by Al Lacy
Clayson and Stranger could see K. D. Wilhite crouched between two rocks, his rifle pointed directly at Clayson.
“Now, take a look up to your right,” said Feaster, grinning with grim pleasure.
At a level just a bit higher than Wilhite, they could see Les Pate in the cleft of a huge rock, high-powered rifle pointed directly at Stranger.
“Just what do you want, mister?” Rip demanded.
“Shut up!” Feaster said. “I’ll get to that in a minute. I want you boys to know I’ve also got a man who’s got a bead on the cute little blonde sittin’ on the seat of the lead wagon.”
Stranger searched the rocks and spotted a third rifle close to the man on the right. He could not see the man who held it, but there was no question the gun was pointed at Breanna.
Stranger’s face mirrored his anger as he said, “If the lady is so much as scratched, mister, the world isn’t big enough for you to hide.”
“Tough talk for a dude who’s a trigger squeeze from death, ain’t it?” Feaster said.
“What do you want?” Stranger asked.
“First, I want you and your partner to ease your guns out of their holsters and drop ’em on the ground. Then I want you, mister, to get off your horse.”
Feaster saw Stranger’s face harden and roared, “You wanna bullet in your heart, mister? We ain’t hankerin’ to kill nobody here, but it’ll happen if you give us any trouble! All we want is the black and the saddle and bridle that’s on ’im. Everybody stays calm, we’ll ride on, and all you’ve lost is a horse and some leather. Give us trouble, and somebody’s gonna lose their life. Could be you, could be the woman. Now do as I say and drop those guns.”
Five men came running around the bend from the wagons that were yet out of sight, guns ready. As they drew alongside the Wesson wagon, Rip shouted, “Hold it, men! Don’t come any farther!”
“What’s going on, Rip?” one of them called. “Who is this guy?”
“He hasn’t graced us with his name,” Clayson said, “but he’s not alone. There are three riflemen up there in those rocks. One has his gun pointed at John, another at Miss Breanna, and the other at me. They want John’s horse. Back off and lay down your guns, and don’t let anybody interfere.”
On the wagon seat, Curly whispered, “Just sit still, honey, and keep your eyes on John.”
Breanna nodded, glanced at the rifle that was aimed at her from the high rocks, then set her eyes on John, who was half-turned in the saddle, looking at her. When their eyes met, he gave her a steady look. There was something in those iron-gray eyes. She knew John was telling her to keep her attention on him. When he saw in her expression that she understood, he straightened around in the saddle.
Rip and John slowly drew their revolvers and let them fall to the trail.
“That’s good, boys,” Feaster chuckled. “Cooperation here will be well worth the effort. Now, you, cowboy … off the horse.”
Stranger swung his leg over the saddle and stepped down. Ebony pulled his head around, eyed his master, and nickered.
“It’s all right, boy,” John said, patting Ebony’s neck. “This man wants to take you for a ride.”
Feaster stepped up and said, “Move away, mister. You don’t need him nearly as bad as I do … believe me. You can pick up another horse at the way station on top.”
Stranger stepped back and watched as Feaster moved up beside Ebony and took hold of the reins. The big black gelding swung his head around again and gave a short whinny.
Under his black broadcloth coat, John Stranger wore a .36 caliber Navy Colt pistol in an obscure shoulder holster. He glanced again at Breanna, then at the hiding place of the man who had her in his gunsights.
Wayne Feaster gripped the reins and raised his left foot to slip it into the stirrup. Ebony sidestepped, causing him to miss. Feaster cursed and tried it once more. Again, the big black danced sideways, blowing and whinnying. The outlaw swore angrily at Ebony and went at him again, this time swinging aboard from ground to saddle in one leap. The big black shook his head and whinnied, but stood still.
Feaster glared at Stranger and said, “I’m ridin’ outta here, and my men are gonna keep their guns trained on the three of you for five minutes. If nobody does anything crazy, my men will disappear, and nobody will get hurt. But I’m warnin’ you, don’t try to come after us. First man we see on our trail will die.” Feaster looked up at his men and shouted, “Okay, boys, I’m off! If one of ’em flinches, let ’em have it!”
