Caphorn was the first man to spot the other, though it would have done him no good had he tried to get the drop on Matt, who fell back against a building wall when he spotted the gunfighter.
Neither man had pulled their guns.
“So there you are,” Caphorn said. “I was wondering where you were hiding out.”
“You’re a fine one to talk. You look like you managed to avoid the flood and the fight.”
“Yes. I was rather lucky. Luckier than some of the other poor fellows out there, I’d venture to say.”
“I’d guess you were probably above the dam when it broke.”
“That’d be a good guess.”
“And you probably were also the third shooter, the one that killed Strep.”
Caphorn shrugged.
“You’re facing me now. Not a green kid. Not a man who was shot in ambush. Think you can fight a fair fight?”
Caphorn laughed. “There’s nobody around to watch. Why would I want to fight fair?”
“If you have to ask, you’d never understand.”
Caphorn laughed again.
“Let’s get to it.”
Caphorn moved to the center of the street. Matt did the same. He was calm, his eyes deadly serious. His hands were steady.
“Just for curiosity sake, how much are you being paid to kill me and Sam?”
“It might amuse you to know that I’ve got $30,000 in gold for you two. It’s not the most I’ve ever made at one time, but it’s close.”
“I’m surprised we’re so valuable. And here we are, helping Hart for free.”
“Fools come in all shapes and sizes,” Caphorn said.
“Of course, we don’t need the money. And even if we did, we wouldn’t take it for killing a man. Not even a poor excuse for a man like you.”
It was a waiting game, a kind of cat-and-mouse, to see which one would break first. Caphorn was a professional who had killed many men. But Matt had been raised among the Cheyenne, and had learned patience in many ways, especially during the hunt and in war. He had faced not just loaded guns, but many other dangers in his young life. He was not afraid, and he was patient.
It was finally Caphorn who broke first.
His hand went for his gun. The movement was a blur. His gun was drawn and fired in the twinkling of an eye.
Except that Matt was just a split-second faster, and a little more accurate.
Caphorn’s bullet cut through Matt’s wet shirt, grazing the side of his chest.
Matt’s bullet also missed its exact mark, though it hit Caphorn in the thigh.
The gunfighter, though hurt, refused to go down. He shot again. Matt had dropped to one knee, and the bullet passed over his head. Matt acted as if he had all the time in the world. He carefully aimed the gun squarely at Caphorn’s chest and softly squeezed the trigger.
The bullet hit the gunfighter, severing the gunfighter’s heart.
Still, he didn’t fall.
Matt squeezed off three more shots in a tight pattern. Blood started to spurt from Caphorn’s chest. He fell backward into the street, his gun still in his hand.
Matt stood slowly and walked over to the body. Caphorn stared up at him with lifeless eyes.
“Thirty thousand dollars, eh? That’s a lot of money for a man who’ll never get to spend it.”
Blood oozed from the chest wounds into the mud of the street.
Matt reloaded his gun, then headed for the hotel.
Chapter Twenty-three
This was not working out at all as Jordan had envisioned over a year before. At that time, when he was working as an attorney for Clarence Hart, it had seemed so simple to maneuver his way into taking over Hart’s claims. He could get rich as a lawyer, but he could get rich faster with a profitable mining operation.
And it might have worked, if not for those troublemakers, Matt Bodine and Sam Two-Wolves. If they hadn’t showed up, his high-pressure tactics would have worn Hart down and signed over his rights.
Now, Jordan had nothing. Even his hotel was charred and falling apart.
He looked around at what was left of his office, threw a few more papers in his satchel, preparing for his escape. He was surprised that some of the more important deeds and papers had survived the flood and the fire. The expensive safe he had brought in from California had proven a good investment, after all.
Or maybe it was an omen?
It wasn’t entirely true that he had nothing. He had managed to put away some of his earnings in a bank back in California. He still had claims to some of the land surrounding Hart’s. He still had his legal background and friends in high places. This particular plan had failed, but there were always alternatives.
Many of his men were dead, but they were only hired guns. They meant nothing to him. He could always get new men.
It was now relatively quiet outside. Hart left his office, a small revolver in his hand, and entered the saloon area. The sawdust was now ashes. The stage had fallen in on itself.
Jordan paused. The brief relationship with Malinda had been an unexpected bonus. She had made him some good money. She had been an interesting companion.
No matter.
He could always get another singer.
The problem now was how to get out of town without being stopped by Hart, Bodine, or Two-Wolves.
Jordan heard a faint sound behind him. He whirled, but did not shoot when he saw Malinda’s familiar outline in shadow against the wall.
“I see you’re leaving,” she said matter-of-factly. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” She was holding a small cloth bag.
“You mean you? Forget it.”
“You’d leave me here?”
“Hitch a ride with your cowboy friend. Bodine would be glad to help you get where ever you want to go.”
“He’s a good man. I just can’t understand how you could just walk out on me when, believe it or not, I’ve been loyal to you.”
“Loyal, up to what point? You went off with Bodine as easy as you please. And I suspect you warned him about the dam blowing. Leave you here? It’s easy. Watch me.”
