by Cole Shelton
It was mid-morning when he came upon the hollow where the murderers had stopped to rest their horses. Cigarette butts littered the flattened wild rye grass and tiny wisps of smoke curled like worms from a small black circle in the earth, betraying where they’d lit a fire to boil coffee.
Luke pushed ahead, tracking the hoof prints down from the mountains. He forded a lazy river and then rode through a silent, low-walled pass. Here the clay became harder, making the hoof marks less pronounced, slowing him down. Once he even lost the trail, meaning he had to scout around until he found the tracks once more. He told himself that Honani would have picked them up in half the time. High noon passed. Four hours later the shadows began to lengthen as the trail forked south towards a shallow valley.
He saw more cigarette butts and deeper hoof marks in mud where they’d rested their horses again by a waterhole.
Luke kept riding, threading his way through sagebrush and bald boulders right to the rim of the valley. That’s when he saw the smoke curling languidly into the dusky sky.
He halted Red Jack and looked across the valley below. The smoke was coming from a fire burning out the front of a crude cabin that had been built between two arrowhead pines. The back wall of this stone cabin was wedged into the crumbling granite slope that hemmed in the far side of the valley. The hoof prints he’d been following led down a steep slope to the valley floor. They looked to be headed straight in the direction of the cabin.
But it was all open country. If the killers were holed up in that cabin, they’d see him coming. In fact, if he stayed here on the rim of this valley wall much longer there was a good chance they’d spot him anyway, so he backed Red Jack away from the crest and swigged water from his canteen. He thought about circling the valley, hoping to find a cleft in the rock to ride through, but instead he decided to wait here till sundown.
Luke checked each of his guns, making sure they were all loaded and ready to kill as the sun drifted to far western rims. Dusk enfolded the land like a grey burial shroud. The shadows grew deeper, stretching longer.
The fire lit out the front of the cabin began to glow in the gathering darkness.
It was time.
Luke remounted Red Jack and rode the chestnut back to the valley rim. Holding his rifle, he headed down the slope. He rode slowly and silently to the valley floor. Even in the half-light, he could still make out the killers’ tracks plainly. They speared straight across the valley to the cabin but instead of following them directly, Luke urged the chestnut to the southern slope and began to circle.
By now the sun had set. The valley was wreathed in darkness but the distant fire drew him like a beacon. A cold night wind blew down from the mountains and raised puffs of dust as he loomed closer. He heard voices, then ribald laughter. Keeping to the darkest shadows, Luke rode slowly and carefully, keeping a tight rein on Red Jack, guiding the chestnut right to the very edge of the firelight. There he slid noiselessly from his saddle. He crept to a smooth boulder where he crouched low.
Two men stood by the fire. He knew them straight away. They were Abe Thompson and Sam West, the two outlaws who’d held up the Wells Fargo stage. The tallest one, Thompson, was chewing away at a handful of deer steak while his companion, the lean and rakish West, was closer to the fire, warming his hands. Luke stared incredulously at them from the darkness. He’d left them both locked away in the Spanish Wells jail, so what in hell were they doing here? Had they escaped? Were they busted out? Maybe a smart, slick-talking lawyer had persuaded a judge to release them? Or was there another reason they were no longer behind bars? These men were robbers and killers. If anything, they should be dancing rope, not out here free.
Right then the burly figure of a man waddled out of the cabin. Built like a bear, he was heavily bearded with a crimson scar bulging under his left eye. Luke knew him immediately. He was William ‘Bill’ Scurlock, whose reward notice he’d seen still displayed prominently just outside the Spanish Wells law office. He looked ten years older than his poster picture. Bill Scurlock had always been a loner but things had obviously changed while Luke was away. By the way Scurlock was bellowing orders at the other two men, he was now boss of this outlaw outfit. Thompson and West rode for him and this must be their hideout. They were obviously the bunch who’d murdered Honani. But he’d trailed four riders here. Where was the other one?
Staked out behind the boulder, Luke kept his eyes peeled. His trigger finger was itching but he didn’t want to start shooting and have the fourth killer sneak up on him. So he waited behind his rifle. He smelled the stench of their whiskey. He saw Thompson light a fat cigar. Scurlock produced a pack of cards and West gulped down more redeye.
It was fully dark now. Clouds just began to edge tentatively across the face of the moon. He heard the barking of distant coyotes.
