Ames reached with his free hand for the cup Cash held out to him. And then, as Cash leaned down, Ames' handcuffed hand swung up and around sharply, crashing the dangling cuff at the opposite end of the chain across the side of the marshal's head. Cash staggered and fell backward. In a follow-up move—even more surprising than the first—Ames surged to his feet and leapt full onto the fallen lawman.
Catching the dangling cuff in his free hand, Ames jerked the connecting chain taut and, using this like a steel bar, began pounding it down across the throat and face of Cash.
What had happened, in a quirky stroke of luck for the fugitive, was that the tree root he'd been fastened to turned out not be anchored securely at both ends. Discovering this, Ames had surreptitiously yet frantically begun sawing at the weakened area of the root with the inner edges of the cuff linked over the spot. Once he had the root completely severed and the cuff was free, it had been all he could manage to stay put and wait patiently for the most opportune moment. Cash had provided that when he brought the coffee. And now—now that he'd gained the advantage—Ames knew he had to push it to the limit and kill the marshal as quickly and mercilessly as possible.
For his part, Cash had no way of knowing how Ames had pulled free of the restraining root; but that was hardly his biggest worry right at the moment. His immediate and greatest concern was staying alive as a result of the unexpected turn.
The blow to the head had stunned Cash. The cold ground and wind-driven snow revived him to some degree but now the additional blows Ames was hammering down on him were threatening to pound him senseless. If he blacked out, he knew he'd never be allowed to wake back up. He had no chance to try for his gun because he had to use his hands trying to fend off the onslaught to his head. Finally, he got a solid grip on the chain with both of his hands and then it became a struggle of raw power—Ames bearing down with all his weight and strength, Cash pushing back as he simultaneously fought to shake off the daze that still partially gripped him.
Over by the fire, Faye and Little Red were looking on anxiously as the two men strained against each other. Faye was gripping Cash's Winchester.
"We've got to do something to help him," Little Red urged.
"I can't, not the way they're locked together," Faye said. "I can't get a clear shot."
Abruptly, Little Red reached down and seized a heavy branch from the edge of the campfire. One end was aflame. Raising the branch like a club, she advanced toward the combatants.
* * *
Advancing on the camp, Cole Bouchet froze when he saw the fight break out. He was almost as surprised by Ames' sudden move as the marshal had been.
Dropping into a crouch, the bounty hunter muttered under his breath, "I'll be damned ... Those scrapping bastards are going to give me the chance to score a two-fer."
He raised his rifle and steadied the stock on a tree branch, taking aim on the entangled men. His goal, if the pair positioned themselves accommodatingly, was to send a single heavy slug into the body of one of the men and then count on its velocity carrying through into the other. This was merely a personal challenge, adding a little fun to the otherwise commonplace act (for Bouchet) of plugging a single victim per bullet. In any event, he would of course fire some follow-up shots to make sure his targets were riddled and put down for good.
An instant before Bouchet's rifle roared, Cash managed to get a knee up into Ames' chest and leveraged the fugitive's body up off his. Bouchet's bullet, amazingly, passed between the two men without striking either and punched into the ground beyond, spitting up snow and ice. Straightening his leg and kicking back with all the strength he could muster, Cash sent Ames flipping up over his head just as the boom of the rifle report rolled down over the camp.
Faye and Little Red scattered, ducking for cover.
Ames crashed to the ground and skidded toward the creek, dragging Cash with him because the marshal refused to release his hold on the handcuff chain. More shots sizzled down, missing the men by mere inches as they clinched again, pummeling and cursing, rolling together toward the water.
Cash had no idea who was shooting at them. He only knew two things—he didn't want to let Ames get away and he didn't want to end up taking a bullet. With those goals in mind, he decided to try a desperate move. Digging in his heels and ducking his head, he rammed a shoulder hard into Ames' chest, throwing his full weight behind it and driving the fugitive back—pitching both of them straight into the icy water of Five Falls Creek.
