by Brett Waring
Cody shook his head mournfully, picked up the stick holding the rabbit and thrust it into the flames, turning it slowly.
“Damn! I figured Lady Luck was smilin’ on me, puttin’ me outside that stage depot at just the right time. I should’ve knowed it was goin’ just a mite too smooth.” He spat to one side. “Hurts to have to give back that gold dust to a sonuver like Jacob Handy. I don’t s’pose we could sort of ...?”
Nash merely looked at him.
“No. Should know better than to ask, I guess. Aw, well. Seems like it was meant to be. How long you reckon I’ll get this time?”
Nash shrugged. “Might not be too bad. If all the gold’s there.”
“Hell, I ain’t had chance to spend it.”
“Well, you didn’t hurt anyone much. Handy says you busted his hands, but they’re only bruised. You might get off with a year, could even be less. Depends on how well you co-operate goin’ back to Denver.”
Cody frowned, “A year? In the Pen? For takin’ gold off a miserable hound like Jacob Handy? Aw, no, Nash, I couldn’t take that. Couldn’t live with it.”
“Don’t see you got much choice, amigo. You’ll never learn, it seems. You got one black mark agin you already, with that Yuma sentence.”
“You got me that, too.”
Nash grinned. “Think nothin’ of it.”
Cody laughed abruptly. “You’re not a bad ’un. Nash. Pity all lawmen ain’t like you. We could get along pretty well, you an’ me, I reckon. If only you’d unbend enough to ...”
Suddenly, Mann spun and swung the half-cooked rabbit straight at Nash’s face. Cody was coming to his feet as Nash dodged instinctively and triggered. The heavy rifle thundered through the gray evening and Cody’s horse reared and plunged.
The fire erupted into a miniature volcano of flames and ash as the bullet tore into it. Then the coffee pot bounced off Nash’s shoulder as he levered another shell into the breech.
Cody Mann followed the coffee pot in. His big fists hammered the rifle from Nash’s grip, and his boots swept the Wells Fargo man’s legs from under him.
Nash hit hard, but immediately rolled away. Cody aimed a kick at Clay’s head as he bounced over the fire and came up onto all fours.
The big outlaw leapt at him, but Nash dodged to one side, came lunging upright and hooked Mann on the side of the jaw. Cody roared as he stumbled into the darkness beyond the glow of the fire then turned and plunged into the trees.
Nash swore and sprinted after him dragging iron and triggering a shot above the man’s head. He heard the bullet ricochet from the trees, and he paused, controlling his breathing with an effort as he heard Cody crashing away through the brush.
He swung in that direction, holstering his Colt as he ran.
Ducking around a spruce tree, he smashed his way through some hackberries and intercepted Cody as the man came out of the heavier timber. The outlaw swiftly let go of the heavy branch he’d pushed aside as he came through—and ducked with the speed of a snake.
Nash was just a shade too slow to miss being struck.
Leaves and twigs slashed across his eyes and he sailed backwards, helped by his own momentum as he threw himself away from the flailing branch.
He fumbled the six-gun, then Cody was on him, his fists hammering. The gun fell as Nash hooked an elbow into the outlaw’s throat and heard the man choke. A fist smashed into the middle of his face, and a boot drove against his left thigh. His leg buckled and another fist clubbed him just where his neck joined his shoulders.
He started to sprawl and Cody leapt at him, his boot swinging murderously. Nash had enough sense to drop flat and as he did he heard the outlaw yell wildly.
Cody had sailed over him and his momentum had carried him clear off the rim of the canyon.
The outlaw yelled again as Nash fought to his hands and knees and crawled cautiously forward in the dark to the crumbling edge. Cody Mann was dangling in space—his hands gripping the lip of the rim and his legs kicking wildly a hundred feet above the floor of the canyon.
Nash could see the terror in the man’s eyes as he looked up.
“Nash. Lend ... a hand,” he gasped desperately. “Please, amigo.”
The Wells Fargo man dropped flat and slithered closer to the edge. The ancient rock crumbled—and Cody let out a scream. For a moment Nash thought the man had fallen, but it was only the stones and earth raining down on him that had frightened the outlaw.