Luke’s patience was wearing thin. Maybe the fourth killer had ridden out. It was then Thompson bent over to light a second cigar in the glowing coals of their fire. Fleetingly an object hanging over the front of the outlaw’s shirt glinted in the firelight. It was the Navajo’s Medal of Honour.
Immediate fury welled up inside Luke Dawson. Throwing all caution to the winds, not caring that there could be more outlaws here, he aimed square at Thompson’s chest and pulled his trigger. The rifle bullet blasted straight through Abe Thompson’s heart, lifting him clean off his feet and then toppling him like a felled log.
Scurlock and West slapped leather as Luke fired again, this time hitting the bearded outlaw high in the right shoulder. Scurlock’s outburst of profanity rang out over the valley as he emptied his own Colt revolver at the avenging shadow in the night. Bullets chipped splinters of rock from Luke’s boulder, one ripped past his face so close he felt its searing hot breath. Relentlessly, Luke kept firing till his third bullet bored a smoking hole between Scurlock’s eyes, killing him where he stood.
Meanwhile West ran for his tethered horse. Frantic, the fleeing outlaw grabbed his saddle and threw it over his grey gelding as Luke left the shelter of his boulder and started walking towards him, emptying his rifle. Bullets thudded into the dust at West’s feet. Panic-stricken, the grey gelding reared and West turned to face Luke who’d now lifted his Peacemaker from its holster. Two guns blazed together but the lunging horse struck West, knocking him off balance, spoiling his aim. West’s bullet winged high into the stars but Luke’s shot burned deep into the outlaw’s chest. He sank to his knees and pitched forward, crashing lifelessly into the dust.
Luke stood over Thompson’s body. The Navajo’s Medal of Honour was resting on Thompson’s bleeding chest, secured by a leather cord around his neck. Enraged, Luke stooped down and carefully pulled the looped cord over Thompson’s head and dropped the medal into his shirt pocket. It was then he counted the horses tied to a long rail. Apart from Honani’s pony, there were four horses, meaning the one last outlaw was possibly still here.
Luke headed slowly towards the open door of the stone cabin. Bursting inside, he saw a single candle burning beside a half-full whiskey bottle. But there was no one in the cabin.
Once outside, he began to walk back to where Red Jack was waiting. He couldn’t see the shadow concealed in a small hole of a cave in the valley wall alongside the cabin. This shadow held a long Henry Lever rifle and it was aimed square at Luke Dawson’s back as he reached his chestnut horse.
Just as Luke climbed back into the saddle, the rifle thundered from the cave, smashing into his right shoulder. Luke sank over Red Jack’s head. He dropped his gun as pain raced through him like a dark, evil tide.
Fighting to keep his balance, Luke just managed to catch a glimpse of the man who’d shot him. He was Heck Halliday, the cowardly deserter who rode for Dallas Zimmer, the ruthless Triple Z rider who’d shot Caleb’s wife dead, killing not only her but her unborn child.
Luke swayed in his saddle, then tumbled to the ground. He groped for his fallen Peacemaker but it was too far away, somewhere in the darkness. If only Halliday knew it, Luke was at his
mercy. But Heck Halliday wasn’t hanging around. In fact, he scrambled out of the cave, hardly affording Luke’s sprawled body a second glance as he loped for his mount.
While Luke lay on the ground fighting to stay conscious, the deserter saddled his horse, left the camp and rode furiously into the night.
The bullet burned like a fiery furnace in Luke’s back. Blood soaked his shirt, pain knifed up and down his spine, his fingers dug into the earth, and finally he drifted into a darkness that was darker than the night itself.
It was midnight but lamps still lit up the Triple Z ranch house as Heck Halliday rode in from the range. Approaching, Halliday heard the sound of music and approaching closer, he saw folks talking and drinking on the front porch. He recognized the town mayor, Preacher Thomas Grayling, Doctor Worthington and his vivacious wife, all with wine glasses in their hands.
The negro servant, Elijah, was singing ‘Nelly Bly’ to the accompaniment of piano and banjo. Dallas Zimmer himself, impeccably dressed in a pinstriped black suit, starched shirt and necktie, was hovering over his betrothed, Sierra Cooper, resplendent in a long black gown. As he rode in, Halliday told himself that his boss had chosen a real fine filly to be his third wife. His first wife, Grace, had died of a frontier fever when she was quite young and Penelope, his second, was buried last year. From what he’d seen of Sierra, the new Mrs Zimmer would fit in well with life on the Triple Z.
