Sweat ran down Walsh’s forehead and back. Breathing became labored. In spite of his efforts to keep dark and fatalistic thoughts from overwhelming him, he realized the odds against him were overwhelming. Well, if I’m going to die, I’m going down fightin’ and I’m going to take as many of them with me as I can...
Walsh raised his head slightly over the dead fall looking for Thaxton. He heard a gunshot and before he could react, a heavy slug impacted the log inches away spraying him with wood splinters. He ducked down. More rounds blew chunks out of the deadfall and ricocheted around him. The other two trackers circled around and were closing in on foot. They spotted him from about a hundred yards away and started firing their rifles as fast as they could eject spent rounds and lever in fresh .44 cartridges.
Jonas made a split-second decision. His sworn duty mandated he bring back Walsh for a formal hearing; watching bounty hunters gun him down prevented him from doing that. That meant he had no choice but to protect him. He swung into action, grabbed a handful of cartridges from his saddlebag and stuffed them in his vest pocket.
Leaving his horses tethered out of sight, Jonas slid and slipped down the rocky slope toward the shooting. He took advantage of the cover trees and boulders afforded to get within a couple of hundred yards of one of Thaxton’s henchmen who was so intent on shooting at Walsh that he didn’t see Jonas approaching.
Two hundred yards was a long shot for a Winchester .44-40, but Jonas was no ordinary rifleman. Using an aspen sapling for a rifle rest, he squeezed off a round that put the gunman down. Seconds later, several quick shots reverberated from Walsh’s position, but from where Jonas was he couldn’t see who was shooting.
Jonas inched closer using the available cover. He came to a large boulder and cautiously peered around one side. A bullet suddenly splattered inches from his head sending rock chips flying. He jerked back and crawled around to the other side of the rock. Not wanting to invite hot lead again, he backed up several steps then dove for a large pinion a few feet away and rolled behind the thick trunk. Nothing. Whoever shot at him had either moved or now couldn’t see him
He slowly peeked around the tree trunk and saw no one. He waited. No sound. No one was moving. Each waited for the other to do something foolish. Jonas was not the patient type in a gunfight so he belly crawled to another tree, then to a rock trying to find a spot where he could see and flush out the shooter.
Walsh flattened down as far as he could while the gunmen on both flanks closed in firing steadily, their bullets clipped branches and blew off chunks of the dead fall. He heard a gunshot from further away followed by a cry from the attacker on his right. Chancing a quick look over the top of the dead fall, he saw the gunman go down clutching his chest. He turned and spotted the other gunman working the lever of his carbine trying to clear a jam or misfire. Walsh flipped up his Colt and squeezed off two shots. Both missed. He pulled back the hammer and fired the third time just as the gunman cleared and fired his carbine. Both shooters find their target. The gunman, hit dead center, dropped his rifle and sank into some tall grass. His shot impacted Walsh’s shoulder throwing him back against the deadfall.
For a moment all was quiet. Jonas got up and sprinted to a large boulder. He saw Walsh and the other gunman exchange shots. “Where’s the other one?” Jonas muttered to himself scanning the dense stand of firs where he last saw one of the gunmen threading through the trees. He saw a brief movement and swung his rifle up to shoot, but the figure disappeared behind a large fir.
Jonas waited focusing on the spot where he last saw movement. Again he saw a shadow darting between trees and got off a fast shot that splintered an aspen sapling. The gunman sprinted through the trees trying to get back to his horse. Jonas swung his rifle firing and working the lever as fast as he could. Bullets clipped branches and sent chunks of bark flying but he didn’t hit his running target. His rifle’s hammer fell on an empty chamber with a loud click. His rifle was empty.
Before Jonas could reload, Thaxton reached his horse. He grabbed the saddle horn and urged his mount down the canyon at a gallop. The horse dragged him for several yards before he managed to jab his foot into the stirrup. He hung on precariously in a desperate effort to put distance between him and Jonas’ rifle.
