Manhunter's Mountain (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series Book 4)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  * * *

  It was midday when Cash and his group reached the next waterfall.

  Their progress had been steady since breaking camp right after sunup, but the going had been slow due to several narrow passages where they had to dismount and walk the horses and twice there had been rockslides to clear before they could get by at all. The air remained bitterly cold and damp down in the cut of the creek, any direct sunlight from the cloudless sky overhead blocked most of the time by the high cliffs looming up all around them.

  "This will be the hardest of what we've got left," Little Red said as they paused briefly at the top of the falls. "After the creekside widens out a fair amount, we should be able to ride most of the way. The next falls are only a short ways past this one, but they're pretty small and beyond them we'll start to be down in the flats."

  "Sounds good to me," Cash allowed.

  "Me too," agreed Faye.

  Cash glanced upward at the slice of sky visible above the towering rocks. "Can't get a good look off to the west very far," he said, "but I still feel a change comin' in the weather. I don't think that clear sky we're seein' up there right now is gonna last much longer, so the quicker we get down in the flats the better off we'll be."

  Little Red nodded somberly. "We'd best keep moving then."

  So saying, she wheeled Freckles around and started the sharper descent down alongside the falls.

  Watching, Cash once again marveled at the young woman's grit and savvy. As he did so, his eyes also followed the movements of her horse. The animal's wounds had shown a remarkable degree of heal-ing when he'd examined them this morning and so far Freckles displayed no adverse signs from the wolf attack. Even though it was too soon for any of this to be meaningful, Cash tried telling himself those were good indicators and maybe—just maybe—the rabies from the wolf wouldn't take hold. He wanted to believe there was a chance for that, but he knew the bleak truth was that it remained damn unlikely.

  * * *

  Cole Bouchet stood beside Five Falls Creek, studying the chewed ground and the bloody, bullet-riddled carcass of the wolf. Scavengers had torn at the remains during the night but it was still evident to the trained eye of the bounty hunter what had happened. The only thing that wasn't clear was how much damage the attacking wolf (sick with rabies, obviously, to have acted that way) might have inflicted before it got gunned down. Bouchet smiled thinly ... be a stroke of luck for him if the beast had ripped new assholes for the marshal and his prisoner.

  Bouchet turned and let his gaze follow the creek as it flowed down into the midrange peaks until disappearing through a narrow gap between high, ragged cliffs. "I'll be damned," he muttered to himself, "another way down off this godforsaken pile of rocks." The way looked tight and risky, to be sure, but the tracks in the snow made it plain enough: That was the way the marshal and his bunch had gone.

  The bounty hunter scowled as he considered what to do.

  It had taken him most of the morning to cut sign for Laramie's bunch and then follow it this far. It had been clear by the way the trail suddenly veered off and came in this direction that they hadn't merely wandered off course but rather were headed some place specific. Now Bouchet knew where, and why. Split Rock Pass was miles away if he was to ride back for Rostler and Merl, meaning the start his quarry already had down this new passage would be increased by several more hours. He didn't like the thought of that at all. What's more, judging by the threatening clouds off to the west, another storm was moving in and that would slow them all the more. Even if he was to fire his rifle and signal the cousins to come running, it would take longer than he felt he could afford—plus his shots would likely reach the ears of Laramie, too, and thereby alert him that someone was on his back trail.

  The question for Bouchet then became: How badly did he really need the assistance of Rostler and Merl? The answer was easy—not all that much. From the start they'd been a convenience but never really a necessity, especially once they'd helped get Parley and the Swede out of the way. In fact, when you took the dumb one, Merl, into consideration, they might even be considered a hindrance. And now with this new development, the prospect of being able to move up unexpectedly behind Laramie and the others and catch them in a narrow creek cut, with no place for them to scatter or hide, one lone man with Bouchet's skills and ruthlessness could be as effective as a small army.

  To hell with them dumb rock busters, Bouchet decided, swinging back up into the saddle.

