There was a thud and he was in time to see the wounded man’s body cannon off the ledge and sail out into the ravine, falling spread-eagled and unmoving, like a gliding hawk using an air current. He glanced at the senator who was clinging like a fly to the cliff face.
“One less to shoot at us,” Cato said, “but one less cartridge to shoot back with, too.”
Locke blew out his cheeks and his breath gusted gray momentarily before the wind whipped it away. Manstopper resting now just inside this heavy woolen jacket where he could get at it easily, Cato edged along the narrow rock to the part where it disappeared around the curve of the cliff face. Warily, clinging with numbed fingers, his toes even curled over inside his boots, he sidled up to the corner and looked beyond. The next step could take him into space with nothing between him and the tall timber far below.
But he felt weak when he saw that, around the bend, the ledge actually widened again and he could see it snaking across the mountain face, angling downwards around a butte to a tree-studded slope that fell away in a steep but negotiable grade to the timber down in the ravine below.
It looked a long way off but it was a way down.
Only thing was, it was also a way up. And Cato figured that Wolf Duane would be riding around the mountain to try to reach the start of that trail up here.
He was about to turn back and urge the senator to hurry up and join him when a movement caught his eyes. He swung back and looked along the new section of trail.
Two wolves were coming up slowly towards his position.
~*~
The gunshots gave Yancey more of a direction than earlier for he was deeper into the ravine by now. The timber was closing around him and the Indian girl as they made their way along the trail cut by the lumberjacks, just wide enough for one rider at a time. To their right was the river, roaring past on its deepwater, fast-current journey through the ravine.
Yancey put his mount over that way and came out of the trees onto the narrow bank of the river. He shaded his eyes, looking up across the various steps of timbered ridges to the cliff face, discernible to him for the first time. He ran his gaze slowly along it, just below the rim, and he could pick out the thin, ragged, snaking ledge that rose up from one section of a butte towards the cliff top.
And, by Godfrey, he could see two men on it!
It had to be Cato and the senator, but they were a long way off. But he confirmed it a minute later when he looked through the army field glasses he took from his saddlebag. He turned slightly as the Indian girl put her mount up alongside him.
“Cato and the senator, all right,” he said. “Hell almighty! I think ...! By God! There are two wolves on the trail in front of ’em!”
Even as he looked he saw Cato’s Manstopper in his hand, smoke and flame spurting from the barrel. After several moments’ delay he heard the reports of two gunshots. One wolf went over the edge, the other lay on the trail, wounded but not fatally hit. Yancey sucked in his breath as he saw Cato lunge in, clubbing at it with the gun butt, whipping his arm back with the snarling, snapping animal hanging from the loose folds of his jacket sleeve. Cato dropped the Manstopper, whipped out his buckle knife and hacked and stabbed at the wolf until it, too, fell to the trail. He kicked it over the edge and shook his blood-streaked fist.
It had been a desperate move and Yancey’s face was grim as he realized it meant Cato was very low on ammunition to risk such a maneuver on the narrow ledge.
He watched as Cato picked up his gun and, leaning back against the cliff face, proceeded to shuck cartridges from his belt beneath his woolen jacket. Yancey couldn’t see well enough to count the actual shells but he knew from the brief time it took Cato to thumb them into the cylinder that he sure didn’t have a full charge. Likely he had only three or four instead of the eight that the cylinder would hold.
The Indian girl tugged at Yancey’s sleeve and he looked around irritably. She pointed to the south base of the butte, and he saw the string of riders coming out of the timber and making for the base of the trail. He put the glasses on them and stifled a curse.
“Duane!” he breathed. “And three men. They’re starting up the trail! They’ll meet Cato and the senator before they reach the bottom!”
The girl was already working her mount past him and she urged it along the riverbank while he was still putting the field glasses back into his saddlebag. Swiftly, Yancey spurred after her.
