by Chuck Tyrell
Cap and Weldon Higgins went along the edge of the south wall, both with a Winchester in hand.
Ahead, Dred strode up the middle of Dead Man’s Notch, his rifle held aslant his chest. He knew for sure that the Shadow Box Gang was on its way to Pierce’s Crossing or the Calleville ferry. Naturally he was cautious, but not as cautious as perhaps he should have been. He started through the S. As he entered the first curve, Dred noticed a cross scratched into the rock wall. The resting place for dead men, he thought. Automatically, he studied the ground, but the soft sand showed only the dents made by passing horses and cattle. No telling how fresh they were. Behind him, horses blew, saddles creaked, and the plop plop of hooves rebounded from the walls. So much for stealth. So much for taking care. So much … Dred took a deep breath. Good thing that gang of outlaws was headed for the Colorado.
At the east end of Dead Man’s Notch, boulders scattered across the rolling hills as if cast by a giant’s hand. The trail towards Silverton wended a lazy way through the scattered boulders, some as large as a house. Many more were smaller and bunched together in piles.
As he exited the Notch, Dred felt the pounding of running horses against the soles of his feet. Instantly he sprinted back into Dead Man’s Notch, running first to the women, then to the men. “Horses coming fast,” he said to each group “Hurry through the Notch and hide among the boulders on the far side.
Mitt and Cap Grant had their horses on the run the moment Dred told them riders were coming, and those horses ran like it was the Fourth of July race, hooves pounding in the soft sand of Dead Man’s Notch.
Dred dropped back to the S and hid among rock shards from a fallen column. The pounding came closer, then stopped.
Dred waited, Winchester cocked and ready.
“Lookit that cross. Wonder if they was any gold with them old bones.”
“Shut up. Keep your eyes open. Who knows what’s in this here Notch.”
Dred wished he had a death mask. That would put a fright into the coming white men. He took the long scalp he’d taken from one of the bandits and tied it so it would dangle from the barrel of his Winchester when he held the rifle to his shoulder to fire.
A horse blew.
Deed melded into the sheer rock wall.
A horseshoe clicked against a stone. Dred could hear the jingle of bridle bits and the creak of saddle leather. He took two long strides from the wall and brought his Winchester to his cheek. When the first horse rounded the last twist of the S, Dred shot it between the eyes.
The horse collapsed, throwing its rider to the ground.
Dred jacked another shell into the rifle and shot the next horse. It tossed its head just as Dred pulled the trigger and the bullet caught the horse in the neck. Blood squirted. The horse reared, screaming. The rider fell, and the horse raced back through the S, spraying blood. It wouldn’t run far.
Two horses down. Dred started walking back through the S. He’d decided to go, devil take all.
The rider dumped by the neck-shot horse scrambled for cover behind the head-shot one. Dred popped a shot at him but missed. The moment Dred’s rifle fired, a man put a rifle over the dead horse’s flanks and triggered a shot at the Seminole. The bullet chopped its way through his deltoid muscle.
Dred grunted. He began singing his death song. The only way the outlaws would pass through Dead Man’s Notch was over his dead body. He jacked another shell into his Winchester, waved its scalp trophy, and continued to sing his song.
The Shadow Box Gang, at least the four outlaws still alive, made no attempt to hide their trail, and by noon, Stryker knew where they were going. He reined Speckles to a halt and motioned for the others to gather round.
“Them jehus is aiming for Silverton,” he said. “They’re headed straight to Dead Man’s Notch. We need to catch them before they run into Dred and Cap Grant and the women. It’ll be hard on the horses, but it’s something we gotta do. Come on.”
Stryker lifted Speckles into a trot, a pace he could keep up for hour after hour. He knew he’d have to watch Comstock, though, because the pounding of butt on saddle would wear out the novice rider before the horse worked up a sweat.
Speckles’ trot was almost a fast walk like that of a Tennessee walker, and Comstock’s Chicoueno was a tall horse with a long stride that helped soften the effect of his trot on Comstock’s butt. Stryker ignored the Kid and Gid Rockwell. If there was a weakness in their party, it was Fletcher Comstock.
