Fighting Men
Page 21
“All right,” Chicago said to Thatcher as the blast from the big gun resounded along the trail, “let’s get going. Candles has already gotten out of here. I will not allow him to be the only one coming out of this mess alive.”
When Dahl, Lane and Hatton had ridden up off the flatlands on a less-traveled trail, they’d followed the sound of gunfire toward the start of Saverine Pass.
Atop a cliff overhang, gazing out through his telescope, Lane rose in his saddle at the sight of Bobby Candles racing up off the trail and turning his horse onto a narrow path that wended its way below them. “It’s him,” he said sidelong to Dahl, who sat with Hatton seated behind his saddle. “The murderer I’ve been searching for this whole time.”
“Tell me, then, will you shoot him from up here when he passes below us?” Hatton asked.
“No,” said Lane. “This is something I have to do one-on-one.” He closed the telescope and put it away. He looked at Dahl and said, “I’m sure you understand.”
Dahl only gave a shrug and nodded toward the trail below. “I’ll circle around and stay out of sight. If Big Chicago is still alive, I’ll catch him when he sticks his head up above the pass.”
“Obliged,” Lane said to Dahl, touching his hat brim. “See you soon.” He turned his horse and rode off on a thin path leading down to the trail.
“Obliged,” Dahl said in reply. He touched his hat brim in return.
Hatton remarked to Dahl, “He sounds as if he’s not coming back.”
“Were you expecting him to?” Dahl asked, watching Lane ride out of sight. “He’s found the man he’s been after.”
“But what about the others still down there?” Hatton asked. “What about Chester Goines?”
“Big Chicago is our man. He always was, remember?” said Dahl. He turned his bay back onto the trail behind them.
“Yes, of course,” said Hatton, “although to be honest, in all the excitement, his death became of less and less importance to me.”
“That’s how it is, sometimes, when you go off to kill a man like Chester Goines,” said Dahl. “Killing him becomes the least of your problems.”
A silence followed as the bay carried them onto the trail leading over toward Saverine Pass, where the big guns had fallen silent, and where the rest of the gunfire had all but stopped. “I—I did a foolish thing, coming up here, thinking I would reap vengeance for myself,” Hatton said quietly, “and that doing so I would rid myself of all sadness and regret that have overtaken me.”
“Nothing helps rid our pain in the loss of a loved one,” Dahl replied over his shoulder, as if he had close and personal knowledge of such matters. “The only thing we can take from loss is what it teaches us, and the strength it instills in us.”
Hatton thought about it, and said, “I must’ve thought that becoming a fighting man would make a difference, change my sorrow somehow—help me forget my loss.”
“All men are fighting men,” Dahl said, nudging the bay onward. “It is only a matter of for what, or for how much.” He smiled to himself. “I’m certain you found that out when the Shays chained you to a bear.”
“Ha! Yes, indeed I did,” said Hatton, his spirits seeming to lift all of a sudden. “In studying that horrid creature, a realization came to me, that I have been chained to some sort of bear my whole life. This bear, like all my other bears, had no teeth or claws. All that frightened me was that it was a bear.” He managed to chuckle.
“Even a toothless, clawless bear could have killed you,” said Dahl.
“Yes, but I decided it was better to die fighting the bear than to be imprisoned by my fear of it.”
“And there you have it. . . .” Dahl smiled again to himself as the two rode on in silence.
When they reached a stretch of flatlands leading over to a long ledge above Saverine Pass, they watched Big Chicago and Dick Thatcher top the crest on horseback, stop suddenly and stare toward them from a distance of two hundred yards. “There’s the son of a bitch I want to see spitting up blood,” Big Chicago said to Hatcher. He dropped the bandana he held against his wounded shoulder and drew the big Colt from his waist sash.
“Wait, Chicago,” said Thatcher. “We can get away from him.”
