An instant after Micah’s bullet slammed impotently against the side of the cabin, a full foot above Buckhorn’s window, it seemed like every other gun on the property erupted at once. Tongues of orange-gold flame licked out of muzzles, blue smoke puffed and rolled into a thick cloud, and the air sang with the whine and sizzle of bullets.
Micah’s frantic clawing to get his gun drawn jerked his body in such an unexpected way that it caused Buckhorn’s first shot to miss. By the time he levered and fired again, Micah had pitched from his saddle and was scrambling for cover behind a nearby well. Buckhorn managed to punch a slug through Micah’s right heel before he got completely out of sight behind the piled stones of the housing, but his target’s loud curse and howl of pain was nowhere as satisfying as his death gurgle would have been.
Elsewhere out in the open area, McKeever also kicked free of his horse and found cover with Micah behind the well. Kelso wheeled his mount back toward the house and sprang from the saddle onto the front porch, firing over his shoulder as he ran in a ragged pattern and plunged through the open door, gaining his own cover inside. The rest of the gang members had all scattered over and back toward the outbuildings, ducking in behind corral rails, watering troughs, and a couple of wagons. Two who hadn’t quite made it lay sprawled motionless in the dust.
Bullets relentlessly hammered the cabin and answering lead spat back from every window and opening. Menlo and Tolliver had tipped Obie’s sturdy wooden table onto its side and shoved it a few feet outside the open door, providing room for each of them to hunker down behind it and spray lead in a wide pattern over the buildings and corrals. Joey hovered close behind them, reloading as necessary, throwing out shots of her own when she had a break.
Buckhorn and Obie manned the two windows positioned along the walls of the kitchen area, providing them the vantage points necessary to keep Micah and McKeever pinned down behind the well and make it hot for Kelso inside the main house. Helga and the battered Jeffrey were hunkered down safely back by the fireplace.
* * *
Just under two miles away, Dan Riley raised a hand to signal a halt to the riders coming hard in back of him. As the twenty horses were reined up, dust swirling from behind and rolling over them, Pamela Danvers, who was mounted to Riley’s left, said anxiously, “What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?”
Riley didn’t answer right away. He sat his saddle slightly cocked to one side, obviously in considerable pain despite the heavy wrap of bandages around his middle and the plain grit driving him from deeper within. His eyes were narrowed as he gazed out ahead, concentrating on something.
“Listen. Don’t you hear it?”
“I do,” said Ulysses Mason, mounted on the other side of Riley. “It’s the sound of heavy gunfire.”
With the pounding of horses’ hooves now quieted, the distant sound—a faint, erratic crackling—became discernible to all.
“It’s started,” said Pamela somewhat breathlessly. She turned her head and looked imploringly at Riley. “Do you believe me now?”
He returned her gaze, and there was a softness there that hadn’t been present for a long time.
“I never didn’t believe you,” he said. “After you came in search of us, after you admitted finally acceptin’ the truth about Micah . . . well, painful as that was for you, it was all I needed to hear. What I’ve wanted to hear for years. When it came, I sure wasn’t gonna turn it away with doubt.”
“That’s all well and good,” Ulysses prodded. “But if we’re gonna do any good for those folks under fire, we need to do more than just sit here talkin’ about it.”
CHAPTER 44
“I think we need to get somebody up in that loft window,” Obie called over to Buckhorn amidst the whine and crash of the continuing gunfire. “Other than the back door off the kitchen, it’s the only view on that side. Right now we’re blind to anybody comin’ at us from there.”
“With all the lead we’re pouring on to keep ’em pinned where they are, what are the chances of anybody getting around that way?” Buckhorn wanted to know.
“Slim, maybe. But not impossible. Some of those varmints back by the bunkhouse could circle wide, wormin’ through the high grass, and come in that way. And this Kelso character in the house all of a sudden ain’t throwin’ much lead. I don’t think I hit him, so that gives me a hunch maybe he squirted out the back and is tryin’ his own luck at wigglin’ around and blindsidin’ us.”