Two hours into the run for Dead Man’s Notch, Stryker called a halt. “Give your horses what water you have,” he said. “And any oats you may be carrying.”
Stryker poured all but a mouthful of water from his canteen into his hat and gave it to Speckles.
Rockwell and the Kid did the same. Then the Kid stood off to the side and practiced drawing and dry-firing his Colt Armies.
“What’s wrong, Fletcher?” Stryker said.
“No canteen.” Comstock bit out the words.
“Fletch, ya gotta watch out for water in this country. See any laying around, you snatch it up. That Shadow Box Gang left two dead men back by the Muddy. Took their horses, but left their gear. Canteens and all. We had no need for the saddles, but I grabbed those canteens. You might as well have one.” He lifted a canteen from his saddle horn and handed it to Comstock. “Water’s worth a lot more than gold in the desert,” he said.
“Obliged,” was all Comstock could say. He took the canteen, and after two swallows for himself, poured the rest in his hat for Chicoueno.
After everyone had his wet hat back on his head, Stryker raised his voice. “No more water from here through Dead Man’s Notch and on to the Virgin River. Thirty miles or so may not sound like all that much, but I promise you, it’s gonna feel like forever.
Water in their bellies and a cup or so of oats on top of that, the horses had a spring in their gaits as Stryker and his posse lined out for Dead Man’s Notch. But the spring left their steps before the posse had gone an hour on its way toward the Notch. The animals kept up the trot that Stryker and Speckles set, but their gaits now seemed strained. Their heads bobbed with each step, but they rarely blew. They seemed to know that blowing robbed their bodies of precious moisture.
Stryker slowed the party to a walk. The mountains ahead had grown from light blue outlines far across the flats to blue-brown crags of jumbled boulders to which mesquite, creosote, greasewood, and Joshua trees clung. They could see the sharp slash in the mountains that was Dead Man’s Notch, which would allow them to get through the mountains to the water of the Virgin River.
Then, from across the desert that yet lay between Stryker’s posse and Dead Man’s Notch came the crash of a rifle followed by another. A moment of silence, then the bark of pistols and another sharper crash of rifle fire.
“Let’s go!” Stryker shouted. He applied the ends of the reins to Speckles’ hide. The roan appaloosa hit a flat-out run in three strides. Stryker paid no attention to the other riders. They’d know the seriousness of shots from the Notch. They’d know and they’d keep up if they could.
Speckles thundered on, Stryker leaning forward in the saddle to shift his weight toward the horse’s shoulders so it was easier to carry.
They ran and they ran. The Notch seemed close when Stryker had called on the posse to run, but as happens so often, the mountains were much farther away than they looked. Five miles? Ten? Even the sound of shots were funneled by the Notch so they sounded closer than they were.
They ran.
Speckles stumbled, recovered, and went back to his neck-stretched run. But now his head bobbed and he made ung ung ung sounds every time his forelegs hit the ground. The strain of his horse hit Stryker deep in the place he lived, but he had to sacrifice his friend Speckles for a chance to save the women who had gone ahead.
He heard no more shots, but the sound may have been drowned out by the pounding of the posse’s horses’ hooves.
“There they are!” Kid Leslie screamed. He put his reins in his
mouth, pulled both his pistols, and rode pell-mell for the horsemen coming out of the Notch, one man on one horse and two on another. The Kid triggered shot after shot, even though the chance of hitting the men from so far away was negligible.
The single rider rose in his stirrups, took careful aim with his rifle, and dropped the Kid from his saddle.
“Get. That. Man!” Stryker roared. He too stood in his stirrups to fire at the outlaws. Gid Rockwell did the same, and Fletcher Comstock stopped Chicoueno by the fallen Kid, dismounted, ignoring shots from the outlaws, intent on helping the youngster if he could.
The outlaws spurred northwards along the foothills to escape the lead thrown from Stryker and Gid Rockwell’s guns.
“Cease fire!” Stryker hollered, reverting to military language. “We can run them boys down after we find out what they was doing in Dead Man’s Notch.
Gid Rockwell hauled back on his horse’s reins. He sat watching the disappearing cloud of dust that marked the outlaws’ route. “Don’t like it,” he said. “Close enough to put this all behind us with them in a shallow grave, and we’re stopping.”
