Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch

by Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch (retail) (epub)

  Jonas dropped down on a dead fall, soaked his bandana in water from his canteen and nursed a throbbing goose egg on the side of his head. Nearly a half-hour passed before he felt recovered enough to move on. He staked his horse, slid his rifle out of its scabbard and stuffed his coat pocket with cartridges and field glasses. Feeling more confident, he set out on foot trying to ignore a still throbbing headache

  From a small rise a couple of hundred yards north of the shack, Jonas glassed the area around the shack. No sign of life. He noticed a horse missing from the corral. Damn, I’m too late. I’ll bet they’ve slipped in, surprised Walsh and are now heading for the Circle C with him as their prisoner or dead across a saddle. I’d better slither down there and find out what happened, he thought as adrenaline started to power through him.

  Jonas circled around the shack a few hundred yards out cautiously looking for fresh tracks leaving the area. Southwest of the shack, he picked up a trail made by Thaxton’s horse and two others.

  Jonas studied the tracks, puzzling them out when it dawned on him there were tracks of only three horses. There should be four. Either they shot Walsh and left him there or they have a shooter hidden waiting for me to return.

  He sorted out the possibilities as a fresh spurt of adrenalin sharpened his senses. Stealthily he moved toward the shack and found a thick stand of oak brush that concealed him yet gave him a good view. He studied the shack with his field glasses looking for Walsh or his body but spotted neither. The shack appeared deserted.

  His sixth sense threw up warning flags; something wasn’t right. A powerful feeling that someone was waiting in ambush raised the hair on the back of his neck. He learned long ago not to ignore that warning.

  With his field glasses, Jonas studied the terrain around the cabin. His attention settled on a dense stand of junipers part way up a hill about hundred yards away. A perfect ambush site for anyone approaching the cabin, Jonas speculated. He held his breath to steady his glasses and searched for shadows that shouldn’t be there; a slightest movement; birds or small animals that paused or avoided a certain spot. This was his game and he confidently searched for a possible gunman lying in wait.

  Jonas patiently studied every inch of the terrain. He knew time was on his side. Shadows changed as the sun’s angle changed and things previously hidden became visible. He scanned places where a shooter would have a clear field of fire of anyone approaching the shack but he kept coming back to that stand of junipers as the most likely position.

  Parley fought to stay vigilant as the temperature climbed. No breeze brought relief and the heavy resinous smell of crushed juniper needles and berries caused his nose to run and eyes to itch. He licked his dry lips and cursed himself for forgetting a canteen or better yet, a pint of whiskey he had left in his saddlebag. That would taste mighty good right now, but he knew any movement could give him away.

  In his semi-comfortable position, he fought drowsiness and pinched his arm to stay alert.

  Jonas swept his glasses again across the hillside on the opposite side of the shack from where he lay. He again paused and focused on the dense stand of juniper. This time he spotted what appeared to be a straight stick poking out from the base of one of the large junipers.

  In nature, angles and straight objects were rare so Jonas held his breath to steady the view and focused on the object.

  Parley tried to move his leg to ease the sharp pain from a muscle cramp. He rolled onto his side and flexed his leg accidentally bumping the rifle. He cursed under his breath and moved the rifle back in position. A few moments later his leg muscle relaxed and the pain diminished. Parley rolled back over and resumed his watchful position looking down the gun barrel at the shack.

  The straight object in the shadows suddenly disappeared and a few seconds later reappeared. Jonas kept his glasses on the spot and waited. As the light subtly shifted, he made out a pale oval just above the straight object. It all came together in a flash: That’s a gun barrel and I’ll bet that light colored spot is a white man’s face. Good he doesn’t know the old Indian trick of smearing dirt or mud on your face to blend in, Jonas thought with satisfaction.

  Slowly easing his way out of the oak brush, he started working his way toward flanking the hidden rifleman.