Suddenly Ebony arched his back and lowered his head. He released an angry whinny and exploded under his would-be rider. Feaster went straight up into the air, then came down hard on the saddle. The impact knocked the wind out of him, but he swore and hung on. Ebony did a full circle, head down, rear hooves kicking.
Wayne Feaster gripped the saddlehorn with one hand and clung to the reins with the other. He had always considered himself an expert horseman. He had broken many horses to the saddle, but he had never climbed on the back of one like this. Feaster went up again and came down with a jolt that jarred his teeth. Ebony bucked and turned in a tight circle, throwing Feaster off balance. The outlaw came down once more, this time biting his tongue. The brassy taste of blood filled his mouth.
Ebony laid his ears back, snorted angrily, and gave another violent buck. Feaster took flight and landed hard on his head and shoulder. He didn’t move.
High up in the rocks, Wilhite, Pate, and Cahill looked on wide-eyed. Cahill rose up a few inches, his attention fixed on Feaster, who lay unconscious on the ground. The muzzle of his rifle, however, had not left Breanna. The other two still held their weapons on Rip and John, but their eyes were riveted on Feaster.
Stranger’s right hand plunged inside his coat for the Navy Colt. At the same time, he shouted, “Breanna, go!” Breanna dove inside the wagon just as John fired at Cahill.
Stranger’s slug tore into Cahill’s right shoulder, knocking him down. The other two outlaws cursed and headed for Cahill, keeping low. Les Pate bent over him and examined the wound. “C’mon,” he said, helping Cahill to his feet. “Wayne’s not movin’ down there. He’s either dead or hurt real bad. We gotta get outta here in a hurry!”
Wilhite picked up Cahill’s rifle, took hold of him also, and they stumbled their way toward their horses.
John Stranger holstered the Navy Colt inside his coat and picked up his .45 as Rip Clayson slid quickly from his saddle. The men who had gathered at Curly’s wagon searched the towering rocks while hurrying toward Stranger and Clayson. Others had come from the stalled wagons and were right behind them.
“Rip, I’m going up there,” John said. “I think I hit the one who had his rifle trained on Breanna.”
“I’ll go with you,” Clayson said, moving toward him. “In fact, I think it would be best if we took a half-dozen of these men with us. Those no-goods just might be waiting up there to shoot whoever sticks his head in amongst those rocks.”
“I doubt it,” John said. “I’d wager the other two took off. But choose your half-dozen, and let’s go.”
Clayson quickly picked out six men, telling the others to stay on guard. Then they followed John Stranger up into the rocks, keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of the gunmen. When they reached the top, the outlaws were nowhere to be seen.
Stranger made his way to the perch where Brad Cahill had held his rifle on Breanna, and as he suspected, his bullet had found its mark. There were blood spots on the rocks and on the ground. The others soon gathered around.
“That’s pretty good shooting,” Rip said. “Sharp angle, small target. Looks like you got him good. Quite a bit of blood.”
“There’s more over here, Rip,” one of the men called. “He’s leavin’ a trail.”
“Let’s follow it,” Stranger said.
A few minutes later, they found the place where the three horses had been tied. The gunmen had fled. The ground was quite rocky, and there were no hoofprints to follow.
When John
, Rip, and the six men reached the lower level, they found Breanna and Carolyne Fulford kneeling over the injured outlaw. Everyone in the wagon train was gathered in the open area. A few clustered near Breanna and Carolyne, curious to see how bad the man was hurt.
John and Rip went to Breanna and Carolyne, and the others filled the crowd in on what had happened. The outlaw lay flat on his back. He was conscious, but obviously in a great deal of pain.
“How bad is he hurt?” John asked.
“Broken collarbone and a dislocated shoulder,” Breanna said. “His head took a pretty good blow, and he’s got a big knot under all that hair. There’s a slight cut on his scalp, too.”
“I assume you haven’t given him anything for the pain, nor tried to put the shoulder back in place.”
