Trail West (A Sam Spur Western Book 6)

by Matt Chisholm

  In the middle of the morning, Ben said he had spotted something moving through the country below them. They checked their guns and reckoned they had enough ammunition for a small fight, but not for a big one. Any road, they would have to be careful with their lead. Every shot would have to count.

  They waited through till nearly noon. Then they ate hard-tack and washed it down with sweet mountain water. Spur built a smoke, finished it and said casually to Ben: “I’ll go take a look around.” He picked up his rifle and sauntered from the little fortress. The Kid gazed after him.

  Ben said: “They ain’t so far off now. Best be ready.”

  The Kid was taken aback by the casualness of these two men. Nobody would think they had a fight in front of them.

  An hour slipped slowly by.

  Ben went and looked at the prisoners, checked their bonds.

  Offing said: “You ain’t human, Ben. These damned rawhides’re cutting my hands off.”

  Ben gave him a grin.

  “Stop you usin’ a gun,” he said. “Your friends’re comin’, Pete. You’d best pray. If'n they get in here, you could be dead.”

  “Give me a gun,” Strange said. “For God’s sake, Ben, give a feller a chance to fight.”

  “You got me wrong,” Ben told him. “I don’t never give nobody a chance. That’s why I’m still alive an’ kickin’.”

  He went out of the cave into the brilliant sunlight. He looked around and thought it a magnificent place for a fight. He could see for miles.

  The Kid said: “I saw riders comin’. Half-dozen of ’em.”

  “How far?” Ben asked offhandedly.

  The Kid pointed.

  “See that break in the rocks yonder?” he said. “I saw them pass there.”

  Ben nodded and picked up his rifle.

  “You’re on your lonesome,” he said. He started away to the right.

  “Hey, hold hard,” the Kid said.

  “What’re bellyachin’ about?” Ben demanded. “You got the easiest chore of the hull lot. All you got to do is keep your fool head down so you don’t get it shot off and shoot at ’em ever’ now an’ again. Me an’ Sam’ll be doin’ the fightin’.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You lose one of them prisoners an’ I’ll have your hide, Kid, an’ don’t you forget it.”

  Ben walked away through the rocks, toting his rifle. There was just the slightest swagger in his walk.

  The Kid decided he hated Ben even more than he hated Spur. And that was saying something. They always made him feel like nothing. He had double-crossed them once and now they didn’t even trouble to take a precaution against his second defection. They had left him alone with the prisoners, daring him to release them.

  For a moment, he was tempted to do just that.

  He looked around. He couldn’t see a living thing. He thought he heard the distant clop-clop of horses' hoofs but he couldn’t be sure. He felt much alone, isolated.

  By God, he thought, he’d show ’em.

  Time ticked by. He started to grow uneasy.

  Would nothing ever happen?

  Suddenly, he heard a voice.

  “Kid! Kid, that you up there?”

  Who the hell was that? There was something familiar about the voice.

  He raised himself up a little and looked downhill. Nothing but rocks.

  “Who is this?” he called back. His voice echoed and bounced around the titanic hills. He felt very small and ineffective.

  “Mike Jenner.”

  It occurred to the Kid that if he hadn’t been a fool he could have been down there with Jenner, more or less safe. But would he have been? He would have had Spur and Ben against him. When he saw it that way, it seemed that he was on the stronger side. Maybe he hadn’t been such a damn fool after all. But just the same…

  “What do you want?” he shouted.

  “Who’s up there with you?”

  “Nobody.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Jenner bawled: “Don’t lie to me, Kid. I know Spur and Ben’re there.”

  “Then why the hell ask me?”

  “If you’re alone, you’d best walk out of there, Kid.”

  The man was treating him like a helpless child. He’d show him.

  “Go to Hell,” he bellowed.

  “You got Strange and Offing there?” Jenner demanded.

  “I got ’em. Come an’ get ’em.”

  “I aim to do that. This is your last chance, Kid.”

  Jenner was occupying his attention while some of the other boys worked their way around behind him. The overhang would take care of them. But there were always the flanks. He cast uneasy glances to right and left. Jenner would have some pretty tough birds along with him. He wondered where the hell Sam and Ben were.

  Ben lay flat on the overhang.

  He wouldn’t be able to stay there long before somebody worked their way above him, but it would constitute a good first move. He could hear the exchange between the Kid and Jenner clearly, their voices echoing around the mountains. He knew that Sam would be in position by now. Soon all hell would break loose and the awesome beauty of the hills would look on death.

  He saw a hat bobbing to his left and far below. A difficult shot and he didn’t intend to make it. He wasn’t going to reveal his presence until he was sure of killing a man. He knew that this part of the game was for keeps.

  A light breeze had sprung up from the north. He must allow for that in the difficult downhill shooting.

  The Kid hadn’t noticed the fellow yet.

  There, far below him, and directly in front of him, he saw another man working his way slowly through the rocks. He looked as small as an ant. Pitiful. But Ben knew that he was a deadly, highly-paid fighting machine.

  They could die as well as any other man.