~*~
At the lumber mill, Morgan Cole was organizing his men on building the underwater explosives that Yancey had suggested. He remembered now, having heard about the British Navy during the war of 1812, how they had used this type of explosive device to blow up the harbor booms in the Carolinas and around Charleston.
He needed wooden kegs, pitch or tar, hammer and nails and fuse. The wooden kegs were easy enough. He had plenty of fifty-pound nail kegs around the mill and the lids for these were soon located. Cole had set his men to boiling up a pan of pitch and he supervised the dipping of the barrels into this, making sure there was a good thick coating on the outside and then rolling the kegs in fine gravel to help dry the pitch.
The fuse he had was labeled ‘fast’ and burned at the rate of five seconds to the foot. The water wasn’t very deep so he would have little worry about the pressure seeping in through the keg seams. The main thing was to get the right amount of fuse coiled around the sides of the keg, inside, coming up from the bundle of dynamite in the bottom. He had to have a safety margin so that the man putting the keg into position—and it would be himself—would have time to not only get back to the surface but to make his way ashore. If he was in the water when the charges went off, he would be gutted like a fish.
And he had to allow a little extra so that he would have time to get out of any trouble he might find himself in, amongst the tangled logs.
He had pitch poured into the barrel and around the sides and bottom and, while it was still sticky he placed four sticks of dynamite in it, setting them firmly in the bottom of the keg. By experimenting with the coils of fuse he worked it out that one hundred and twenty feet of it would give him ten minutes to dive down, fix the keg into position, and surface, then get back to shore by running across the piled-up logs. It should be plenty of time as the water was only about ten feet deep, shelving to four feet. As long as he picked the places to plant the barrels of explosive first, he didn’t see any problems.
Except for the coldness of the river water. Snow-fed, tearing down out of the Sierras, a man couldn’t last in there for long. So, fully dressed in thick woolens, Morgan Cole eased himself underwater and felt around amongst the tangle of logs for likely places to plant the kegs of explosive. The way the logs were jammed and piled up, there were plenty of cavities he could use and he took long sticks with him and drove them into the silt outside the areas where he aimed to blow the jam. He had four sticks driven in when he clambered out and made his way back towards the gravel spit and fire that kept the pitch boiling. He slipped twice and knew he couldn’t afford to make a mistake once the fuse was burning. He would have to place his feet more carefully on the slippery logs.
Warming himself at the fire, Cole gave orders for the four kegs to be made ready, the fuses to be coiled around and around the insides of the kegs, held in place with small nails bent over. The lid would be nailed on with a hole left in it with the fond of the fuse protruding. Once the fuse was lit, it would be pushed back into the keg and the hole blocked with a tapered wooden plug. There should be sufficient air inside the keg for the fuse to burn down to the detonator in the dynamite.
With any luck, the charges would all detonate within seconds of each other and jar the underwater snags loose so that the log pile could spill over into the river bend and continue on their way to the mill’s pond.
And the river, released as if someone had opened the head gates of a dam, would roar and rush ahead, too, and it was possible that it would flood part of the mill but that was a chance he would have to take. One of th
e chances he would have to take.
~*~
Duane wouldn’t lead the way up the narrow trail. He knew that Cato was on his way down and that the Enforcer had some bullets left and he didn’t aim to be the first one to run into the tough little hombre on that ledge.
He ordered one of his men ahead, one of the three remaining. He had lost the second wounded man on the ride down the butte. He had turned around and the man simply hadn’t been there. He figured he must have just decided now was as good a time as any to quit.
The man he chose was named Silvera and he didn’t like the idea. Duane rammed his rifle barrel against Silvera’s spine.
“You go on ahead or I’ll blow you apart, Silvera!”
The man nodded and, looking worried, rode slowly on ahead. He was thinking that soon the trail would narrow to the point where they would have to abandon the horses and go up on foot. If it wasn’t too high up, Silvera aimed to jump his mount down the slope and take a chance on getting away from this madman Duane.
