Before the rescue party left town, Dr. Harmon checked John Henry’s wounds and rebandaged them one last time, pulling the bandages as tight as possible so the wounds would be less likely to break open again.
“I still think you’re insane for doing this,” Harmon said. “Any normal man would still be resting in bed.”
“There’ll be time for that when this is all over,” John Henry told the doctor. “Once the judge and his ladies are back home safely and those outlaws have been dealt with.”
“You’re assuming you’ll live to see that.”
“I always assume I’ll make it through whatever I’m doing, Doc. Otherwise what’s the point of living?”
Harmon didn’t have an answer for that other than a shrug and a nod.
* * *
Night had fallen. As the men rode out of town, John Henry thought about Nick Mallette. The gambler had ridden out of Kiowa City earlier that day after being smuggled out the back door of the courthouse by Sheriff Rasmussen. The sheriff had sent one of his deputies to keep an eye on the two lawmen from Kansas City, who had been sitting around the hotel for the past few days enjoying their per diem. As long as they were drawing their expense money, they weren’t going to be in any hurry to head back to Missouri.
They might not take kindly to it, though, if they found out that the local law was releasing the convicted murderer they had been sent to fetch. They could raise quite a stink over that if they wanted to.
When John Henry had handed over his badge and bona fides to Mallette he had said, “Now you know, Nick, no matter how fond I may be of you personally, if you take off for the tall and uncut instead of going to the Silver Skull like you’re supposed to, I’ll feel duty-bound to track you down and drag you back to that gallows in Kansas City myself.”
“Don’t worry, John,” Mallette had told him. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for you or any other lawman. I figure you’ll keep your word and help me with that murder conviction if I live through this, and if I don’t . . . well, I won’t have to worry about being hanged, will I?”
“That’s true.”
“Never thought I’d say it, but if it has to be one way or the other, I think I’d rather go out fighting. You’re a bad influence, John Henry Sixkiller.”
“Not the first time I’ve been told that.”
John Henry smiled faintly, remembering the conversation. He had confidence in Mallette. He had been fooled a time or two in the past, but overall he thought he was a pretty good judge of character. Mallette had the right stuff inside him. The gambler just hadn’t been aware of it.
When they were several miles out of town, Ezra Jenkins, the old frontiersman, edged his horse up alongside John Henry’s. “You know where it is you’re goin’, youngster?”
“I know the direction I’m going. And I’m pretty good at steering by the stars. I think we’ll hit that ravine sooner or later.”
“O’Hara’s Draw.”
“I beg your pardon?” John Henry said with a frown.
“O’Hara’s Draw,” Ezra repeated. “That’s the name o’ that big gully, or ravine, as you call it. It got the name because years ago, back in the days when there weren’t any white men in these parts ’cept for buffalo hunters, one of ’em got the bright idea of stampedin’ a herd of those shaggy varmints into the gully. He figured the fall would kill ’em, and then all he’d have to do was come along and skin the hides off ’em. That was all well and good, I suppose, but ol’ O’Hara, he didn’t take into account just how many buffler there was in that herd he stampeded. They fell into the gully, all right, but they kept fallin’ in on top of the ones that was already dead, and they piled up and piled up until the whole dang gully was full to the top with dead buffler! There weren’t no way to get to the ones on the bottom, so all they could do was sit there and rot.
“After a while the stink from O’Hara’s Draw was so bad you could smell it from ten miles away. Wouldn’t nobody come through this part of the country because of it. So the fella who started the ranch where we’re headed was able to move in without nobody competin’ with him for rangeland. He had it all to hisself. But he still couldn’t make a go of it, and even after years passed and all the buffler had rotted away to bones and all the bones had done been carried away, when the wind was right on a hot day the smell that carried to the ranch was still bad enough it’d make your toes curl.”
John Henry wondered how much, if any, of that story was true, but all he said was, “I’ve been in that ravine. I didn’t smell anything.”
“Well, that was years and years ago. The stink’s gone now. But I seen it with my own eye, buffler bones piled so high you could walk across that draw on ’em. A man don’t never forget somethin’ like that.”
“I imagine not. So you’re saying you know how to find this O’Hara’s Draw?”
“Darn right I do. Most folks back in Kiowa City think I’m just a crazy ol’ coot who’s full o’ stories. But I been to see the elephant, youngster, and the only reason I ain’t still out there hellin’ around in the wild lonesome is that my rheumatiz got so bad I can’t stay in the saddle more than eight, nine hours at a time. An hombre gets that soft, he needs to find hisself a rockin’ chair somewheres. So that’s what I done. But I can take you right to that gully, if you’ll let me, and I can still fight, too.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second, Ezra. Lead the way.”
The old-timer nodded and then moved his horse out in front. His head was held high.
John Henry trusted that Ezra was telling the truth, but at the same time he was going to keep an eye on the stars and make sure they were headed in the right direction. If Ezra began to veer off, John Henry would correct him as gently as possible.
As it turned out, John Henry didn’t have to worry about that. Ezra led the group straight as a string several more miles to the north, then cut almost due west.
