Gold slammed hard to the ground and grunted with the pain of the impact.
‘Hillbilly sonsofbitches!’ Larkin shrieked.
And as Gold forced himself into a fast roll through the drifting smoke of the fire he caught a glimpse of the logger. Who had stood up and picked up his axe to carry on working as the younger man made to leave. And by so doing had placed his naked torso in the line of fire of the rifle. So that when Gold unwittingly ducked to throw away his cheroot at the moment the sniper squeezed his trigger, the bullet zeroed in on a fresh target - the centre of the hirsute chest of Larkin. Who, as Gold rolled over and over through the smoke, dropped his axe, clutched both big hands to the bloodied area beneath his beard, and twisted to the ground.
‘Gold, you lousy shithead!’ the sniper shrieked, his dismayed tone at the misplaced shot almost a perfect match for that which sounded in the dying curse of Larkin.
Another shot cracked out and the gelding skidded to a halt on the bank of the river. It was a wild one, fired in anger, that exploded chips of bark from the side of a stump. Several yards wide of where Gold traded the insubstantial cover of the smoke for the solidness of the felled tree upon which Larkin had been working.
His leap over the tree and into its cover was seen by the sniper, invited a third shot that came much closer to the intended target.
‘You ain’t gonna get away this time, Gold! Your luck’s almost run out! You wanna start countin’ your last breaths?’
The black-clad young man heard the lever action of the repeater pumped while the sniper was issuing his threat. And had bellied several feet along the trunk before the fourth shot sounded. Exploding a bullet into the trunk at the point where he had first dived into cover.
He was amongst the untrimmed foliage by then, and made a turn to edge away from it, aware that his movements might cause the lighter branches to tremble and reveal his position.
He knew exactly where the sniper was positioned - in a tree, perhaps fifteen feet above the ground to the right of where the north trail ran into the timber. Thought it likely that the man’s elevated vantage point had only a narrow angle view of the clearing, confined by the foliage which served to hide him.
‘You were crazy to think you could ever get away with what you done, Gold! You never had a snowball’s chance in Hades, shithead! And I’ll see to it you get yours, kid! And if you run, boy, it won’t bother me none havin’ to blast a hole in your back!’
Barnaby Gold listened impassively to the string of taunts and threats. Aware that the man was not yelling to hear himself, for although his voice acted to cover the sounds of creaking branches, it also served to tell Gold that the sniper was climbing down from the tree. Each phrase vented from a position closer to the ground.
The yelling continued and Barnaby Gold took the chance that the sniper was paying more attention to keeping his footing than to whatever area of the clearing he could see. And he raised up on to all fours and went over three more felled trees. Then plunged into the prickly brush of the surrounding timber that Larkin would never get to cut down.
Thorns snagged at his clothes and tore the flesh on the back of his right hand. He protected his face with a forearm, but felt the warmth of blood on his legs as they were barbed through his pants in several places, this as he pushed deeper into the timber. Far enough to be concealed by the vicious brush, but still within earshot of the smallest sounds out on the sunlit area.
The trickling of the river, the crackling of the fire and the sounds of his gelding at the water’s edge, drinking. The sounds of his own breathing and even his heartbeats had greater volume in his ears. After the man intent upon killing him had ceased to shout.
He was standing erect now, facing the clearing that was hidden to his expressionless green eyes. Right hand raised to his mouth, gently sucking at the blood oozing from the torn skin on its back. Left fisted around the eagle-butted Peacemaker, forefinger to the unguarded trigger and thumb on the hammer. Barrel still pointed to the ground.
More than a full minute ticked into history during which the sniper made no sound - intentional or otherwise - to betray his continued presence.
There was not, in Barnaby Gold’s attitude or expression, the least sign that he did not possess the brand of patience that would enable him to stand there in unmoving silence for an infinite number of minutes.
‘Gold?’
Some insects which had started to buzz were silenced by the shout.
