by Kurt Barker
“You're going to stop the whole gang by yourself? I know you're good in a fight, but that's crazy!”
“Right now I'm not worried about stopping the whole gang,” Blackshot replied. “First we've got to stop a wagon full of gunpowder!”
Chapter 32
When they reached the summit of the hill Blackshot whistled for Khamsin, and a moment later the big stallion emerged from the trees and galloped to meet them.
“How far away is the old man's house?” he asked as he jumped astride the horse's back.
“Not far enough!” Poloma gasped. “You could probably see the rooftops from here if not for the trees!”
“Wait for me here. I'll be back as soon as I can.”
“I'm coming with you! I can help fight them!”
“I don't need your help,” Blackshot said and spurred Khamsin forward.
Poloma sprang up and snatched onto the cantle of the saddle with both hands, pulling herself off the ground with her foot atop his in the stirrup. “I don't give a shit what you need! You're going to get my help anyway!”
Blackshot sighed and grabbed hold of the girl's shirt collar and dragged her up into the saddle behind him. “Fine, it's your funeral!” he growled.
A shot from a rifle could not have moved with any greater speed or purpose than did Khamsin, for he sensed that the hunt was on again, and the prey was close. He slowed only when Blackshot held him back to pick their way down the muddy hillside, then tore off again at a dead run as soon as his hooves touched level ground.
As they sped through the trees along the river side, Blackshot stole a glance over his shoulder at Poloma. She was crouched low with her cheek pressed to his side, and the broad-bladed knife was in her hand. Her long black hair whipped across her face in the wind, but she barely blinked, such was the intensity in her eyes.
Blackshot felt an uneasy pang in the pit of his stomach; he knew the girl was still weak from the whipping she had taken only a few days before, and the encounter with Horse-Eater hadn't helped. It was only the emotion of the personal vendetta against the man that she had loved and then betrayed, and whose blows she had defied even to the point of death that was keeping her going. She would need protecting, as much from herself as from the gang, or this might really be her funeral!
The trees thinned out as they rode and after a few minutes Khamsin burst out into the open plains. Blackshot spotted the wagon and the riders moving along the broad trail about a half mile up ahead, and turned the horse toward them.
In the distance about a mile beyond he saw the high face of a long wooden wall, taller and thicker than any that could be found around an army fort. At its center was a bulky gate house made of stone, and behind that rose the vast walls of the Schenker mansion like the keep of a medieval castle that he had seen in a picture once. The monstrous structure looked as out of place on the prairie as a top hat on a pig, and Blackshot silently wished to one day be rich enough to indulge himself in such crazy whims.
There was still hard work to be done if Old Man Schenker was going to be alive to enjoy his crazy whim tomorrow, though. As the pursuit bore steadily down on their quarry, Blackshot slid one of the black Colts from its holster, but felt Poloma's hand tug on his sleeve.
“Wait! Don't shoot!” she cried. “I've got an idea! Just ride up alongside them!”
“It had better be a damn good idea!” Blackshot shouted.
“Just ride up to them! Hallo!! Hey!!” She waved her hand above her head as she called out to the men with the wagon.
The riders had heard the approaching hooves, and the men trailing the wagon had stopped and turned to look at them, rifles in hand, while the others slowed the wagon with guns at the ready as well. When Blackshot had neared within thirty yards or so, the horsemen raised their rifles to cover them and one advanced toward them.
“That's close enough!” the man barked, holding up his hand. “What the hell do you want?!”
Poloma spoke in the Comanche tongue, her voice no less haughty and authoritative than that of Lightning Bear. “Turn around! Back to camp with you rats, now!”
“Who the fuck-” one of the men started.
“Shut up! I'm Sun Wolf's woman! Horse-Eater is with us! We have urgent news and the plan has changed! Now get back to camp immediately! Do I have to say everything twice?!”
