Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch
Sid Davis
Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch
Copyright © 2012, by Sid Davis.
Cover Copyright © 2012 Sunbury Press.
NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION
Printed in the United States of America
May 2012
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-059-9
Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-060-5
ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-061-2
Published by:
Sunbury Press
Camp Hill, PA
www.sunburypress.com
Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA
Chapter 1
The large bay gelding snorted as his hooves lost traction in loose shale and slid several feet down an unstable slope into a wide dry stream bed. That sudden slip saved Walsh Patrick’s life. Less than an inch above his leg, a heavy 405 grain slug smashed through his saddle fork fractions of a second before he heard the boom of a big bore rifle. Parts of the iron saddle horn, along with wood splinters and chunks of torn leather, exploded outward in several directions.
The impact knocked the horse to its knees catapulting its rider forward. Stunned, Walsh hit the ground hard and rolled several feet coming to a stop partially under a four-foot high sagebrush. Kicking up gravel and dirt, the terrified horse lunged to its feet and plunged recklessly down the gulch leaving behind a slowly settling cloud of dust.
Echoes from the rifle shot bounced off steep canyon walls followed by fading sounds of a run-away horse sending rocks and gravel flying in its headlong flight down the canyon. Near complete silence followed. For a few moments nothing moved, not even a breeze through stunted oak brush and junipers that lined both sides of the dry wash.
Several minutes passed. Then as if on cue, a cricket close by started to chirp. Two crows circling overhead caw back and forth and a few bees resumed checking out the sparse pale yellow blooms on nearby rabbit brush.
Dazed, Walsh laid face down in the sand and gravel of the dry stream bed. Groggily he tried to piece together what just happened. Obviously someone just tried to kill me and only luck saved my bacon, flashed through his mind. He flexed his arm and leg muscles hoping the fall didn’t break any bones. No sharp pains shot up his leg nor does he feel a stabbing back pain. So far so good. I got lucky for now.
Another chilling thought suddenly forced its way into Walsh’s mind, the shooter’s still out there...he’s sure to check up on his shot and make sure he finishes the job if he doesn’t find a dead body. Panic surged through him. Desperately he fought off the urge to get up and run. If that dry gulcher’s still waiting and watching for movement, that could bring another shot and this time he probably wouldn’t miss. Better stay put for now and hope that son-of-a-bitch can’t see me. His head throbbed and breathing became difficult. He desperately fought to clear his thinking and gain some control over a wave of ice cold fear that threatened to envelop and paralyze him.
Walsh carefully slid his hand down his right side feeling for his holster. His fingers found it, but it was empty. His Colt must have fallen out when he was thrown. Moving his head as little as possible he scanned the ground around where he lay, but didn’t see it. Again, strong feelings of panic washed over him. He struggled to calm down his pounding heart and focus on his immediate surroundings.
The smell of dust still lingered in the air along with a pungent odor of crushed sage. Bees buzzed overhead flitting from sage and rabbit brush blossoms indifferent to his struggle to stay alive.
Walsh swore softly to himself wondering how the hell he got in this mess. Who is this hombre trying to kill me? Obviously the who and why ain’t worth a lick of horse shit right now; getting out of this with my skin intact is. Another wave of panic threatened to overwhelm him. He fought to control it; push it out of his mind. For the moment, he managed to get a tenuous upper hand on his fear and decided his best chance was to stay put.
He became aware of the mid-morning sun burning his back and neck adding to the suffocating heat reflecting off surrounding rocks and sand. Sweat trickled down his back and forehead stinging his eyes. A hand-sized roving tarantula paused inches from his face waving its hairy three-inch front legs while its double rows of four eyes checked him out. Deciding he wasn’t prey, the brown and orange spider sought relief from the heat under a nearby rock.
Walsh realized he couldn’t stay where he was at much longer without moving and giving away his position. His racing heart pumped adrenalin through his system causing his mind to desperately search for a way out of what may be his last few minutes alive. He forced himself to focus on listening for any sounds that could tell him where the shooter was — what he was up to.
A displaced rock suddenly clattered down a slope a couple of hundred yards behind Walsh. Moments later a rock clicked against another followed by the unmistakable sounds of someone trying to cautiously navigate his way down a talus covered slope.
More rocks broke loose as the shooter worked his way diagonally down the steep slope. He stopped every few moments and carefully scanned the dry creek bed trying to locate his downed target. He held his rifle stock under his arm barrel forward, thumb on the hammer, finger on the trigger ready for a fast follow-up shot.
The shooter took his time. He knew his quarry was down there somewhere dead, wounded or hiding and couldn’t go far on foot. He was confident he held all the aces...this was one hand he couldn’t lose.
Walsh clearly heard his attacker slide the last few yards to the bottom of the dry creek bed and began to hunt for him among large rocks and clumps of sage and rabbit brush. Breathing came in short gasps and more sweat ran down his forehead and back. His mind raced faster, he had only a few moments to come up with something or die like a squealing cornered jackrabbit.