‘Gold, you sonofabitch! They say you reckon yourself a real hotshot with them two guns of yours! Are you that, boy?’
He sounded like he was from one of the Southern states, but his accent was not so downhome Tennessee as that of the Gershels, or even Joanne Engel.
‘So why don’t you face up to it like a man? Face to face? What do you say, boy?’
The insects were buzzing again, no longer concerned by the shouting voice.
‘Maybe you’re as good as they say! So you get a chance! I’ll toss away this here rifle! Count on three and I’ll step out into the open! Colt in the holster! Pace it out until one of us thinks he can drop the other! What do you say, boy?’
Gold looked at the back of his hand. The wound had stopped seeping blood and the lips were clean.
Something thudded heavily to the ground close to where the sniper was standing.
‘There goes the rifle, boy! You ready? One ... two ... three!’
Gold blew out of the side of his mouth to shift a fly off his cheek.
‘Frig you, Gold!’ For the first time, there was a note of fear in the man’s voice. Which he recognised himself. And tried to negate with a harsh laugh. ‘So you don’t want to play it my way! Well, if you can see me, you can see I ain’t dumb! It was just a piece of tree branch I tossed away!’
Gold clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
‘And I’m comin’ to get you! Because I know you can’t be too far away from where I last saw you. And I figure I’ll spot you and you’ll have an extra hole in your body long before I’m close enough for any hand-gunslinger!’
Gold jutted out his lower lip and blew a draught of cool air over his sweat-sheened face. More than half a minute had gone before he first heard the setting down of a booted foot in the clearing. Then another and another. Slow and measured. The strides long. Advancing to within perhaps forty feet of where Larkin was sprawled at the side of the felled trees and the fire. Then crabwise to keep outside of effective revolver range.
Then the man cracked: ‘All right, you shithead!’ He fired a shot. ‘If you ain’t dead already...’ Another shot ‘... then your time’s up now!’
He lunged into a run as he shrieked the words and exploded shot after shot. Coming fast through the drifting smoke toward the felled trees against which his bullets were impacting.
Gold clicked his tongue to mark off each shot as it was jacked from the magazine of the rifle and blasted from the muzzle. And he began his move as the last but one shell was levered into the breech, the stirring of the brush covered by running footfalls, shrieked obscenities and the sounds of the gun being prepared to fire, then fired.
The eagle-butted Peacemaker was swivelled on its stud to be levelled from the hip and he protected his face with his right forearm. The sting of the older wounds in his legs was negated by the sharper pains of new tears in the skin. The heel of his right hand was scratched from the base of the finger to the wrist.
‘...friggin’ shithead bastard sonofabitchin’...’
The final bullet exploded from the rifle and sprayed splinters of bark over the unfeeling face of John Lloyd Larkin.
Gold had simply taken a chance, after seven shells were exploded, that the sniper’s repeater was a Winchester. Sheriff Walt Glazer of Standing, with whom he had hunted in the past, owned a Winchester. Most men’s repeaters were Winchesters. With a magazine capacity of twelve shells. Now, as Baraaby Gold lunged out of the brush and came to a halt, the sniper whirled into a half-turn, pumped the lever action
to send a spent shellcase spinning through the air, and squeezed the trigger.
‘You’re fresh out, mister.’
The range was ten feet, the man clear of the smoke from the fire but standing in a pall of acrid-smelling vapour from exploded black powder. A man who matched Gold’s six feet and was just a little fleshier. Five or six years older, though. With prematurely whitened hair. Narrow-eyed with finely chiseled features. Dressed all in dark blue - Stetson, kerchief, shirt and pants. With just the one revolver, in a holster tied down to his left thigh.
Younger, and not so heavily built as Gold had visualised from listening to him.
The moment Gold emerged from the brush, he dropped his bloodied right hand to expose his left and the swivelled gun it was fisted around. He kept his right hand there, holding back the side of the coat.
‘I’ll kill you or you can carry a message, mister.’