“I’ll go,” said Joey, who’d overheard the exchange. “I can shoot as well as anybody and from that high window I’ll have prime pickings.”
“She’s makin’ sense,” Menlo said from the doorway. “The shooting out this way has slowed some. Sounds like we need her guardin’ our backside worse than we need her loadin’ for me and the sheriff.”
“If Kelso makes a break for back there, I still might have a crack at him from here,” said Obie. “But havin’ the girl up there would give us double for-certain coverage.”
“Okay. Do it, then,” Buckhorn agreed. He locked eyes with Joey. “Just be damn careful.”
She held his eyes and grinned.
“Good to know you care.”
Buckhorn was caught off guard once again by her boldness, and didn’t know how to respond. So he said nothing and just returned to pouring lead out his window.
* * *
“We sure put ourselves in a shitty position by droppin’ here,” lamented Micah, still pinned down behind the well housing. “And that stinkin’ ’breed put a hole in my foot—which hurts like hell, by the way—so I can’t even make a run for something better.”
“You got anything else you want to bellyache about?” said McKeever, hunkered beside him.
“You got something better to do? Like cough up a brilliant idea, maybe?”
McKeever bared his teeth.
“Yeah, maybe I do have a better idea. I ain’t got no bullets in me. Yet. I’m thinkin’ maybe I oughta take a chance at makin’ a run for it and then just keep hightailin’ as far as I can go. There flat ain’t no future here no more. Not for any of us. In case you ain’t figured it out, Micah, your big plans for wipin’ out your family and the Rileys and you bein’ left to take over the whole territory are burnin’ up out there in little pops of gunfire. There’s too many loose ends. Even if we’re left standin’ after this skirmish, none of the rest of it has any chance of hold in’ together.”
“Shut up! There’s always a chance.”
“Go ahead. Have one of your temper tantrums. That’s always your answer. But this time it ain’t gonna solve anything, and you know it.”
Suddenly Micah’s gun was aimed at McKeever from a distance of less than one foot.
“You try runnin’ out on me, you chicken-livered ingrate, and see how fast I can solve that.”
With guns still blasting all around them, the tense, heavy breathing of the two men seemed like the only sound for several seconds. Until, straining to control his voice, Micah said, “Now. If you look back behind us a little ways you will notice that some of our men are shooting from behind the cover of a wagon. See it? Do you also see that the wagon is loaded with a fair amount of straw? Good. Now, do you happen to have any matches on you? If so, give me one.”
His eyes shifting nervously between Micah’s eyes and the gun still aimed at his face, McKeever produced a match and handed it over. Taking it, Micah said, “You don’t see where I’m going with this, do you?”
“I . . . I’m not sure.”
“Do you want to stick with me and find out? Or do I have to shoot you?” Micah asked matter-of-factly.
McKeever swallowed and said, “I’ll stick.”
“Good.” Micah lowered his gun and turned toward the men behind the wagon, emitting a shrill whistle and motioning to get their attention. When he had it, he held up the match for them to see. Flicking the match to life with his thumbnail, he pointed at it with his free hand. From there he pointed to the wagon-load of straw they were squatted behind. And ne
xt, in a sweeping gesture, he pointed from the wagon to Obie’s cabin.
“Hell yeah!” said McKeever. “We’ll roast the stubborn fools like pigs on a spit!”
* * *
“Something fishy going on out there,” said Buckhorn from his window. “All of a sudden these two birds I got pinned down behind the well aren’t throwing anything back at me.”
“Nothing more out of Kelso yet, neither,” offered Obie.
“We still got incoming over here, but it’s definitely slowed down some,” Menlo reported.
A moment later they caught a whiff of something. And then they saw the gray ribbons of smoke curling up out of the straw in the wagon bed. Next hungrily licking orange flames crawled into view.
At the same time, the wagon started in motion, slowly at first but steadily building speed, the wagon tongue on the back end simultaneously being used to push and steer—straight for the little cabin and those within.