“No. He only came to about two minutes ago.”
Stranger nodded, then set his piercing gray eyes on the injured man. “What’s your name? And why did you want my horse?”
“Ain’t there somethin’ you can give me to ease the pain? Whiskey, maybe?”
“No whiskey on this wagon train,” John said. “However, this lady whose life you threatened is a nurse. I think she can help you.”
Feaster gave Breanna a pleading look with his pain-filled eyes. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We didn’t mean you no harm. Please … can’t you give me somethin’ to take this pain away?”
“She can do more than that, mister,” John said. “She can set your shoulder and bind you up so your broken collarbone will heal properly.”
“Please, ma’am, do it!” Feaster begged, looking at Breanna again. “I can’t stand to hurt like this!”
“First, I want your name,” John said. “And don’t lie to me.”
“My name’s Edgar Wilson.”
“Where you from?”
“Arizona. Phoenix.”
“What’s the name of the mountains forty miles east of Phoenix?”
“Uh … Dragoons.”
“You’re lying, mister. You’re not from Phoenix. Forty miles east of Phoenix are the Superstition Mountains. I want the truth. Tell me your name.”
“Man, I’m hurtin’, can’t you see that?”
“Yes. And I’m waiting.”
“Okay, okay. Name’s William Becker. I’m from Carson City, Nevada.”
“How long you lived there?”
“I don’t know—’bout twelve years I suppose.”
“Twelve years? Then you know that the town wasn’t called Carson City until just over ten years ago. What was its previous name?”
Feaster gave him a blank look.
“You’re not getting any relief till I hear the truth, mister. What’s your name, and in how many states and territories are you wanted by the law?”
“What’re you talkin’ about? I ain’t no outlaw!”
“No? Then why did you put guns on us, threaten our lives, and try to steal my horse?”
“Well … I needed the animal to get me down to Placerville. Got a business appointment there.”
“You must like that pain,” Stranger said.
“I ain’t lyin’! I’m a legitimate businessman.”
“Legitimate businessman? Would a legitimate businessman run with skunks who hide in rocks and threaten innocent people? Looks like you’re going to have to just keep hurting.”
“No! Please … let her do somethin’ to help me!”
“Sure. When I get the truth.”
“All right! All right!” he gasped. “I’m Wayne Feaster. Wanted by the law in Idaho, Nevada, Arizona, and California.”
“For what?”
“Robbery.”
“What kind? Banks? Stagecoaches? Trains? Little old ladies?”
“Banks and stagecoaches. C’mon, mister, what more do you want—I need help!”
“So what’s your business in Placerville?”
Wayne Feaster gave in and spilled it all to Stranger and the few gathered near.
Stranger eyed him with disdain. “So you were going to make a big haul with Chick Dubb, eh? I know about Dubb. Bad company for you, Wayne. You should’ve learned that in prison. Now look what he’s got you into. We’re taking you with us, and I’m going to turn you over to the law at Placerville.”
“Right now, all I care about is this pain. Please let the nurse—”
“In a minute. What about your three cronies? Will they go ahead and meet Dubb in Placerville?”
“How should I know? They ran out on me, didn’t they? Maybe they’ll meet up with Chick at Placerville and maybe they’ll go somewhere else. Please! This pain is killin’ me!”
Wayne Feaster was carried to the rear of Curly Wesson’s wagon and laid on the tailgate. Breanna put him under with chloroform, and with John’s help, snapped the shoulder back in place. Using what material she had, she bound up his arm and shoulder and suspended the arm in a sling. When Feaster came to, he was placed in one of the wagons. Breanna gave him laudanum to dull the pain, and soon he was in a deep sleep. Breanna left Feaster and found the people of the wagon train gathered in a circle, listening to John.
“Feaster’s henchmen just might look in on us further along the trail and decide they want their leader back. I don’t have to tell you they’ll use force if it serves their purpose. I want all of you—men, women, and children—to keep on the lookout. If you see anything that looks like Feaster’s pals are near, give a holler. We’re all in this thing together, and we’ve got to watch out for each other. Since one of the three is wounded, they may be trying to find medical help for him. If so, they might be too busy to bother us. Besides, they don’t know whether their boss is dead or alive. But we need to stay alert in case they show up.”