The men looked from Poloma to Blackshot to each other, unsure of what to think of this sudden development. “I guess maybe we should turn around,” the man who drove the wagon ventured tentatively, “If the boss has changed his mind, we don't want to-”
The burly Comanche that had loaded the gunpowder stood up from where he sat in the wagon bed. “Wait a damn minute!” he cried, pointing at Poloma. “I heard the boss when he sent Horse-Eater to kill the girl that was supposed to be dead before! That's her! She's that girl! This is a fuckin' trick!”
“Shit! This one knows too much,” Poloma whispered.
“Oh well, it was worth a try,” Blackshot said, and put a bullet through the Comanche's forehead.
Chapter 33
As he fired, Blackshot dug his heels into Khamsin's flanks, and the stallion lunged forward toward the wagon. The horsemen scattered, firing wildly as more shots from Blackshot sent their panicked horses leaping away. One twisted and fell from his saddle as a bullet found its mark, his foot getting caught in the stirrup as his fleeing horse dragged him away through the snow.
Two of the three remaining riders regrouped and turned again with rifles raised, but the third kept right on riding as fast as he could for the safety of the trees. The driver of the wagon had urged it into motion once more, and was whipping the horses with a fearful vigor to try to escape the attackers. The body of the dead man tumbled out of the bed as the wagon lurched forward, and sent a spray of mud spattering across the snow as it thumped to the ground. Khamsin caught up easily to the escaping wagon, and Blackshot pulled him close alongside so that the horsemen could not get a clear line of sight at him.
The violent jolting of the wagon had knocked the men in the bed off of their feet, but now the man with the red-painted shirt had regained his footing and drew a revolver from the back of his waistband. Blackshot suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, and then the pressure of Poloma's body against his was gone. He turned to look just in time to see her leap into the wagon and throw herself onto the “wounded” man. His gun hand was pinned behind his back as he fell back onto the kegs with the girl atop him, splitting one of them open as their combined weight crushed it.
The blade of Poloma's knife flashed in the sunlight as she plunged it into the thin man's throat, once, twice and a third time as real blood mixed with paint on his shirtfront. As he slumped lifeless to the floor of the wagon bed, she stood up from him only to be knocked back by a thumping kick to the chest by another of the raiders. He was a brawny blond man with long arms that pinned Poloma to the floor, sending the bloodstained knife flying from her hand and skittering into the trail of gunpowder that marked the wagon's path through the snow now.
A sudden rifle shot that sparked off the churning rear wheel forced Blackshot away from the side of the wagon, and another tore by his shoulder as he feinted aside to dodge the incoming fire from the chasing horsemen. He fired a shot blindly behind his back in hopes of checking their pursuit for a moment, and crouched low in the saddle as he spurred Khamsin forward to catch the speeding wagon again.
“Out of the way! I'll settle the bitch down!”
Blackshot looked up at the sound of the shouting voice and saw the driver of the wagon, his blue cap gone and his long braids flapping in the wind. He had twisted around to face the action behind him, still keeping a hold on the reins with one hand, and had drawn a pistol from his jacket with the other which was now aimed straight at Poloma.
The girl was fighting hard and clawing at the blond man like a wildcat as he tried in vain to subdue her. The remaining man in the back of the wagon, a thick-set Lakota warrior with a scarred jaw, had joined his comrade
and was trying to hold the thrashing woman down by her hair, but together they blocked the driver's line of fire.
“Move, dammit! Let me get a fucking shot at her!” he bellowed, waving the gun impatiently.
Blackshot drove in hard alongside the wagon, and as the driver spotted him he turned his gun from Poloma toward the more immediate threat, but too late. Blackshot's bullet bored into his chest just below the collarbone and burst out his back in a spray of red that sprinkled the coats of the men in the wagon bed. He slid out of the driver's seat and fell backwards off the front of the wagon between the sides of the running horses.
The wagon careened awkwardly to one side as the wheels thundered over the driver's body and leaped into the air, sending the occupants of the wagon bed tumbling against the side slats. It wavered almost on the brink of tipping over before slamming back down onto its four wheels again, throwing a cloud of gunpowder into the air.