“Fire!” shouted Buckhorn. “They’re gonna try to burn us out!”
“Shoot under the wagon,” hollered Tolliver. “Aim at the legs of the men pushing it!”
Unfortunately, the sheriff got too eager to follow his own suggestion and carelessly exposed himself in his attempt to shoot the legs out from under the wagon pushers. Almost immediately he caught two slugs. One split his sternum, the other slammed in an inch to the left. He was knocked backward several feet, heels rapping a death kick on the bare wood floor before he hit flat on his back and shoulders and lay totally still.
The flaming wagon kept rolling closer.
Seeing Tolliver go down, Obie turned away from his window and limped over to help Menlo at the front door. He called to Joey up in the loft, “The back side is all yours, gal. Keep a sharp lookout but keep your head down.”
Out behind the well, Micah was excited to see that his plan with the wagon looked like it was going to succeed. The rolling ball of fire was only a few dozen yards from the cabin and closing fast.
It occurred to him then that the cabin occupants would be forced to flee out the back, an area his gang had not encircled. To rectify this, he began shouting and making urgent motions with his arm.
“Around back! Around back!” he called. “Mow ’em down when they make a break for it!”
But just as Tolliver had done in the cabin doorway, he got carried away with issuing his instructions and failed to keep sufficiently behind his cover. Buckhorn was ready to take advantage of that. His Yellowboy roared and the slug punched into the side of Micah’s neck, under and slightly back of the left ear, then out the other side in a thick gout of blood. Micah tipped over like a bottle target and hit the ground.
After he fell, the well again blocked Buckhorn’s view. He could not see that Micah, somewhat miraculously, was still alive. He lay writhing in the dust, moaning in agony.
“My God, I think he’s killed me. Oh, my God . . . Don’t leave me, McKeever. Don’t abandon me.”
“Sure. Whatever you say, Micah,” the crooked deputy told him. Yet, even as he was saying the words, he was glancing around and eyeing the remaining horses, all saddled and ready, still tied to the hitch rail in front of the main house. As soon as the burning wagon hit the cabin, he calculated, those inside would suddenly be too busy with the fire to worry about him. At which time, he told himself, you bet he did mean to abandon Micah and this whole scene that had fallen into such chaos.
In the cabin doorway, Menlo and Obie continued to pour lead at the oncoming wagon and its load of hellfire. But it was no use. There was no chance to turn or stop it. What was more, Obie saw some of Micah’s men slipping around on one side, sticking to the high grass and bushes, obviously meaning to try to make it to the back. But there was no chance to stop them, either.
“Stand clear!” bellowed Menlo. “She’s gonna hit!”
And hit “she”—meaning the flaming wagon—did. Any impact against the side of the cabin would have been damaging. But, as luck would have it, the rolling fireball hit right on the open front door. Which meant that the sudden, crashing halt caused the momentum of its load to carry on, pitching forward straight through the open door. In a matter of seconds, the interior of the cabin was boiling with flames.
“Out! Out the back!” Buckhorn ordered.
“But remember Kelso is somewhere out there,” Obie added. “And there’s some other jaspers workin’ their way around, too. So keep your eyes peeled and your shootin’ irons ready!”
Still ducked low behind the well, McKeever watched the wagon hit and almost instantly saw the flames spreading inside. That was his chance. He spun and started for one of the nearby horses.
“McKeever!” called Micah, continuing to writhe on the ground. “Don’t leave me, damn you!”
McKeever didn’t even bother to look around. But he should have. Because Micah was still clutching his gun. With his last heartbeat of strength and life, Micah raised his arm, aimed, and fired. The slug entered in the back of the fleeing deputy’s head and exited high in his forehead, just under the hairline. The surprised expression on his face froze there in death and was ingloriously mashed into a pile of horse droppings after he staggered several steps and then finally fell.
