Ralph Compton Doomsday Rider

by Ralph Compton

  “The stars are that way, Charlie,” he said.

  Fletcher was not a praying man, nor did he know any words to say. But he took off his hat and stood in silence with his head bowed.

  After a while he replaced his hat, took one last look at Charlie, and said, “Hasta luego, old-timer.”

  Then he went down the ladder and down the slope and back to the flat.

  Eighteen

  When Fletcher descended to the canyon floor, the pueblo was deserted. The Chosen One’s disciples were gone, their footprints tracking to the northeast, a tribe of nomads who had come to the pueblos in search of doomsday and their Lord’s return but found only death, despair, and disillusionment.

  One of them was riding—the one who had taken Charlie’s horse—but Fletcher felt no inclination to go after him.

  That would take too much time and he had none to spare.

  He searched the pueblo and found a dozen roasted mescal cakes, and these he stuffed in the pockets of his mackinaw. The Apaches carried the flat, dry cakes as their principal means of sustenance on their periodic raids into Mexico. Tasting somewhat like boiled beets, the cakes were both filling and nutritious and they kept fresh for a long time.

  Fletcher saddled the stud and swung out of the valley and headed toward the Mazatzal Peak, fifty hard, broken miles to the northwest.

  The shadowed canyon country around him gradually gave way to the rolling, pine-covered foothills of the Mazatzals. Fletcher saw no open ground and everything around him was built on a vast scale, the boulders, the trunks of the spruce, and the pine-choked ravines between the hills.

  He had earlier picked up the tracks of two horses. One left a deeper imprint, suggesting that the mount was carrying two riders, one of them presumably Estelle, surely a jolting, uncomfortable ride for a pregnant woman.

  Around noon Fletcher rode into a narrow divide between the hills where the trees stretched a canopy of leaves on each side, almost blotting out the sky. A stream ran through the length of the valley, one of the hundreds of runoffs from the Salt River. Although sheets of pane ice extended from each bank, the water bubbled free in the middle over a mossy, pebbled bottom.

  Fletcher let the stud drink, then led him to a patch of grass and chokecherry within the tree canopy. He sat with his back to a juniper and, without appetite, ate a couple of the mescal cakes, then built and lit a cigarette.

  It was peaceful here among the trees, the only sound the rushing water and the breeze rustling among the branches. When he looked up and caught a glimpse of the sky through the pine needles it was blue and cloudless, but the sun held no warmth and frost clung thick to the north-facing bark of the tree trunks.

  The air smelled fresh, of sage and cedar, and when Fletcher tilted his nose to the wind he thought he could detect the scent of buffalo grass buried under the snow.

  He finished his cigarette, rose to his feet, and swung into the saddle.

  The men who had taken Estelle had also ridden through this valley, perhaps not two hours before, and Fletcher knew the time of reckoning was getting close.

  Now, as he cleared the divide and worked his way across hilly, broken country, he rode alert in the saddle, his eyes never still.

  Ahead of him in the distance he saw rugged Mazatzal Peak, the foothills sweeping away from him, rising higher and higher to meet the mountain’s lower slopes.

  As Fletcher topped a low rise, the horse tracks stretched out in front of him and disappeared within the walls of a narrow, high-walled canyon about a quarter of a mile distant. A jumble of rocks was scattered on top of the canyon rim facing him, and here and there grew spruce, identifiable as dark arrowheads of green against the sky. To his right rose a gradual slope ending after thirty yards at a band of mixed pine and low-growing greasewood that in early summer would be covered in yellow blossoms.

  The gulch seemed innocent and peaceful enough but Fletcher’s survival instincts were clamoring. Something didn’t seem right. . . .

  He leaned over to slide the Winchester out of the boot—and that motion saved his life.

  Fletcher felt the bullet burn across the side of his head before he heard the racket of the rifle.

  Stunned, he toppled out of the saddle and hit the ground hard. Another bullet kicked up snow inches from his right leg; a third pounded into the ground close beside him.

  He had to get away from here!