“Edge is crumblin’,” Nash gritted.
“Damn, I know that,” grated Mann. “Gimme a hand. A stick. Anythin’. My blasted fingernails are pullin’ out.”
Nash grabbed the man’s wrists in a wild gamble. The rim could well have collapsed under his weight, but he felt Cody’s body dragging at his arms and shoulders. His spine and back muscles creaked as he scrabbled with his boots and tried to wriggle backwards.
“Hold—on,” Nash gasped.
Cody snorted. There was no need to tell him.
Then, suddenly, as Nash gained a couple of inches, Cody Mann changed his grip. He wrenched one hand free, catching Nash unawares and lunged upwards by sheer strength, pulling down on Nash’s other arm.
Clay thought he was going to be dragged over the edge, too, and dug in with knees and elbows, as Cody’s weight transferred itself to him.
Finally, the outlaw literally climbed up Nash’s arms and over his shoulders, his bleeding fingers grabbing at grass tufts and sinking deeply into the earth for purchase.
Nash grabbed the man’s belt and heaved his wildly flailing legs onto the rim, rolling backwards at the same time. Cody Mann came up onto solid ground and Nash blew out a long breath—his chest feeling crushed.
But Cody didn’t hesitate. A moment earlier, he’d been a breath away from death. Suddenly, he saw a chance to survive, and he took it.
While Nash fought to get air into his lungs, Cody’s torn fingers touched a dead branch. He gripped it and swung it as Nash started to fight to his knees, knowing he had to subdue the outlaw before the man made another escape bid.
As Nash reared up, the branch came whistling down. It took him across the side of the head and he dropped, one arm flopping over the rim of the canyon.
Cody panted as he stood on unsteady legs. He started to move away, then stopped and grabbed Nash by the gunbelt. He heaved him several feet from the canyon rim then, dabbing at his bleeding nostrils, he staggered into the night.
Chapter Two – The Jarvess Bunch
It was raining like hell when Cody Mann reached the flooded Pioneer River in New Mexico. He had an old corn sack draped around his shoulders for protection as he huddled in the saddle with water streaming from his curled hat brim and his trousers soaked.
He was shivering, cold and miserable, and looked forward to hunkering over a campfire. But first he had to get across that lousy river.
Cody had expected to find his usual crossing but instead he was looking at chocolate-colored, frothing water that ripped past carrying uprooted trees, drowned cattle, and even what looked like a line shack.
But he knew if he didn’t get across the river immediately, he might not get over for days. Even if the rain stopped, there was all the rain from the hills, swelling the river’s headwaters, and they had yet to rush down to the flats.
Normally, he would have been able to walk his mount across, the water level barely brushing its belly. Now, he would have to try to swim it over. There was no other place he could hope to cross. He wasn’t looking forward to making the attempt there.
He rode back and forth along the bank for almost half an hour before he made up his mind to plunge the animal in just below a rock almost half a mile upstream. He figured that because the current was raging, he was going to be carried quickly downstream. So if he entered upstream, by the time he’d been whisked a half-mile, he ought to have been able to swim diagonally across the current to come ashore at the small sandy cove he could see between some jutting rocks.
There didn’t seem to be any o
ther safe place of exit, so he would simply have to get ashore at that point ...
The horse didn’t want to enter the rushing, muddy water and fought the bit, but Cody raked its flanks with his spurs, and whipped the animal across the eyes with the reins. He normally didn’t mistreat animals, but he saw it as a necessity.
Protesting with a shrill whinny, the animal plunged forward and, wild-eyed, began swimming.
Cody slipped out of the saddle and clung to the horn on the downstream side of the horse. His legs streamed out behind him and his fingers were slippery. For a wild moment he thought he was going to be torn loose, but he managed to tighten his grip and haul himself closer to the horse.
