Rimfire

by William W. Johnstone

  “Well, you’re right about one thing,” drawled Wingate. “Won’t nobody be able to hold you responsible. . . ’cause you’ll be dead.”

  Quint stared at him for a couple heartbeats, then his hand stabbed toward the gun on his hip. He was fast. His gun came out and blasted just before the rifle that Wingate snapped to his shoulder went off with a wicked crack.

  Wingate staggered a step to the right, hit by Quint’s slug, but the blocky gunman rocked back in the saddle, dropped his revolver, and clapped a hand to his chest where Wingate’s round had drilled into him. His eyes rolled up in their sockets and he pitched to the side, out of the saddle.

  Everyone else seemed frozen for the second it took for those things to happen, and then all hell broke loose at once. The other men on horseback grabbed for their guns, while the immigrants crouching behind the wagons opened fire on them.

  Unfortunately, Ace, Chance, and Wingate were in the middle.

  Wingate was still on his feet and even had the rifle up, blazing away at McPhee’s men. A bloodstain was spreading on his shirt, however.

  “Get him back to the wagons!” Ace called to Chance as he triggered the Colt. He didn’t want to kill anybody—some of these men were just ordinary cowhands riding for the brand. He sent slugs whistling around their heads, making them duck as he and Chance retreated toward the wagons. Chance had taken hold of Dave Wingate’s arm to keep him from falling.

  They only had to cover a few feet, but the distance seemed much longer when bullets were zipping through the air around their heads. Chance and Wingate dived over a wagon tongue and rolled behind the wheels. Ace vaulted after them, feeling a slug pluck at the sleeve of his shirt.

  He scrambled to his feet and hurried behind the corner of the wagon bed. The thick planks of the vehicle’s frame offered considerable protection. Peering around the canvas cover, he saw that McPhee’s men were scattering. Quint was down and so was another man, but none of the rest seemed to be hurt too badly.

  Dave Wingate was lying on the ground with Rufe and Laura kneeling beside him. Chance stood over them, shielding them as he peppered shots at the gunmen.

  “Uncle Dave!” cried Rufe. “Uncle Dave, can you hear me?”

  Wingate cracked an eyelid, raised his head, and then pushed himself up on an elbow. “Of course I can hear you, boy. You’re bellerin’ like an ol’ bull. That bullet dug a hunk outta my side. It didn’t make me deaf.”

  “You’re bleeding quite a bit, Mr. Wingate,” Laura told him. “You’d better lie still and let me tend to it.”

  “You know, I’m feelin’ a mite puny all of a sudden, so I reckon I’ll do that, missy.” Wingate sagged back to the ground.

  Laura ripped his shirt open to see how bad the wound was.

  Ace turned his attention to the fight. The Tartan punchers had retreated across the creek into some trees and brush. Wreaths of powder smoke hung over the vegetation as they continued firing at the wagons.

  The immigrants kept up a steady barrage of their own. Ace looked around the camp and saw that a couple men had been wounded, but it didn’t appear that anyone had been killed yet. That was pretty lucky, considering how much lead had been flying around in the first explosion of violence.

  The battle appeared to be on the verge of settling down into a stand-off. The immigrants might have a slight advantage because they had more food and ammunition than McPhee’s men. They had water barrels on the wagons, too, while the enemy wouldn’t dare venture down to the creek for a drink, which would make easy targets of them.

  The problem was that McPhee’s men were probably better shots, and the defenders had their families with them. No man wanted to see his wife and children put in danger. The safest thing would be to call it off and leave, even though trying to return to Missouri might ruin them.

  But if they didn’t have the pioneer spirit, they wouldn’t have ever started out here in the first place, Ace thought. It took a heap of courage and determination to venture into thousands of miles of unknown territory in the hope of finding a better life.

  His Colt’s hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He opened the gun and thumbed fresh rounds from his pocket into the cylinder.

  Just as he closed the weapon, Edward Fairfield hurried up to him and asked, “Are you and your brother all right, Ace? I couldn’t tell exactly what happened right after the shooting started. There was too much dust and gun smoke in the air.”