  Fletcher climbed to his feet and stumbled toward the tree line, firing as he went, cranking and triggering the Winchester as he ran. He saw no target except for a fleeting puff of gray smoke atop the canyon wall. He fired at the smoke, then to the left and right of it, and kept running.

  Without slowing his pace, Fletcher dived into the trees, landing headfirst in a wild blackberry bush that tore at his face and hands with vicious thorns. Fletcher rolled out of the bush and scrambled higher up the slope, taking up a position behind the wide trunk of a spruce. Heart pounding in his chest and dizzy from his head wound, he waited, the salty, metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

  A slow ten minutes ticked past, and out in the snow where his horse stood, reins trailing, nothing moved.

  A jay flapped into the tree beside Fletcher, saw him, and took exception to his presence, protesting noisily and furiously before it indignantly fluttered away.

  Fletcher’s horse pawed at the snow, seeking grass, and he heard its bit chink softly in the quiet.

  Something was moving out there.

  A huge, bearded man in a long buffalo-hide coat was walking out of the canyon, heading toward the horse. Beside him stepped a tall, thin man in a wide-brimmed black hat and sheepskin mackinaw, a red muffler wrapped loosely around his neck and the bottom half of his face.

  But for Fletcher there was no mistaking that arrogant tilt of the head and the way the man wore his guns—it was Wes Slaughter.

  As he studied the gunman, the dawning realization came to Fletcher that here was the guardian angel Charlie had spoken about. Everything Slaughter had done, from the shooting of the Apache back at pueblo to the killing of Andy Wilson, had been done to preserve Fletcher for this moment . . .

  . . . the moment he could be killed alongside Estelle Stark and her father’s vile scheme finally completed.

  Was Estelle already dead? That seemed unlikely. Falcon Stark, such a meticulous planner, would want them both murdered at the same time.

  Slaughter’s voice rose among the trees where Fletcher knelt hidden.

  “You sure you got him good, Woody? He looked right spry to me.”

  The man called Woody pointed at the surface of the snow with his rifle muzzle. “See that blood, Wes? I tole you I hit him hard.” The man pointed in the direction of the trees with his bearded chin. “He’s probably in there dead, or dying.”

  Fletcher recognized the bearded man. He was Woody Barton, a sure-thing back shooter, scalp hunter, and piece of white trash out of the Cumberland Plateau country of Tennessee. His usual fee for a murder was fifty dollars, and he didn’t much care if the victim was man, woman, or child.

  Slaughter was talking again.

  “You go in there and get him, damn it. I want Fletcher a-laying dead alongside that pregnant sow when we get Crook or one of his officers down here.”

  Barton hesitated. He was long on bullying those he considered weak or old or scared, but short enough on the courage to face a man like Buck Fletcher, even if he was wounded and dying.

  “What if he ain’t hurt so bad, Wes?” he asked. “I could be mistook.”

  “Then go in there and get him, or I swear, Woody, I’ll gun you down myself.” Slaughter took a step toward Barton. “Go ahead. Hell, I’ll be right here covering you.”

  Fletcher saw Barton’s throat bob under his beard as the man swallowed hard. But he walked slowly toward the trees, his rifle at a high port. A few feet away from the tree line he stopped and looked back at Slaughter.

  “You got me covered real good, Wes?”

  “Depend on it, Woody.”

&nb
sp; Woody Barton stepped into the trees, his head swiveling this way and that, knuckles white on the stock of his Henry.

  “Wes,” he called out without turning his head, “you still there?”

  “Right behind you, Woody. Now go get Fletcher.”

  Barton started to climb the slope. He was about ten feet from Fletcher’s position. Nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . .

  Fletcher stepped out from behind the spruce. “You looking for me, Woody?”

  The man’s rifle swung on Fletcher fast. But not nearly fast enough.

  The Colt in Fletcher’s right fist hammered, three shots so close together they sounded like one.

  Each bullet hit Barton in the middle of the chest and the man screamed, his face wild, and he fell backward, crashing down the slope.

  Fletcher threw himself to his right as Slaughter thumbed off a couple of quick shots into the trees, scattering branches and pine needles. Both missed.