  After a while, there was a movement off to his right. They were coming in all three directions. He wondered who Spur was stalking. He didn’t want to waste shots on the same man. He wondered how long it would be before somebody was getting around behind him.

  A shot came from below.

  That was the Kid. Ben reckoned he was probably wasting lead. Another and another shot.

  A faint rattle of stones came from below. That was the man to the left, either coming in on the Kid fast or scrambling for cover out of the danger of lead.

  Suddenly, Ben spotted him.

  He said: “Here goes,” and raised his rifle.

  He watched the man rise up from behind a rock and start forward. The distance was too great for him to recognize the man. He sighted carefully, allowing for the downhill shot.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The man seemed to rear up as if he had been kicked violently in the seat of his pants. He took one uncertain step, his legs collapsed under him and he plunged from sight. Ben heard him hit rock, he bounded insanely into view for a moment and then once more went from sight. Again he appeared on a slope of shale. He slid down this with a rattle of stones and in a cloud of dust. Finally, he came to rest against a boulder.

  For a moment, there was silence.

  Then a shrill cry went up. Rifles began to slam in the thin upland air, lead hit the overhang beneath Ben and sang away into space. He looked this way and that, but he could see nothing more than drifting gunsmoke.

  The Kid was firing.

  Ben reckoned this position had served its purpose. He started sliding himself backward and was soon lost to sight of the men below. He now sat up, laid his rifle down beside him and calmly built a smoke. It was an enormous pleasure to draw smoke through his lungs. He crawled back a little further, reckoned he was well clear and stood up.

  He sauntered away through the rocks.

  One man, one shot. That was good book-keeping. He wondered if Sam would have the same luck.

  Spur was on the lower slopes of the hill.

  He had seen the man die above him and had watched his puppet like descent. He knew that it was Ben who had shot him.
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br />   He was stalking a man. His usually benevolent expression was gone and in its place was one of grim determination. He knew that he was playing with life and death—his own life and his own death.

  He knew that he wasn’t dealing with greenhorns. Every man jack on the other side would know his job. So he moved with the wariness of a stalking cougar. He had removed his spurs in case their jingle should give his presence away.

  Ahead of him was a man, moving up the mountainside with enormous caution, a man obviously aware that there were other enemies about beside the boy guarding the cave mouth above him. Every now and then he would stop and take an unhurried and careful look around him.

  Every time he turned, Spur was well under cover.

  If the man above was wary, Spur was doubly so, for, like that man, he knew there were other enemies about beside the man he could see. And an enemy you couldn’t see was more dangerous than the one you could.

  The Kid was firing down from above.

  The man in front of Spur, crouched behind a rock, returned the fire. Somewhere off to the right another rifleman opened up. Spur didn’t hesitate. He raised himself, brought the butt of the Spencer into his shoulder and was about to press the trigger when somebody fired from the left.

  Something seemed to rip him across the shoulders.

  He dropped down, knowing that he had been saved only by the toughness of the leather vest he wore. He sighted left and saw the man coming through the rocks.

  He was shouting.

  The man at whom Spur had been about to fire whirled and pumped a shot in his position. In a flash the aggressor was turned into the defender.

  Spur rolled, came to his feet, ran no more than three paces and hurled himself headlong, landed on his shoulder, turned a somersault, came flat and rolled again. All the time both men were driving shot at him. Only his agility saved his life. Now there was no more than a wisp of brush between himself and the men. He looked left, saw rock downhill and dove for it. Lead hit rock and sang viciously. He’d made a mistake. He should have gone uphill and got above them. But you couldn’t win ’em all. He saw a man running. He got to one knee, sighted the Spencer quickly and carefully on the man and fired. But the man was in cover before he pressed the trigger. He turned the weapon uphill. He saw a hat-crown, fired and lifted it from its owner’s head. That would teach the bastard self-respect at least and give him a bad headache at most.

  Men were shouting, telling each other that there was an enemy below them.

  There must be a man with the horses, Spur thought. There has to be a man below me.

  It looked like he could have men on three sides of him. A situation he never liked. He decided to be bold and head for the horses. He started crawling.

  The only trouble was, he didn’t know where the animals were.

  Booted feet scattered rocks. A man whistled shrilly to attract somebody’s attention. Spur levered a round into his rifle and waited. Nothing moved. He heard not a sound. Suddenly the whole place had gone still. Crouched down, he started running. The two rifles above him opened up again. The air was alive with lead. He dropped to the ground and lay panting. He’d got himself in a real fix. He was sweating like a bull.

  “Steve,” one of the men above yelled. “It’s Spur. He’s headed for you. Here’s your chance.”

  The man Steve remained still, which was smart of him. Spur still didn’t know where the horses were.

  He started worming his way west, using the scraps of brush and all the rock he could.

  Then a horse stamped. The only trouble was he couldn’t locate the sound.

  Now somebody high on the hill had opened up with a rifle and he reckoned that was Ben trying to be of help. Good old Ben.

  He heard a man working his way in from the north. He would have liked to put a shot in that direction, but he didn’t want to give his position away. If he could get among the horses and scatter them, the attack would be demoralized.

