Showdown at Gun Hill

by Ralph Cotton

  “What about my money?” she asked bluntly.

  “Jesus, Violet, I’ll have it sent to you,” Siedell said. “Please get out while there’s time.”

  “Huh-uh, I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. “I want my money.”

  “Violet, I’m being kidnapped here,” said Siedell, trying to make her understand.

  But Violet would have none of it.

  “All the more reason . . . ,” she said, extending her hand and wiggling her fingers toward Siedell as the train began regaining speed. “I never should have trusted you. I should have gotten paid first—”

  Her words cut short as a bullet from Anson’s gun thumped into the mattress and sent up a swirl of feathers. Violet jumped and cursed at Anson.

  “Get out of here, woman!” he shouted, and fired again. Another puff of feathers kicked up as Violet ran from the Pullman car, cursing loudly. Still issuing a stream of vulgarity over her shoulder as she crossed the bloody platform, she leaped out and down to the ground, the sheet billowing in the air behind her. As she hit the ground, more detectives ran to her; back at the livery barn mounted men rode quickly toward the train. But they held their fire, following Arnold Inman’s orders.

  “Well, then, we’re on our way,” Anson said with a grin as the train increased its speed into the black-purple night. Behind them the gunfire had stopped altogether; so had the Gatling gun above them. He reached down and unlocked the handcuffs and pitched them aside. “Now, we can have a drink and behave like gentlemen,” he said to Siedell, his revolver slumping only a little. “Or we can spend the trip me slicing pieces off you and throwing them out the window.”

  Siedell stepped warily over to the silver tray.

  “What’s your pleasure, Bo?” he said. “Or do you prefer I call you Mr. Anson?”

  “Rye,” Anson said, nodding at the tray. “You can call me whatever suits you. Just don’t try nothing stupid that’ll get you killed.” He glanced out the side window through the gun port and saw lantern light growing smaller behind them. Yet he still saw riders’ black silhouettes against the purple night. The horses were doing their best, but he knew the animals couldn’t keep up with them for very long. Behind Siedell’s riders, he knew his men would be coming, pacing their animals, taking their time. Caught between the Gatling gun and his gunmen, the detectives and their worn-out horses wouldn’t stand a chance.

  * * *

  The Ranger first sighted Max Bard and his men as they moved two at a time across a narrow stream deep in a pine-filled valley. He watched the riders slip across the stream, long-rider style, he told himself, two of them riding double. He gazed out and down through his battered telescope. After what he considered a long period of time, he saw the last of the men had made it across. Still he waited. A full three minutes later a single rider came forward from the pine cover and crossed stealthily, looking back over his shoulder.

  That’s all of them, he told himself. He closed the scope and scooted backward across the flat he lay on. Out of sight from the valley below, he stood up and dusted his trouser knees and the front of his shirt.

  “It’s Bard and his guerrillas,” he said to the two sheriffs who sat atop their horses, the woman holding the reins to Sam’s copper dun. “Looks like they’re following Anson and his men the same as us. They must’ve just got onto his trail from the other side of these hills. We might have to deal with them first if the opportunity presents itself.” He looked back and forth between the two as if asking for their thoughts.

  “I say take what comes to us first,” said Sheriff Deluna. “They’re all the same element. Besides, it’s not every day that you run into Max Bard and his gang. When you do see them, like as not they’re headed to rob something.”

  Sam looked at Sheriff Stone.

  “She’s right. Let’s take them down while they’re within reach,” Stone said, sounding better than he had for the past two days.

  Deluna turned in her saddle and looked him up and down with a question.

  “I’m up to it, Sheriff Deluna, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Stone said. Sam noted the faded trousers and shirt he’d given Stone to wear, both items coming from down deep in his saddlebags. He was still missing a boot, but with any luck Sam figured he’d shoot his way into one somewhere.

  “I’m just checking on you, Sheriff,” Deluna said. “I know you’ve got the guts for it. I’ve seen your gun work.”