The current grabbed them, sucking them momentarily to the shallow bottom, tumbling them, and then spitting them to the surface again. The coldness was a shocking jolt. Ames sucked for air and called out a watery shriek. More bullets came, this time spurting up mini-geysers from the choppy surface. Ames floundered, panicking. Cash tried to go with the current, tugging on Ames, wanting the rapid water to carry them away, out of range from the shooter. But then the next bullet hit Ames with a meaty thud square in the middle of the back. He went rigid and seemed to jerk upright, twisting around. Before Cash could jerk him back down another slug came sizzling in and split the top of Ames' forehead open like it had been struck by a cleaver.
Cash spun away and dove underwater, stroking frantically with the swift current, desperate to escape the rifle fire even if meant the risk of freezing to death in the attempt.
–FOURTEEN–
Cash stuck to the creek for as long as he could, swimming hard with the flow until the cold started turning his legs and arms to lead and he knew if he didn't get out of the water immediately he'd never make it out, not alive. He dragged himself onto the snowy, icy bank, gasping hard, shivering, little or no sensation left in his hands and feet. He forced himself to stand up and move around aggressively, knowing that the only slim chance he had was to stay in motion, keep the blood pumping to his extremities.
Looking upstream, he could see no sign of the campfire through the swirling snow. No more shots were ringing out. He didn't know how far he'd come, but it appeared to have been far enough to earn him a reprieve from a bullet. Now all he had to do was survive the elements, keep from freezing to death.
Think! Think, damn it.
Stay on the move, stomp your feet, clap your hands.
Find shelter ... and warmth.
In the blowing snow and darkness, Cash could see very little. He managed to stumble into a pocket of evergreens and tangled underbrush. Working frantically, he tore and slashed to make a kind of nest for himself, out of the wind and snow. His Colt had been lost in the stream but he still had his Bowie knife. With trembling hands he used the blade to cut twigs and whittle off thin, dry slivers for tinder. From his watch pocket, hands shaking so bad he could barely make his fingers work, he took a small oilcloth pouch in which were wrapped four lucifer matches that Cash kept secured in this manner exactly for emergencies like now. The oilcloth had proved in the past to provide adequate waterproofing against rain and snow—whether or not it could withstand a complete underwater dowsing remained to be seen. If the matches were dry enough to strike flame, Cash still had a chance. If not ...
The first match failed. Cash shivered and shook, barely able to grasp the thin matchstick as he dug out a second lucifer. Outside his nest, the blizzard's howling wind sounded like mocking laughter.
The second match fired and small, crackling flames licked at the tinder and kindling. A surge of hope spread through Cash. The flames grew bigger and licked higher. Cash began feeding in larger pieces of fuel, thicker twigs and then downfall branches that he tore out of the underbrush. All the while he kept on the move, stomping his feet, swinging his arms exaggeratedly as he yanked and grabbed for more fuel.
When the fire was large enough, he began moving around it in circles, the heat quelling his shivers and returning feeling to his feet and hands, returning strength throughout him. As he circled, he started removing articles of soaked clothing and hanging them to dry over the fire. Even exposing his bare skin in this manner, he knew that he stood a better cha
nce of retaining sufficient body heat than he did if he remained swathed in wet, ice-crusted clothing. Stripped down, half naked now, Cash continued circling the fire, turning his body as he did so, exposing all sides to the heat. He began chanting some of the Arapaho songs he remembered from the council fires of his childhood. The arrowhead dangling from the thong about his neck seemed to sway in rhythm with the chants.
If the shooter from upstream followed in pursuit, Cash realized he not only was giving away his position but was revealing himself as a well-illuminated target. But without the heat of the fire he surely would die anyway. What he was counting on was that the shooter wouldn't give pursuit under these conditions but rather would trust that the blizzard and the freezing water would be enough to finish the bloody business he'd started.
But it hadn't been enough. Cash was determined for it not to be.