  He turned his horse and started following the creek on its descent. He hadn't gone far before a thought occurred to him that brought forth a dry chuckle ... How long, he wondered, will those stupid-ass cousins stay freezing their asses on the rim of that pass waiting for me to come back?

  * * *

  Merl Crane groaned. "I hurt all over ... and I'm f-freezin'." As if for emphasis, he shivered hard inside the heavy blanket he was clutching tight around himself.

  "I hear you," Rostler agreed, seated beside Merl and also wrapped in a blanket. "That ol' sun up in the sky ain't sure ain't throwin' down much heat and these damn rocks are holdin' the cold like it was a treasure."

  The two men were sitting on a rock ledge overlooking the entrance to Split Rock Pass. Rostler had dragged over some pine boughs to serve as a barrier between their bottoms and the cold, bare rock, but it wasn't doing much good.

  "Can't we stoke a small fire just long enough to get warmed through?" Merl pleaded. "If I could get warm down to my bones for a little while I don't think I'd hurt so bad."

  Rostler shook his head. "We can't risk givin' ourselves away in case the smoke from a fire gets spotted by that damn marshal. We're just gonna have to tough it out."

  "For how long?"

  "Until either Bouchet gets back or Laramie shows up."

  "How do we know when that's gonna be? We've already been waitin' hours. Seems to me if the marshal and his bunch was comin' this way they oughta have been here by now. And look at those clouds off to the west. There's another storm comin' in. What if a full bore blizzard kicks up—we gonna still sit here without a fire and freeze to death waitin' for somebody to show up?"

  "We'll hold tight until I say otherwise. Quit your bellyachin'."

  "Lot easier for you to say 'tough it out' when you ain't all busted to hell like I am," Merl grumbled. "Two or three of my ribs are stove in, I tell you—it hurts even to breathe."

  "I did the best I could with those ribs," Rostler said somewhat defensively. "Wrapped 'em tight as Gertie's girdle in my spare set of long handles, that's about all even a doctor would be able to do."

  "I ain't sayin' I don't appreciate what you done ... Just sayin' it hurts, that's all. Hurts like hell."

  "Okay, I think I got the point—you're in pain," Rostler said irritably.

  Merl frowned. "Yeah, maybe you got the point ... But it don't sound like you got a whole lot of sympathy for me. Ain't that right?"

  "Didn't I take care of you, patch you up the best I know how?"

  "Yeah, you did, Cousin Hank. But what else was you doin' the whole time? Bitchin' and bellyachin' at me the whole while about dozin' off, that's what. Do you remember that part?"

  "Of course I remember. Damn it, Merl, you did doze off on watch."

  "Wasn't no harm done by it."

  "That's beside the point. There could have been harm done—Laramie and his bunch could have slipped right on by us because you were asleep instead of stayin' sharp on lookout."

  "Now you sound like Bouchet."

  "The right or wrong of something is still the same, no matter who's sayin' it."

  Merl's frown deepened. "Was it right for Bouchet to stomp me like he done? Stomp me into the ground like a dog?"

  The question seemed to make Rostler uncomfortable. "Bouchet's a hard man livin' a hard life," he said after a minute. "It's the only way he knows."

  "Still don't make it right," Merl insisted. "And even if you argue it's right for him, that don't make it right for us."

  "What'
s that supposed to mean?"

  "All right, I'll make it plain. It means I don't like the things we've done or the way we're headed since hookin' up with that damn bloodthirsty nigger!"

  Rostler looked aghast. "Jesus Christ, man, watch your tongue. Bouchet catches wind of you thinkin' that way, let alone sayin' anything such, why he'll—"

  "He'll what? Kill me? Slit my throat? Gut me, the way we done Parley in that last camp?"

  "Whatever it is, you can bet it won't be pretty."

  "And what would you do if he did try something like that, Cousin Hank? Stand by and watch like you did while he was stompin' me? Or next time will you maybe join in and help him?"

  "You're edgin' into dangerous territory with talk like that," said Rostler, throwing off his blanket and standing up. "Are you accusin' me of bein' afraid of Bouchet?"

