Crossing the Line

by J. R. Roberts

  Carl looked at Clint as if he’d just heard a bunch of gibberish come spewing from his mouth. “George is a wanted man. He’s a killer. What else do you need to know?”

  “Don’t get cautious mixed up with fearful,” Clint warned. “What time do they normally head into town?”

  “A couple hours from now. Give or take.”

  “We’ll use that time to do some more scouting. If they all head toward Pace’s as a group, we’ll know they’re making a big move. Otherwise, they’re just scouting some more for themselves.”

  “We can circle around this farm, but there isn’t much more to see,” Carl told him. “And the more we move, the better chance we have of getting spotted. You may recognize outlaws when you see ’em, but you’re not the lightest man on your feet.”

  Unfortunately, Clint hadn’t carried himself well enough that day to dispute the barbed comment. “We’re still waiting until it gets darker. In that time, we circle that farm and then pick out a spot to dig in until sundown. Since we don’t have numbers on our side, we’ll need every advantage.”

  “And what if George decides to run before that?”

  “Then,” Clint replied earnestly, “we put him down like the murdering dog he is.”

  That was good enough for Carl.

  FORTY-ONE

  Carl was right about one thing. There wasn’t much else to see while circling the farm. The old, crumbling structures were just as crooked from one angle as they were from another. Even so, he took Clint around in a careful path that Carl had obviously walked a few times himself. Along the way, Clint picked out some good spots that looked down on most of the areas of the farm that were being used.

  All this time, the men in the farmhouse and barn didn’t do much. A few came and went between the two buildings, and one even made the treacherous climb up the remains of the windmill once the sun began its slow crawl toward the western horizon. Having spotted George more than once inside the farmhouse, Clint had been content to wait for the perfect moment to move in. But when one of those men got situated in the perch of the old windmill, he knew his time was drawing short. With a man using that kind of high ground, it wouldn’t take long for Clint and Carl to be spotted.

  “All right, Carl. Remember that spot I told you about?”

  Carl nodded. “The one just over there to the east. I remember.”

  “Take your rifle over there and be ready to cover me. It may be a bit early, but we need to be ready in case that lookout up there catches sight of us.”

  “May not be as early as you think,” Carl said. “Take a look.”

  Clint looked at the farmhouse to see a row of men emerging through a large hole in the front wall. That hole was big enough for the men to use it to lead their horses outside, which made for a very peculiar sight. One of those men was Les, and the fact that he’d been away from Pace’s for so long didn’t set well with Clint at all.

  Watching for a few more seconds, Clint was able to pick out one important detail. “They’re not all leaving. This works out perfectly. You stay put and get ready to use that Winchester. I’ll cut them off before they get too far away.”

  “You’d better hurry. They’ll be riding off before you know it.”

  “I know, and I intend to meet them when they’re not thinking about anything other than snapping their reins.”

  “Should I start shooting when you do?” Carl asked.

  “Not unless the men still at the farm try to get away. If that happens, just try to keep them pinned down. Shoot around them. Keep moving. Shoot some more and move some more.”

  Carl grinned. “Make ’em think there’s more than two of us out here?”

  “I taught you well,” Clint said. “Even if you hear shooting, stay put and do what I told you.”

  “What if you need me to come help you?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Until I come back, we’re both on our own. If you want to do this together, that’s the way it’s got to be. If you’ve got second thoughts, you’d better tell me right now.”

  Since the determined fire in Carl’s eyes only grew, Clint kept low and hurried back to where Eclipse was tethered.

  FORTY-TWO

  Clint only had to keep his head down for the first portion of his run. Once he was down a small slope and past a clump of trees, he was able to race back to Eclipse at full speed. He barely broke his stride before pulling the reins free, jumping into the saddle and tapping his heels against the Darley Arabian’s sides.

  Now that he wasn’t as worried about drawing attention, Clint was able to let the stallion run as if he was free to roam wherever he pleased. Sharp senses and keep instincts allowed Eclipse to navigate the uneven ground that was so far from any beaten track. There were a few close calls, but Clint made it back to steadier terrain before pushing his luck too far. When he found the trail, Clint stoked Eclipse’s fire a little more.

  Within a matter of seconds, he caught sight of the men riding ahead of him. There were four of them in all. Les was at the head of the group and he looked like a giant sitting so tall in his saddle. A short Indian wearing buckskins and a long coat rode beside Les. He was the first one to notice Clint racing to catch up to them. The way he turned in the saddle and effortlessly adjusted his weight showed that he’d probably been riding a horse since the day he was born.

  The man at the middle of the group was a lean fellow who’d allowed his hat to flop off his head and hang by the string looped around his neck. He swapped a few words with the Indian and then turned around to get a look at Clint. When he did, the long mustache hanging down past his chin fluttered like tattered sections of a flag being flown at half-mast upon his face.

  The fourth man in that group was Jerry, the bartender from Pace’s Emporium. Clint may have been expecting a few others from that place to lend Les a hand, but he hadn’t thought the skinny fellow would hang up his apron to take part in anything like this. If Clint had any doubts as to the intentions of any of the four men, they were washed away when the skinny fellow with the mustache drew his pistol and fired a shot at him.

