Wind River

by L. J. Washburn

  This time Simone prayed he was wrong.

  * * *

  Cole felt like something was crawling up his spine. That was a sure sign of impending trouble, but he was damned if he could see where it was going to come from. His keen eyes had been searching the landscape in front of them all morning, but he hadn't caught even a glimpse of their quarry.

  Durand and Strawhorn were up there somewhere, Cole knew, along with the prisoners and that other hardcase. The tracks were clear enough —four horses, one carrying double. Cole judged the fugitives were still almost an hour ahead of him and Michael and Sawyer.

  At the moment the trail was leading through a valley that twisted around among steep-sided, heavily timbered foothills. A narrow creek flowed through the valley as well, a ribbon of water lined with spruce and aspen and cottonwood. At one point, the tracks entered the creek, and Cole was afraid that Strawhorn was trying to throw off any pursuit by riding in the shallow stream and possibly even doubling back.

  The tracks emerged, however, on the far side of the creek and continued on in roughly the same direction. Cole reined up and studied them, frowning.

  "What's the matter?" Michael asked as he brought his mount to a stop alongside Cole's. Sawyer did likewise.

  Cole shook his head. "Don't know. Something just feels wrong about this. Strawhorn had a chance to hide his trail for a while, and he didn't take it. That doesn't seem like him."

  "Maybe he ain't thinkin' straight," Sawyer grunted. "From what you told me, he's been on the run for days now, first tryin' to get back to Wind River with that loot, then tryin' to get away from there. Could be he's tired."

  "I sure am," Michael put in wearily.

  "Strawhorn may be tired, but I don't think that would muddle him any," Cole said. "There's got to be a reason why he rode straight across that stream, but damned if I can figure out what it is."

  He stared up the valley. The creek was to their left now, and the wooded slope to the right turned into a rocky, rugged-looking ridge about five hundred yards ahead. Cole's eyes scanned the face of the ridge but didn't see anything except some good-sized boulders that had tumbled down sometime in the past. The trail didn't veer toward the ridge but ran fairly straight beside the creek.

  Cole gave a little shake of his head and shrugged. "Let's go," he said. "We won't catch up to 'em just sitting here."

  He rode forward, trailed by Michael and Sawyer, but although he watched the tracks left by the outlaws, something kept drawing his eyes toward the rocky bluff. His frown deepened as he tried to figure out what was making his instincts react that way. Nothing about the trail had really changed, he told himself as they drew even with the point where the wooded hill gave way to the more rugged slope. There were still four horses ahead of them, one of the four still carrying more weight than the other three.

  Cole hauled back on his mount's reins, a warning sounding in his mind as he realized what was wrong with the tracks. His eyes darted to the rocky bluff. The midday sunlight glinted on something in a cluster of boulders about fifty yards up the slope.

  "Come on!" Cole shouted as he jerked his horse toward a grove of trees not far from the base of the bluff and kicked the animal into a gallop. He hoped Michael and Sawyer followed his lead, but there was no time to wait and see. As he leaned forward something buzzed past his ear and he heard the distant crack of a rifle.

  Strawhorn had set up another ambush for him, and he had nearly stumbled right into it. If they had been riding alongside the creek, they would have been picked off like targets in a shooting gallery.

  Puffs of powder smoke floated up from the rocks where the outlaws were hidden. Even though Cole hadn't seen them yet, he was sure the ambushers were Durand, Strawhorn, and the other hardcase. He pulled his horse to a skidding, sliding stop as he reached the trees and flung himself out of the saddle, pausing only long enough to jerk the Winchester free from its sheath before ducking behind one of the trees. A bullet chewed bark from the trunk about two feet above his head.

  Michael and Sawyer had reached the trees safely as well. Cole saw. The Texan dismounted and sought cover as smoothly as Cole had, but Michael was slower and more awkward. Slugs kicked up dust around his feet as he clambered down from his horse. "Get down, Michael!" Cole called to him.