  “Yeah, we’re fine,” Ace answered. “Mr. Wingate caught a slug, though. Your granddaughter’s tending to him.”

  Fairfield nodded. “I know. I just spoke to her. She thinks Dave will be all right, as long as nothing else happens to him.” Fairfield paused. “Do you think we’re going to be overrun?”

  “Doubtful,” Ace replied. “The sides are pretty evenly matched, and without that fella Quint egging them on, I’m not sure the rest of the bunch will want to charge right into your guns. In fact, I’m pretty sure they’ll be content to sit over there and take potshots at us, at least for a while.”

  “Which is plenty dangerous in itself—” Fairfield stopped abruptly and his eyes widened as he gazed back to the west.

  The dust boiling up there told Ace that another large group of riders were headed toward the wagon train. He didn’t know who they were, but since the immigrants didn’t have any friends in those parts, it was more likely the newcomers were the rest of McPhee’s men.

  The wagon train was caught right in between.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  With Dave Wingate wounded and out of action, Ace knew that someone had to take charge of the camp’s defense. He didn’t particularly want the job, but more than likely, he and Chance had had more experience in such matters than any of the immigrants. He told Chance, “Keep those fellas in the trees pinned down. We’ve got more trouble on the way.”

  Chance looked around, saw the approaching riders, and bit out a curse. “McPhee?”

  “I don’t know who else it could be,” Ace answered grimly. He motioned for Fairfield to come with him and hurried along the circle, crouching low to make himself a smaller target. He picked out several defenders to come with him and positioned them on the other side of the camp. “Don’t open fire until I give the word. We don’t want to fight a battle on two fronts unless we have to.”

  One of the immigrants spoke up. “Captain, do we have to take this kid’s orders?”

  “Ace is in charge of our defense,” Fairfield replied without hesitation. “We haven’t known him for long, but Dave Wingate trusts him and his brother and that’s enough for me!”

  “I appreciate that, sir,” Ace said. “You fellas be ready but hold your fire for now.” He checked his pocket for more cartridges. He was running low, but Fairfield had assured him there were plenty in one of the wagons.

  The newcomers were close enough for Ace to be able to make out individual riders. He wasn’t surprised when he spotted Angus McPhee’s big, broad-shouldered figure among the leaders. Ace recognized three of the more than dozen men with McPhee—Kiley, Doakes, and Stebbins, the trio in Fort Benton. Evidently, the justice of the peace had fined them for disturbing the peace and let them go and they’d had time to catch up to McPhee in Rimfire.

  As the men approached the camp, McPhee held up a hand in a signal for them to stop. They slowed and then came to a halt, but McPhee kept riding in a slow lope now.

  “Hold your fire!” shouted Ace. He called across the circle to his brother. “Chance, have the men stop shooting over there!”

  All the immigrants’ guns fell silent, including those of the men in the trees across the creek. A tense silence fell over the landscape, broken only by the thudding hoofbeats of the horse Angus McPhee was riding.

  McPhee rode around the camp to the creek and ordered, “You men over there hold your fire and come on out!”

  “Mr. McPhee!” a man called from behind a tree. “Those sodbusters killed Quint and Johannson!”

  “Quint was a hotheaded fool,” snapped Mc
Phee. “Did he slap leather first?”

  The uneasy silence from the trees was answer enough.

  McPhee turned his horse and walked the animal toward the wagons. “Wingate!” he said sharply. “Come on out and let’s talk.”

  Edward Fairfield was kneeling behind a wagon wheel. He raised up enough to call, “Mr. Wingate is wounded. I’m the captain of this company.”

  McPhee motioned curtly with his head. “Come on. We’ve got to hash this out before more people die.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” replied Fairfield as he rose to his full height.

  Ace was stiff with worry. He didn’t think McPhee was treacherous enough to be trying to trick Fairfield into an ambush, but he couldn’t be sure of that. He wanted to hurry across the camp and go with Fairfield, but he held off. McPhee already had it in for him and Chance. Seeing the Jensen brothers might just anger McPhee and make things worse.