About midstream he felt the animal lurch, and it started pawing frantically at the water, boiling it to froth with its scissoring legs. Suddenly, he realized it had been struck by an uprooted tree. It was pressing against the horse and the animal couldn’t seem to get free. Cody looked around wildly. They were being whipped downstream much faster than he’d reckoned and, in a few seconds, would be well past the sandy cove he’d been making for. Then the immense pressure of the tree forced the thrashing horse under, and muddy earth shook loose all over the outlaw.
He knew he had to release his hold or be dragged down with it.
The gold. Judas! the gold was in the saddlebags. No doubt it had helped to drown the horse.
Cody Mann instantly released his hold and was immediately whipped downstream, rolling over and under, spluttering, gasping for breath, and fighting his way to the surface. Floating bushes entangled him and he panicked momentarily before he tore his way through them and gulped down damp air.
He was spinning and bobbing about with the current, blinded frequently by muddy water slopping into his face. Cody clawed it out of his eyes—and saw he was well past the cove. He was also still out in mid-stream, a long way from the bank.
The outlaw began to swim across the current but it was too strong and he was whipped downstream again. But he refused to give up and called on all his reserves of strength, fighting to gain an inch or two.
There was a bend in the river ahead and the bank had been undermined. And so had the roots of a tree—so much so that it had slipped towards the water, with some of its branches trailing on the surface. Cody saw this as his one and only chance. If he could grab those branches as the current swept him around ...
He missed the first branch, and the leaves stripped from the second, but somehow he managed to retain a grip on the third.
And there he clung, his body strung out at right-angles in the rushing water. Then, inch by inch, he hauled himself along the branch and dragged his soggy legs away from the river. The tree began to sway and tilt, but it held long enough for him to crawl along the trunk towards shore.
He was still three yards from the bank when the tree collapsed into the river. But he was in quieter water and, although he got another dunking, he floundered through the shallows and managed to claw his way up the muddy bank where he collapsed on the wet grass, exhausted ...
It was dark when Cody came to. The rain had eased and he found shelter under some bushes.
By morning, the rain had stopped and the sun came out bright and hot, lifting tendrils of steam from his sodden clothes. After walking for several miles, he got his bearings again, thought of going back to the river and following it downstream in search of his mount’s carcass and the gold, but figured he might run into Nash.
He had no illusions about the Wells Fargo man having given up—especially after that treacherous clubbing.
So Cody Mann made his way across country on foot, hungry but never short of water. By sundown he came to the crest of a rise. Below lay a log cabin, a small barn and corrals and some cattle dotting the timbered range beyond. Cody grinned and stumbled his way down the slope and into the yard.
The ruddy glow of sundown was washing across the corrals as he reached them and let out a hoarse yell. Almost immediately, the cabin door opened and a rawboned man about thirty appeared with a rifle.
“Who’s that?” he called.
“Well, pard, if that’s Cress Bonney talkin’, then this is Cody Mann answerin’. Your old cellmate from Yuma. Recollect?”
There was silence but in the shadow on the small porch, Cody saw the man stiffen.
“Cody?” the man said eventually. “That really you?”
The outlaw walked forward, his hands held out from his sides. “It’s me, amigo. I remembered what you said if ever I was down this way to come look you up—an’ here I am.”
He stopped at the foot of the steps below the porch and Cress Bonney lowered the rifle, grinned and walked forward, thrusting out his right hand.
“Well, I’ll be damned. It’s you all right. An’ bigger’n ever. Hell, man, it’s good to see you—But you’re a mess. You better come in. Wife’s just preparin’ supper.”
Cody froze. “Wife?”
“Sure. I been married a year now.”
“Hell! An’ I blurted that out about Yuma. I’m sorry, Cress, din’ mean to ...”
Bonney laughed. “Relax. Liz knows all about my past. Fact she helped reform me. I’m dead honest now.”
Still Cody hesitated. “I got to tell you I’m in some—trouble, Cress.”
Bonney tensed slightly. Then he smiled. “When weren’t you in trouble? Look, we’re isolated out here. You can stick around a spell and catch your breath. Never seen a lawman since I been here. ’Sides, I need a hand to round-up and bust some mustangs and as I recollect, you used to be a pretty good bronc-buster. Or so you said.”