And soon he would have some bloody business to finish.
As he continued to circle the fire—Bowie knife gripped in his fist, firelight rippling on his muscle-corded torso, arrowhead swaying from his neck—the council fire songs Cash was singing gradually gave way to some of the war chants he also had learned as a child.
–FIFTEEN–
As before, the storm blew itself out during the night. Morning dawned bright and clear and bitter cold.
Cole Bouchet rose ponderously from his bedroll close to the smoldering campfire. He stoked the ashes until he stirred up a flickering flame and then fed in some fresh fuel until he had a decent blaze going. He stood for a minute, leaning forward and rubbing his hands over the heat.
Then, straightening up, he stepped around the fire and kicked back the blankets covering Faye and Little Red. The two women glared up at him. Their hands and feet were bound by leather thongs. Purplish bruises and a split lip adorned Faye's mouth. Bouchet had abused both of them the previous night, repeatedly and roughly releasing all the pent up lust he'd been carrying around. Faye had tried to fight it at first but he beat her into submission quickly enough. Seeing that, Little Red hadn't fought him but neither had she responded to him, not in the slightest. Bouchet hardly noticed, however, content simply to have a vessel in which to dump his spunk and not giving much of a damn beyond that.
The bounty hunter had pretty much made up his mind to go ahead and kill the women—but not
before he got some more use out of them.
"Time to get up," he ordered the pair. "I want you to make me some coffee and something to eat. I hope you cook better than you screw. I'm going to untie you and if you know what's good for you you'd better not try any funny business. Give me cause, I won't hesitate to put bullets in you. Understand?"
"Like you're not going to end up doing that anyway," Faye sneered.
"Maybe, maybe not. But you can damn sure guarantee it if you get sassy with me."
Bouchet leaned over and cut their bonds, then yanked them to their feet. "Get cooking," he said brusquely. "I'm going to step over yonder and take a piss but I'll have you in sight at all times." Then, with a mocking smile, he brandished his Winchester and added, "And, just so you know, I can piss and still shoot accurate at the same time."
Bouchet wandered off to tend to his business, trudging through another six inches of fresh snow that had fallen during the night. The women began working on breakfast.
Hard as each tried not to, in the course of their preparations neither Faye nor Little Red could keep from casting sidelong glances toward the blood-stained gunnysack that rested on the ground on the other side of Bouchet's bedroll. It contained the head of Lobo Ames. The women had watched in mesmerized horror as the bounty man performed the decapitation the prior night. Holding up the grisly, dripping head after he'd hacked it from its body, he'd proclaimed, "Beats the shit out of dragging around a stiff, decaying body to present for my reward payment. And soon as I plop a bagful of some fugitive's head on the desk of a sheriff or judge or what have you, you'd be amazed how fast they commence to digging out that reward money and shoving it at me." Then he'd thrown back his head and bellowed with maniacal laughter.
While Bouchet stood staining a shapeless pattern in the fresh snow between his feet, he let his gaze wander over to the horses picketed nearby. After the shooting was done last night, he'd retrieved his own horse and put it with the others. He took a moment to appraise the lot of them now, calculating what the hayburners and their gear might fetch if he offered them for sale in the first town he came to. Looked like it could amount to a tidy bonus to go along with the reward for Ames.
The only animal in the bunch that wasn't going to bring anything was the little dapple gray. Bouchet had noticed the wounds on the mare's flanks the previous night and it hadn't been hard to add two and two together and reach the conclusion that here was the victim of the wolf attack he'd seen evidence of upstream. And while it hadn't been clear last night in the dark, it was sure as hell plain enough this morning that the gray had been infected by the wolf's rabies. Its eyes were bulged, it was prancing skittishly in the picket line, and its mouth was rimmed with flecks of white foam.