* * *
Inside the cabin, it was a scramble to get everybody out. Buckhorn helped Helga and Jeffrey. Obie exited first to cover their departure on the back side, along with Joey who remained for as long as she could in the loft window. Menlo covered on the inside, in case any of the wagon pushers tried to follow up by shooting through one of the abandoned windows. There was no chance to try to remove Tolliver’s body because a heap of the burning straw that pitched in on impact had landed directly on him.
Once everybody else was safely outside, they quickly agreed to regroup behind the cover of a large, partially stacked woodpile that was about halfway between the cabin and the main house. They were in the process of doing exactly that when the mysteriously absent Bray Kelso made his reappearance. He rose up from behind one of the stacks of wood and without hesitation opened fire on the knot of people moving directly toward him.
Obie caught a slug and went down. Buckhorn, who was supporting, half-carrying Jeffrey, was unable to bring his Yellowboy into play and also took a hit. He and Jeff both toppled to the ground.
Kelso’s luck ran out at that point, however, when a simultaneous flurry of shots from Menlo and Joey riddled him mercilessly and dropped him into a leaking heap amidst some of the split wood.
But barely had that round of gunfire subsided when a handful of Micah’s gang members came charging out of the high grass and bushes just beyond the far end of the burning cabin. Menlo and Joey each dropped to one knee and raised their rifles. They’d scarcely stroked a trigger, though, when the air filled with a great roar of discharging guns and the advancing men were almost literally cut to pieces by a rain of lead pouring down on them.
Somewhat awestruck, Menlo and Joey turned their heads and stared up the slope of higher, tree- and brush-studded ground that rose behind both the cabin and main house. A thick haze of gunsmoke hung in the air partway up the incline. And then, as they watched, several men and one woman emerged out of this haze and descended toward them.
“Uncle Dan! Miss Pamela!” Joey said breathlessly. “Thank God!”
CHAPTER 45
Three days had passed.
Two members of Micah’s gang were taken alive and jailed, two had escaped, the rest were killed in the shoot-out. The bodies of the deceased were hauled away from the Circle D and buried in unmarked graves in Barkley’s boot hill cemetery. After much soul-searching and a good deal of discussion between Pamela and Jeffrey, the body of Micah was buried in the family’s private plot on a hill overlooking the ranch headquarters, in a far corner removed from Gus’s grave.
Thad Tolliver’s charred remains were taken back to Barkley and buried in the main cemetery. The service was attended by folks from far and wide, one of the biggest local crowds ever to gather for the funeral of a single person.
Cookie returned as well, saying that the three men who had fled with him just before the battle started had decided to rattle their hocks out of this part of the country without ever looking back.
Whether or not they had ever been part of Micah’s gang would remain a mystery, but as long as they were gone, Buckhorn figured he could live with not knowing.
Aiding the three cowboys who remained in the work that had to be done as far as clearing the damage left by the shoot-out and the host of regular chores related to keeping the spread going, were most of the men from Riley’s crew. They all had ranch experience from some past point in their lives, so the duties were quickly understood and resumed with minimal trouble.
Wounded representatives from those who’d fought for the Circle D tallied up to: Jeff, Obie, and Buckhorn. Also included was Dan Riley, who received no new wounds but whose incompletely healed bullet hole from days earlier had opened anew during the ride from his hidden valley to settle scores with Buckhorn and Jeff.
A doctor was brought out from town to assess the injuries and administer accordingly. Eve Riley, who’d been left back in the valley camp and ordered to stay there by her father when he rode off, had once again demonstrated her rebellious side by showing up at the Circle D less than an hour after the shooting was over. This made her available to do some nursing before the doctor arrived and to earn her some compliments from the medic for what she’d been able to do, particularly the prior care she’d given to her father.
The bullet that had put Obie down turned out to be a strike to his already deformed hip, resulting in considerable pain, some blood loss, and a few fragments that needed to be dug out for the sake of avoiding possible infection. Beyond that there was no lasting damage, causing the crusty old-timer to remark, “Can you beat that? The durn fool wasted a perfectly good bullet on what was already wrecked.”
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