Intense pain shot through Walsh’s shoulder when he tried to sit up. He slumped back down feeling a wet stickiness spreading out from his shoulder. A shadow fell across his position and he looked up expecting to see the muzzle end of a rifle, instead saw Jonas standing there peering down at him with a faint smile.
“You sure cause me a lot of trouble, Walsh. Even more than a whole passel of mad Cheyenne in war paint. Looks like you stopped some lead...” Jonas remarked climbing over the dead fall to take a look. “You can call me Jonas. I’m Sheriff Williams’s deputy…sent me out to find ya.”
“Well then, that makes you a more welcome sight than those others. How did you find me?” Walsh said grimacing in pain.
“Well, the marshal wasn’t too happy about you skipping out on the inquest and he asked me to invite you back — at your earliest convenience, of course. And hell, an Indian four-year old running flat out could have tracked you. Let’s take a look at that bullet hole...” Jonas noticed Walsh’s Bowie knife stuck in the dirt and pulled it out. That’s some kind a knife, looks like a Bowie...”
“Yeh it is, tell you the story some day if we get out of here in one piece.”
Jonas used the razor sharp knife to cut away Jonas’s shirt around the wound. “You’re real lucky. The bullet went all the way through and missed bone and muscle. If we can stop the bleeding you should heal up pretty fast.” He folded a bandana into a square bandage and pressed it against the wound. “Stay put and keep that bandana on it while I go bring my horse and med kit down.”
On his way back up the slope to retrieve his horses, Jonas angled over to where he shot the bounty hunter. The man lay face up, sightless eyes stared at eternity---his face contorted in the grimace of death. Drying blood covered the front of him where Jonas’ rifle shot had hit him in the chest.
Jonas checked the man’s pockets for identification and found a leather wallet, coins and pocket watch. He stuck them in his coat pocket to check out later. After taking the dead man’s pistol belt and rifle, Jonas climbed further up the hill side following boot tracks to the dead bounty hunter’s horse.
Walsh managed to sit upright and watched Jonas lead three horses down the slope toward him.
“You might want to take a look at that hombre I put a bullet in over yonder.” He pointed with his good arm to an area with tall grass about 25 yards away.
Jonas tied the horses to a dead fall, drew his Colt and walked cautiously toward the grassy area. He went about 30 feet, stopped, cocked his six shooter and listened. After a moment, he moved to his left, circled slightly and raised his Colt ready for a quick shot. He found the other bounty hunter curled on his side still alive – gut shot.
Holstering his gun, Jonas kneeled down beside the wounded man and looked at his wound. “Looks like you’re hit pretty bad.”
“Gutshot, the pain’s terrible.”
“What’s your name?”
“Alvorado”
“You’re probably not going to make it Alvorado. Got family – anyone I can contact?”
“Got a half-sister in Reno, Ruth O’Toole...”
“Who’s the other fellow you’re riding with, the one who cut out and left you here?”
The gunman moaned from the pain and anger at being left to slowly die. “Will Thaxton. We’re from Reno. Silvia hired us to kill that Walsh fellow I was shooting at. I would have got him too if my rifle hadn’t jammed. Thaxton and the McCabes knew each other when they lived in Carson City.” He started coughing up blood. “Can’t ya do something? I can’t stand the pain.”
Jonas slowly stood up, walked away a few feet then spun around drawing his six-shooter in one fluid motion and shot the wounded man between the eyes killing him instantly. He stood silently
for a moment, holstered his gun and walked back to where Walsh leaned against the dead fall staring at him pale and wide-eyed. “You just shot that wounded fellow…”
“Well, he was in a lot of pain and asked me to do something…didn’t want him to suffer. Dying from a bullet in the gut isn’t a pretty way to go. Besides it was your shot that put him down— should have let you put him out of his misery.”
Walsh got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “How many more men do I have to kill before this is over?” He mumbled hoarsely looking up at Jonas fighting to control his emotions, “I’m obliged to you for saving my skin, owe you a lot, Jonas...I guess I’m new to this sort of thing.”