His words were softer and more measured than when he first spoke to the man. Now that the Winchester had clicked empty and the man who held it was contemplating his chances of hurling it toward Gold and going for the holstered Army Colt.
‘What?’ He continued to hold the rifle aimed at Gold. The deep fear in his eyes easing a little as their gaze flicked from the youthful face to the levelled Peacemaker and back again.
‘Where’s your horse?’
He half-turned his head to indicate the direction from which he had come. ‘Up the trail a ways.’
‘Throw the rifle on the fire. Then take the revolver from the holster and toss it into the timber.’
‘You ain’t gonna shoot me down like you did...?’
‘Appreciate it if you’d do as you’re told without asking questions, mister.’
‘Why should I trust you?’ He swallowed hard.
Baraaby Gold clicked his tongue. ‘Your rifle is all shot out. Your revolver is still in the holster. Why shouldn’t I shoot you now?’
‘Shit, that’s right.’ He allowed a small smile of relief to cross his features. But seemed to consider this a sign of weakness. And his expression became hard-set as he did what he was told with the Winchester. Then he eased the Colt from his holster by holding the butt between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He let it dangle at his side. ‘Them fancy quick shootin’ swivel guns can spin a man around, you know that?’
‘Did me, the first time I used it. I’ve got the hang of it now. The message isn’t all that important, mister.’
‘Hey, wait!’ Gold’s icy implacability aroused fresh fear in the man who slowly drew back his left arm, then swung it forward to arc the revolver into the brush behind Gold.
‘Okay. Now you go to your horse and you ride back up the trail. And tell your buddies I’m out of the Gershel house. But the woman and girl are fine. You tell them what happened here. About how you killed Larkin by accident. Which is a damn shame for me. Because he saw Jesse Gershel ride by this place last night looking not at all sick.’
The man listened hard, his head cocked to one side in an attitude of puzzlement.
‘Can you remember all that, mister?’
A vigorous nod. ‘Sure. Sure, Gold.’
The younger man’s nod was less frantic. And he clicked his tongue. ‘Recently I’ve taken up killing any man who tries to kill me, mister. Turning you loose, because maybe it might help to convince the people around here I didn’t do what I’m accused of at the Engel house.’
‘Sure, sure, I get it.’ He did not look like he understood what was being said to him. Was just anxious to get out of the clearing and away from the levelled Peacemaker. ‘I’ll leave now, all right?’
‘Keep one thing in mind.’
‘What?’
‘If I get to hear you turned this thing around.’ He made a sideways gesture with his head to indicate the slumped body of Larkin. ‘Tell your buddies it was me instead of you who killed him - I’ll bury you. And to hell with the consequences. Bye-bye.’
The man blinked. ‘What?’
‘I said bye-bye.’
‘Sure, sure!’
He whirled and began to walk quickly across the clearing. Then broke into a run.
Barnaby Gold did not watch him. He let go of his coat and the gun and moved to where his hat lay on the ground, displaced from his head when he plunged off the gelding. Then he walked slowly toward where his horse was cropping at grass on the bank of the river. He sucked at the new wound on his right hand.
While he was mounting, he heard the man curse a horse into movement, then the thud of galloping hooves, the sound diminishing through the timber. He lit a cheroot and started in the same direction. Not sparing a glance for the remains of the unfortunate John Lloyd Larkin who had died so tragically and uselessly. For, as an undertaker, Gold had needed to become hardened to the fact of death. Which was inevitably tragic and futile unless the deceased and the bereaved had the strength of religious belief to give it reason.
And neither, as he rode into the pleasant shade of the timber, did he reflect upon what the man ahead of him was likely to do. Deliver the message as given and be grateful to be spared the fate of Larkin. Or, surrounded by the hillbillies and the security they offered, switch the blame for this new killing on to the black-clad stranger.