  “Then what’s your concern, Sheriff?” Stone asked quietly. “That we’ll get into a gunfight and I’ll run off howling at the moon?” He offered the trace of a grin, which told Deluna and the Ranger that he was back to himself.

  “All right,” the Ranger said, getting back to business. “The new rail spur from Gun Hill ends twelve miles ahead. It might be that Bard and his men are headed there to rob it—make up for what they missed last time.” He took the reins from Deluna and stepped atop the dun. “If we can skirt this hillside and get ahead of them, there’s a blind pass up ahead, with another stream running through it. They didn’t stop for water here. They’ll have to stop there. It’s a good place for us to set up a trap.”

  Sam turned his copper dun and put it forward, the two sheriffs flanking him. They rode hard, gaining ground on Bard’s gang by taking the higher, more treacherous trails. These were trails that had evolved from ancient game paths, routes worn into rocky ground by centuries of elk, deer and the four-footed predators who’d stalked them.

  By early afternoon the three had ridden back down a steep gravelly path leading to the main trail. There, beside a rolling stream that pooled against a half circle of tall chimney stone, they watered their horses to keep the animals from growing restless and nickering at the wrong time at the scent of the cool stream. With the horses watered, the three checked the animals’ hooves and forelegs and led them out of sight and waited.

  No more than a half hour had passed when a drift of dust rose above the sound of horses’ hooves moving at a light and steady pace. The Ranger watched as a single rider came into sight, slowed his horse and scouted along the edge of the water hole. Before the rider reached the spot around the half-circling edge where Sam and the sheriffs had watered their mounts, Max Bard and the rest of his gang rode up off the trail through a maze of rock and stopped.

  Before the guerrillas could get down from their saddles, the scout stopped his horse sharply where hoofprints of the Ranger’s and the sheriffs’ mounts stood in the soft wet ground. As the scout leaned a little in his saddle and stared down, Sam whispered to himself, “He’s seen us,” and he cocked his rifle around the edge of a large rock.

  “Max! It’s an ambush!” shouted the scout, already jerking his horse around and batting his boots to its sides. But he didn’t get ten feet before a shot from Deluna’s rifle felled him, horse and all, in a tumbling entanglement of man, horse, rock and dirt.

  As the first shot rang out, Sam stepped into sight long enough to draw a bead on Max Bard’s chest at a distance too close to miss. Bard and his men, having spread out on the way in to the water’s edge, now turned quickly as one, guns coming up, firing at the sound of Deluna’s rifle shot. As Sam squeezed the trigger on Max Bard, he saw Bard look his way and quickly raise his rifle toward him.

  As both lawman and outlaw drew their beads, Parker Fish’s horse sprang into Sam’s sights. The shot intended for Bard hit Fish high in his right side and sent him sprawling from his saddle onto the ground. Bard pulled his shot and grabbed Fish as the wounded gunman struggled to his feet. With Fish behind him, Bard spurred his horse away.

  Bullets from Bard’s men pinged and thumped and ricocheted off rock and pine where the Ranger and the two sheriffs had positioned themselves a few yards apart above the water hole. Even as the gunmen fired they rode back the way they’d ridden in. Sam tried to get Bard in his sights again, but Bard was already gone. As the men rode away in Bard’s wake, another gunman caught
a bullet through his neck. Leaning deep in his saddle, the wounded man lost control of his mount and crashed headlong into a young supple pine as the spooked animal swerved from beneath him. The pine bowed with the impact of the man’s weight and launched him twenty feet backward, flailing in the air.

  Seeing the last of the men ride down out of sight, Sam stood up and looked around warily. So did Deluna and Stone. All three stood with their guns smoking in their hands. To their left the sound of horses’ hooves fell away down the hillside.

  “Anybody hit?” Sam asked. Both sheriffs shook their heads as Sam looked at them in turn.

  Stone called out, “Three down. Two dead and one looking badly wounded.” He nodded at the two bodies lying strewn on the ground in pools of blood. One of the dead men’s horses had settled and stood knee deep in the water drinking. Sam took close note of the dusty, sweaty animal. The outlaws’ horses were worn and thirsty. This was not the time to let up on the gang, he told himself. This was time to press them hard.