“No, we can’t,” said Chicago with resolve. “We’ve tried that, remember?” He stared at Dahl as he checked the Colt and held it in his bloody hand. “Anyway, there comes a time when enough is enough. Either I kill him or he kills me. If you want out of it, get in the wind. I’ll take it from here.” He jerked the reins to his horse, his Colt and reins in the same hand. His wounded shoulder kept his other arm hanging limp down at his side.
Chapter 27
Staring back at Big Chicago, Dahl said over his shoulder to Hatton, “It looks like Chester Goines has finally decided to settle up.” He slipped his rifle into his saddle, swung his leg over his saddle horn and slid down to the ground, the bandana tied around the bullet graze on his thigh crusted over with dried blood. “Take the bay and find you both some cover.”
“No, sir,” said Hatton with determination. “I will have my say with this scoundrel, after all the trouble he has caused me. Anyway, there are two of them. You will need my help.”
“Ride away, Hatton,” Dahl said firmly, drawing his Colt and letting it hang down at his side. “If you see I need help with the other gunman, drop him with the rifle. That’s all you get.”
Hatton did as he was told. Slipping forward into the saddle, his bare feet inside the stirrups, he turned the bay and rode a few yards away. When he stopped, he drew the rifle from the saddle boot, checked it, cocked it and held it ready. As he watched Dahl walk limping toward the mounted advancing gunman, he failed to see Bart Russell ease his horse up over a ledge eighty yards to his right and stop abruptly.
Dust-covered, ragged and bloody from diving to the trail earlier to keep from getting shot by the deck gun, Russell saw the gunfight about to take place before him. He wiped a dirty hand across his sweat-streaked eyes and slipped his big Remington from his holster. “By God, Teacher . . . ,” he whispered at Dahl, easing his horse forward a step. “You will die today. . . .”
Dahl walked on, watching Big Chicago boot his horse up into a run, barreling straight toward him. He saw Chicago firing wildly at him, both the rise and fall of the running horse and the reins in his gun hand affecting his aim. A bullet thumped into the ground in front of Dahl’s feet. As Chicago let out a loud yell, Dahl stopped cold, raised his black-handled Colt to arm’s length and took careful aim as another of Chicago’s bullets streaked past his head.
“Damn it!” Big Chicago bellowed, his hammer finally falling with an impotent click. He tossed the Colt away and reached to pull a rifle from its boot. But Dahl’s Colt bucked in his hand, the sound of the shot echoing off across Saverine Pass.
Big Chicago tumbled backward from his saddle, a long ribbon of blood uncoiling in the air as the bullet punched through his heart. He hit the ground headfirst, at an odd angle, his big head pointing in one direction, his whole body pointing in another.
Dahl only stared warily toward him for a moment, realizing that the outlaw wasn’t going to get up. But as he let the Colt slump down at his side, he heard Hatton cry out, “Mr. Dahl, watch out!”
As Dahl swung around, raising his gun, he heard two rifle shots resound almost as one. The first bullet sliced across his shoulder, spinning him backward to the ground. As soon as he hit the dirt, his instincts made him roll over and stop on his belly, his Colt stretched out in both hands.
He looked quickly in Hatton’s direction and saw the smoking rifle come down from his shoulder. Fifty yards away, he saw Russell roll from his saddle, his rifle flying from his hand. The dead gunman bounced along the hard ground behind the running horse, his right foot stuck tight in his stirrup.
“Got him, Teacher, sir!” Hatton called out excitedly.
“That you did,” Dahl said quietly to himself, rising to his feet and slapping dirt from the bib of his shirt.
&n
bsp; Hatton rode forward to him quickly, looked down and said, “You’re bleeding! Are you hit bad?”
“It’s only a graze,” Dahl said. “What’s one more graze more or less?”
Hatton looked relieved. Then he considered what Dahl said, and chuckled and replied, “Yes, indeed, what is one more graze?”
Three miles away, Deputy Lane rode across a long bed of spindly wild grass and barrel cactus, toward the spot where he knew Bobby Candles would be riding into sight. But over the edge of a small rocky rise, Candles had already spotted him and dropped down from his saddle and taken a well-covered position. It’s about time you come to me, you idiot stable hand. . . .