“We’ll hit the gully about five miles northwest of that big rock that looks like a skull,” he told John Henry. “I knowed it was there—I’ve seen it many a time—and I knowed that old ranch was up on the bluff behind it, but I ain’t been that way in years and didn’t know outlaws had moved in and tooken over. It’s a good place for a hideout. Hard to get into and out of.”
“Have you ever heard anything about an escape tunnel?” John Henry asked.
“No, but it don’t surprise me. The Injuns was pretty bad around these parts for a long time. Folks who was smart always had theirselves a bolt hole.”
“I think that’s what that cave is, only it was probably the law Lottie’s father wanted to be able to get away from if he needed to, not Indians.”
The stars continued to wheel through the sky overhead as time passed. John Henry estimated that it was close to midnight, and he was glad he had allowed the entire night for him and his men to get into position. They might need it.
His side ached a little from the long ride, but he was confident the wounds wouldn’t cause him any real trouble. He was more worried about not being able to know for sure what was going on at the ranch.
Had Mallette been able to convince Lottie and Garrett to believe his story?
Had Rasmussen and the members of the jury showed up like they were supposed to and drawn the attention of the outlaws?
Were the three prisoners still alive, and had Mallette been able to find out where they were being held? That was maybe the most important question of all.
No, John Henry amended to himself. When the time came, would Mallette be able to find the hidden entrance into the ranch house and open it? That was the most important question. The success of the rest of the plan depended upon it.
If Mallette failed, a lot of innocent people would die when the sun came up.
* * *
Sheriff Mike Rasmussen tried not to give in to his nerves. His impulse was to stalk back and forth across the camp, but he wasn’t going to do it even though Marshal Sixkiller had said to move around a
lot and keep the outlaws’ attention focused on the group of men. Rasmussen wanted to appear cool and calm, even though he was far from it on the inside.
He knew he had a reputation as a plodding, unimaginative lawman. A lot of the citizens of Kiowa City even thought he was dumb. Rasmussen didn’t believe that was true, but he knew he wasn’t anything like the daring adventurer Sixkiller seemed to be. He was willing to settle for being persistent, dogged in his determination to do what needed to be done.
To that end, he had led the group of ten men miles from town, under the watchful eyes of a gang of owlhoots who wanted them dead. Late that afternoon, they had reached the flats in front of the escarpment where the big, skull-like rock was located. It was still light enough for the outlaws to see them as they made camp.
Rasmussen had a hunch the outlaws had studied them through field glasses or telescopes. Because of that, none of the men wore holstered guns, and the saddle scabbards where Winchesters and other rifles usually rode were empty. They didn’t have any saddlebags where weapons could be carried, either.
Each man had a pair of .32 caliber revolvers stuck down in their boots, however. The guns had been provided by the owner of the general store, Charles Houston’s former partner. The little Smith & Wessons packed five-shot cylinders, so each man had ten rounds loaded and another ten rounds in extra cartridges. If that wasn’t enough to put up a good fight against the outlaws . . . well, then, they’d have bigger problems to worry about.
Jed Montayne came over to the sheriff with the usual glare on his craggy face. “I still say I could’ve taken my whole crew and fought our way up that trail.”
“Even if you did, you’d lose at least half your men,” Rasmussen said. “You probably would’ve caught a few slugs yourself, Jed, because I imagine you’d have been right there in the front.”
“Damn right I would have. I don’t ask my riders to do anything I won’t do.”
“If the marshal’s plan works, we’ll all have a lot better chance of coming through this alive.”
Montayne snorted. “Sixkiller may be a deputy marshal, but he’s half Indian, too. I ain’t real fond of puttin’ my life in the hands of such as that.”
“You seem to forget that your life has already been in Sixkiller’s hands . . . when he got himself shot warning you about that ambush in Packsaddle Gap.”
Montayne had the decency to mutter something and look down at the ground. When he looked up again, he said, “All I know is that if the marshal’s high-and-mighty plan don’t work, we’re all liable to die in the morning. I don’t plan to sleep much tonight, but if I did, I’d sleep better knowin’ that he was right about that damned cave or tunnel or whatever you want to call it.”
Rasmussen nodded. “I’ve got to admit, Jed, I wouldn’t mind knowing about that myself.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Ezra Jenkins was true to his word. The rescue party reached the ravine, or O’Hara’s Draw, as the old frontiersman called it, not long after midnight.
“We’ll leave our horses here,” John Henry told the men as they dismounted. He pointed to one of them. “You’ll be responsible for keeping up with the horses and driving them down toward the Silver Skull when it gets close to dawn.”
The man was one of Montayne’s riders. He protested, “Why pick me for that job? I want to get in on the fight, damn it!”
“Because I need a man who can handle that many saddle mounts,” John Henry said. “Anyway, the fight may not be over by the time you get there.”
“Hope not,” the puncher muttered. “I was at Packsaddle Gap when those damn owlhoots tried to bushwhack us. I got a score to settle with them.”
“We all do,” John Henry said, thinking of the bullet holes in his side.