  The young newspaperman threw himself headlong behind one of the trees, rolling over a couple of times to put the trunk between him and the rocks where the bushwhackers were holed up. He had had the presence of mind to hold on to his rifle, but it wasn't going to do him much good, pinned down like he was. He lay on his back, wincing as bullets plowed up dirt less than a foot away on either side of him.

  "Don't move!" Cole told him. "Wait until Sawyer and I give you some covering fire, then get up on your feet again! Now!"

  He thrust the barrel of his Winchester around the trunk of the tree and opened up with it, pouring lead toward the rocks but aiming deliberately low to avoid any chance of hitting one of the prisoners. He hoped Sawyer had the sense to do the same. The rapid fire from Cole and Sawyer made the shots from the bluff die away for a moment, and during the lull, Michael scrambled to his feet and pressed his body to the tree trunk. "I'm all right now!" he shouted to Cole.

  Cole and Sawyer ducked behind their trees again to reload the rifles. Cole had plenty of shells in the loops of his gunbelt and in a small pouch just back of the sheathed knife on his left hip, but he didn't know how Sawyer was fixed for ammunition.

  What they had here was a standoff, he thought as he studied the situation. He and Michael and Sawyer were spaced out in the trees about ten yards apart, and they could cover the whole face of the bluff with their fire. But they had to be careful for fear of hitting the two women, and the ambushers had them pinned down here behind the trees. This was as tricky a problem as Cole had run up against in a long time.

  Sawyer leaned back a little to call past Michael, "How'd you know they were up there? The trail led alongside that creek!"

  "My gut told me something was wrong," Cole replied, "but it took me a few minutes after we crossed the creek to figure out what it was. There were still the tracks of four horses, one of them carrying more than the other three just like before, but none of the tracks were as deep as they were on the other side of the creek. Two of the men dismounted in the creek, along with the women, while the third man led the horses on out of sight. The two men and the women walked downstream a ways before getting out and circling around to the bluff, where they met the fella with the horses. The plan was to lead us right in front of the rocks where they were hidden so they could pick us off. Once I figured it out, I got lucky enough to spot the sun shining on a rifle barrel up there and knew the trap was about to close."

  The explanation was punctuated by continuing gunfire from the boulders where the outlaws were hidden, as well as the thud of bullets into the tree trunks. Even though they were pinned down, there had been no choice but to seek cover here. If they had fled the other way, back across the creek, it would have taken too long to get out of rifle range, and the ambushers could still have picked them off. Commanding the high ground as they did, Strawhorn and his companions had all the advantage.

  But maybe there was a way to turn that around, Cole thought.

  "Somebody's got to get above them and behind them on that slope," he said to Michael and Sawyer. "One of them must be guarding the women back behind those rocks while the other two take potshots at us. If we could get rid of that guard and get Mrs. Hatfield and Mrs. McKay to safety, then we'd have the other two in a cross fire."

  "Not a bad plan," grunted Sawyer, "but how do you figure somebody's goin' to get behind 'em without gettin' shot?"

  "Well, there is that problem," Cole admitted.

  "I'll go," Michael said abruptly.

  Cole exclaimed, "Wait a minute. You can't—"

  He was too late. Michael was already sprinting out from behind the tree where he had taken cover. He dashed past Sawyer's position and through the grove of trees.
>
  "Damn it, Michael!" Cole shouted. More shots were coming from the bluff as the bushwhackers concentrated their fire on Michael. Cole swung around the tree and went to a knee, firing as fast as he could toward the boulders, trying to give the young man at least a fighting chance. Sawyer was doing the same thing.

  Michael emerged from the cover of the trees and started across a wide, grassy stretch. Suddenly he let out a cry and pitched forward, rolling over and over. He fell with the limp, nerveless sprawl of a man who had been fatally wounded, and as he came to a stop all Cole could see of him was one booted, motionless foot.

  "Damn it," Cole grated. Michael hadn't had a chance, and now he was lying out there badly wounded or maybe even dead. And the odds against Cole and Sawyer had just risen that much more.

  "Boy was brave but stupid," Sawyer called over to Cole. "Should've let us give him some covering fire first. You can do that while I give it a try."