“We’ve got a man down and no telling what in Dead Man’s Notch,” Stryker said, “but you’re welcome to trail them on your own, if that’s more to your liking.” Stryker waved him on. “Go. Go,” he shouted, then turned his attention to Fletcher Comstock. “How’s the Kid?”
“Gone. Nothing I could do for him. Probably dead when he hit the ground.”
“Damn. I just keep losing men. Best hoist him over his saddle and go on through the Notch to see what started this ballyhoo.” Stryker dismounted to help Comstock load the Kid’s body onto his horse, belly down.
“Let’s move,” Stryker said. He picked up the reins of the Kid’s horse and led him over to Speckles. “Hold up, now, cayuse,” he said. “I’ll be climbing aboard.” He swung into the saddle. Comstock was still hunkered down, looking at the stain of life’s blood the Kid had left on the ground. “Come on, Fletcher. Let’s move. Mourning don’t do no good to nobody.”
“He wasn’t even twenty, Matt.”
“He went down fighting, Fletch. Just like he always said he would.”
“Yeah, I reckon.”
“Come on. We gotta go through Dead Man’s Notch. Something in there shucked those bad men of their horses and maybe some guns.” Stryker turned Speckle’s head toward the Notch and gave him a light spur in the flanks to get him going.
Halfway through the Notch, almost to the S curve, Stryker heard a voice. Not a voice of anguish or pain, but a quiet voice singing a low rhythmic song, a death song. At first he could not locate the source of the sound, but the song came from under the overhang just past the cross chiseled on the vertical walls of the Notch.
Dred was under the overhang, his rifle across his knees. A trail of dried blood showed where he’d been hit and where he’d stood and where he’d walked. Four horses lay dead in the Nevada sun. Two with saddles, two without. A dead outlaw sprawled in the shade of his dead horse. In true Apache fashion, Dred had gone for their horses first. “You’re a good man, Dred,” Stryker said.
“Some got away. I cannot track any more. The bad men put too many bullets in me. I sang my song, but their bullets still found me. Maybe today is a good day to die, Matthew Stryker.” Dred resumed his death song, almost too softly to be heard.
“Rest well, my friend,” Stryker said.
Dred kept singing.
Chapter Ten – Shadow Box Getaway
Cahill Bowman felt momentary exhilaration when his bullet crashed that your fool from his saddle. Any gunman with a lick of sense would know the chance of hitting a man on a horse from over fifty yards away was next to nil. A good rifle’s a different matter though, he said to himself.
Bowman still rode his black-pointed bay gelding, but the horse had gone many miles without enough water or browse. Junior Saxenhausen and Geebee rode one horse. Flapjack’d gone down with his horse in Dead Man’s Notch. That damn black Indian’d shot four of the Shadow Box Gang’s six horses. Bowman and Flapjack’d gotten lead into the Indian, but he’d just kept on coming. Then Flapjack went down, and Geebee picked Junior up on his way out of Dead Man’s Notch. Bowman could do nothing but follow them, catch them, and go out into the lead. After all, he was the boss of the Shadow Box Gang, wasn’t he?
When his horse began to heave, trying to get enough air into its lungs to keep on running, Bowman hauled back on the reins and slowed the big bay to a walk. Geebee and Junior lagged by a good hundred yards. Tough on a horse to have to carry double. Gamely, it trotted after Bowman’s bay, favoring its offside front leg as it came.
“Whoa up,” Bowman said to his horse. It obeyed, and he sat in the dry Nevada heat, waiting for Geebee and Junior to catch up. He drew his six-gun.
“Damn horse’s about to give in,” Geebee said as they plodded up to Bowman.
“Jumpin’ Jehosophat,” Junior said. “Ain’t nothing like the James boys.”
“Whatta ya know about the Jameses?” Bowman said.
“Read about ’em. They was even a letter writ by Jesse hisself what said people was robbing banks and blaming him, but he was just getting back at Yankee re . . re … cornstrukshunists, he was.”
“You read too much, kid,” Bowman said, and he shot Junior Saxenhausen in the right eye. The bullet blew a hunk of the boy’s head out just over his left ear. He dropped from Geebee’s tired horse like a sack of potatoes.