  Unobtrusively, Ace moved closer so he could take action in a hurry if he needed to.

  Fairfield stepped over the wagon tongue and walked out to face the cattleman. “I’m Edward Fairfield, Mr. McPhee. We saw each other in Rimfire. Why don’t you get down from that horse so we can talk man to man?”

  “Reckon I’m fine where I am,” McPhee said. “What are you sodbusters doing down here where you don’t belong? I told you that you’re not welcome in this part of the country.”

  “That’s not your decision to make. We have every right to stake claims on this land. This area has been opened for settlement, and we intend to settle it.”

  “I graze cattle along this creek every winter,” barked McPhee. “How am I gonna do that if there are a bunch of farms here?”

  For a moment, Fairfield didn’t answer, then the former schoolteacher said, “All of our people who have staked claims so far have done so on this side of the creek. If the others in our party do that as well, you could graze your stock on the other side.”

  “What’s to keep ’em from comin’ across? Fences?” The utter contempt McPhee put into the word made it clear how he felt.

  “Some fences, yes,” Fairfield admitted. “But during the winter we won’t be growing as many crops, so your cattle wouldn’t be able to ruin our fields. We can always drive them back across the creek if they stray.”

  “You mean butcher ’em. I never saw a sodbuster yet who wasn’t a thief at heart.”

  From where Ace stood, he saw the wagon train captain flush with anger at the ugly accusation.

  Fairfield managed to control his temper. “We’re honest folks, Mr. McPhee. I give you my word on that. Any losses you might have, I’ll make them good personally. You have my word on that, too.”

  Before McPhee could come up with some other objection, Fairfield went on. “There’s something else to consider that I don’t believe you’ve thought of. Winter grass grows in this valley, but it’s not as abundant as what grows during the summer. My people could devote part of their land to hay, which you could then use to help feed your stock during the worst part of the winter.”

  McPhee frowned in surprise. “Buy hay from you, you mean?”

  “At a fair, reasonable price. None of us want to do anything except get along and raise our families, Mr. McPhee. The last thing we want to do is try to cheat our neighbors.”

  McPhee’s frown deepened as he leaned forward in the saddle as if he didn’t like being described as a neighbor to the immigrants. “There have been some mighty rough winters in these parts over the past twenty years,” he admitted after a moment. “Sometimes I lost stock because there wasn’t enough graze to go around, even in these protected valleys. You really think you could harvest enough hay to help feed my herd?”

  “It’s something I’ve been thinking about,” said Fairfield. “It’s too late in the season to be of much help to you this winter, but give us a year to get established and the next winter should be easier for you. For all of us.”

  McPhee’s eyes narrowed as he said, “It goes against the grain to give up something that’s mine in the hope of getting something back. Hope is fleeting.”

  “Indeed it is. But you won’t be giving up range as much as making better use of it.”

  “For farming.” Again McPhee’s voice was filled with contempt, as if the word tasted bitter in his mouth.

  “The time has come for the cattleman and the farmer to work together,” Fairfield insisted. “I know it’s a change and change is never easy, but the world won’t stand still for either of us, Mr. McPhee, no matter how much we might like for it to.”

  The man who had told McPhee about Quint and the other Tartan rider getting killed called to the rancher. “Don’t listen to him, Mr. McPhee! They gunned down two of us! They gotta pay for that!”

  “Yeah,” another man growled. “Sodbusters are like lice. You gotta wipe ’em all out or else they keep spreadin’ and spreadin’.”

  McPhee hipped around in the saddle and glared at the men. “I’ll decide what I do, not a bunch of hired guns,” he snapped.

  “You reckon you can hold this land without us, McPhee?” the first man said, his tone defiant and challenging.

  “By God, Sherman, I’ll hold it without you. You’re fired!”

  “Fine by me,” the gunman snapped. He started toward his horses. “I’ll go by the ranch and draw my time.”

  “No need for that,” said McPhee. “I’ll give it to you right here and now!” He reached into his pocket and brought out a double eagle, then flung the gold piece toward the man. It bounced off his chest and fell to the ground. Instead of going for the coin, the man snarled and yanked his gun from its holster.