  “Three’s a good start,” Deluna said, stepping from behind cover, down through the rocks and brush. “Too bad Bard’s not lying here somewhere.”

  Sam and Stone followed suit, stepping down toward the water hole. At the water’s edge Deluna stood reloading her rifle. She also noted the thirsty horse standing in the water hole drinking. So did Stone. The three of them gave each other a knowing look.

  “I’ll get our horses,” Sam said. “While we’ve got them on the run, we need to stay right on them.”

  Chapter 19

  Max Bard and his men didn’t stop until they reached a lower trail crossing a stretch of sand flats that led toward the mining town of Gnat. They had missed their chance to water their horses. Bard realized it had been a mistake not stopping at the stream they’d crossed in the pine valley. But it was too late to do anything about it now. The horses were tired and thirsty. They would have to push the animals on to the little mining town. At the same time they had to hold off the three ambushers who would now be dogging them hard, knowing their horses would soon be giving out on them.

  “You figure it was the Ranger?” Cross asked Bard, all of them bunched up behind a boulder at the edge of the sand flats.

  “No figuring to it,” Bard replied, gazing back along the uphill trail. “I saw him plain as day—saw his sombrero.”

  “Anybody can wear a sombrero,” said Fish, gripping the bullet hole high up in his side under his arm.

  Bard just looked at him as Worley, Cross and Rudy Bowlinger took a closer look at his wound. Mallard Trent stood off to the side, a newly rolled cigarette between his lips. He held the reins to the horse he shared with Bowlinger.

  “It’s the Ranger, Parker,” Bard said, leaving no room for further discussion. “Him and whoever’s with him sprung a trap on us. I fell for it when I never should have let it happen.”

  “Gant was scouting,” said Worley. “Maybe he should have said something sooner.”

  “Gant was still scouting the water hole,” said Bard. “We should have waited until he signaled us in. These horses were so thirsty I didn’t hold us back.”

  Cross stared off along the trail and chuffed under his breath.

  “While you’re busy blaming yourself, try this on. You or I should’ve made sure we stopped and watered these cayuses back in the valley.”

  “That’s right, one of us should have,” Bard said, his voice taking on a sharp edge. “I don’t like losing men.”

  “Nobody does,” said Cross, “but that’s the game we’re in.” He looked over at Parker Fish and said testily, “Are you going to make it? Because if you’re not we can’t be blowing a horse out carrying you.”

  “Pardon the hell out of me for getting shot, Holbert Lee,” Fish said in a pained voice. “Hell yes, I’m going to make it.”

  Bard looked all around at the men, Worley and Bowlinger working quick, tearing a larger opening in Fish’s shirt around the bullet hole. Bowlinger stuffed a wadded bandanna inside the shirt and Fish clamped his upper arm on it.

  “There, that’s all I needed,” he said. “Anybody thinks I ain’t going to make it doesn’t know spit about ol’ Fish here.” He gave a weak pained grin and struggled up onto his feet. Dark blood oozed from his lips. He tried to lick it away, but there was too much of it.

  “Let’s get at it,” he said.

  “Jesus,” Cross whispered to himself. His hand streaked up with his revolver in it and bucked once as a bullet tore through Fish’s heart and sent him backward to the ground.

  The men froze, staring, stunned. The horses stirred but settled quickly.

  “Anybody got anything to say about it?” Cross said flatly. “You all saw he wasn’t going to make it. I’d’ve wanted him to do the same thing for me without me having to ask.”

  Bard let out a tight breath and looked down at Fish’s body, his bloody chest, his wide-open eyes staring at the white-hot sky.

  “Drag him out of sight,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” He turned and stepped up into his saddle as Bowlinger and Worley took Fish by his limp arms and pulled him across the rocky ground. Trent grabbed the reins to Fish’s horse and swung up into the saddle, still holding Bowlinger’s horse for him.