  Clint reflexively ducked and reached down to pull the modified Colt from its holster in a smooth motion. He brought the pistol up, tapped his leg against Eclipse’s side, and steered off the path without taking his eyes from the small group of riders ahead of him.

  The group stayed together until Les barked a few choppy commands at them. After that, he and Jerry continued down the trail while the other two broke away to circle Eclipse from separate directions. Clint swore under his breath. He’d been hoping they wouldn’t be quite so prepared for visitors.

  Before any of the other riders could get too set in their current paths, Clint pulled back on his reins and brought Eclipse to a near stop. That way he could see where everyone else ahead of him was going. After sizing up the others, Clint snapped his reins and got the Darley Arabian moving again.

  The lean rider with the long mustache had split off to the right of the trail and slowed down to let Clint pass by him. Since Clint wasn’t about to race into that trap headfirst, he fired another shot at him and tapped his spurs against his horse’s sides. So far, he was the rider Clint worried about the least.

  The one that bothered Clint a whole lot more was the Indian. After veering off to the left of the trail, that one had all but disappeared. Clint could hear the rumble of the Indian’s horse’s hooves against the ground, but couldn’t quite place where he’d gone. His closest guess was still somewhere to the left, so Clint decided to head right and take out the more eager of the first two to come at him.

  All Clint had to do to spot the man with the mustache was listen for the next gunshot. He didn’t worry too much about getting hit, because if any man was good enough to knock him from his saddle while Eclipse was galloping that fast between all those trees, Clint was a dead man anyway. As expected, the other man’s shots made a lot of noise but didn’t do much else.

  Like any good teacher, Clint followed one of the same les
sons he’d passed along to his student. If the man with the mustache was willing to keep pulling his trigger, Clint let him do it. He counted every shot and moved in once he knew the other man was out of bullets.

  Unaware of his predicament, the mustached man actually smiled when he saw Clint. “There you are,” he grunted. “Picked the wrong bunch to follow, mister.” He pulled his trigger, only to get the metallic slap of metal upon metal. To his credit, the man with the mustache was quick to holster his gun and reach for the shotgun hanging from his saddle.

  Right about now, the Indian circled back around to race up on Eclipse’s flank. Just as Clint had feared, the Indian one was a skilled rider with one hell of a fast horse. He got to a good spot and was about to put a quick shot through Clint’s chest when he was taught a lesson of his own.

  There was always someone quicker.

  Clint pivoted in his saddle and squeezed his trigger. If not for the erratic motion of the horse beneath him, Clint would have put an end to the Indian right there. As it was, his bullet ripped through the skin along the Indian’s face. The real damage was done more by the glancing impact of the hot lead against his jaw, which snapped the Indian’s head around as if he’d been punched by a professional boxer.

  The Indian twisted around from the force of the passing bullet, but still managed to hold on to his reins well enough to keep from being thrown. Clint looked to the other side and caught a glimpse of a shotgun in the hands of the man with the mustache. Without taking the time to give that man a full glance, Clint crossed his arm across his body and fired a shot into the shotgunner’s shoulder. Although it wasn’t a fatal wound on its own, the force of it did a real good job of sending the man with the mustache tumbling from his saddle. Clint heard the snap of the man’s neck clear enough, even with the pounding of all those hooves around him.

  When Clint found the Indian’s horse riding not too far away, he thought another one of his problems had been solved. But the Indian hadn’t fallen or jumped from his saddle. Clint realized that quickly enough when he saw the Indian’s hand was still wrapped around his saddle horn. A thin leg was tucked neatly against the back ridge of the saddle, which meant the Indian was merely hanging off the side of his horse to use it as a form of living cover.

  Clint fired a few shots over the top of the horse, which did nothing whatsoever to rattle its rider. Unwilling to deliberately shoot a horse just to get to a man hanging off its side, Clint tapped his heels against Eclipse’s sides and pulled his reins to the left. He hadn’t come this far just to put on a riding show with a redskin.

  Before he got back onto the main trail, Clint had to dodge the few shots taken by the Indian. The first hissed a few inches past his head, but the second raked along his right arm like a hawk swooping by to shred through his sleeve with its claws. The next two rounds after that merely thumped into tree trunks, so the Indian saved the rest.

  Les and Jerry weren’t about to stay behind to help the other two. They’d been whipping their horses into a full gallop while Clint had been trading shots with their partners. Having spent so much time over the past few days waiting around or following someone else’s lead, Eclipse was more than ready to hit a trail with everything he had. The Darley Arabian tore up the distance separating him from the two ahead of him in no time at all. All Clint needed to do was hang on for dear life.

  Jerry turned around and nearly jumped from his saddle when he saw how close Clint had gotten. He said something to Les before taking a rifle from his saddle boot and levering in a round. Since Jerry had to stay on the back of a racing horse while taking his shot, Clint was content to bet on those shots missing their target. Instead, Clint turned to get a look at the trail behind him.

  The Indian was closing the distance quickly and firing his pistol along the way. Those shots started off too close for comfort, and drew closer with each consecutive pull of the trigger. Clint pulled back hard on his reins so Eclipse turned to the left while coming to a stop. The move was quick enough to take the Indian by surprise, but smooth enough for Clint to maintain his balance.