  Gray gunsmoke drifted through the trees as Fletcher crouched, heart thudding, and punched shells into the empty cylinders of his gun.

  Behind him, higher up the slope, the jays were scattering, frightened by the gunfire, and something larger crashed through the underbrush in panicked flight.

  “Woody!” Slaughter’s hushed voice came from somewhere among the trees to Fletcher’s right. “Are you there?”

  “Poor Woody ain’t with us no more, Wes,” Fletcher said. “He caught a bad case of lead poisoning.”

  He quickly moved his position, moments before Slaughter sent another shot crashing into the trees where he’d been standing.

  “Buck, did I get you?”

  This time Fletcher didn’t answer, knowing the gunman was using his voice to direct his shots.

  A few minutes passed in silence; then Slaughter called out, “Buck, we don’t have to snipe at each other. Let’s me and you settle this thing like gentlemen.”

  “You’re no gentleman, Wes. Or has nobody told you that before?”

  Fletcher moved again. But this time there was no shot from Slaughter.

  “Buck?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Know that sheriff you was blamed for shooting back to Wyoming?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, that was me, Buck. I got to the livery stable just before you did and put a bullet into that rube. Then I ran back to the saloon and spread it around that you’d just killed the sheriff. They caught you red-handed, Buck.”

  “How much did Stark pay you for that, Wes?”

  “It were considerable. See, it wasn’t something I could set up real easy, though Stark wanted it done real fast. After our little disagreement in Cheyenne, I had to follow you around for quite a spell, waiting for the right moment. Who was to know it would come in a hick cow town that didn’t even have a name?”

  “I got twenty years for that, Wes.”

  “I know, and all on account of me.” There was a few moments’ pause; then Slaughter said, “Now, knowing all that, why don’t you come out and face me like a man instead of hiding in them trees like a damn lily-livered skunk?”

  “How you want to play this, Wes?”

  “Hell, man, the usual procedure. We meet face-to-face and make our play. Fastest man wins. Ain’t that always the way of it, Buck?”

  “That’s always the way. At least it is with me.”

  “Well, come on down and I’ll meet you out on the slope. Just you and me, Buck, the way it should be.”

  “I’m coming down.”

  Fletcher cleared his mackinaw from the holstered Colt on his hip, letting it show. He drew the gun from the cross-draw holster, held it behind his back, and made his way down the slope to the edge of the tree line.

  Fletcher stepped out of the trees, just as Slaughter appeared about twenty feet away, his rifle coming up fast to his shoulder.

  The gun streaked from behind Fletcher’s back and both men fired at the same time.

  Slaughter’s bullet tugged at Fletcher’s mackinaw; then the gunman tried to work the lever again. He did not have the strength. Slowly he sank to his knees, his face chalk white and shocked, a scarlet stain widening on the front of his coat.

  Fletcher stepped closer, his gun ready. Slaughter looked up at him, his mouth under his mustache twisting into a grim, agonized parody of a smile.

  “Hell, Buck,” he said, “you’re just as downright low-down and sneaky as I am.”

  “Not hardly,” Fletcher said.

  Blood stained Slaughter’s lips and mustache, and his gray eyes were fading fast.

  “You got the makings?” he whispered. “I reckon I left you some.”

  Fletcher’s hand slipped under his mackinaw to his shirt pocket as Slaughter opened his mouth to speak again. But his words died with him and he pitched face-forward into the snow.

  “Wes,” Fletcher said, “you’re right. I plumb forgot to thank you for the tobacco.”

  He stepped down the rise, gathered the reins of his horse, and walked toward the canyon.

  Was Estelle still alive?

  Fletcher led his horse into the ravine. He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted the girl’s name. There was no answer, just the bouncing echoes along the canyon walls repeating, “Estelle . . . Estelle . . . Estelle . . .”

  Mocking him.

  Rocks and thick brush carpeted the floor of the ravine. The horizontally growing Mexican mule clipper with its cruel thorns formed impassible barriers that Fletcher many times had to walk around. The going was slow, the footing treacherous, and his stud didn’t like it one bit, jerking at the reins, irritably tossing his head.