  Chapter 17

  Sheriff Williams slammed the barred cell door shut and dropped the locking bar in place. “Sleep it off boys. The judge will see ya later on today when he comes in.” Since he and Jonas had put an end to the Wilson brothers rustling cows, his job had slowed down to babysitting drunks. If it weren’t for Nellie, he would probably drink too much brandy trying to chase away boredom. He glanced up at the Roman numerals on the wall clock above the judges table. I’ll wait another half hour before I go see what Nellie has cooked up this morning. Meanwhile I’d better check out the saloons along main street and see if there are any more drunks, he groused plucking his faded hat off a peg.

  Williams strolled the fifty feet to Main Street and was about to cross when he heard a shout. A two-horse spring wagon bounced down the rutted street toward him, the horses hot and lathered from being pushed hard.

  “Looking for the sheriff,” the driver yelled standing up and pulling hard on the reins to slow down his overheated team. The horses came to stop even with Williams amid a choking cloud of fine dust.

  “You’ve found him,” Williams said pulling his coat aside revealing his badge as he moved a few steps upwind to get out of the dust cloud.

  “Got a man in the back that’s in a bad way,” the driver said as he jumped down. “Got a doc around?”

  “Ya, we do.” Williams motioned to a youngster gawking nearby. “Get Doc Thurgood fast.”

  Williams trotted around to the back of wagon. A middle aged man laid on a canvas tarp, dried blood covered his shirt and part of his scalp was missing. “What happened here?”

  “I found this poor fellow on the trail from Grass Valley, north of the cutoff through Dry Bone Gulch. It appeared he ran into that bunch of Bannocks who were causing trouble up north. They probably would have finished him off if a party of teamsters ahead of me hadn’t come along and interrupted their party.”

  “Gimme some room here, Sheriff. Let’s see what we got,” the doc said climbing up into the wagon’s bed. A moan escaped the wounded man when the doc turned him over. “Not doing too good. Let’s get him over to my office,” Doc ordered as he folded the canvas tarp around his new patient to use as a litter.

  Williams and a couple of curious shopkeepers who had hurried over to see what the fuss was about, carried the wounded man to the doc’s office and deposited him on a large wooden table.

  “Thanks for your help, but I don’t need a bunch of gawkers in here,” Doc Thurgood said brusquely herding them out and closing the door.

  “Wanna come over to my office and tell me about what you know about this?” Williams asked the wagon driver.

  He nodded and followed Williams to his office a couple of buildings down and around the corner. Seated at his scarred desk, the sheriff pulled out a nearly full bottle and poured two brandies then hunted around for a pencil stub and scrap of paper. “By the way, I’m Sheriff Williams. And you are?”

  “Joe Barney. I’m a drummer for Glengarry Millinery Company traveling here from St Louis by way of Fort Laramie and to towns round the territory.”

  Too bad he’s not a drummer for Henry, Colt or Winchester. That would be more interesting, Williams thought as he downed his shot of brandy in one gulp feeling the warmth travel down to his stomach. “I see, so how did you find this half-scalped fellow.”

  “A couple of teamsters ‘bout half hour ahead of me found him stumbling along the trail north of Grass Valley plumb out of his head. They figure he got lucky and escaped from the Bannocks, and they were huntin’ him when they spotted the wagons and took off. The teamsters asked me to bring him here since they were heading up into the Sawtooths. I tried to help him, but there wasn’t much I could do other than bring him in.”
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  Williams looked up from his note taking. “You did a good thing. Obviously, you saved his life. Where you staying in town?”

  “I’ll be at the hotel for a couple of days showing samples and writing up orders.”

  “Good, get back to you if I have any more questions.” Williams stood up and reached for his hat. “I’d better go see how the doc is doing.”

  A small bell tacked to Doc Thurston’s office door tinkled as Williams opened it and stepped inside to a strong smell of rubbing alcohol, chloroform and sickness. He stood by the door for a moment trying to decide whether wait there for a few moments or see if the doc was in the back room. Before he could decide, the doc came out wiping his hands on a soiled and bloody cotton flour sack.

  “Glad you came by sheriff. Our patient is in a pretty bad way. Took an arrow in his side about a week ago and infection has set in. Don’t think he’ll last until morning...if you want to talk to him, now’s the time, for all the good it’ll do ya.”