Buttoning up from the task at hand, Bouchet felt no hesitation for what he needed to do next. He had to act and act fast before the mare grew agitated enough to take a bite out of one of the other horses and spread its damnable disease. He reached for the Winchester he'd leaned against a sapling while otherwise engaged and headed in the direction of the horses.
"What's he up to now?" Little Red asked anxiously, covertly tracking the bounty hunter's movements as she laid out strips of bacon on a greased frying pan.
"I'm not worried over what he's doing now as much as I am for what he's going to do," Faye said.
"You're convinced he plans to kill us?"
"Sorry to tell you so but, yeah, that's what I think."
"Isn't there anything we can do?"
"With what? He made sure he took away any weapons for us to get out hands on ... There might still be a way, though."
"How?"
"What about the pots and utensils we've got right here? When he comes back what if we flung hot bacon grease on him and then brained him our heaviest pans?" Faye licked her split lip. "It'd be a long shot ... but it might be worth a try."
Little Red looked forlorn. "I wish Marshal Laramie was here."
"So do I, but wishing for that isn't going to do us any good."
"Do you think he's dead? All night long I kept hoping—praying, even—that he would reappear out of the storm, return to save us."
"I did likewise," Faye admitted. "But at the same time, down deep, I knew that nobody could have survived in that blizzard after being swept downstream like he was. Bouchet knew it, too, that's why he didn't bother going after him."
"But if anybody could," Little Red said stubbornly, "it would be—" She stopped short, eyes widening as she saw what Cole Bouchet was doing. "Look over there," she said excitedly. "Bouchet's pulling Freckles out of the picket line! What's he up to?"
Faye followed her gaze. Spotting the way Freckles was acting, it took her only a second to assess what was about to happen.
Before Faye could say anything, Little Red realized it too. "No!" she protested, standing abruptly and casting aside the pan and bacon strips.
Faye put out a hand to stop her, but Little Red jerked away and began running through the snow straight for Bouchet. "No!" she shouted again. "Stop it—what are you doing with my horse?"
Bouchet wheeled to face the girl racing toward him. "Stay back," he ordered. "This horse is sick, diseased. It needs to be put down and the carcass burned."
Little Red kept coming. "No, you're not going to burn my horse, you evil bastard. You are the one who's sick and diseased."
"Stay back, I'm warning you," Bouchet said, bringing the muzzle of the Winchester to bear on the approaching girl. "You stick your nose in my business, I'll shoot you and burn your slut whore carcass right along with the horse."
"Don't do it! Little Red stop!" Now Faye came running through the snow also.
The knife that came streaking through the air flashed in the bright sun of the new day. An instant later it hit its target with a meaty thud! and then the blade was buried to the hilt in the side of Bouchet's neck. The bounty man dropped to his knees, a look of bewilderment spreading across his dark face. Blood bubbled from his mouth and he emitted a wet gagging sound. As he started to topple over in death, his trigger finger spasmed one last time and the Winchester discharged, hurling a fatal round straight into the brave heart of Little Red, who had closed to within only a few feet of the blast.
The girl was knocked backward and down, her body making a short furrow in the fresh snow.
"Nooooo!" Faye's mournful wail went echoing down over the foothills.
Cash Laramie, emerging out of the fir thicket from which he'd thrown the knife, groaned in agony and then broke into a run toward the fallen form that lay so still on a blanket of pure white snow rapidly turning bright crimson.
–SIXTEEN–
"I misjudged how far the stream carried me. My aim was to make it back before daybreak ... If only I'd been even a couple minutes sooner." Cash's voice was flat, toneless.
"It's a miracle you managed to survive at all," Faye said to him. "You can hardly blame yourself for not doing it in time to save the world."
The two of them were standing at the edge of a large boulder pile. Thrusting up from amidst the rubble was a rough-hewn cross made of cottonwood limbs lashed together with leather thongs.
"She'd been a part of these mountains her whole life," Faye said quietly, gazing at the cross. "I think she'd approve of resting here for eternity ... in the company of her beloved Freckles."
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