As the frenzied horses dragged the wagon onward, Blackshot pulled Khamsin short and spun him around to face the onrushing horsemen. He could feel that his gun was empty, but taking the reins in his teeth as they sprang forward toward the pursuers, he drew his other Colt and let rip.
The two men had been distracted by the near-capsizing of the wagon and were caught off-guard by Blackshot's sudden about-face. Their horses were still charging forward at unabated speed and the gap between predator and prey closed in an instant. Neither one had time to swing his rifle toward their target before Blackshot's bullets were drilling into them at point-blank range.
In almost the next instant he was speeding in between the two galloping horses, but their riders could offer no counterattack. Behind him one slumped over and fell from his saddle into a snowdrift with his guts spilling from his side. The other lolled back onto his horse's rump and was carried this way for several yards, blood trailing down the beast's flanks from the gaping hole where an eye should have been.
By the time the body slid out of the saddle and crumpled to the ground, Blackshot had already passed again on a return trip in hot pursuit of the fleeing wagon. The tall outer walls of the Schenker estate were looming ahead, scarcely more than a couple hundred yards off now. If there were guards in the gatehouse they'd have heard the shooting and would be watching the action now, but would be no chance for them to help before it was too late!
Chapter 34
The wagon was still rushing onward, sluing erratically from side to side as the crazed team dragged it through the slushy snow. A thin stream of gunpowder was still issuing out of the back of the wagon bed, and Blackshot could see Poloma on her knees, clawing at the face of the stocky Lakota while he tried to wrestle her to the ground.
Blood stained her lips and her blouse had been torn away on one side, leaving her ample breasts and one arm bare, but in spite of the odds the little hellcat was giving as good as she got. The blond man was flat on his back and struggling to get up, blood streaming from his scalp and oozing from between his fingers as his hand clutched at his mouth. Blackshot could tell that the girl was weakening though, as she still fought hard against the superior strength of the other man. He had to act fast, and the consequences would be heavy if he should make the wrong move.
Flecks of sweat flew from Khamsin's sinewy neck as the powerful stallion strove with all its might to close the gap to the fleeing wagon. As it drew quickly closer, Blackshot's mind raced to find a way to stop the wagon before it reached the walls of the Schenker mansion while not endangering Poloma. Suddenly a thought struck him and he dropped the empty pistol into its holster and fished in his pocket.
The wagon was only a few yards ahead now, and Poloma had kicked free of her opponent's grasp for the moment, but now had to fend off his partner.
“Jump!” Blackshot roared. “Jump out of there now!”
He was not sure if his voice would carry over the din of the rushing horses, but the girl's head jerked up and her eyes met his. In his hand she saw that he held up a handful of matches, and realized what he was going to do. With a desperate effort she tore herself free from the grasping hands of the men and vaulted over the side of the wagon bed. She tumbled into a snowdrift, rolling over and over, just as Blackshot struck the wad of matches against the leather of his holster and they sparked into life.
A quick tug of the reins drew Khamsin out of the wake of the wagon, and just as they turned, Blackshot thrust the matches into the line of gunpowder that was streaming from the shattered barrel. The flame spat like a firecracker as it inhaled the black powder and surged toward the wagon at a frightening speed.
The two men in the wagon stared out at Blackshot and grabbed for their rifles, unaware of the calamity closing in on them. They got no further chance to learn of it, either, for an instant later the sparks shot into the wagon bed. With a flash like lightning and a roar of thunder, the wagon vanished in a enormous ball of flame. Bits of shattered wood and severed limbs flew into the air and danced across the snowy plain as Blackshot felt the shockwave hit him like a punch from an invisible fist.
Through the thick black billows of smoke that rose like a furnace from the remains of the wagon, he saw the shimmering figures of men on horseback emerging from the gates of the fortress. They fanned out around the scene of carnage, giving Blackshot a wide berth but keeping their guns trained on him.