The next step was finding a way down into the ravine. That took some time, but Ezra finally located a place where the wall was rugged enough to climb down. John Henry had warned the men before they left Kiowa City to fashion slings for their rifles, so they could carry the weapons while they were making the descent into the ravine.
Once they were all down except for the man who’d been left with the horses, John Henry told them quietly, “The closer we get to the ranch, the more we’ll have to worry about not making any noise the guards up on the rim might hear, so we might as well get in the habit of being quiet now. We’re going to move fast, but don’t make any more racket than you have to.”
The men muttered in understanding. With Ezra beside him, John Henry started south along the bottom of the ravine. The other men followed.
They were able to move fairly fast most of the time. The ravine was wide enough that they didn’t have to travel single file, and the bottom of it was level. Enough moonlight and starlight penetrated into the ravine for them to see where they were going.
Here and there the bottom was partially choked with brush that had piled up during flash floods, and that slowed them down some as they worked their way though the obstacles. Overall, though, John Henry was pleased with the progress they were making.
No one said anything, and they were careful not to let their rifle barrels bang against rocks. After a while, John Henry held up his hand in a signal for the others to halt. As they did so, he listened intently.
The faint sound of voices drifted to his ears, followed by hoofbeats. He knew those noises came from the guards patrolling the rim. That meant his party ought to be getting close to the cave mouth. He waved them ahead.
A few minutes later, he spotted the dark maw of the cave, a deeper patch of ebony against the shadowy bulk of the ravine wall. He pointed it out to Ezra, who passed the word along to the other men, communicating with them by gestures.
John Henry reached out and let his hands explore the opening, making sure it was the same one he had found a few days earlier. Confident that it was, he moved slowly into the cave.
He had taken only a couple of steps before pitch blackness surrounded him. The darkness completely swallowed what little light filtered in from the opening.
Tension gripped his nerves, but he forced himself to ignore the atavistic fear of the dark and continued deeper underground, guiding himself with his outstretched left hand trailing against the wall of the cave.
When he felt like he had gone far enough that a light wouldn’t be noticed from the rim, he stopped and lit a match. Even the tiny flame seemed glaringly bright in that stygian gloom.
He turned to look back along the narrow passage. “Is everybody here? Sound off back there.”
One by one, the men did so. By the time everyone was accounted for, the match had burned down nearly to John Henry’s fingers. He lit another one from it, then reached under his shirt for the first of several torches he had fashioned back in Kiowa City before they left. He lit the torch and held it above his head. The light revealed the cave twisting off into the distance ahead of them.
And once again, the flame at the end of the torch leaned far enough to the side to confirm that fresh air was moving through the cave, just as it had been the first time he was there.
“Everybody doing all right?” he asked. “Anybody need to turn back?”
No one spoke up.
After a moment, Ezra said, “Reckon we’re all good to keep movin’, youngster.”
John Henry smiled. He resumed the underground trek.
After a few hundred more yards, the cave narrowed. The rock walls on both sides squeezed in on John Henry’s shoulders. He had to turn sideways to get through.
He heard men muttering behind him. Even if a man wasn’t particularly scared by tight places, the feeling of being so completely enclosed by thousands of tons of dirt and rock would begin to get on a fellow’s nerves after a while. It was certainly getting on John Henry’s nerves.
The fading light as the torch burned down didn’t help matters. He lit the second one from what was left of the first. The brighter illumination made him feel a little better.
So did the fact that after another hundred yards or so, t
he passage widened out again until it was a good ten feet from side to side. He breathed easier after that, and felt certain the men with him did, too.
A few minutes later, however, he stopped so short that Ezra Jenkins bumped into him from behind.
“Somethin’ wrong?” the old frontiersman asked.
John Henry peered at the hole in the cave floor in front of him. It ran from one side of the passage to the other and was at least eight feet wide. A man might be able to jump it if he had a good running start, but that wasn’t possible under the current circumstances.
Ezra stepped up beside John Henry and cursed. “How deep you reckon it is?”
“Let’s find out.” John Henry took a coin from his pocket and tossed it into the hole. Seconds counted off in his head. After what seemed like a long, long time, he heard a faint splash as the coin struck water somewhere far below them.
“If a man fell in there, he’d never get back out,” Ezra said.
John Henry held out the torch so that its light fell on the passage on the far side of the hole. Propped against the wall was a long, wide plank. “There’s the way across. Somebody put that board there to use as a bridge. But since they planned on using this as an escape route from the ranch, it’s on that side, not this one.”
“It doesn’t do us any good over there,” one man said.
Another added, “We can’t get to it.”
John Henry thought for a moment, then said, “Maybe we can bring it to us. I need some belts. Take ’em off and pass ’em up here.”
He handed the torch to Ezra as he took the belts the men provided and knotted them together into a crude rope. When it was long enough to reach across the hole, he passed one end of it through the trigger guard of his Colt and tied it as securely as he could. The weight of the gun at the end of the makeshift lariat would help.
He got as close to the edge as he could without toppling in. “All right. A couple of you fellas grab hold of my shirt so you can pull me back if you have to.”
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