  But in the end it was the horse that led him to Estelle.

  The big stud lifted his head, read what was written in the breeze, and whinnied. An answering call came from the canyon wall to Fletcher’s right. He walked closer and discovered a shallow cave gouged out of the red rock, two horses standing close together, tethered to a fallen spruce.

  Estelle was deeper in the cave, sitting with her back to the rock. She was bound hand and foot and her mouth was gagged by a filthy bandanna.

  The girl’s eyes were huge and frightened as Fletcher stepped closer. He knelt beside Estelle, found his pocketknife, and cut the ropes around her feet and wrists, then gently untied the bandanna.

  “Are you all right?” he asked when the girl was free, knowing how totally inadequate it sounded.

  Estelle nodded, saying nothing.

  There was a canteen looped to the saddle horn of one of the horses. Fletcher stood, brought it to Estelle, and let her drink.

  The girl swallowed a few sips, then said, “Please help me up.”

  Fletcher raised her to her feet and she clung to him desperately, despite her swelling belly that pressed awkward and hard against him.

  “Those dreadful men . . .” she began.

  “Dead,” Fletcher said. “They can’t hurt you anymore.”

  The girl raised her tearstained face to Fletcher’s. “He must hate me very much. More than I ever knew.”

  Fletcher cast around in his mind for the right words, then said, “Your father seems to have a tremendous capacity for hate. It eats at him like a cancer.”

  Estelle’s eyes searched Fletcher’s face as though trying to find an answer to a question she had not yet asked. “But why all this? If he hates me so much why did he not just send someone to shoot me and get it over with? That man, that Woody, told me he’d have done it for fifty dollars.”

  Fletcher shook his head. “Estelle, that’s not Falcon Stark’s way. I think this was all a game with him. He had the power and he wanted to see how far it could take him. He wanted it to be efficient, neat, without leaving any loose ends.”

  Fletcher’s smile was thin. “If Slaughter had accomplished what he set out to do, Woody Barton would never have left this canyon alive. He would have been passed off as another victim of the murderous Buck Fletcher.”

  “But why you, Buck?”

  The girl’s eyes were puzzled, her limited
intelligence groping to understand the complex motives of a man with an intellect far greater than her own.

  “Hate. It’s not only that Falcon Stark hates me personally, though indeed he does; it’s that he hates everything I stand for, men who make their living with a gun. He told me when he becomes president he’ll rid the West of men like me, and the Indians too, and he meant every word of it.”

  “He’ll never become president,” Estelle said, her eyes blazing. “I won’t let him.”

  Fletcher nodded. “Maybe so,” he said, his voice totally lacking in conviction.

  Estelle stepped back from him. “Where are my people?” she asked.

  “There are no people, Estelle. They’ve all gone home. There’s only one old man there, looking at the stars.”

  The girl stood in silence for a few moments, studying Fletcher, and with a rueful twinge he knew what she was seeing—a big, rawboned man, homely as a mud fence, his mustache holding up a great beak of a nose.

  But to his surprise, Estelle leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for saving my life, Buck. And my baby’s life.”

  Fletcher smiled. “Hell, I’d do it more often if that was my reward.”

  He hesitated, then said, “Estelle, I want to take you to Fort Apache. Your baby is due soon and you should be around womenfolk.”

  He’d expected Estelle to argue, to say she wanted to go back to the pueblo, but, like the others, it seemed her dream had died with the Chosen One.

  “I’ll tell General Crook all I know,” she said. “Buck, I want justice for you—and for me.”

  * * *

  One of the horses ridden by Slaughter and Barton was a mustang, the other a Montana-bred roan that went over sixteen hands. Fletcher unsaddled the mustang and let him go. There were wild horse herds in the basin and he’d make out.

  The dead men had been well supplied with coffee and bacon, and these Fletcher stashed on the back of his saddle with his blanket roll.

  That done, Fletcher looked over Estelle’s swollen figure doubtfully. “Do you think you can ride that roan?” he asked.