Malinda pulled a gun from her bag. “I don’t know what you think about me. I’m not sure I care anymore. But I know that Matt wouldn’t walk out on me like you’re doing. You just stay right where you are. Matt may or may not kill you. But I think it’s only fair that you meet him, man-to-man.”
Jordan didn’t hesitate. In a second, he had crossed the floor and grabbed Malinda’s gun hand. He squeezed and twisted, releasing the gun. He grabbed it as it fell from Malinda’s hand, then hit the woman with its barrel. Malinda fell to the blackened floor.
“So long, Malinda. It’s been fun.”
The woman was dazed, but conscious, as Jordan started down the street.
It had all come down to this: Hart’s group against Nelson Jordan. All of Jordan’s other men were dead. Only the ringleader himself was still alive, and to be dealt with.
Matt moved cautiously down the soggy streets, even though his main concern, Phil Caphorn, had been removed from the picture. Sam and Hart had made sure Jordan’s other men had been taken care of. The streets were quiet now, but Matt knew that one or two potential assassins could still be lurking in the shadows. There was no use taking unnecessary chances.
Matt knew many of the Cheyenne methods of stalking, and moved almost without sound through the town. As he walked, he also thought of Malinda. He wished she would have agreed to go with him and Sam, and let them protect her. He had to respect her loyalty to Jordan, no matter how misguided, though he was concerned for her. Even if Jordan tried to keep her safe, which Matt doubted, he would not be in a good position to keep stray bullets from going her way. It was as much with her in mind as in finding Jordan that Matt made his way to the ruins of the Jordan Hotel.
The outer walls were gone. The interiors were gutted and burned, though patches of roof gave scattered protection from the night. The small part of the collapsed stage that could be seen through
the broken walls looked sad and alone. Was it only a few days before that Matt had first ridden into town and caught his first glimpse of Malinda?
Matt moved quietly into the gutted building. The air was silent and damp. Jordan was nowhere to be seen.
Matt entered the room that had served as Jordan’s office. In one corner, a small safe stood open. It was charred on the outside, but looked clean and smooth on the inside. Matt guessed that Jordan had been here recently to pick up some papers and flee the town. Such a move wouldn’t surprise Matt.
He heard a slight moan from the saloon area. Matt hurried through the door to find Malinda on the floor. He kneeled beside her, took her hand.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Matt? You were right. I should have come with you.”
Matt helped the woman up, tried to wipe off some of the soot from her dress.
“Are you hurt?” Matt asked again.
“I’m tired. I want to go home.”
“I’m going after Jordan. You stay here, away from any more shooting. You understand?”
Malinda nodded her head.
Matt continued down the street.
It had seemed like all-out war to Clarence Hart. It was a war he had been ill-prepared for. He was a miner, not a soldier. Though he had been ready to fight, he had no idea it would ever come to this.
The barn in which he had situated himself, like everything else in town, was damp and cold. The initial effects of the blown-up dam were relatively short-lived, even though it had caused much destruction. The longer-term effects were to leave a coating of mud over virtually every building and to fill the air with dampness and a smell of rot.
There was, or course, the unexpected benefit of helping to find the main vein. It was silver ore, not gold, but was rich enough to provide the fortune that Hart had worked toward for so long. It was ironic that the force of the water rushing from behind the dam had dug out enough of the soil to expose the ore. In a strange way, Jordan had done Hart a favor.
If he managed to live through this night.
Hart glanced down at his leg. The constant dampness was of more immediate concern for him, since infection could easily invade the wound. It had finally stopped bleeding, though it had soaked through his pants and rough bandage made from an old shirt. Hart could barely put any weight on his leg, which now throbbed with pain. He wasn’t sure if the bullet had hit bone or not.
The position that Sam and Matt had asked him to man had been a good one. From his place in the barn, Hart could see the street leading to the rear of the former Jordan Hotel. In the street were the bodies of three men who had tried to sneak in on Hart’s forces. Hart didn’t really know them, except by name; they were some of the guns that Jordan had hired and brought in. Now the street was quiet. It had been long minutes since Hart had seen any person, friend or foe, on the street. Maybe it was now time to get out and explore a little. His help might be needed elsewhere.
Hart stood slowly. His head felt faint as pain shot through his leg. He looked around for something to use as a crutch, but found nothing. He gritted his teeth and used one hand on the wall to pull himself up. He kept the rifle in his other hand.
Progress was slow. He pulled himself along the rough wall to the door. No shots greeted his arrival, so he continued into the street.
The mud was squishy, and made his progress even slower. He made his way over to one of the bodies in the street. The dead man continued to clutch his revolver. Hart bent down to take a closer look. The gun was still clean and the man had a belt full of cartridges. Hart started to remove the gun. He figured he could handle it better with one hand.
Though the street was deserted, Hart felt strangely vulnerable. It seemed like it was taking forever to free the gun and then additional bullets. Hart almost dropped some of the bullets as he transferred them to his pockets.
His thoughts seemed to come in waves. He suddenly realized he made a wide-open target. What was he thinking? That wasn’t a mistake that Matt or Sam would have made. It wasn’t a mistake that he should have made.
How many bullets would he need? How many of Jordan’s men were left?