  The doc waved smelling salts under the wounded man's nose. His eyelids fluttered a few times before his eyes opened wide with fear and pain. He struggled to move, but the doc put a hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy...you're among friends and I'm a doctor. The sheriff is here and wants to talk to you."

  "I'm Sheriff Williams. You're in Henryville. A drummer brought you in. Can you tell me what happened?"

  The man struggled to rise, but couldn’t. He tried to focus on Williams. His lips moved without sound. After much effort he managed to talk, his voice raspy and barely audible. Williams leaned in close trying to make out the words.

  "…jumped by Indians...held prisoner for days. Managed to escape but they wounded me...played dead...got away."

  "Where were you headed?"

  "Trying to find James McCabe. Heard he changed his name to Crawley. Know I’m dying...need to tell you..." The man managed to summon enough strength to talk his voice barely above a whisper. He was interrupted at times with fits of coughing and faded in and out of consciousness but managed to fill the sheriff in what happened to him and why he was heading for Henryville.

  A heavy coughing spasm overtook the dying man, and he slipped into unconsciousness. His breathing became labored and soon stopped. The doc checked his pulse, shook his head and pulled the blanket up over the dead man’s head.

  Jonas took his time belly-crawling from tree to bush through tall grass, getting as close as he could to the copse of juniper trees where he had spotted the rifleman laying in ambush. From his new position he could now clearly make out the rifleman’s prone form and his rifle barrel pointing toward the shack. Scarcely a hundred feet now separated them but the remaining distance was over rocky ground with no cover. He could get no closer without inviting a .44 rifle slug from a shooter with a dead rest.

  At a hundred feet, whoever got off the first shot was likely the one who walked away. And to get that advantage, Jonas knew he would need a split-second diversion. He focused his field glasses and studied the rifleman’s position. He saw a long limb laden with juniper berries that extended over the ambusher’s position. Jonas estimated the limb size and decided a well-placed shot may drop it on or close to the gunman distracting him enough for that vital split second.

  Jonas eased back the hammer from half to full cock on his Winchester. With his rifle sighted in for 300 feet, he aimed just below the limb to compensate for the bullet’s trajectory and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  The slug impacted the limb dead center. It split and gave way. Parley ducked to the side and raised his arm to ward off falling branches. His brief exposure was enough for Jonas to stand up and snap off a second round that found its target. The gunman was hit in the chest and dropped down but managed to fire a round that grazed Jonas’ head dropping him stunned and bleeding to the ground.

  Parley staggered out from under the juniper blood soaking his shirt. He took several steps, fell face down and tried desperately to crawl forward as death overtook him.

  For several minutes, Jonas fought to clear his head. He managed to get up on one knee and put his hand to his head, it came away wet with blood.

  The bullet had carved a shallow two-inch long furrow along the left side of his skull. Not too serious, but enough to give him another monster headache and constant reminder for the next few hours of how close he came to knocking on Saint Peter’s door.

  Jonas staggered over to a small creek and soaked his bandana in the ice cold water. He gingerly cleaned the blood off his wound then tied it around his head. The cold bandana helped clear his thinking as he stumbled over to where the gunman lay dead.

  He turned the body over and sightless eyes stared back at him. Jonas noted grimly that his shot had gone dead center through the gunman’s heart. He studied the dead man, but didn’t recall seeing him before. Probably a drifter Thaxton hired in Henryville to help him with his dirty work, Jonas surmised. Well, you deserve a burial, but I ain’t got time right now...

  Jonas retrieved his rifle and walked unsteadily to the shack. He pushed the door open with his boot, rifle on full cock. It was empty. Damn, looks like Thaxton surprised Walsh and they’re on their way to the Circle C, Jonas concluded. He trotted to the corral, wincing from the pain of a throbbing headache. Before he could open the corral gate, he heard a horse whinny a couple of hundred yards away. He slipped around the corral and moved stealthily through the trees and oak brush toward the sound rifle ready.

  Easing through the cover, Jonas spotted the dead man’s horse still staked in a small clearing. He exhaled in relief and leaned against a tree feeling weak. Can’t slow down now; I’ve gotta get moving. Thaxton’s got a big lead by now, flashed through Jonas’ mind. He untied the horse, mounted up unsteadily and urged it into a fast cantor.