The other two men behind Duane rode silently but they exchanged glances that seemed to mean something to them. They, too, figured Duane was loco to persist in this. All he had to do was wait down here and pick off Cato and the senator as they worked their way down the trail. No need to risk anyone’s neck going up after them; but Duane wouldn’t listen.
The last man dropped back when they came to thick brush and finally turned off into the timber, walking his mount swiftly and silently away from the small cavalcade going up the trail. The other man, now the last one, wasn’t so lucky. He tried to break away but his horse stood on a dead branch and it cracked like a pistol shot, bringing Duane hipping fast in the saddle.
He saw what the man was about and his rifle whipped up to his shoulder, and he triggered coldly. The man was reaching for his own gun but the bullet took him under the ear and slammed him from the saddle in an untidy heap. Silvera, figuring he had better make his try now, jumped his mount down the steep slope to the right of the trail and stood in the stirrups, throwing his weight back, holding the reins tight with one hand, his other palming up his gun. He snapped a shot across his body at Duane as his horse jolted down the slope, dust rising. Duane instinctively ducked, leapt his mount after Silvera with a roaring curse. He swung the rifle over one-handed and fired, his lead burning across the rump of the other horse. The animal made a wild leap outwards and Silvera was almost unseated as it jarred down to the earth again and took off at full gallop. It was moving faster than he could have made it with a raking of his gut hook spurs.
Duane was savagely angry now, Cato and the senator momentarily forgotten as he slammed his own spurs home and sent his mount tearing after Silvera. No one was going to run out on him and make a fool of him! Cato and Locke would keep! They would make only slow time down the narrow trail and he would take care of Silvera first and then go back and finish them himself. Yeah, he knew how to do it now. If he was alone in this, then so be it. He would wait up at the foot of the slope and when Cato and the senator showed up, making their laborious way down the tricky trail, he would simply shoot their legs out from under them. That would stop them in their tracks. Then he could take his time about killing them, shooting them to shreds. Cato would only have a couple of shots left for him to dodge and he could do that easily. He would keep Locke until the last, of course, extend his suffering.
Silvera was riding flat out through the timber now and Duane cursed as he realized the man had the faster horse, urged on by the stinging of the wound his own bullet had given it. He put all thoughts of Cato from his mind for now and concentrated on catching up with the fleeing Silvera.
~*~
Yancey and the Indian girl hauled rein in the timber, not far in from the river itself. They had heard the shooting but now they could hear racing hoofs. They glanced at each other, puzzledly. The running mounts were coming towards them.
A dark-skinned rider, looking like a ’breed or a Mexican, came thundering out of the timber, crouched low over a mount that showed a crimson streak across its rump. He turned and fired two wild shots from his six-shooter. Then a second man came into view, sitting upright in the saddle, rifle to shoulder. He fired even as Yancey recognized him as Wolf Duane and Silvera’s horse went down thrashing.
The Indian girl spurred her horse forward as Duane levered in another shell and shot at Silvera as he picked himself up dazedly. He jerked with the impact of lead and then Duane spun around at the sound of the girl’s racing horse. Yancey saw the start of surprise he gave and the big Enforcer put his sorrel through the trees so that he was angling in, cutting Duane off from the trail back to the butte. Duane wheeled his mount away, triggered his rifle one-handed. The girl fired her rifle and Yancey palmed up his Peacemaker and hammered out two shots.
Duane danced his mount around and his hat flew from his head as Silvera, wounded, though not mortally, added his gunfire to the battle. Duane swore and rode his mount forward, jamming in the spurs, leaping it into Silvera. The ’breed screamed as he went down under the thundering hoofs and then Duane was riding like a bat out of hell for the river-trail out of the ravine. Yancey wrenched his sorrel’s head around and cut through the sparse timber, heading back to cut off Duane’s escape. But the girl was angled in even more sharply and she was riding like the wind, weaving her mount between the trees, leaning first to the left, then the right, ducking beneath low boughs, leaping the horse over deadfalls, all the time holding her rifle one-handed.