  Cross replaced the spent cartridge in his smoking gun and shoved the warm barrel back into his holster. He stepped up into his saddle and reined his horse over beside Bard.

  “That’s something for us to remember when we get Burrack in our sights,” he said. The two nudged their horses forward, the other three gunmen mounting quickly and following behind them.

  They rode on.

  In the afternoon as they reached the crest of a rocky rise, they looked a short ways down onto Gnat, seeing the new rails running along the rear edge of the small mining town. On the other side of Gnat, a high hillside stood honeycombed with darkened mine shaft openings that looked out above the distant sand flats.

  “All right,” Bard said, “let’s get watered and get out of here in a hurry.”

  “I say we stick tight right here,” said Bowlinger, no longer riding double. “Kill the Ranger and whoever’s with him. Like as not it’s that female law dog and that drunken wolf-man, Stone.” He held his horse back as if refusing to go any farther while the others passed him down a narrow trail into town.

  “You stick tight here, Rudy,” Cross said, moving his thirsty horse past him. “Go ahead, kill the Ranger and catch up to us.”

  “You think I’m scared?” Bowlinger called out to him.

  “Ride down and water your horse, Rudy,” Bard demanded back over his shoulder. “When the time’s right we’ll take care of the Ranger, not a minute before.”

  On their way down toward the town, they heard the roar of the locomotive; they saw the roiling black smoke as the big engine rose on the sand flats and came boring over the barren desert against the afternoon sky. The riders stopped for a moment and settled their horses to the jarring earth beneath their hooves. They stared as the engine pulling a single Pullman car barreled closer.

  “Trent,” said Max Bard, “ain’t that Curtis Siedell’s private car?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Mallard Trent, his horse sitting beside Bard, the five riders lined abreast. “We heard talk that Siedell was coming. I figured it to be just rumors. But it looks like he’s here.”

  “Talk about a stroke of luck!” Bard reined his horse sidelong to the coming train as he pulled up a telescope, stretched it out and raised it to his eye. “Wouldn’t you say this thing is coming awfully fast?”

  “Looks like it to me,” Trent said.

  “Hell yes, it’s coming too fast,” Cross put in. “One wrong move it’ll plow that platform down and grind this town into the dirt.”

  They watched tensely as the train rumbled alongside the platform and kept going. Freight handlers dived out of the way as the platform quaked and bucked underfoo
t. A mailbag hanging for pickup exploded as the engine, rocking back and forth on the rails, clipped it and sent its contents spraying out in all directions.

  “It’s not stopping,” Bard said, watching through the telescope.

  “It’s not even slowing down!” said Worley.

  They kept their excited horses settled as the train rolled on past them and continued out onto the flat.

  “How far do these rails go?” Bard asked Trent.

  “Three or four miles,” Trent said. “They always leave a few miles of tracks to add to later on.”

  Bard turned to the others. “I’ve got to know if Siedell’s in that Pullman car.”

  “He’s in it,” Trent said confidently.

  “What makes you think he is?” Bowlinger asked as they put their horses forward down toward the straight line of rails.

  “Because it doesn’t go anywhere without him,” Trent said before Max Bard could answer. “Siedell never lets it out of his sight.”

  Bard stared after the train as it rumbled on, growing smaller, sinking over a sand rise.

  “Holbert Lee,” he said, “you three go into Gnat. Water your horses—or get some fresh ones, whichever is quicker. Trent, you come with me.”

  “Whoa,” said Bowlinger. “What about the Ranger?”

  “If he shows up, shoot him,” said Bard.

  “Oh, shoot him, just like that,” said Bowlinger.

  “A while ago that’s all you wanted to do, Rudy,” said Bard. He looked at Cross and saw the concerned look on his face. “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right. The colonel’s stallion’s got plenty of run left in him.” He rubbed the big stallion’s damp withers and looked at Trent and nodded at the horse beneath him. “What about Fish’s horse?”

  “It’ll do,” Trent said. “If it don’t, I’ll find myself another one.”

  The two booted their mounts and rode away as the train sank out of sight over the edge of a sandy rise.