by B. S. Dunn
‘Again.’
King worked the lever and fired his second shot. It too fell short but the confused Blackfeet warriors remained where they were.
Brolin sighted the Sharps on the foremost rider, took a deep breath, then expelled it slowly. His finger took up the slack on the trigger.
The Sharps slammed back against his shoulder; its deep, throaty roar echoed along the surrounding ridges. The Blackfeet warrior was thrust bodily from the back of his magnificent buffalo horse and blown backwards over its rump.
There came a cry of confusion as the warriors looked down at the half-naked Indian with the fist-sized crater in his back.
Brolin swiftly opened the loading-gate with the lever and extracted the spent brass cartridge. He replaced it with a fresh round and closed the breech.
He took a bead on the next painted warrior and fired. Through the cloud of blue-grey gun-smoke that belched from the Sharps’ octagonal barrel Brolin saw the warrior throw up his arms and fall to the ground.
This time, however, the Indians overcame the shock of what had happened and were spurred into action. They didn’t flee, as Brolin had hoped. Instead they set their mounts in a dead run for the ridge.
‘Let ’em have it, King.’
The store owner sighted down the ridge and started firing at the oncoming Blackfeet warriors.
As King laid down fire with the Winchester Brolin reloaded and fired once more. This time the heavy-caliber bullet smashed into the leading horse’s head , killing it in mid-stride. It went down on its nose, tossing the rider forward. The warrior landed head first and his neck broke with an audible crack.
Once more the gunfighter reloaded and sighted; when the Sharps bucked again another Indian went down.
Now the Blackfeet were within range of King’s Winchester. With his next aim he hit a target. A Blackfeet warrior cried out in pain and leaned to the right, pressing his hand on his side.
The Sharps boomed again. Brolin cursed. The wounded man’s horse had shied into the path of the gunfighter’s next target. The warrior hauled away to his left just as the Sharps had discharged its lethal load. The shot flew harmlessly past, three feet wide.
At last they reached the ridge’s base. They leaped from their horses, ran into the trees and found shelter from the gunfire amongst the rocks and large pines.
‘What happens now?’ King asked.
Brolin’s face took on a grim expression. ‘Now things get interesting.’
~*~
Kansas hauled back on the reins of his dun horse and stopped in the middle of the trail. Stall pulled back on his reins, Murphy did the same.
‘What the hell are you stoppin’ for?’ Stall snapped impatiently.
Kansas looked at him, puzzled.
‘Did you hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
On cue, the sound reached their ears. It was faint, but it was unmistakable.
‘Did you hear it that time?’
Stall nodded. ‘Sharps.’
‘That’s what I figured,’ Kansas confirmed.
A period of silence ended when the gunfire started again. Now there was more than just the Sharps to be heard. The faint popping of many shots drifted to them on the wind.
‘Someone sure is havin’ themselves a whole mess of trouble,’ Murphy observed. ‘What do you think’s happenin’?’
‘Who knows?’. Stall shrugged. ‘One thing is for certain though. I plan on puttin’ a lot more territory between us and whatever it is before dark. Come on. Let’s go.’
Nine
Brolin ducked behind the deadfall as a bullet chewed out a large gouge and sprayed splinters about. Sharp slivers of wood sliced the air as they passed close to his cheek. One scored a line through the darkened stubble of his jawline, which instantly leaked a few drops of blood.
Beside him, King fired the last two rounds from the Winchester and dropped down to reload.
Brolin crouched down beside him.
‘How’re you doin’? Brolin asked.
‘Ask me if we get out of here alive,’ King replied, his voice shaky with tension.
The gunfighter looked up at the sun.
‘Maybe twenty minutes and the sun will be down behind the mountains. Once it starts to get dark we need to get out of here. They’ll figure on usin’ the dark, too.’
King looked genuinely shocked.
‘I thought they don’t fight at night.’
Brolin just stared at him; the store owner shook his head.
‘No?’