  "So that you can get yourself killed, too? Forget it, Sawyer, it was a bad idea. Maybe we can wait 'em out—"

  Cole ducked as the shots from the bushwhackers swung back toward the trees and started chipping away at the bark again. One of those bullets was going to get lucky sooner or later and find him or Sawyer, and then the odds would get even worse for the survivor. He wished he had tumbled to the trick at the creek a little sooner so that he would have had time to work out a better plan.

  He glanced again toward the spot where Michael had fallen, wondering if Delia Hatfield had seen her husband's sacrifice. Cole's eyes suddenly narrowed in surprise.

  Michael's foot wasn't where it had been a few moments earlier.

  Cole felt a leap of hope inside and warned himself not to get carried away. Michael might have drawn his leg up out of sight in the tall grass as he writhed in the throes of death. But there was another possible explanation. The young man might have pretended to be mortally wounded and could even now be working his way slowly through the grass toward the bluff.

  He searched the grass, looking for some telltale movement, since if he could follow Michael's progress by the waving of the stalks, so could the outlaws in those boulders. There was a breeze blowing down the valley, though, so Cole couldn't tell if the stirring he saw in the grass was caused by Michael or by the vagrant wind.

  "Sawyer!" he called. "Can you see Michael anymore?"

  The cattleman peered toward the spot where Michael had gone down, then looked over at Cole and shook his head. "He's not there anymore. You reckon he wasn't hurt as bad as it looked like?"

  "I think maybe he wasn't wounded at all," Cole replied, knowing his voice wouldn't carry to the rocks, especially over the sound of the shots. "I think he's headed for that bluff. It's going to take him some time to get there, though, because he'll have to go slow."

  For the first time since Cole had known him, Sawyer grinned. Granted, it was sort of an ugly expression, but it was still a grin, Cole thought. "We'll just have to keep those bastards busy for a while," the Texan called.

  Cole levered his Winchester, edged the barrel around the trunk, and squeezed off a shot toward the boulders. He hoped he was right about Michael. He hoped, too, that the young man wouldn't get impatient and give away the game too early. They would lose whatever advantage they might have gained if Strawhorn and the others realized Michael was still alive before he managed to get behind them.

  Over the next three quarters of an hour, Cole and Sawyer settled down into a routine, alternating shots and spacing them out so as to conserve ammunition but still keep the bushwhackers occupied.

  Cole watched the open ground between the trees and the bluff, and he watched the face of the ridge itself, looking for any sign of Michael. His frustration grew as time passed and the young newspaperman didn't put in an appearance. Maybe he'd been wrong about what Michael was planning, Cole thought. Maybe Michael was still lying there in the grass, dead and just out of sight.

  That thought was going through his head as he spotted a flicker of motion on the face of the bluff, about seventy-five yards to the right of the boulders where Strawhorn and Durand had forted up. Cole stared hard, waiting for something to move again, and was rewarded a couple of minutes later by the sight of Michael edging from one chunk of rock to another, staying out of sight as much as possible.

  "He's up there," Cole called quietly to Sawyer. "Look to the right of those boulders."

  "I see him," Sawyer grunted. "Think he can sneak up on those hardcases without them noticin' him?"

  "They're not looking for any trouble from that direction. All we can do is hope," Cole said.

  * * *

  Hope . . . and keep throwing slugs to distract Strawhorn and Durand and the other outlaw until Michael was in position to strike. Michael wouldn't have thought it possible that his heart could pound so hard. With each beat it seemed as if it was going to tear itself right out of his chest. He had to stop every few feet and force himself to take several deep breaths in an effort to calm down. His nerves were stretched so tightly that it took all his willpower to keep himself from leaping up and charging the men who were holding his wife prisoner.

  He had no idea where he had gotten the idea to fake being shot and then crawl through the tall grass toward the bluff. It had simply come to him, and he had acted on it before his fear could convince him to abandon the notion.

  He had angled well away from the trees, crawling ever so slowly so as not to give away his position, raising his head just enough from time to time to make sure where he was. When he reached the bluff, he had started climbing, knowing that he had to get above the outlaws before he could work his way behind them.