  Somewhere to the west of him a man was shouting. Spur gambled on that being the man with the horses. He headed toward him. A shot came close. He knew that he was flirting outrageously with death and that he should duck down into cover, but there was some will in him that kept him going forward.

  He heard a pounding of feet and the rattle of loose stones to his right, glimpsed a man and fired as he ran. The man ducked down into cover.

  There was a great jumble of gigantic boulders in front of him, then a sandstone escarpment some fifty feet high. There was dust in the air and it stung his nose and eyes.

  Suddenly he reached an open space and he stopped.

  Now he heard the horses and knew that they were among the boulders. But he would have to cross the open space to reach them.

  There was a man in front of him, firing.

  This must be the man Steve, standing between him and the horses.

  He moved to the left, seeking cover, hearing the whine of the lead. Above him on the hillside there was a regular battle in progress. Steve was pumping lead in his direction as fast as he could move lever and trigger. The result was unnerving, but the man was trying too hard. Something of the panic that was in Spur was in this man also. Spur knew that he could only go forward. If he stayed where he was the other men would come on him. He had to go straight for Steve, down him and go on past into the boulders.

  Not breaking his pace, he swerved to the right and headed across the open space, his legs going like pistons. He levered and fired as he ran, knowing that either his nerve or Steve’s would break.

  It was Steve’s.

  The man suddenly stopped firing and fled into the rocks. Spur pounded after him. The men behind him were shouting and coming after him.

  He was among the boulders, dodging around them; he had lost sight of the man ahead of him. Any minute now, he was going to be caught between two fires.

  Suddenly, there were the horses, bunched together in a sort of catchment in the rocks, all tossing manes and rolling eyes, scared by the shooting.

  A gun went off and lead hit rock.

  Spur spotted a man beyond the horses. He had climbed a little and was slightly above Spur. He was preparing for a second shot. Spur brought the Spencer to his shoulder, pressed the trigger and found that the weapon was empty. The man fired and narrowly missed. Spur switched his carbine to his left hand, swept his Colt from leather and fired without aiming. The other man seemed to take a high dive off the rocks into the horses. They convulsed to get away from the body, jumping and straining at the lines that held them. One broke free and dashed past Spur who got out of its road just in time to escape being trampled underfoot.

  Hastily, Spur emptied the Spencer and jammed home another loading tube. Every nerve in his body seemed to be screaming now. His actions had about them an unnatural jerkiness. He knew that he was under stress and that he must remain cool.

  What to do next?

  A rifle slammed behind him. He whirled and fired. A man ducked away out of sight. Spur charged forward among the horses, ripping them free, yelling to them, batting them across their rumps with his carbine butt. A stocky bay barged heavily against him and nearly knocked him from his feet. He got the Spencer in his right hand, grasped the horse’s mane with his left and vaulted onto its back. It pitched wildly a couple of times and then ran.

  The horse took him back through the men who were after him, lunging out of the rocks. There were horses on either side of him and behind him, all crazy to run. They clattered and thundered out of there and it sounded as if guns were going off all around them.

  Suddenly, miraculously, he was clear.

  The lead no longer sang about his head. The horses were scattering out.

  He turned the horse right and sent it straining up the steep slope. It went up with great heaving bounds. As he came onto higher ground, Spur had a view of the battlefield.

  He brought the horse to a halt.

  Ben had stopped shooting from above the overhang. And Spur could see why. The men below were now so far
toward the cave that they were covered by the overhang itself. It looked as though the Kid had stopped firing. The men below were going to the cave without any opposition.

  Had the Kid folded? Had he run out on them? Or had he been hit?

  Spur urged the horse on.

  He headed it recklessly toward the climbing men. One of them had reached the shelf which the Kid had been defending. The men who had fired on Spur below were now coming as fast as they could up the slope. Spur realized that his running off the horses had done nothing in his favor on the short term. The men had reached the cave.

  They heard the sound of the approaching horse. The man on the shelf had turned and was watching his approach. A shout went up. Guns were turned in his direction. He slowed the horse as lead sang in his direction and was out of the saddle while the animal was still on the move. In the next moment, he was under the cover of rock.

  He wondered if Ben was working his way down from above.

  He began to advance upward under cover, cursing himself for maybe being too smart. There could have been a better chance if the three of them had stayed together. But you couldn’t win ’em all. It certainly looked as if they were going to lose this one.

  There were muffled shots and he knew that guns were going off inside the cave.

  Something froze in him.

  They were killing the men in the cave. The prisoners, the vital evidence was gone. Roach would get away with it and Spur and his friends would stay outlaws.

  But he wasn’t dead yet. He was still on his own two feet and was still going forward. He’d blast those bastards out of that cave. There’d be some scalps to take back to town if nothing else.

  He quickened his pace.

  Somebody was firing high up to the south now. The men near the cave were on the move, scattering, fright in every line of their bodies.

  Spur was within good rifle-shot now. He halted and started firing. The men up there didn’t know which way to go. If they went into the cave, they could be trapped. It must have been Ben to the south and he obviously had a clear view of the natural platform in front of the cave. He poured a hot fire into it. Suddenly, the men erupted from it, piling off the ledge and running into the rocks.