  Merl squinted up at him, showing no sign of being intimidated. "I ain't sure what I'm accusin' you of bein' ... But it's something different from the cousin I thought I knew and the fella I been saddle mates for all these years. Comes down it, I'm thinkin' it's something I don't reckon I care to be associated with any longer."

  Now Merl rose slowly, painfully to his feet, still clutching his blanket about him. Once standing, he allowed a spasm of shivering to pass and then turned away from Rostler and the pass overlook. He began walking back toward where the horses were hobbled, the tail of the blanket dragging behind him.

  "Where do you think you're going?" Rostler demanded.

  "I'm gonna build me a goddamn fire and get warm," Merl said over his shoulder. "After that I'm gonna saddle my horse and ride down through that goddamn pass and out of these goddamn mountains ... I'm hopin' you'll change your mind and ride out with me. But if you don't, I ain't beggin'. You can have the whores all to yourself, or you can go on partnerin' with Bouchet if that's what you want. All I know is what I got my own mind made up what to do."

  Rostler followed hurriedly after Merl. "What you got your mind made up?" he wailed. "That's rich! You haven't made a decision with that muddy mind of yours for twenty years. You all of a sudden think you got the brains to know what's best for you? Christ, not even Bouchet's beating could have knocked that much sense into you."

  Rostler had caught up with Merl by the time he spoke that last part. He was reaching to tug on Merl's blanket and stop him from walking away when, suddenly, Merl whirled to face him with a furious expression clouding his face. He shrugged off his blanket and brought up his Winchester, holding it aimed at his cousin.

  Rostler froze in his tracks, caught with his own Winchester pointed uselessly down at the ground. The muzzle of Merl's rifle was less than a foot from his stomach. A mixture of shock and anger played across Rostler's face. "You're aiming a gun at me, Merl?"

  "I been pushed too far, Cousin Hank."

  "So you'd actually shoot me?"

  "If you try to stop me."

  But there was a tremor of uncertainty in Merl's voice and the gun barrel wavered ever so slightly. That was enough to make Rostler's anger flare hotter than his caution. Dropping his own rifle, he knocked Merl's Winchester aside with a sweep of his hand and then bulled forward. Both men tumbled to the snowy ground and began punching and kicking at one another.

  Merl was on the bottom at first and his aches and injuries from Bouchet's earlier beating seemed to have him at the disadvantage. But then he got his shoulders rolled and gained enough leverage to wrestle Rostler over onto his back. As he clambered on top of his cousin, Merl's right hand pushed down into the snow and inadvertently closed on a loose rock just slightly bigger than his fist. At about the same time Hank was slamming the point of his elbow up under Merl's chin. With old and new pain streaking through his battered body, Merl seized the rock and swung it awkwardly, defensively, crashing it against the side of Rostler's face. Rostler sagged back, the deep gash on his cheek spilling bright crimson over his expression of sudden surprise and bewilderment.

  In an emotion-choked voice, Merl leaned in close and said, "You damn right that nigger knocked some sense into me—sense enough to finally see you for the cowardly bully you've always been! And sense enough to see that if we stick with him any longer neither one of us are meant to make it off this mountain alive ... Well, I have different plans, by God, and you're not going to convince me any different—Never again!" Once more Merl crashed the rock down on Rostler. Then again. And again. The sound as the crushing blows landed reminded him of how Bouchet's boot had sounded drilling into him over and over, and it fueled his rage beyond control.

  Finally, out of breath, Merl rocked back, still astride Rostler's motionless form, and let the bloody rock slip from his gore-streaked hand. Looking down at the now unrecognizable blob that had once been his cousin's face, Merl panted, "You shouldn't have just stood there watchin' him stomp me like a dog, Cousin Hank ... You shouldn't have just stood there ... "

  An hour later, Merl was riding out through Split Rock Pass. He'd taken time to do the decent thing and stacked some loose rocks over Cousin Hank's body for the sake of keeping scavengers from getting at him. In his haste to get the job done, the irony of inadvertently including the very rock he'd brained Rostler with was lost on Merl.