Whichever, Barnaby Gold would take the available appropriate action when the time came. The coin was already spinning. There was no point in trying to predict if it would come down heads or tails.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AFTER he had finished the cheroot, he ate some jerked beef from his saddlebag and drank water from a canteen without stopping and dismounting. He was a half-hour of slow riding away from the clearing and guessed that soon he would reach another hillbilly homestead. Was aware, also, of the possibility that at any moment he was likely to hear Will and Jesse Gershel and however many men they had rounded up coming down the trail.
Three or four hours, the elder Gershel had said, before he and his neighbours would return to the house. It was already more than two since he and his son had left.
The trail and the river had looped away from each other, with a rocky butte intervening. The timber was more sparse in this section of the valley and Gold paid close attention to the way ahead and the terrain to either side. Whatever version of the events at the logger’s place the sniper told his neighbours, the men were sure to ride hell for leather to the Gershel homestead. To make sure Martha and the girl were not harmed. And Barnaby Gold wanted to see them before they spotted him in this much more open country.
Then the trail and river converged again and his aim was achieved
The butte came to an abrupt end at a point where a natural arch of eroded rock spanned the trail. Opposite the end of the butte, a wooded gully cut away and steeply down from the side of the trail. Through the arch, where he reined the gelding to a halt in the afternoon shade of the butte, he was able to look down a gentle slope to the place which was obviously the Bent River Crossing of which Joanne Engel had spoken. The home of the Wolfes, where Virgil and Mary-Ann Engel had visited last night.
The Colorado did curve sharply here, cutting around the base of a sheer, convex escarpment some hundred and fifty feet high on the far side of the river which was sixty feet wide. At the top of the curve there was a break in the cliff with water lapping a few yards into it - beyond which it appeared to become a trail.
Opposite this gap there was another homestead with crop fields to the rear and one side of it. More like the Engel place than that of the Gershels. But smaller. A rowboat and a low-sided ferry craft large enough to carry a wagon and team were moored to the river bank: suggesting the Wolfes did not rely entirely on farming for their income.
But the six riders who emerged from the gap in the cliff had no need of the ferry, they plunged their mounts into the river, unconcerned that the water level in midstream was above their boots in the stirrups. Will and Jesse Gershel were in the forefront of the group - the four men at their backs closer to Will’s age than his son’s.
These wer
e not the only riders Barnaby Gold could see from the natural arch at the top of the trail that sloped down and ran between the house and the river to continue northward. For eight more were out on this trail, galloping their mounts toward the house, dust from the pumping hooves streaming out behind them. Rising higher into the sunlit air than the spray erupted by the horses in the river.
For a moment, Barnaby Gold thought the reason for the men’s frantic haste was that he had been spotted. But, although he was perhaps more than a quarter mile from the house, he realised that this was the objective of both groups of riders. Just a simple frame house with a stoop at the front and shade trees in the yard out back. With a horse hitched to the stoop rail.
A black gelding. Flicking his tail at the flies that were bothering him.
Gold slid from his saddle and murmured: ‘Goddamnit it to hell.’
This as the men crossing the river drew rifles and shotguns from their boots. And a woman ran out of the house. Waving her arms and shouting. Whatever she was yelling was lost against the splashing of water and thudding of hooves. The men on the trail drew guns. Will and Jesse Gershel ran their mounts on to dry land, both of them shouting at the tops of their voices. The other four men came out of the river, flanking the Gershels.
The woman turned suddenly to veer away from the line of galloping animals.
Jesse Gershel exploded a rifle and his father let loose both barrels of the Purdey.
Two more shotguns and rifles showered a hail of death across the screaming, writhing woman toward the front of the house. The horse hitched to the rail reared and snorted.
The six horses with men in the saddles were reined to dust-billowing halts, this dust clinging to the wet coats of the animals, and the boots and pants of the men who flung themselves from the saddles.
The eight men on the trail slowed to a halt with less fanatical zeal: with the exception of one who leapt from his saddle and raced to crouch beside the hysterically screaming woman.
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