Jonas replied with a faint smile, “We’ve got to get you patched up enough to get out of here. I’m sure we’re going to have more company. If that bunch of Circle C hands down below didn’t hear our gunshots, Thaxton will likely run into them.”
Jonas looked around for a sagebrush and spotted one a dozen feet away. He dashed over and stripped off a double handful of leaves. Mixing crushed sage leaves with a little water and flour, he made a poultice and applied it to Walsh’s wound. He then bound it in place with gauze strips from his army issue med kit. “That should keep the infection down. An old Indian trick...”
Jonas dug down in his kit and found a tin of ground up inner bark from a willow tree. He built a small fire, poured water into a large metal coffee cup and added a few pinches of ground bark. “Got this from a Cherokee medicine man awhile back. Works good on pain,” he said stirring the concoction with a twig.
After a few minutes steeping, he strained the liquid through a patch of gauze into a smaller cup and handed it to Walsh, “Drink this while I round up the horses. We need to put some distance between us and any Circle C hands that may want to ride up here and find out what all the shootin’ was about.” Walsh took a sip of the bark tea and gaged. “What kind of brew is this? It tastes worse than scum from the bottom of a buffalo wallow.”
“I didn’t say it would taste like Sarsaparilla; I only said it would help dull pain,” Jonas shot back over his shoulder with a grin.
Chapter 13
Thaxton clung to his saddle half on, half off for a couple of hundred yards before he managed to swing his leg up and over the saddle. Safely out of rifle range, he slowed his mount down and descended the steep slope sliding over loose rocks and shale to the canyon bottom. He stopped and tightened his cinch, noting with disgust that he had dropped his rifle in his haste to get away.
Thaxton slumped down on a rock as a dark rage washed over him. He cursed his luck and the stranger who unexpectedly showed up and foiled his plans— something that didn’t happen often.
His rage slowly powered down leaving him spent and exhausted. It wasn’t long before reality intruded sending a cold chill over him. He realized that without his two hired guns, there was no way he could hunt anyone down and collect a bounty. And in his business, failure to bring back a body over a saddle or a prisoner in chains could ruin a reputation and end a good career fast. Gambling, intimidation and extortion were Thaxton’s strong suites. Actual six-gun and rifle skills he hired as needed from an abundance of hard cases who had flocked west to escape the law in the states and would do anything for a price.
Finding new hires out here on the range won’t be an easy task, so I’m on my own — then again, maybe not. Maybe I can still turn this setback into a winning hand. A winning hand comes not always from the cards you’re dealt, but how you play them. With Walsh wounded, they’ll have to travel slow, so I might get another chance if I shadow them and see where they go, Thaxton reasoned feeling his confidence level ratchet up a notch or two.
Jenny spent an hour trying to give the shack some semblance of civilization, but in the end she realized that it would take a handy man or two and a wagon load of lumber. Discouraged, she sat on the sagging porch and watched a small group of Hereford-Longhorn mix graze in tall grass along a small year-around stream. A family of magpies flitted from tree to tree, their incessant shrill and raucous calls to each other created noisy but familiar sounds. It’s an idyllic place with so much potential. I hate to see it go down hill when Randal spent so much money and effort bringing in a herd of hybrids, she mused trying to fight back a few tears that rolled down her cheeks.
Realizing that tears weren’t going to get her anywhere or change anything, Jenny shuffled over to where she tied her horse. She led it to a small corral off to one side of the shack and removed bridle and saddle. I brought a bedroll and enough food for a couple of days. I think I’ll stay here until tomorrow. Better here than home with Mother on the warpath yelling and screaming at me all the time, Jenny thought with a scowl as she untied her rifle scabbard and hauled it along with her saddle bags to the porch.
Jenny sat down and pulled the new rifle from its scabbard that Ruddy insisted on sending with her. She admired the attractive figured walnut stock that tapered almost to the end of the barrel, and worked the action ejecting ten .45-60 cartridges. She picked up each cartridge, inspected it for damage then pushed it through the loading gate into the magazine. A beautiful rifle. More than enough medicine for any varmints that may come around, she thought with a smile. I can’t wait until this is all over so I can challenge the ranch hands to a shootin’ match. With a little more practice I may be able to best Jonas. I came so close last time. If I do, I hope he won’t get mad at me like all the other hands do when I show them up...