The people agreed to keep their eyes open for any sign of Feaster’s men, then the gathering broke up so they could get ready to roll out.
Breanna moved up to John, smiled, and said, “I’m proud of you, darling. You really handled Feaster well. I hated to see him suffering so, but you did the right thing in making him tell you the whole story.” There was a pause, then she said, “I love you, John.”
John embraced her. “I love you, too, sweet lady. Now let’s get you into the wagon.”
Stranger took her by the hand, walked her to Curly’s wagon, and lifted her onto the seat. Before he backed away, Breanna leaned forward, looked into his eyes, and said, “Thank you for making sure that man up in the rocks couldn’t get a shot at me.”
John grinned. “Don’t have to thank me for protecting the greatest treasure I have in this world.”
Breanna watched as John strode to his big black horse. Ebony nickered at his master’s approach.
Stranger stroked Ebony’s long face, then patted his neck and said, “Good boy. You sure took care of that outlaw.”
The magnificent animal bobbed his head and whinnied as if he understood what his master had said.
16
THE THREE OUTLAWS reached the place where their horses were tied, and Les Pate and K. D. Wilhite helped a wincing Brad Cahill into his saddle. Pate pulled a dirty bandanna from his hip pocket and handed it to his wounded friend. “Here, use this,” he said. “We’ll get higher up, then stop and take a better look at the wound.”
The trio rode hard up the steep slopes for a half hour, then pulled into a enclosed area that was out of sight from the trail. Cahill was dizzy and needed to rest. Wilhite and Pate laid him on the ground and examined the wound carefully, tossing the bloody bandanna away.
“The slug’s buried in your shoulder about an inch above the armpit, Brad,” Pate said. “If we don’t get it outta there, you’ll either bleed to death or die of lead poisonin’.”
Cahill licked his dry lips. Fear showed in his eyes. “Either of you know anything about diggin’ a bullet out?”
“Not me,” Wilhite said, shaking his head.
“Me, neither,” said Pate. “But I know somebody in these mountains who does. Remember I told you about the way station at the top of the pass?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s not just a way station, it’s a general store too. Tough old woman runs the place. I’ve heard her tell how she patched up a lotta gunshot wounds when she ran a store down in Placerville durin’ the gold rush days back in the fifties. I’ve met a couple men she patched up. They swear by her … say she’s good as some doctors they’ve known.”
“Well, let’s do what we can to stop his bleedin’,” Wilhite said, “and head on up the mountain.”
“There’s a spare shirt in my saddlebag,” Cahill said. “You can use it … to wrap around the wound.”
While Wilhite tied the shirt around Cahill’s shoulder, he said, “Les, this old woman … she run the place by herself?”
“Yeah. She’s a widow. Her name’s Judy Charley. Her husband was a Mohave Indian they called High Mountain Charley—I guess ’cause he used to run the station at the top of the pass before he met the old girl and they got married. She’s tough as they come. Wears men’s clothes, chews tobacco, and wears a Colt .45 on her hip.”
“Sounds like a real doll,” Wilhite said.
“You won’t forget her,” Pate chuckled.
“All I care,” Cahill said, unable to cover his pain, “is that she can save my life.”
Pate and Wilhite hoisted Cahill into his saddle, then they rode hard up the steep pass, pushing the horses as fast as they could go. Pate told them they could make the top by midnight if they kept moving at a good pace. From time to time they had to stop for Cahill’s sake. After a few minutes rest, they would push on. A clear sky and a nearly full moon gave them enough light to stay safely on the trail.
It was two o’clock in the morning when they topped Luther Pass and hauled up in front of the large log building that was fronted with two signs:
Charley’s General Store
Judy Charley, Prop.
California Stagelines
A stagecoach was parked between the log building and the corral, which was situated forty yards away, sided by a large barn. The silver moon showed them several horses behind the split-rail fence in the corral.