Candles smiled to himself, easing up enough to peep out through some dry brush and see Lane step down from his saddle a hundred yards away and slip his rifle into its boot—a bad mistake, Candles thought. All right, Deputy. This time I’m the one with the rifle. Let’s see how it goes. . . .
Lane walked forward through the bracken and roughage until he stopped fifty yards away. He looked back and forth as if he hadn’t come prepared for a fight, but rather to get his bearings. His Colt remained in his holster.
“Dumb fool is lost,” Candles chuckled to himself under his breath. He continued to watch Lane look all around. Finally he said to himself, All right, it’s time I put you out of your misery. . . . Without hesitation he cocked the rifle, jumped to his feet, took quick aim and pulled the trigger. The shot resounded out across the pass.
Three hundred yards down the trail up from the pass, Coots and Farris stopped their horses and sat in silence for a moment. It had been a while since they heard any shooting close to them. Neither of them said a word, but they nudged their horses forward warily, each with a rifle in hand.
Standing now, relaxing, with a grin on his face, Candles levered another round into his rifle chamber in case he needed it, which it now appeared he would not, he told himself. He watched Lane stand wobbling, bowed at the waist, his hand clamped to his belly.
“Bet that hurts like hell,” Candles called out, walking forward, no hurry, no problem. He’d seen gut shots before. This one, coming from a rifle, would buckle the deputy’s knees any minute. Lane would rock there for a few seconds, then pitch face-first in the dirt. Pretty predictable, Candles told himself. This poor, dumb bastard had no business ever wearing a badge. . . .
Lane stared at him through flat, blank eyes. When Candles stopped, the deputy dropped to his knees, as predicted. “Oops.” Candles chuckled. He walked closer now that he saw it all going his way. “What’s happening, stable hand, is that your belly is filling up with blood,” he said casually. “You can hold it in awhile, but it just makes it worse—best if you just let it bleed on out.” He grinned. “But don’t let me tell you what to do.”
Lane rocked back and forth as Candles propped his rifle back over his shoulder like a hunter returning from a long day in the field. He stopped twenty feet away and pushed his hat up and said, “What was you thinking, walking down here without your rifle? Letting me get that close? Giving me a shot like that? That was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!” he ranted. “You gave me a damn near perfect shot!”
With his forearms across his lower belly, Lane said in a strained voice, “Guess, what, Newton?”
Newton, this fool still called him. . . . “Okay, what?” Candles grinned smugly.
Lane stopped rocking suddenly. “You missed,” he said, the strain gone from his voice. His left forearm uncovered his right. His right hand swung forward from across his belly, a big Colt coming around cocked, firing round after round into Bobby Candles’ chest. On the fifth shot, Lane stopped. He stood and walked forward. He cocked the Colt on its last shot and aimed it down between Candles’ fading eyes. “I bet my life you couldn’t hit a damn thing,” he said, and he pulled the trigger.
When Coots and Farris topped the rise, leading their horses, rifles in hand, Lane saw them. But he stood with his hand chest high and said, “It’s me, Eddie Lane. Don’t shoot.”
The two looked relieved and walked forward. They stopped and looked at Bobby Candles’ bullet-riddled body and the bullet hole between his partially open eyes. “I bet he’s deader than he ever thought he’d be,” said Coots.
Lane nodded. “Yes, I got the one I was after,” he said with relief. “What about you, did you get the man who shot your friend and his dog?”
“I put a bullet in him,” said Coots. “Whether or not I killed him, I don’t know.” He nodded at Farris and said, “We got so busy keeping each other alive, I had to give up on my vengeance, let things run their course.”
Lane nodded. “I understand. If you didn’t kill Chester Goines, I’ve got a feeling Teacher did.” He gave a nod in the direction where he’d left Dahl and Hatton. “Him and Hatton are up there a couple of miles back. I heard some shooting.”