“Easy on the triggers, boys! I'm on your side!” he called, holding up his hand as he approached the men.
“What the hell is going on?!” one of the riders demanded.
“These fellows thought it would be fun to give you your own private fireworks show, and I was presenting the opposing argument,” Blackshot replied as he thumbed fresh shells into the barrels of the Colts.
“And who are you supposed to be?”
“Tom Blackshot's the name, acting sheriff of Dryer Hill. You can ride into town and check up on me if you've a mind to be skeptical, but you'd be better off getting back to your castle and putting everybody in there on alert, because these thugs were only part of the gang. The ringleader's still out there, and he's planning to launch an attack of his own.”
The men looked at each other hesitantly, then a few began to converse in hushed tones. As they talked, another man on horseback appeared at the gate and rode toward them; he was tall and well-built, but his face was drawn and had a haggard look to it which made him look older than the roughly thirty years of age that Blackshot supposed him to be. It was clear as he reached the scene that the other men were prepared to defer to his judgment of the matter, and it was not hard to guess who he was.
“What's all this about, Jed?” he demanded of one of the men.
“This here fella says he's a law man and that this big lot of gangsters was coming to plant dynamite around the house and blow us all to kingdom come, just for the sport of it!” the man explained, embellishing liberally on Blackshot's statement. “Instead they got blowed up themselves out here, and some was shot by this fella, too, from what all we could see from the wall.”
“A law man, eh? I thought I knew all the law men in these parts.”
“Hans Schenker, right?” Blackshot said, touching the brim of his hat. “Nice to meet the heir to the throne.”
“How do you know who I am?” Hans asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. Then suddenly they widened as a look of shock crossed his lean face. “Poloma?”
Blackshot turned and saw Poloma a good ways off astride one of the dead raiders' horses, turning it away from the walls of the estate. She carried a rifle across the saddle in front of her and when she glanced quickly over her shoulder toward Hans there was fear and pain in her eyes.
“It's going to be okay!” she cried out, the tone of her voice sounding anything but okay. “I promise it's all going to be okay!”
Her heels jabbed into the horse's sides and it took off at a gallop. She hunched low in the saddle and her long black locks were blown out almost straight behind her as she streaked toward the treeline.
“Poloma, wait!” Hans shouted in
vain.
Blackshot turned Khamsin around and started off in pursuit of the girl. Hans spurred his horse forward to prevent him from leaving, with a few of the guards following close behind.
“Hey, wait a minute here! I want to know what this is all about!” he said. “Who were these men and why were they coming here to attack us?!”
“Ask their friends; they'll be here soon enough,” Blackshot responded. “Get back to your castle and put a guard on every door and window and mouse hole, or you'll be dead before the sun goes down!”
With that Khamsin leaped forward into a run, leaving the stunned riders in his wake as they hesitated, unsure whether to pursue or not.
“But wait-- I mean--” Hans called.
“It's all going to be okay!” Blackshot called over his shoulder, not believing it any more than Poloma had.
Chapter 35
Poloma's horse was running hard and Blackshot had only half closed the gap by the time the girl reached the edge of the forest. It was clear that she didn't intend to let the trees slow her down, and she drove the horse on through the underbrush without stopping.
When Blackshot reached the treeline he could hear the sound of them crashing through the bushes up ahead, and drove Khamsin on in pursuit. The sounds grew closer as he rode, but then they stopped as suddenly as they had started. He pressed on, following the trampled brush and muddy prints as they led gradually uphill and turned toward the river.
Up ahead the trees grew at a rakish angle from the edge of a rocky ridge, and it was here that Blackshot saw a sight that sent an icy shock through his body: Poloma's horse trotted aimlessly toward the bank of the river, and its saddle was empty! The rifle lay among the twisted roots that jutted out from the side of the ridge, and there was no sign of the girl anywhere.
“Poloma! Poloma!!” Blackshot shouted out as he circled the ridge, hearing nothing in return but a mocking echo.