Yancey swerved out of the trees and ran for the narrow trail cut by the lumberjacks. The sorrel stretched out here and he gave it its head, catching a glimpse of Duane up ahead as the man slammed his mount through screening brush, burst out onto the river flats and raced for the distant bend at the far end of the ravine. The river was too deep and fast for him to attempt to swim his mount across and Yancey might have taken a shot at him but decided to hold his fire and concentrate on closing the distance between his sorrel and the mad Duane.
The Indian girl was behind and to one side now, still riding fast and expertly, a picture Yancey could have admired at some other time, her dark hair streaming, buckskin dress flapping around her legs, pressed against her body by the wind. But he rode on fast and rapidly overhauled Duane as the man’s horse began to tire after its long trail through the Sierras.
Duane lashed and kicked it mercilessly and hipped in the saddle to fire at Yancey one-handed. The shot went wide and Yancey held his fire, urged the sorrel on to one mighty effort and, as they hit the bend in sight of the log-jam and the lumber mill, he jumped from the saddle and crashed into Wolf Duane, taking the man clean off his horse and into the river. The numbing coldness took Yancey’s breath away as the water closed over his head and Duane’s boots ground into his belly, his thumbs seeking his eyes.
Yancey jabbed out with his fists but the water softened the force of the blows. Duane gouged at his eyes again, then shifted his grip to Yancey’s throat. The Enforcer butted him in the face, felt the nose pulp and saw crimson spurt across his line of vision. He slammed a fist down into the bloody face, shoved Duane’s head under. But the man screwed fingers and thumbs into Yancey’s belly, sank his teeth into his forearm, fought to the surface and lay on his back, kicking out with his boots. The blow caught Yancey in the head and it jarred through him, splitting the skin over his right eye, blinding him with flowing blood. Duane kicked again and the boot sole hit Yancey in the mouth, smashing his lips and cracking a couple of teeth.
Yancey sank and Duane reached for his throat. Cindy had retried down on the bank at the start of the fight and now she walked her mount along parallel with the brawling men, rifle at the ready. She saw Yancey was hurt by the kicks and, as Duane started to choke him, she lifted the rifle and fired.
Duane started as the bullet splashed into the water near his face. He turned his mad eyes around and spotted the Indian girl. Yancey broke free, elbowed the man in the face and hooked him under the jaw. Duane went under but came up behind Yancey, slammed
him a shattering blow to the back of the neck. Yancey went under, dazed, rolling.
Wolf Duane looked around wildly as Cindy fired again and lead almost parted his hair. He saw the piled up logs and it looked like that son of a bitch Cole staggering along them, dripping wet, running for the gravel spit where his men were scattering. Likely getting out of the line of fire, he thought, and he struck out for the log pile, aiming to get in amongst them for cover from that loco Injun gal. He caught a glimpse of Cole on the spit waving and yelling something, but he kept swimming and then he saw a glistening black keg with a wooden plug in the top pop to the surface from somewhere under the logs. He didn’t know what the hell it was, but he hauled himself out onto the log pile and hunkered down as another of the girl’s bullets whined off the nearest slimy timber. He could get across to the far bank this way, by climbing over the logs, keeping them between himself and the girl’s rifle ...
Yancey dragged himself slowly out of the water, panting, crawling onto the bank and turning to watch as the girl rode along, stopped her mount and then stood in the stirrups, sighting carefully. He heard Cole yelling a warning of some kind and then he saw Duane crawling across the logs towards the far bank ... and the floating pitch-covered explosives’ keg bobbing about against the logs. Cole couldn’t have weighted the keg enough and it had broken out of wherever he had placed it and floated to the surface ...
Bannerman the Enforcer 11 Page 11