“What?” said Farris, looking surprised. “My employer is still alive?”
“Yes, I’m certain of it,” said Lane. “Turns out you and he are both most capable men when it comes to taking care of ourselves.”
“I have always liked to think I could stand the test if it were ever put upon me to do so,” Farris said proudly.
“Let’s go,” said Coots. “Now that it’s over, if we stand around too long we’ll start talking too much about it.”
“Yes, you’re right, Mr. Coots,” said Farris. “We must keep moving, in case any of these scoundrels are still alive and lurking about.”
“Oh, I’m sure some got away,” Coots said, swinging up easily into his saddle in spite of his many cuts, nicks and bullet grazes. “But they won’t be wanting to tangle with us, I’ll wager.”
Farris swung up into his saddle as well and turned his horse in the direction Lane had pointed. Seeing Lane still standing on the ground, reins in hand, he said, “Deputy, will you be leading the way?”
“No,” Lane replied, “you two go on. Teacher’s not expecting me. He knew I was gone after this one.” He nodded at Candles’ body lying sprawled in the dirt. “Tell him it’s done. Tell him adios for me,” he said.
The two watched in respect as the deputy stepped into his saddle and rode away. Finally Carlton Farris said with a sigh, “Well, that’s that, as they say.” He took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Coots, will you think me terribly odd if I tell you I will miss all this?”
The teamster only stared at him for a moment; then he gave a faint grin as the two turned their horses and rode away.
Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack makes a roaring return—with his own special brand of justice! Don’t miss a page of action from America’s most exciting Western author, Ralph Cotton.
HANGING IN WILD WIND
Coming from Signet in August 2010
Vientos Salvajes, New Mexico Badlands
The first shot from the ranger’s big Colt sent outlaw Morris Wheeler flying backward through the open door of the Belleza Grande Cantina. The sound of the gunshot sent people scrambling in every direction, emptying the busy dirt street. Even as Wheeler crashed down across a table filled with empty bottles, shot glasses and wooden cups, the ranger had already turned around, his smoking Colt poised and ready. He searched the street warily for his next target.
He saw no one, but he knew there were three others. He’d seen them before he’d even ridden into Vientos Salvajes. He had lain atop a rocky trail and watched the outlaws through his battered army telescope. He’d counted four of Silva “the Snake” Ceran’s gang riding toward the bustling badlands town, each of them wearing a long tan riding duster and a broad-brimmed black hat. One of the four he’d recognized as the woman, Kitty Dellaros. The other three were Andy Weeks, Delbert Trueblood and Morris Wheeler. The men were noted thieves and murderers to the man.
He’d seen no sign of Silva Ceran himself, but he had an idea that the gang leader was somewhere nearby, lying low, letting his posse take all the heat that had been on their trail for more than two weeks, ever since the payroll robbery near the mining town of Poindexter.
These were Silva Ceran’s people; there was no questioning that—a few of his people anyway, he thought. Riding with Ceran had become a popular pursuit among the swell of saddle trash who preyed on the citizens along both sides of the border.
The ranger knew very little about Kitty Dellaros other than her name and the reports that she’d been riding with Silva Ceran of late. As for the three gunmen, he knew them well enough. He’d been carrying around posters of their grim faces in his saddlebags for weeks. The three were desert outlaws from the old Sugar Blanton Gang. He also carried each man’s name written down on a list that he carried in his vest pocket along with the battered stub of a lead pencil. He’d hoped to put his pencil to good use today.
As he turned to gather Black Pot, his Appaloosa stallion, he heard a voice call out from in front of the cantina, “Ranger, you must come quickly, por favor. This one is still alive.” An elderly man jumped up and down in place, waving his long, bony arms to get the ranger’s attention.
Still alive . . . ? The ranger looked surprised. But no sooner than the old man had spoken, a gunshot accompanied by a string of cursing and a crash of breaking glass erupted from inside the cantina. “Stay out here,” the ranger said, giving the old man a quick once-over, making sure this was not a trick of some sort.