  He held his horse to an easy pace in deference to the pain that still wracked his body. He was leading Rostler's horse, having in mind to sell the animal and its saddle as soon as he reached a town of some kind. That would give him all the stake he needed—more of one, come to think of it, than they'd often gotten by on when Cousin Hank was running things. He might not have no money-making, free-poking whores in his future and Hank Rostler was definitely part of his past ... but Merl would find a way to get by, and it wouldn't involve gutting old friends or shooting strangers from ambush, neither.

  He'd never felt freer or more confident in his life.

  –THIRTEEN–

  The fast-moving storm arrived late in the afternoon, once again hurrying dusk and forcing Cash and his group to pitch camp sooner than they otherwise would have. Still, the relief of being past the final waterfall and down into a relatively flat stretch of foothills was enough to balance the inconvenience of weathering another bout of bad weather.

  Cash found a suitably sheltered spot scarcely a dozen yards from the water. There was a thick stand of evergreens interspersed with some cottonwood trees to block the rising wind and enough still-exposed grass and leaves around the trunks to give the horses some grazing. Once again Lobo Ames was chained to a sturdy tree root and once again he lamented his treatment in loud tones until Cash threatened to quiet him with a rifle butt.

  While the women got a fire and coffee going and began to prepare a meal, Cash tended the horses. Even though there was some graze available to them, he still rationed out another portion of grain to each. Grain produced heat and added nourishment in an animal and these mounts had put in a hard enough day to have damn well earned some.

  Examining Freckles, Cash thought he saw some feverishness starting to show in the mare's eyes and she seemed a bit more fidgety than she ordinarily was. Maybe it was the storm, Cash tried telling himself, but with a sinking twinge in his gut he knew it was probably more than that.

  As far as the storm, it had blown in quickly and was producing a flurry of fat, wet flakes whipped by strong wind gusts. Early indication was that it was going to amount to something more than the blast that had come through two nights ago. Cash muttered a curse at the thought, but at the same he was resigned to knowing they were in a good spot and had little choice but to hunker in and endure it.

  * * *

  Thirty yards upslope, Cole Bouchet peered down on the camp from behind the ragged slabs of a huge broken boulder. He was impervious to the swirling snow and the gusts of wind that nudged at his bulk. He was smiling.

  Perfect, he told himself. Oh, so perfect. The only question is whether I sit here and just savor it for a spell ... Or pounce on 'em and gobble up the whole lot like a starving man served a feast.

  Ames was chained to a tree o
r something, Bouchet couldn't tell for sure. Didn't matter, he clearly wasn't going nowhere. The marshal was over tending the horses, but in a minute he would be coming over for a cup of coffee and when got nearer the fire he would be a prime target. Once Laramie was cut down, it would be all over. Ames, as noted, was going nowhere ... he could be taken care of any time. That left the whores. Would they put up a fight? Did they know enough about firearms to be able to put up a fight of any consequence? Bouchet knew he would kill them eventually, the real question was whether he should go ahead and blow them away right off or if he should keep them alive long enough to pleasure him some.

  At the thought, the bounty hunter felt a stirring in his crotch. He didn't worry about that sort of thing most of the time, not until an opportunity presented itself. Then he took his pound of flesh roughly and repeatedly and moved on once the bitch was used up. The stirring in his crotch grew harder and more demanding. He couldn't get a real clear look at the whores in the whipping snow and flickering firelight, not from this distance. But hell, it didn't really matter. Once you flipped their skirts up over their heads, the bitches all looked the same anyway. Okay, that settled it ... no, he wouldn't kill the whores right away.

  Bouchet moved out from behind the boulder and edged closer to the camp.

  * * *

  Finished with the horses, Cash strode to the fire where Faye held out a cup of coffee to him.

  "Pour me another, if you will please," Cash said to her. "I'll take this first one over to my crybaby prisoner and maybe he'll scald his tongue bad enough to keep it from flappin' for a while."

  Faye smiled wryly. "Good luck with that."

  Cash took the coffee over to Ames. "Here," he said tersely. "Grub'll be up in a short."