  It was working. He was less than fifty yards to the side of the boulders now, and he could look down and see Durand and Strawhorn crouching behind one of the big rocks as they peppered the trees with rifle fire. Farther up the slope, behind another boulder, were Delia and Simone McKay and a lean, dark man who was holding a revolver on them. None of them was looking in his direction, and Michael hoped that situation held true for the next few minutes.

  He estimated that when he arrived behind the man who was standing guard over the prisoners, he would be about a dozen feet up the slope from the outlaw. He could drop the man with his rifle. It would be an easy shot. Durand and Strawhorn would be so surprised that he could probably shoot them, too, before they even turned around.

  Michael asked himself if he could squeeze the trigger. He had never killed a man before, never even shot at a man. During that other ambush, when he had been riding with the posse, he hadn't even managed to get off a shot. Now he was planning to cold-bloodedly gun down one man and maybe two others.

  But the lives of Delia and their unborn child were at stake now. That made all the difference. Michael told himself he could do whatever was necessary to save them.

  He moved closer and then a little closer, carefully placing each of his feet so they wouldn't slip. Just a little farther, he told himself, a little farther. . .

  That was when a rock shifted under his foot without warning and he started to slide down the face of the bluff. He caught his balance and stopped sliding, but the rifle slipped from his fingers and clattered down toward the startled outlaw, who was spinning around to see who was behind him.

  No time to recover the rifle, Michael realized. Without thinking about it, he pushed himself away from the slope and threw himself into the air, diving down toward the gunman with an incoherent shout. The man was twisting around to meet this new threat, the revolver in his hand lifting and roaring as smoke blossomed from its muzzle almost in Michael's face as he hurtled down.

  Cole saw Michael drop the rifle, then fall or jump, heard the young man's yell and the crack of the pistol. "Charge em!" Cole shouted to Sawyer as he came out from behind the tree and raced toward the cluster of boulders. He hoped that Michael's sudden appearance would distract the other two long enough for him and Sawyer to reach the rocks. One way or another, the standoff was over.

  * * *

 
Simone McKay was as surprised as she had ever been in her life as Michael Hatfield hurtled down the face of the bluff and smashed into Benton, driving the owlhoot to the ground. She was afraid Benton had shot Michael at point-blank range, but the young man seemed unhurt as he started slamming frenzied punches into Benton's face. Michael was still shouting crazily, obviously fighting on instinct and anger.

  She heard cries of alarm from Durand and Strawhorn. Strawhorn yelled, "Give Benton a hand, damn it!" Simone saw Durand's bulky figure racing around the boulder behind which she and Delia had been kept.

  Her eyes fastened on something else then. Benton had dropped his gun when Michael landed on him, and the pistol was lying almost at her feet. She bent and scooped it up, her finger going through the trigger guard and her thumb looping over the hammer. Andrew had made sure she knew how to shoot a gun before moving her out here to the frontier, and although this Colt was heavier than the smaller pistols she was used to, the walnut grips of the gun felt good against her palm as she lifted the weapon and swung toward Durand.

  He slid to a stop, holding his own rifle down low as he tried to see what was going on back here. His eyes widened as he saw Simone pointing the gun at him, steadying it now with both hands. He tried to bring the rifle up, but he was much too late.

  "This is for Andrew," Simone said as she drew back the hammer. Then she pressed the trigger.

  The pistol boomed and tried to come up, but she fought down the recoil as the first slug slammed into Durand's chest, driving him back against the rock. She cocked and fired again and again, a cloud of smoke drifting from the barrel and obscuring the sight of Durand bouncing off the boulder with each shot, his chest turning into a red ruin.

  When she finally lowered the gun, she saw him fall to his knees, then slump forward to land on his side. He twisted his head so that he could look up at her. He managed to say, "I didn't—" and then blood gushed from his mouth, drowning anything else he was trying to say. The last thing he saw as death glazed his eyes was Simone McKay staring at him, a dazed expression on her face.