‘Day or night, them Blackfeet down there will kill you deader than hell,’ Brolin told him. ‘So when the sun goes down, be ready.’
A couple more shots ricocheted from the downed tree trunk and screamed off harmlessly into the surrounding forest. Brolin wasn’t sure but he guessed that their attackers were now down to seven. He had to give the store owner one thing: King hadn’t shirked the issue. When it came down to the wire he had stood up to be counted.
At this point Brolin realized that something was wrong. There weren’t enough guns firing. It could mean the Indians were low on ammunition, which was a possibility considering their steady rate of fire up to now, or else they were up to something.
The gunfighter edged up to look down the slope. Two shots were fired, then nothing. It all stopped.
‘King, get up here,’ Brolin ordered in a low voice.
With a flurry of movement King was there beside him.
‘What’s wrong?’
Brolin frowned. ‘I don’t know.’
‘They’ve stopped shooting. Why?’
‘Keep your eyes skinned. They’re up to something and I don’t know what.’
A flicker of movement caught Brolin’s eye a hundred yards down the slope, then disappeared. Brolin slid the Sharps over the trunk and sighted along the barrel.
‘They’re comin’ up the ridge,’ Brolin whispered hoarsely. ‘Get ready. Things are about to get wild.’
Another flicker of movement was followed by several more. Closer they came until one warrior leaped from cover not thirty yards away. He came at them head on.
He howled wildly: a loud, spine-tingling sound designed to unnerve his quarry. Both King and Brolin swung their weapons to bear and the sound of gunfire split the late-afternoon quiet apart. The Indian screamed and was flung back down the slope. No sooner was he down than another jumped up to take his place.
King worked the Winchester’s lever and a fresh round slammed into the breech. He swung the rifle around and pulled the trigger.
The .44-caliber slug missed its intended target and flew into the emptiness beyond. Brolin was engaged in reloading the Sharps; when the store owner missed the warrior Brolin was forced to drop the Sharps and go for the holstered Remington.
His hand wrapped around the walnut grips and started a smooth, fluid draw. But it was no good, the warrior was too close. He cannoned into Brolin. The pair crashed to the ground in a tangled heap. Pain shot through Brolin’s right arm when he landed on a round rock the size of a goose’s egg.
The gunfighter lost his grip on the Remington, which skittered off under a small bush. Now on top of him, the Blackfeet warrior tore at Brolin’s throat with both hands, trying to get a grip.
Brolin brought up his closed fist and smashed it into the Indian’s head. The Indian didn’t flinch. Brolin looked into his half-crazed eyes and saw only the prospect of death if he couldn’t shake the warrior loose. The warrior’s bony fingers finally found purchase and started to squeeze.
In desperation Brolin drove his fingers at the Indian’s eyes. He was rewarded immediately when the warrior threw his head back and cried out with pain.
The gunfighter saw the Indian’s exposed throat and chopped viciously at it with his hand. The warrior clutched at his own throat as he tried to breathe, his eyes bulging.
Brolin scrabbled on the ground beside him until his hand wrapped around a fist-sized rock. He swung it with all his might and heard a sickening thud as it s
mashed into the Indian’s head.
The warrior’s struggles ceased and his eyes opened wide. Their light faded and he died in a sitting position.
Brolin pushed him away and scrambled to find the Remington he’d lost. He found it and dusted it off. He turned to find King crouched behind a deadfall log, not firing his gun.
‘Are you OK?’ Brolin asked him.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I got two more. How are you doin’?’
Brolin was still panted from the exertion of the fight. ‘I’ll live.’
‘They’ve gone,’ King said, his relief obvious.
Brolin shook his head.
‘They’re still out there. So keep your eyes open.’
He looked up at the sky. Not long until they could leave and slip away from the Blackfeet war party, hopefully without being seen.
The Blackfeet never came. The sun sank below the western peaks and the only living thing the two men heard was the mournful baying of a wolf some miles distant.
‘Do you think they’ve gone?’ King asked for the tenth time.