Tonight Zimmer was holding a pre-wedding party, exactly one week out from the actual ceremony. Heck Halliday reminded himself he needed a visit to barber Sam Garner before the wedding.
He rode into the dancing light thrown by a dozen lanterns hanging in a long row under the verandah roof. Elijah had just finished his song and was bowing to the mild applause. Rancher Zimmer saw Heck Halliday immediately and nodded to his ramrod, O’Neill. Leaving his fiancée Sierra to talk to the mayor’s wife, Zimmer joined O’Neill in the front garden and together they trampled a bed of flowers as they strode to the incoming rider.
‘What took you so long?’ Zimmer demanded harshly.
‘We trailed the Injun, like you told us to, and filled the varmint with lead,’ Halliday boasted, still in the saddle. He chuckled, ‘He certainly won’t cause you any trouble now. He’s in the Happy Hunting Grounds.’ Then he added, ‘I figured it wouldn’t do any harm to have a few drinks with our outlaw friends back in Bill Scurlock’s cabin before coming here, but it seems Dawson latched onto our trail.’
‘Dawson!’ Zimmer exclaimed. He growled, ‘Hell, I knew it was a mistake not to kill him when he trespassed on our land in Sundown Valley!’
‘He must have found the Injun’s body and trailed us,’ Heck Halliday told them. ‘He arrived at Scurlock’s camp and started shooting like a crazy man.’
‘Keep your goddamn voice down,’ Zimmer growled a warning.
Halliday continued, quieter now. ‘Dawson killed the whole gang, Scurlock, West and Thompson. Wiped them all out.’
‘So how come you’re still breathing?’ O’Neill wanted to know.
‘I was in that cave behind their cabin,’ Heck Halliday said. He added hastily, ‘I wasn’t there because I was spooked. . . .’
Zimmer’s eyebrows arched. The rancher knew full well that he had a deserter on his payroll. Although Zimmer had been pleased enough to welcome the Union trooper back into the fold, he always considered that men like Halliday could turn yellow in certain circumstances.
‘So why were you there?’ the rancher asked, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure none of his guests were close enough to hear.
‘Thompson told me they kept their outlaw loot in that cave,’ Halliday explained. ‘Figured on helping myself to a bagful, then Dawson rode up.’
‘So you hid there until he left?’ O’Neill sneered.
‘No, I killed him,’ Halliday said proudly.
‘Maybe we’ve been wrong about you, Heck,’ Zimmer said, grinning.
‘Yeah, I reckon so,’ Ramrod O’Neill agreed.
Halliday boasted, ‘One bullet was all I needed. Blasted him clean out of his saddle.’
‘You sure?’
‘Shot him dead centre.’
Dallas Zimmer rubbed his big veined hands together. He applauded, ‘A good night’s work, Heck.’ He warned however, ‘But just remember to keep your trap shut about everything.’
Halliday said smugly, ‘You can rely on me, Mr Zimmer.’
‘I’ll make sure you get double paydirt this month, Heck,’ Zimmer said, promising to reward his man. ‘Now stable your horse, scrub up and join the party. See that Mex gal on the veranda?’
Halliday’s eyes widened. ‘The one filling wine glasses?’
‘Señorita Maria,’ Zimmer supplied her name.
The Mexican girl was slim, raven-haired, hardly out of her teens.
‘A mighty fine looking gal, even if she is a Mex,’ Halliday remarked, his dark eyes raking her.
‘She’s yours for the night,’ Zimmer said, grinning. ‘You’ll enjoy what she has to offer – and I should know.’ Maria had warmed his bed since Penelope died but he wouldn’t need her anymore. His wedding to Sierra was so close now he could wait. ‘Just tell her I said she had to look after you.’
‘Thanks, Mr Zimmer.’
Gleefully, Halliday led his horse towards the stable.
‘You’re mighty generous tonight, Boss,’ O’Neill remarked.
‘Heck did us all a good turn,’ the rancher said. ‘Actually showed some guts for once.’
‘Damn shame about Scurlock and the boys.’