  The blast of a shot came before Sherman could bring the revolver level. His arm jerked and the gun flew from his hand as he cried out in pain. He staggered and used his left hand to clutch his bullet-drilled upper right arm.

  McPhee looked around in surprise to see who had fired the shot. So did Fairfield.

  Slowly, Ace lowered the gun. He had stepped out in the open to stop Sherman from shooting McPhee. The rancher looked at him in surprise, then a red, angry flush began to spread over McPhee’s face.

  “Sorry, Mr. McPhee,” Ace said. “I didn’t know if you could take him or not, so it seemed like a good idea to stop him.”

  “You!” McPhee exploded. “I suppose your brother is here, too.”

  Chance stepped out from behind one of the wagons and drawled, “Yeah, I am. No thanks to your boys who stomped us and then tried to feed us to the hogs.”

  “If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” McPhee looked at Fairfield again. “I was about to work a deal with you, mister, but I won’t do business with anybody who shelters worthless scoundrels like these two!”

  Fairfield looked at Ace and Chance in utter confusion. He didn’t know anything about the situation with Ling, and Ace figured it was too much of a complicated mess to explain at the moment.

  “Don’t let Chance and me stop you from settling things with these folks,” he said to McPhee. “We’re not part of their group, and we don’t have any intention of settling down here. We just gave ’em a helping hand or two, that’s all.”

  Fairfield said, “Ace, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it’s not necessary. You boys are welcome to stay here as long as you like, and if that’s a problem for Mr. McPhee—”

  “Damn right it is,” said the cattle baron.

  Ace shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be. Chance and I will move on right now, if that’s what it takes.”

  “But where will you go?” asked Laura Fairfield. She had come up with Rufe, who stood beside her with his arm around her shoulder.

  Chance grinned and shrugged. “Ace and I have never worried all that much about where we’re going. As long as we’re on the move, that’s all we care about. Right, Ace?”

  “Right,” Ace agreed. He tucked the gun back in his waistband. “We’ll ride out right now.” He was running a risk by making that offer, and he knew it.

  McPhee hones
tly didn’t seem to want a battle with the immigrants, but he might change his mind once Ace and Chance were gone and couldn’t help them anymore. Not only that, but once the Jensen brothers were away from the wagon train, McPhee might come after them, and they would be on their own.

  But he and his brother had been on their own for quite a while and had always managed to take care of themselves. It seemed like a worthwhile gamble if it would keep any more bloodshed from occurring.

  Several seconds crawled by, and then McPhee rasped, “Get your horses and get out. If you’re worried about me coming after you, I won’t. And there won’t be any more trouble here, either. Fairfield and I will hash this out and come to an arrangement.”

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that, Mr. McPhee,” Fairfield said.

  “You’ve never seen the frozen carcasses of cows that starved to death in the dead of winter,” snapped McPhee. “I have, and if there’s something I can do to prevent it, I will, by God. Even if it’s putting up with a bunch of sodbusters and their damn fences.”

  “We don’t have to like each other,” Fairfield pointed out. “We just have to work together.”

  McPhee snorted. He turned his horse and spoke to the men on the other side of the creek. “Saddle up and head back to the ranch. Take those bodies with you. I know you don’t like it, but that’s the way things are for now.” He looked at Fairfield. “I’ll ride back over here tomorrow. We’ll talk some more. In the meantime, my men will leave you alone.” McPhee pointed at Ace and Chance. “And those two had better be gone, or any deal we might make is off and that creek’s liable to run red with blood!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Since Ace and Chance didn’t have much—horses, saddles, borrowed revolvers—it didn’t take long for them to get ready to depart from the wagon train. They would have liked to recover their own guns, but it didn’t seem likely Angus McPhee would cooperate with that goal.

  McPhee’s men withdrew as the rancher had ordered, but McPhee himself drew rein and turned his horse around when he was a couple hundred yards from the camp. He sat there by himself, watching as if he intended to make sure that the Jensen brothers actually left.