  Chapter 18

  With Walsh’s hands tied to the saddle horn and his unhealed shoulder making riding difficult, it took them longer to make the ride to Circle C ranch. It was later in the afternoon when they rode up to the hitching rail in front of Crawley’s main house. Thaxton slipped off his horse and stiffly strode up the steps and rapped on the door. After a few moments Silvia opened it looking pale and disheveled. “Got the man who killed your husband. He’s outside,” Thaxton said with a self-satisfied smirk.

  Silvia’s eyes widened with surprise. “Is he alive?”

  “Of course. That’s what you hired me to do, isn’t it?”

  Without answering, she brushed by him onto the porch. She spotted Walsh slumped in the saddle and ran down the steps to the horses. “This is him...the one we’ve been hunting?”

  “It is.”

  Silvia stared at Walsh for a long moment as if he should be someone she knew, someone she would recognize, but no look of recognition crossed her face.

  Walsh looked down and stared at Silvia. “I ain’t the one who ambushed your husband. He mistook me for someone else and tried to kill me,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t have the foggiest idea who he was gunning for.”

  “Why should I believe you? You escaped and ran off from your inquest in Henryville and tried to sneak out of the territory like an outlaw on the run. If it wasn’t for Thaxton you would be long gone by now.”

  “With you an all your guns in town and the talk of a necktie party I admit I panicked and ran. You would’ve done the same.”

  Thaxton walked up to Walsh, untied the rope binding his hands to the saddle horn, grabbed his coat sleeve and pulled him out of the saddle to the ground. Pain flared through Walsh’s shoulder as he landed on his knees. He stayed there a moment feigning injury as his right hand slid down to his boot and slipped his Bowie up his shirt sleeve.

  After a moment Walsh struggled to his feet and faced Thaxton, his face red with anger. He couldn’t do anything. He stood there and stared down the rifle barrel of the hired gunman. The gunman’s wide grin and slitted eyes dared him to try anything that would give him an excuse to squeeze the trigger.

  Jenny finished currying her horse and started packing a couple of sad
dlebags with supplies in a storage shed next to the barn when she heard horses enter the yard. Peering through a small dirty window she saw two men leading a horse with Walsh slumped in the saddle. She gasped and clenched both hands into a tight fist as anger washed over her. Her rifle was tied to her saddle that she had thrown over a corral cross rail across the yard. She remembered the Spencer rifle Ruddy usually kept in the barn behind the door.

  Jenny slipped unnoticed out of the shed and into the barn. She found Ruddy’s Spencer fully loaded and jacked a cartridge into the chamber. She eased into a position where she could see everyone. Her heart pounding, she fought the overwhelming urge to run out and help Walsh. But she forced herself to calm down and wait, fore finger lightly on the trigger.

  “Well, Silvia, I’ve delivered him to ya. We’ve fulfilled our contract. Want us to finish the job or you gonna turn him loose?” Thaxton said with a slight sneer.

  Silvia’s face turned even paler. She realized it was call or fold. Confusion played over her once classically-attractive face. But now her sunken eyes and cheekbones showed how much emotional turmoil she had gone through the past week.

  Does this man somehow know about Randal’s life...our life...before we came here? Can I take a chance that he knows and will destroy everything we’ve worked for? These panic driven questions flashed through Silvia’s mind. She couldn’t envision giving up what she and Randal had created. No drifting cowhand was going bring her down. “Do what you have to do...” she said looking at Thaxton her eyes suddenly blazing.

  Thaxton gave her a condescending smile and shifted his gaze to his hired gun. “Come on, we got a little bonus work to do.”

  Before Thaxton could move, a voice behind him boomed, “Not so fast Thaxton; you and I have a few things to settle.”

  Thaxton froze for a few seconds, a look of panic flashed across his face. He pivoted around to face Jonas, his right hand hovering over his six gun. Several yards away, Jonas stood dusty and worn, a blood soaked bandana tied around his head. His stance was that of a coiled and deadly rattler, ready and capable of inflicting sudden pain and death.