He had no way of knowing.
He decided he had better not make himself such an inviting target. But his legs would not move fast enough. He headed for the corner of a building, but progress was agonizingly slow. When he finally reached the building, Hart was breathing heavily and he felt very tired. He looked down at his leg. It was bleeding again.
Hart wondered, Where were Sam and Matt? And where was Jordan? Hart had wanted to face Jordan man-to-man, to at least partially avenge the destruction that he had caused. Was Jordan now alive or dead? Were Hart’s friends alive or dead?
Hart heard footsteps squishing in the mud from down the street. He lifted his gun, in case it was an enemy instead of a friend, but the gun seemed very heavy.
Suddenly, Jordan’s face came into focus.
“So, Hart, it finally comes to this? Just you and me?” Jordan kicked the gun out of Hart’s hand. It landed in the soft mud. “You know, Hart, it all would have been mine already, except for your friends. And that frustrates me.” Jordan glanced down at the bright red blood on Hart’s pants. “So that’s it?” Jordan continued. “It’s your leg?”
Jordan kicked. His boot tip struck Hart’s leg solidly. The pain felt like fire, and it took everything Hart had to keep from screaming.
“Yes, I see you’re in pain,” Jordan said. “Well, here, let me give you a little something to remember me by.”
Jordan stepped forward, bringing his foot down hard on Hart’s wound. It started bleeding even harder, and Hart could almost feel the crunch of bone under skin. Jordan moved his heel in hard little circles, as if he were putting out a cigarette.
Hart tried to hit back, but the pain was now too great. Finally, the pain eased into unconsciousness.
Jordan finally removed his foot when Hart slumped to the ground. Jordan briefly considered killing Hart, but then decided his claims would be tied up too long in the courts. And what if he had any heirs? It would probably be better to take on a powerless, defeated Hart in the courts than some anonymous court-appointed probate attorneys.
Jordan pulled out a cigar, lit it, puffed happily and then continued down the street. He figured he would find a saddled horse in one of the buildings.
Sam knew Hart did not really like the position where he had been placed. The miner preferred to have a more active role, but realized he could do more good where he was at. Judging by the bodies in the street, Hart had done his job well.
Sam figured Matt would check out the remains of the hotel and see if he could find Malinda. Sam decided to keep his eyes open on the main avenues out of town. The streets were now so quiet, however, that he expected few more problems.
Even so, Sam kept a careful eye on the streets as he walked. He entered the barn where Hart had been positioned. He called out softly, “Hart? It’s Sam!”
The only response was silence.
Sam moved in carefully. He noted the fresh blood stain on the floor and along the wall where Hart had been standing. That meant that Hart had been hit, though he was still alive. At least alive enough to move to a new location.
Sam followed the trail of blood into the street. When he saw Hart’s body slumped in the street, he didn’t hesitate. He covered the ground in only a few long strides and kneeled beside the miner. Hart groaned slightly. So he was alive, though his face was twisted in pain.
With a practiced eye, Sam checked out the wound. He decided that even though Hart had lost blood, he would probably live.
“Hold on a little longer,” Sam said, picking the other man up easily. “I’ll get you someplace safe.”
“Jordan . . .” Hart muttered. “He did this . . . to my . . . leg.”
“We’ll see what we can do for him,” Sam said. He positioned Hart in some clean straw in the barn. He checked the wound to make sure it hadn’t started bleeding again. It wasn’t
the best of circumstances, but it would do for now.
Sam stood, checked and reloaded his guns, then stepped outside to find Jordan for the final time.
Chapter Twenty-four
Matt continued to move cautiously through town, even though he felt now that he had little left to fear. Jordanville, never much of a town to start with, now seemed to be almost empty. Matt decided this was one place he would be glad to put behind him.
Matt had a pretty good idea what Jordan’s next move would be. He was a city-bred attorney, wily in the ways of the legal world, but now he was in unfamiliar territory. He would not know how to cover his trail or to find a backtrail out of town. He would probably find the nearest horse and take the most direct way out. So Matt cut across various back alleys that he had become familiar with during his short stay to cut off the escape route.
He came to a rock outcropping that he had remembered, climbed up the rocks to position himself and wait for Jordan.
The night now seemed strangely quiet. All mining operations had temporarily ceased. The normal sounds of night—insects, night birds, and frogs—could again be heard. As he waited, Matt decided that in spite of the problems, he did not regret his stay here. He was not the marrying kind, and might never be. Even so, he was glad he had met Malinda. He wondered what would happen to her now?
Matt was seated comfortably, and could wait for hours, if necessary. It was only a matter of minutes, however, before he heard movement. It was a slight sound that perhaps would have been missed by other men.
“Hey, Sam,” Matt called out softly. “Looks like great minds think alike.”
“Does that leave you out?” Sam answered, in an equally soft voice.
“Come on up, you old dog.”
Sam scurried up the rock to take his place besides Matt.
“I must be slipping,” Sam said. “I didn’t think anybody could have detected my movement.”
“Most men wouldn’t,” Matt admitted. “But I know your movements. I could probably sense your presence blindfolded in a herd of stampeding buffalo.”
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