He grappled with another round of paralyzing fear, and then it flashed through Walsh’s desperate mind that he had a seven-inch Bowie in a leather sheath sewn in his right boot lining. He eased his hand down and his fingers barely touched the top of the knife handle. A little more effort and his fingers closed around the familiar stag handle. He slowly drew his knife out of its sheath and slid it out of sight under his chest.
Not much against a cautious and alert rifleman ...and how many times have we joked around campfires about some idiot who took a knife to a gunfight and ended up six feet under, he thought grimly fighting to control an insane urge to laugh in an attempt to break the almost unbearable tension and fear that enveloped him.
Closing in to about a hundred feet from where Walsh lay, the shooter made no effort to conceal his approach. His confidence high that he had hit his intended target. He just needed to see the body to make sure...an arrogance fueled by a shooter who knew his weapon and had long experience honing his hunting and shooting skills.
In desperation, Walsh decided his only chance was to play dead
and hope his ambusher would get careless and walk up for closer look. Then he might have an outside chance of disabling him with his Bowie enough to get away.
Heavy footsteps in the loose rocks and gravel suddenly stopped. The shooter spotted his target and studied Walsh’s still form for a moment. He pulled the hammer all the way back on his rifle to full cock and advanced cautiously finger on the trigger taking no chances.
Walsh heard the familiar click of a Sharps hammer and knew if the shooter decided to make sure of his kill with a second shot, he was gonna be singing with angels. Grasping the knife’s handle now slippery with sweat, he waited, hoping his ambusher would come closer instead of shooting.
Through slitted eyes, Walsh watched a pair of dusty boots approach him. He held his breath and waited. Seconds passed as the shooter stood looking down at him.
Walsh couldn’t hold his breath much longer. He knew the slightest movement would result in a bullet to the head. Sweat ran down his face and back and he desperately prayed that it wouldn’t give him away.
After what felt like an eternity, the shooter prodded Walsh in the ribs with the Sharp’s barrel. Getting no reaction, he shoved his boot toe under his victim in an attempt to flip him over so he could make sure his quarry was dead.
Applying upward pressure with his right boot momentarily unbalanced the shooter. Walsh suddenly rolled away and heaved up on one knee. He knocked away the Sharp’s barrel with his left hand. His right arm thrust upward toward the man’s torso with his Bowie. The long seven inch blade drove home between two ribs and sliced through the heart's pulmonary artery. Pushed back by the force of the thrust, the shooter fell over backwards. His finger jerked back on the trigger discharging the Sharps harmlessly into the air. The rifle tumbled from his hands as he clawed at the knife buried in his chest. Walsh sprang after him trying to get his hands around his neck in a choke hold. But the effort wasn’t needed, the shooter was quickly dying. Blood bubbled down the side of his mouth. His body thrashed about fighting for more time on earth as life drained from his body.
As the dying man caught sight of Walsh’s face, his eyes opened wide and he gasped hoarsely, “You, you’re not....”. He never finished. His body convulsed and his eyes glazed and became fixed and sightless in death staring up at Walsh.
Crouched over the body, Walsh stared in shock at the dead man. He fought waves of nausea that washed over him then crawled over and slumped down beside a nearby rock weak and soaked with sweat. His ears rang and head throbbed from the concussion of the big bore .45-70 that discharged inches from his head.
Some twenty minutes later, the adrenalin in Walsh's body had slowly powered down and awareness of what happened started to sink in. He staggered over to the dead shooter stretched out on his back, sightless eyes staring at the sun. The Bowie knife’s coffin-shaped stag handle protruded from the dead man's chest. Blood soaked the front of his shirt and coat and had seeped into the sand and gravel leaving a large red stain.
Walsh winced, reached down and jerked his knife free. He stood there for several moments staring at the blade covered in blood not quite believing what had happened. The metallic smell of fresh blood assailed his nostrils and forced Walsh down onto his knees dry heaving. After a few moments, he gained control and struggled to his feet feeling as if he had been turned inside out. His sides hurt and his mouth tasted like ten-day-old coyote kill. A few feet away next to one of the canyon walls, a seep created a wet spot and Walsh vigorously washed the blood off his hands and knife in the wet sand. He wiped the blade dry with his bandana reflecting grimly that if this is the way it feels to kill a man, he hoped he never gets in this situation again.
To watch a man die, his life violently wrenched out of him by his own hand was a burden he was not sure he could carry. He had seen men killed when thrown from horses, kicked in the head by mules, gunned down in street fights and from all manner of ailments. But never so close. Never inches away and by his doing— or watching the life drain from an adversary’s eyes.
Standing in the hot sun staring at the long slender blade, Walsh’s hands started to shake. Nearly forgotten memories of tales his uncle used to tell years ago before he was killed in a duel swirled up from the hidden recesses of his mind like a dark mist. Stories of a blacksmith named James Black who had forged the original Bowie knife from a wooden model Jim Bowie had given him in 1826.
James Black forged several knives from that model, one he lost to Walsh’s uncle during a poker game (three of a kind didn’t beat a full house) on a Mississippi riverboat. At the time, an old gambler at the table had told of a Creole witch doctor who had cursed the knives Black made from Bowie’s design. Death would follow whoever owned one of the clip-pointed blades with a coffin-shaped handle.