Geebee watched Bowman, his eyes wide with whites showing like a frightened colt.
Bowman put his six-gun away.
“Whatcha go and shoot Junior for?” Geebee said. “He didn’t do nothing.”
“We only got two horses,” Bowman said. “Now we only got two men. Silverton’ll get what’s coming when the Shadow Box Gang gets built up again.” He put a hand on the butt of his .45. “You with me? You still one of the Shadow Box Gang?”
Geebee’s lower lip trembled. “Ain’t I been with you since we was kids in Tennessee, Cahill Bowman? Ain’t I?”
Bowman hesitated. “Yeah, you have, Geebee. An’ maybe that’s what’s keeping me from plugging you and taking your horse. Maybe so.”
Geebee watched Bowman with careful eyes. “You got no call to doubt me, Cahill. No call a’tall.”
Hmph. Bowman took his hand away from the Colt. “Let’s get on down the trail, then. No good standing around here and letting that posse ketch up with us. Besides, we gotta get that gold. Come on.” Bowman spurred the bay and it jumped in reaction, then took to the westward trail at a swift trot. Bowman didn’t look back to see if Geebee was following. He would or he wouldn’t. And with all the gold from the Silverton bullion room, it wouldn’t take long to put together another Shadow Box Gang. Bowman smiled. Gold. Everything in the world came down to money. And gold was the best kind of money there was.
The bay began to lag long before Bowman and Geebee were across the alkali flats that lay between the Mormon Mountains and the low hilly formations that bordered the Muddy on its way into the Colorado southeast of Calleville. He reined the horse in and waited for Geebee to catch up. He studied the back trail, but saw no telltale dust to indicate the posse was still following them.
Geebee and his horse had the same washed out hangdog look about them. “Hoss wants water,” Geebee said when he got close enough for Bowman to hear him.
“Don’t we all?” Bowman said. “If we can get another couple or three miles behind us, the plugs’ll smell the Muddy. That’ll perk ’em up.” He gigged the bay. It heaved a sigh and began plodding westward toward the line of hills that bordered the Muddy. Bowman uncorked his canteen, tipped it up, and took the last swallow of water. It was almost hot enough to take the skin right off his tongue. With luck, they’d reach the Muddy by midnight. With luck.
Dred’s death song drifted away from his lips. He relaxed, letting death come as it might. He took a deep breath, but none of the air seemed to do him any good. He choked. The monolithic wall of Dead Man’s Notch
felt hot to his back, then cold.
“Dred. Dred.”
The Seminole’s eyelids cracked open at the sound of Stryker’s voice. His lips moved. Maybe he was still singing his death song. His head lolled, then stopped, with his chin on his chest. Stryker put his fingers against Dred’s neck, looking for a pulse, a spark that said he was still there. None. Gone. The good man Iron Nail had sent to ride with Stryker’s posse was gone. His face carried a look of peace. Perhaps his death song had carried his spirit to a better place. Stryker took the Winchester from Dred’s death grip, then unbuckled the belt at Dred’s waist and removed it, along with the 14-inch Bowie that had rested on Dred’s left hip.
“Farewell, Dred,” Stryker said. He arranged Dred’s body so it lay up against the wall of red rock that lined Dead Man’s Notch. He glanced skyward. Already zopilote vultures wheeled on the thermal updrafts from the Notch.
A horse came from the Virgin River side of the Notch.
Stryker jacked a shell into Dred’s Winchester and pointed it toward the coming horse.
Cap Grant rounded the outgoing curve in the Notch. He took in the situation with a glance. “Dred’s gone, then.”
“He is. And so is Jimmy the Kid Leslie. He’s belly down on the horse.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. Women all right?”
“Well as can be expected.”
“Can you get them back to Silverton? Take Jimmy Leslie, too?”
“Yes. But what will you do? Shouldn’t you come with us?”
“Not possible, Cap. An’ with you and Milt at the reins, I don’t reckon much could go wrong.”
Cap shrugged. “We’ll get the women into Silverton, Matt.”
“We’ll be back as soon as we catch that Shadow Box outfit. Can’t let gangs get the idea that places like Silverton just roll over and play dead whenever they come to town.”