The rancher shrugged. ‘Not really, Pat. We’ve had that outlaw bunch on our payroll for a while now. Too long, in fact. Been considering for a while how we can cut our ties with them. Seems Dawson obliged us.’
O’Neill chuckled, ‘And then Heck got rid of Dawson.’
‘He sure did,’ Zimmer chuckled.
‘That all, boss?’
‘Go back and celebrate, Pat.’
Dallas Zimmer downed the last drops of wine remaining in his glass.
It was indeed a time to celebrate. He congratulated himself. He was not only about to marry the best-looking woman in Spanish Wells but any hindrances to his ambition to expand his cattle empire had all been removed.
Lance Corporal Honani could have started poking around and causing trouble after seeing Triple Z cattle grazing on what he believed was Navajo land. Folks might even have been supportive of a Union soldier hero. But now he was out of the way . . . forever. Furthermore, the Scurlock outlaw gang had long outlived their usefulness to him, and he’d always been concerned that one day some meddling lawmen would hunt them down, and that one of them, Thompson probably, might blab.
While George wore the badge in Spanish Wells, that wouldn’t happen, but his lazy son might not always want to be town sheriff.
But what if someday that psalm-singing deputy took over? Unlike many men, Kel Blake wouldn’t be bought, that was for sure.
As for Luke Dawson, he’d loomed as the biggest trouble of them all.
He was the kind of man who’d poke around. If he’d found out about what had happened to his family and friends on Wild Wolf Ridge and if he’d probed even deeper about Sundown Valley, he would have presented a big threat. Yes, he owed Halliday for the well-aimed bullet that had left Dawson for buzzard-bait. He might even let him have Maria on a permanent basis.
As Elijah announced he was about to sing ‘Wrestlin’ Jacob’, Dallas Zimmer let his thoughts drift to Dawson’s Bar LD land. He’d been there more than once. Good grazing land, although his fence needed fixing. Maybe he could run some of his cattle there. Who would be there to stop him? No one. Might be a prelude to taking over all of Wild Wolf Ridge.
Things were really falling into place for him. He was marrying Dawson’s woman and he’d make plans to grab Dawson’s prime land. Tonight was a real celebration!
The smirking rancher sauntered back to his guests as Elijah began to sing about Jacob. He saw Sierra smiling, waiting for h
im. It had been a great night for her. Everyone had been congratulating his future bride.
Moistening his dry, cracked lips, Zimmer told himself she would soon be standing beside him on their wedding day, then in his bed. Everything was working out just fine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Night was in retreat as the first pink light of dawn flushed the eastern rim of the valley, and with the new day Luke Dawson slowly regained consciousness. At first all he knew was pain throbbing like a heavy drum in his back and then it all came back to him: the sudden shock of that bullet ripping into his back, the quick glimpse of Heck Halliday and finally his own descent into darkness. He gritted his teeth and slowly opened his eyes.
That’s when he heard grunts and hissing and felt a tentative scraping on his lower back, right below where the bullet had lodged. Dark, ominous shadows flitted across his blurred vision.
There was another sharp scrape, then a jab right into his open wound. He saw two ugly claws right in front of his eyes and he lashed out with his fist, striking the hungry buzzard’s mantle and knocking the scavenger off its feet. The other buzzard pecking at his raw, bloody wound immediately flew into the air and hovered overhead, protesting and grunting at being denied its meal.
As more daylight came in a flood, Luke saw the gun that he’d dropped. It had bounced under sagebrush.
Racked with stabbing pain, Luke dragged himself to the bush and grabbed his Peacemaker. It felt cold yet so welcome in his hand, but the buzzards were already abandoning him in favour of the three other bodies littering this shallow outlaw valley, so he didn’t need to fire a shot.
He felt dizzy, head spinning like a crazy wagon wheel. Then he heard the whinny of a horse.
Red Jack was right where he’d been left, the other side of the big boulder. Luke called out the chestnut’s name and Wishbone’s well-trained horse trotted to him.
Luke tried to stand but at first the effort was too much. His knees crumbled, blood dripped from his wounded back, then he fell headlong to the earth. He knew he had to get out of here and the only way was on Red Jack’s back. He raised himself to his knees, steadying himself by clinging to the left side stirrup strap. Red Jack whinnied as Luke reached up to find the saddle. Clutching leather, Luke slowly hauled himself up to stand beside the big chestnut.