Brolin sighed, frustration creeping in. ‘Stand up.’
Without giving the command a thought, the store owner rose to his feet.
‘Now what was it you asked?’ said Brolin.
‘Have they gone?’
‘Well, you’re standin’ up and you’re still alive; that ought to tell you somethin’,’ the gunfighter pointed out.
King dropped back down behind cover.
‘Damn it! You could have got me killed.’
‘You can’t die from somethin’ what ain’t there,’ Brolin explained. ‘My guess is they figured they’d lost too many warriors and lit out.’
‘So you knew before I stood up that they were gone?’ asked King, a hint of anger in his voice.
Brolin left the question unanswered.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here before we find out.’
~*~
The afternoon sun was still high above the snow-topped, grey-faced mountains that surrounded Miller’s Crossing when the outlaws sighted the town. The lower ridges around it were covered in ponderosa, Douglas fir and spruce. A large stand of lodgepole pine came to an abrupt end on the north side of town, while the south side opened out into a vast grassland bordered with the yellows, reds and golds of the silver-barked aspen.
Through the middle of it all, including the town, flowed the Standish River: a narrow, rock-strewn, swiftly flowing watercourse, spanned by a timber bridge that joined the town together.
On the river’s south bank lay the bulk of Miller’s Crossing, comprising false-fronted shops, the Big Sky saloon and the homes of its citizens. Across the bridge, on the north side, were the other two of Miller’s Crossing’s saloons: the Lumberjack and the North Country Star. Also on that side was the Silk Purse, the double-storey concern that served as the local house of disrepute. A large lumber mill, which consumed a constant supply of timber brought down from the mountains, lay further along the riverbank.
‘Are we goin’ to wait until after dark to ride through, like last time we was here?’ Kansas asked Stall.
The outlaw sat on his black mount, thinking, lips pursed. His gaze ran over the buildings in the distance as his mind ticked over for a long moment. Then he spoke.
‘No. We’re goin’ to hang around for a while.’
Kansas and Jack Murphy shot each other concerned looks. Murphy frowned questioningly and was answered with a shrug of Kansas’s shoulders.
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ the outlaw finally asked. ‘What about the law?’
‘What about the law?’ Stall replied, not breaking his concentration from the view before him.
‘We’ve already had our share of trouble lately,’ Kansas pointed out. ‘Oh - and in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve thinned out some.’
Stall turned and stared at Kansas, giving a look that Kansas knew spelled trouble.
‘You let me worry about the law,’ Stall said in a low voice that held menace and let the pair know his decision would not be questioned. ‘Besides, we need supplies. And I want a drink.’
Looks of resignation passed between Kansas and Murphy. This could only end in trouble.
~*~
The three outlaws rode casually into Miller’s Crossing’s bustling main street amid looks of curiosity from the town’s citizens. The unshaven, trail-weary men drew attention, as did most strangers.
Lined both sides with a plank boardwalk, the main street led into the town’s centre, where a massive ponderosa stood. It was a scarred giant, well on the way to being 180 feet tall. A square of hitch rails fenced it off.
From this point the street forked. One branch, to the right, led past some more false-front businesses while the one to the left inclined gently towards the bridge, leading to the less salubrious part of town.
‘Are we goin’ in there?’ Murphy asked, pointing out the Big Sky.
‘Nope,’ Stall shook his head. ‘Over the river.’
A line of seven freight wagons rumbled across the bridge, loaded with lumber. Teams of four large powerful horses hauled each of them. They moved ponderously along the rutted main street and forced the outlaws to move their mounts to one side.
Once they had passed Stall eased his black out into the street.
‘Come on. I want a drink.’
The outlaws rode across the bridge to the north side. Beneath the bridge flowed the roiling mass of white water known as the Standish River. Large round boulders protruded above the surface, worn smooth with the passage of water over time.
The roadway broadened and the first building they encountered was the Lumberjack saloon.
