He returned his gaze to the surviving member of the search party and snarled, ‘Get the hell out of here.’
When the door closed, Allen said, ‘Before we get to talkin’ business, we need to discuss somethin’ else.’
‘And what might that be?’ Craig Vandal asked impatiently.
‘The two thousand dollars you have on offer.’
‘What about it?’
‘It ain’t enough.’
‘What?’ Vandal snapped.
‘I want five thousand,’ Allen stated.
‘You what?’ Vandal spluttered, his eyes bulging in surprise.
‘From what I can gather since walkin’ in here, there’s Apaches involved. That alone sends the price up. Also, the fact that you’ve been losin’ men that have been sent after him, tells me this is goin’ to be no ordinary manhunt. So, I will require more money.’
Vandal wasn’t used to being dictated to and was certainly not happy about it and made his displeasure clear. ‘I’m not paying you that much, damn it. I don’t care what your reputation is. No man is worth that much.’
With the gnawing pain in his ass burrowing into the deep recesses of his brain, Allen briefly considered shooting the man before him in the head and leaving. Instead, he turned around and headed towards the door.
‘Wait!’
Allen paused, a thin smile on his lips. He turned back to face Vandal.
‘OK, five thousand.’
Allen nodded. ‘I get two thousand up front, whether I kill him or not.’
Once more a resentful look flashed across Vandal’s face. ‘Fine.’
Vandal turned away from Allen and went to a safe that stood against the far wall. He unlocked it and riffled through a bundle of notes until he had the required amount. He closed and locked the safe again before turning back to Allen. He passed it over. ‘There.’
Allen stuffed the money into his coat pocket.
‘If you find the man who just left, he’ll tell you what you need to know about Savage’s last known whereabouts.’
Allen nodded. ‘Where can I find a doctor?’
‘What? Never mind,’ Vandal said, shaking his head. ‘Four down on the other side of the street. What do you want with the doctor, anyway? You seem fine.’
‘I’m like you, Vandal. I have a great big pain in my ass.’
Naiche was in trouble and was convinced that he was about to die at the hands of the white-eyes who’d found him riding on his own. He was scared. He should have listened to Taza and not wandered off. But how was he to know what would happen? This was Chiricahua land. His father’s land. The whites did not belong here, not that they hadn’t ventured this far before.
But here they were. The three men had surprised him as he’d ridden along a trail beside a dry, rocky creek bed that ran between two small, rock-strewn ridges sparsely dotted with pines.
He struggled against the grip of one of his captors. He was strong for his age, almost twelve summers, but the tall man with the straggly beard was stronger. He and his two friends, Long Hair and Big Nose were unevenly matched against the youth.
‘Hold the little bastard still will you so I can cut him with my knife,’ Long Hair growled in a deep voice. ‘You get hold of the little bastard too, Rhett.’
The man with the big nose moved in on the opposite side to Straggly Beard and grabbed Naiche’s free arm in a firm grip.
‘I got the little sumbitch, Jimmy,’ Rhett snickered. ‘Scalp him first, before you go and kill him.’
Naiche snarled and wrenched his arm free from Straggly Beard.
‘Damn it, Sheb,’ Jimmy cursed, ‘keep hold of him.’
‘Come here you,’ Sheb snarled and grabbed a fistful of Naiche�
�s hair to keep him still.
Jimmy moved in closer to the struggling Naiche and as he brought up the knife he declared with a smile, ‘This is goin’ to hurt you more than me Injun.’
Naiche’s struggles intensified when he felt the stinging burn as the tip of the razor-sharp blade pierce the skin just below his hairline. He gasped and tried to bite back the cry of pain that threatened to burst from his lips. He was determined not to give them the satisfaction; even when the blade moved, slicing his scalp open to the bone. Blood started to run freely from the already gaping wound.
‘That’s it, Jimmy, cut the little sumbitch,’ Rhett said gleefully. ‘Cut him good.’
Naiche tried to pull his head away but they held him firmly in place. The burning pain spread with the journey of the knife. Two inches now.
The pain was becoming unbearable and tears flowed from the Apache boy’s eyes and mixed with the blood.
Suddenly a voice said, ‘Let the boy go and you three maggot eatin’ scum might live through what’s left of the day.’
Heads turned and four sets of eyes locked onto the man on the pinto with a rifle pointed in their general direction.
Jimmy took a step back from his grizzly task and stared angrily at the stranger. He said, ‘Mister, this ain’t got nothin’ to do with you so I suggest you ride on.’
‘Yeah, that’s it,’ Rhett cackled, ‘ride the hell on afore we kill you too.’
Savage saw the knife in Jimmy’s hand, noticed the bloody blade. He diverted his gaze and saw the blood-streaked face of the boy.
‘Bastards,’ he muttered before his look grew icy and turned back to Jimmy.
‘What is it you’re doin’ to the kid?’
‘I’m goin’ to scalp him,’ Jimmy said, his voice conveying a challenging tone. ‘I was just startin’ when you showed up. Now get gone.’
Without hesitation, Savage shot Jimmy with the Yellow Boy. The .44 Henry slug hit him hard in the chest and blew a fist-sized hole when it exited his back. Blood blossomed bright on Jimmy’s chest and his mouth dropped open in shock. He took a couple of steps back and sat down hard on the ground.