“Must’ve told you on one of my more honest days. Yeah. I can bust broncs. An’ Cress—muchas gracias, amigo.”
Bonney clapped an arm about Cody’s beefy shoulders and steered him towards the door.
“Hell, man, it’s the least I can do the way you looked after me in Yuma …”
They went into the small cabin where a lamp was being lit in the kitchen by Liz Bonney.
The train from Cannon Creek hit the grade at a fast bat but slowed very quickly as the steepness increased. Tracks had been laid in a curving, zigzag fashion over the range but at some parts, the rails seemed to just go straight up.
It was one of those sections, near the top of the range, and the engineer gave the locomotive full throttle, bleeding off a little steam when he saw the boiler pressure needle flickering into the red zone. The fireman was stripped to the waist and was hurling logs of wood through the open furnace door in an endless rhythm.
White, black and gray-tinged smoke belched from the stack and the wheels rang on the rails.
The engineer dumped a couple of pounds of sand through the chute to give them a better grip and they spun, showered sparks—and finally caught. The loco heaved forward and upward, dragging the tender, flatbed wagon loaded with goods, and the green-painted express car behind, with the small guard’s caboose built on the rear.
The words “Wells Fargo & Co.” were painted on the side of the express car which had barred windows, heavy, steel-lined doors and scoop air vents in the roof.
The railroad passed through a narrow cutting with the rock walls almost on a level with the top of the loco cab and the roof of the express car. By the time the train reached the cutting, it had slowed to a walking pace because of the steep grade.
Men wearing masks rose out of the bushes on the cutting walls and two dropped nimbly onto the roof of the locomotive cab, then swung into the driving platform, startling the engineer and fireman.
At the same time, others dropped onto the roof of the express car and one man clambered swiftly down the ladder at the rear and, as the guard looked out to see what the thump had been on his roof, shot the man through the head. The body tumbled out, struck the cutting wall and spilled to the tracks.
Inside the express car, the robbers could hear the guards shooting home heavy bolts.
In the locomotive cab, the fireman had a log of wood in his hands and was just starting his swing towards the furnac
e door, but changed the action and hurled it at one of the bandits.
“No,” yelled the engineer who was already thrusting his hands high: he had no intention of dying on behalf of Wells Fargo. “Don’t fight, Mal.”
It was too late. The bandit dodged the log and put two shots into the fireman’s body. The man slammed back against the furnace and slithered to the floor. The other bandit lifted his gun towards the engineer, but the man shook his head frantically.
“I ... I won’t give you no trouble,” he bleated.
“That’s for sure,” murmured the masked man—and shot him through the heart. The body sagged to the footplate, the big, hobnailed boots drumming briefly.
The killer nodded to his companion. “Stop her, Tag.”
Tag spun the wheel then hit the brakes. The shoes ground home with a screech. He and the other man, his brother, Chet, braced themselves as the couplings locked and clashed, bringing the whole train shuddering to a halt. Tag adjusted the steam pressure, then the brothers climbed down and edged their way back to where five men were clambering over the express car.
One man, wearing a ragged and patched gray dustcoat, waved a sawn-off shotgun at the two men below.
“Git the pots, boys.”
“Right, Pa,” called Tag, and he and Chet ducked between the wheels and ran to a niche in the wall of the cutting. They brought out a dozen tar-smeared cans that had turpentine-soaked rags wrapped around them.
As they crawled back to the other side, Chet reached up and touched the straining couplings.
“We’re gonna have trouble freein’ them,” he growled. “Ass end of the train’s bangin’ back down the grade an’ puttin’ one helluva strain on ’em.”
“Let’s clear the damn car first,” Tag told him and looked up at his father in the dustcoat. Some of the other men were leaning over the roof of the car, shooting at an angle through the barred windows. The four guards returned their fire, some of the bullets striking sparks from the rock face of the walls, ricocheting dangerously in the narrow space between the car and the cutting. Tag and Chet ducked as lead buzzed over their heads like a swarm of bees.