Walsh shuddered at the memory, forced it from his mind and struggled back to reality as he scooped out a small hollow in the seep and let it fill. Dipping his bandana in the brown-tinted water, he washed his face and neck. He felt slightly better, considering he had just killed a man.
Even though this hombre had tried his best to kill me, it doesn’t make me feel any better that I ended up killing him, Walsh thought and struggled to his feet unsteadily.
Walsh searched around where his horse threw him and found his Colt half buried in sand and gravel. Not far away he spotted his saddle bags lodged in a rabbit brush. He shoved his pistol into his holster making a mental note that it would require a thorough cleaning as soon as possible.
What the hell do I do now? He thought as he squatted on his heels looking at the dead man. Do I bury him, pile some rocks on him or try and take him to the town I hear is a few miles south? Maybe I’d better take him to the sheriff there and see if he can find out who he is...and hopefully find out why he tried to bushwhack me.
With that decision made, Walsh scanned the bluff where he believed the shooter waited. I need to climb up there and see what I can find, he thought. Maybe I can get an idea of who he was.
Walsh found climbing up the steep incline through sliding rocks and loose gravel difficult. Twice he started small avalanches that buried him to his knees in loose shale and dirt. Eventually he made it to the top hot and exhausted. He dropped down, pulled off his boots and shook out a small pile of dirt and small rocks.
After a short breather, he searched along the bluff and found a spot where the shooter had lain in wait and at least a dozen cigarette butts littered a rough twelve-foot circle. A metallic glint caught Walsh’s eye and he picked up a fired 45-70 brass case. Smells of freshly burned gunpowder, bet this is the round that nearly fried my bacon, he thought tossing the case, not wanting to keep a reminder of how close he came to death.
An impatient whinny and stamping hooves revealed where the shooter had tied his horse behind a dense thicket of mountain oak nearby. Walsh found a large Morgan buckskin with a finely tooled saddle adorned with silver conchos – not a working outfit an ordinary cowboy would own. He untied the buckskin and led it along the bluff finding a less steep route to the dry wash below. Even so, the horse slid and skidded down on his haunches sending small avalanches of loose shale crashing to the bottom ahead of them.
Walsh led the buckskin to where the body lay. He removed a bedroll tied behind the dead man’s saddle and wrapped his body in it. He attempted to shove the body up and over the saddle, but the horse didn’t want anything to do with the smell of death. With ears laid back, it started snorting and kicking. Walsh backed off, stroked and talked to it soothingly. After a few minutes, he calmed the gelding down and heaved the body over the saddle and lashed it securely. Not an easy feat considering the shooter was at least six feet, 240 pounds dead weight and the horse was still skittish and uncooperative.
Walsh led the still-resisting mount burdened with a dead body on foot down the sandy wash. Steep hillsides of talus and loose rock rose up hundreds of feet on both sides— a corridor into Henry valley cut by eons of flash floods. Hopefully I can find a wagon track that leads to the nearest town, he thought. Otherwise
I'll have to bury this body and never find out who he was and why he tried to kill me.
A Basque sheepherder Walsh had encountered a few days ago scratched out a rough map in the dirt about a short cut from Grass Valley through Dry Bone Gulch to Henry Valley. He had told of an easily visible wagon track from the mouth of the gulch that led to a town located about six miles into the valley. Several smaller ranches in the area ran stock, but the biggest spread, the Circle C was always looking for top cowhands since they were hard to find in that isolated valley.
The winter had been especially bad in Montana and Wyoming with heavy cattle losses so Walsh's employer had elected to let all single cow punchers go. Walsh didn’t hold it against his former boss. He knew he was trying to do the right thing by keeping the married ones as long as possible, a common practice among most of the bigger ranchers. Being a top hand, he felt confident he could find work further south and south he would ride all the way to Arizona or Texas if need be.
Both man and horse endured a half hour of hot and dusty hiking fighting biting horse flies as they neared the canyon’s outlet. Walsh spotted his horse grazing in a stand of cottonwoods where it had finally stopped in its headlong flight down the wash. He whistled. The horse raised his head, recognized him and trotted over.
A shattered saddle still clung to the horse’s back though it had slipped sideways and the left stirrup had dragged the ground. A bedroll tied behind the saddle was missing along with an empty rifle scabbard. Walsh had sold his prized ‘73 Winchester several days ago to buy a few supplies to keep him going till he could hopefully find work.
Walsh examined his mount and found a shallow four-inch furrow burned by the .45-70 slug that shattered his saddle. One inch either way and one or both of them would be dead. He also noticed his horse favored its right front leg and found a missing shoe and bruising from its flight down the canyon. This gave him no choice but to hoof it himself and lead both horses. He looked down at his badly worn boots. I hope they can last till I get to that town ahead, he thought as he set off following the wash to where it fanned out into Henry valley. He spotted a faint wagon track that pointed southwest through scattered junipers and across expansive sagebrush flats.
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