‘This’ll do,’ Stall said, and they turned their horses toward the hitch rail.
‘Damn right it will,’ Jack Murphy agreed, eyes on the building next to the saloon.
Stall and Kansas shifted their gaze to the neighboring two-storey building. The second-storey veranda ran the width of the building and had a magnificent hand-tooled balustrade. The sign at the top of the building, painted in bold pink letters, read Silk Purse.
‘Looks as though we’ve found a bed for the night,’ the outlaw boss surmised. ‘Let’s get a drink and then we’ll check it out.’
Ten
Sheriff Tobias Bennett, at forty-eight, was getting on in years for his chosen profession. Despite his tired eyes and graying hair he considered himself capable of performing his duties well enough to remain in the job.
He was tall, but his stance these days tended to be more round than straight up and down. His preferred choice of apparel was brown corduroy pants and a denim coat.
About his broadening hips he wore a Colt .45 and his gunbelt bore the marks of having been let out a couple of notches.
Though small by most standards, the jailhouse comprised a big room with two cells at the back, these latter having floor-to-ceiling iron bars. Wanted posters lined the walls. A pot-belly stove stood in the corner, with a coffee pot simmering away on top.
He leaned back in his battered timber chair, tucked his hands behind his head, then lifted his feet and placed them, boots and all, on the scarred desktop. He looked out through the jail’s front window and espied a familiar face hurrying across the main street. The expression on that face was worried.
With a sigh of frustration Bennett swung his feet back to the floor and waited for the front door to crash open.
When it did a middle-aged man with a red face and a receding hairline rushed in.
Thaddeus Marlow was Miller’s Crossing’s mayor. He was a short man, getting on in years and always wore a suit with a bow tie.
‘What is it now, Marlow?’ Bennett asked, resigned to the fact that demands were about to be made, but hoping that Marlow wasn’t about to have him out on some fool’s errand.
‘You got trouble, Tobias,’ Marlow gasped out. ‘Big trouble.’
‘Why is that?’
‘You’ll never guess who I just saw ride into town.’
‘Let me guess,’ Bennett said coolly. ‘Wyatt Earp?’
‘Red Mike Stall,’ the mayor blurted out.
The sheriff sat forward in his chair. He hoped that Marlow was mistaken but he could tell from the mix of fear and anxiety on the man’s face that he was telling it straight.
‘Was he alone?’ Bennett asked hopefully.
The mayor shook his head.
‘No. He had two others with him.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘They went over the bridge,’ Marlow told him. ‘I think they went into the Lumberjack.’
Bennett stood up and wandered over to the window. He stared out through the grime-covered glass at the main street. He watched the townsfolk as they went about their business, oblivious to the danger in their midst. His mind was far away, trying to work out why Stall was in Miller’s Crossing.
‘The bank,’ he said aloud.
‘What?’
‘Go over to the bank, Marlow, and tell Nelson to close early today,’ Bennett ordered.
‘Do you think that’s why they’re here? To rob the bank?’ Marlow asked, horrified at the thought.
‘Let’s hope not.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’ Marlow asked impatiently. ‘You’re paid to uphold the law. You need to get rid of them.’
‘Are you goin’ to back me, Marlow?’
The mayor’s mouth opened and closed like that of a fish gasping for air.
‘I didn’t think so,’ Bennett sighed, disappointment clear in his voice. Over the years they’d all offered him help when he didn’t need it. Now, when he needed it, he guessed they would all be like Marlow.
Still, it was his job to protect the town and he knew that once he walked out through the door the odds were that he’d never return.
‘Go on, Marlow,’ Bennett urged. ‘Go and get Nelson to shut the bank.’
The anxiety in the mayor’s face vanished and he couldn’t hide his relief at the sheriff’s words.
‘Yes, I’ll go right now.’
After the mayor’s departure Bennett walked over to wall-mounted gun rack. He found what he wanted and took it down. It was a 12-gauge Remington coach gun with 18-inch twin barrels.