Jonas knew he needed to put some distance fast between them and the Circle C hands. He helped Walsh mount up and led off down the canyon trying to pick the least jarring route through loose rock and unstable slopes.
It was obvious he needed to find a place to hole up so Walsh could start to mend. We’re in the middle of Circle C range and staying hid is going to be a difficult row to hoe, especially if they have anyone who is half-way good at tracking, Jonas reasoned as he stopped and glassed the foothills below. He made out a small group of riders heading up into the foothills toward them. Eventually, they’ll find the bounty hunters’ bodies and start following tracks and that’s not good...
Jonas maneuvered his horse next to Walsh. “With four horses, the trail we’re leaving a year old papoose could follow blindfolded. We need to drop down into the foothills or lower and mingle our tracks with all the cowhands that have churned up the area. Maybe that’ll confuse them for awhile unless they have a good tracker with them. But I don’t think they have. They’re mostly cowpunchers.”
For the next hour Jonas pushed hard to put distance between themselves and where they had the shoot out. They rode down washes, through dense oak brush and pinion into the lower foothills covered with sage and junipers to a small spring where he called a halt. Walsh drooped in the saddle in pain and needed to rest and nearly collapsed when Jonas helped him out of the saddle.
Jonas checked Walsh’s wound and found the bleeding had slowed down considerably. He mixed up a fresh sage poultice and changed the dressing. “I don’t dare start a fire and brew some more pain medicine, but I do have some fine southern bourbon,” Jonas said pulling the cork out of a metal half-pint flask and handed it to Walsh.
“Obliged,” Walsh mumbled weakly and took a long swig. The strong liquid burned down his throat and caused a coughing spasm. “Thought you said that was fine southern bourbon,” he rasped wiping the tears out of his eyes and fighting to breathe again.
“How would I know you’re not used to good spirits? Got it from Sheriff Williams. Probably a hundred percent firewater, truth be known. Rest up a few minutes while I check around and see if we have any unwanted company close by.”
Jonas took his field glasses and climbed a low knoll. He spotted dust from a small group of horsemen about mile to the north moving away from them. Swinging his glasses southward along the foothills he saw no dust trails or riders. Far to the southwest about ten miles he could barely make out the Crawley ranch buildings.
Jonas retrieved the horses and helped Walsh into t
he saddle. They continued riding south keeping in the junipers and avoiding open ground. Where possible they mingled their tracks with those of Circle C riders who rode through the area earlier. “There’s a line shack a couple of miles south of here where no one would think to look. You may be able to rest up there for a couple of days until we can make a run for Henryville.”
Walsh slumped forward in the saddle and hung on to the saddle horn with his good hand. He managed a weak, “I’m game...”
With Walsh wounded, the two of them will need to either try to make it to Henryville or find a place to hole up for a few days. That means they’ll likely head down to the valley slow and easy, Thaxton reasoned as he rode along the high ridges looking for movement in the oak brush and trees below.
Every so often Thaxton stopped, dismounted and glassed the foothills and canyons below. He used a new high powered German-made prism binocular that he had won from a Prussian count in a New Orleans card game a few weeks ago. Several times more powerful than field glasses and with much better resolution, binoculars gave him a distinct advantage over field glasses.
An hour of patient searching and glassing finally paid off. Far below, Thaxton focused on four horses with two riders working their way diagonally down to the lower foothills. He noticed that one rider was slumped in the saddle. That must be Walsh. They’re heading south and if I ride straight west I should have little difficulty cutting their trail, Thaxton thought with a smug smile. He clearly enjoyed this cat and mouse game and arrogantly assumed he would come out on top again as he had so many times in the past.
Jonas tried to sound reassuring. “Hang on Walsh, another mile and we’re there.”
Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch Page 12