  Clint took a fraction of a second to steady his arm as the Indian thundered toward him. When he fired, he did so as if he was pointing his finger at his target and willing it to drop. Just to be certain, Clint emptied his cylinder and began reloading while the Indian was still reeling from the lead he’d caught.

  The Indian fell from his saddle, but had the agility needed to tuck his chin against his chest and break his fall somewhat with his arms and legs. Even though he didn’t snap his neck upon impact, he hit the ground hard enough to break something. Clint saw the Indian arch his entire body like a bow and groan as he lowered himself flat onto the ground. One arm was curled awkwardly and one leg looked to be twisted, but the Indian would live to ride another day.

  Clint finished reloading his Colt, pointed Eclipse’s nose in the direction Les and Jerry had gone, and then snapped his reins. He’d already caught up to them once and he was confident he could do it again.

  FORTY-THREE

  Carl’s spot was marked by a thick cluster of tall trees situated just outside of the old Blair Farm’s property line. The remains of a barbed-wire fence were only a few steps ahead of him. Beyond that, he could see the entire broken-down spread. Since the tree created a big enough silhouette against the horizon, Carl stood with one shoulder against it to steady his aim. When the gunshots began echoing in the distance, the old farm sprang to life.

  The lookout that’d climbed the old windmill turned to look in the direction of the shots. Several figures emerged from the house to get a look, as did one of the men posted just inside the main door of the barn. Carl watched them all as if he was studying a big painting hung on a wall in front of him. He barely had to move his eyes to take in the entire scene. All he cared about was that the men didn’t try to offer any support to the ones Clint was chasing down.

  If those men knew what was good for them, they’d just stay put.

  Naturally, those men didn’t know what was good for them. They also didn’t know anyone was watching them.

  When one of the men ran toward the barn, Carl fired a shot that landed a few paces outside of the barn’s door. The man who’d been running let out a yelp that Carl could hear all the way back from where he was standing and then drew his pistol.

  Carl levered in another round and spotted more movement in the house. Someone was trying to lead his horse out of there, so Carl fired into the wall at the corner of the building. His shot didn’t come close to drawing any blood, but it had the desired effect of forcing the man and his horse to duck back inside.

  The man who’d tried running for the barn fired in several different directions. He spun crazily upon the balls of his feet, looking for a target and shouting threats to the surrounding trees.

  Standing there with his rifle against his shoulder, Carl felt as exposed as if he was in the middle of an open field. He wanted to duck behind the tree, but was too frightened to move. So far, his inability to move had served him well, and none of the men at the farm had narrowed down the exact spot where the rifle shots had come from. If Carl stayed still, he might just slip their notice altogether.

  That plan lost its appeal when two more men poked their noses out of the farmhouse. Carl couldn’t tell which of those was George, but he could hear the man’s familiar ranting.

  “Bastard’s in them trees! I can see him!” George hollered.

  Carl flinched when the next volley of shots came, but none of them was pointed in his direction. Pistol fire crackled through the air and not one piece of lead hissed anywhere near Carl’s tree. He smirked as three men inched their way out of the farmhouse. Carl fired a few shots, working the Winchester’s lever as quickly as he could in between each one. George emptied his pistol, firing wildly in the wrong direction, but the other two men managed to narrow down their choices.

  There were a few muzzle flashes from within the house as some of the men shot through the windows. This time, Carl di
d hear the angry hiss of lead coming his way. When the shots got closer, he moved around to put the tree between himself and the farm. That was enough for the men in the house to find their target and the next few rounds started hitting the tree itself.

  “Damn coward!” George shouted as he fired toward Carl. Rather than switch to rifles like the other men, George merely reloaded his pistol and used that. Fortunately for Carl, the pistol’s range wasn’t even close to long enough to be a threat to him.

  Carl reloaded the Winchester and gritted his teeth as the gunshots kept coming. He could run away from the tree, circle around, and easily get back to where his horse was waiting. From there, he could escape from the farm before any of those men came after him.

  But Carl couldn’t let himself do that. As appealing as it was to simply leave the fight, he’d come too far to turn back now. Even if nobody knew it was him firing those shots, or that he’d skinned out when he had the chance, Carl would know.

  Letting out his breath, Carl peeked around the other side of the tree and dropped to one knee, just like the soldiers he’d watched during the war. Carl sighted along the top of the Winchester and sent a round into one of the farmhouse’s windows. He worked the lever, shifted his aim, and then fired at the barn’s loft, where he knew a lookout was hiding.

  “Same tree!” the man perched upon the old windmill shouted. “Same tree where he was before, but other side!” After that, he brought a rifle to his own shoulder and took aim.

  Carl fired at the windmill and hit a spot slightly lower than where he’d intended on placing it. A bit of dust was kicked up from the bullet and a plank swung loose. That plank hit another one, which sent a creaking moan throughout the entire structure. The man at the top of the windmill grabbed on to it with both hands and struggled to find a better foothold. Since he was preoccupied, Carl shifted his aim from the windmill to the farmhouse.