by Evans, Tabor
Longarm smiled and reached across the table to take one of her hands in his and squeeze it affectionately. “Mr. Cable’s not gonna recognize you.”
She returned his smile. It faded quickly under an expression of concern. “No more out there, though, huh?”
“I don’t think so. If they were, they would have showed themselves by now.” Longarm scratched a match to life on the scarred surface of the table. Lighting the cheroot and puffing smoke, he said out one corner of his mouth, “We could pull out of here, head deeper into the mountains. But I’m inclined to hole up here.”
He blew the match out with a puff of smoke, tossed it onto the floor, and drew a bracing lungful of the pungent tobacco. “The cabin’s sturdy enough, and might be as secure as any cover we’d find out there. They might try to burn us out, but they’ll have trouble getting a torch onto the roof with us returning fire from the windows.”
“I guess we just watch and wait, huh?”
Longarm sipped his coffee, nodding.
“Those two human grizzlies who lived here had a good store of coffee beans, anyway. I’ll keep a pot going.”
“Good—we’ll need it.” Longarm looked at her. “Why don’t you crawl back into bed? You could do with some shut-eye.”
She shook her head. “Too keyed up, I reckon.” She stared down at the steaming cup she held between her hands and cleared her throat. “I just want you to know, Longarm—I wouldn’t want to be holed up in a tight spot like this with anyone but you.”
Her eyes grew soft, and a smile touched her mouth corners.
“Me, too, Miss Jo.”
She canted her head to one side, speculatively. “You got a girl at home, Longarm?”
The lawman glanced down at the copper moon-and-star badge pinned to his coat. “Just this one here. Besides, I’m fun in the short run but tiresome outside of a few days. You’ll see.”
“I hope so,” she said with a sigh. “More coffee?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
They drank coffee for a time, mostly in silence, waiting, listening.
The night deepened, chilly air pushing through the rough chinking between the cabin’s logs. After Jo grew sleepy and decided to lie down for a while, Longarm turned the lantern low and kept the fire built up. He sat in a chair with his back to the door, holding his rifle across his thighs, ears pricked though the only sounds he heard were the occasional breeze, the infrequent scuttle of a night bird pecking at the sod on the roof, and the sporadic, thin, distant cries of coyotes and wolves.
He dozed for a time, then lifted his chin from his chest suddenly, squeezing the rifle in his hands. He frowned, looked down at his gloved hands on the rifle, wondered what had awakened him and why his heartbeat had quickened slightly.
Had he heard something?
He looked at Jo, who slept beneath the skins on the bed. Her blond hair shone like honey in the faint light emanating from the lamp. Her shoulders rose and fell deeply as she slept. Likely, it wasn’t her who had awakened Longarm.
He rose from the chair, wincing as the old, dry wood creaked beneath him, then walked quietly over to the back door. Holding the rifle across his belly, he tipped his head to the door, listening.
Nothing.
He removed the locking bar, leaned it gently against the wall, then unlatched the door and stepped outside, quietly closing the door behind him, stepping to one side, and sitting down with his back against the cabin. Here, his shadow would blend with that of the shack.
He stared through the screen of trees and brush toward the creek, a rippling silver sheen running along the base of the western ridge. The night was still, but the threads of isolated breezes ruffled the willows’ uppermost branches. The air smelled fresh, cold, and loamy. Longarm frowned as he worked his nostrils. On the chill air was also, faintly, fleetingly, the smell of cigarette smoke.
He continued to sniff the breeze as he tried to find the direction from which the smoke, which he could now no longer smell, had emanated. From the other side of the creek, possibly. From the north.
His pulse quickened once more as he gained his feet and stole quickly through the brush to the creek. A downed tree provided a ford. He crossed it on the balls of his feet. He was almost to the opposite side when his right foot slid off the wet log and made a dull plop as it hit the shallow water.
Stopping, he dropped to a knee, raised his rifle high across his chest, and looked around, awaiting a rifle flash and possible bullet. When none came, he sniffed the breeze, and after a few seconds, with the cool air pressing against his face, he detected the fleeting scent of tobacco smoke. It seemed to just graze his nose and disappear. But it was definitely coming from upstream somewhere; the breeze was out of that direction.
Longarm walked ahead along the stream that murmured to his right. The boulder- and cedar-stippled ridge was on his left. He kept an eye out for the glow of a cigarette, but whoever was out here wouldn’t be stupid enough to not at least conceal the coal, would he?
One step at a time, Longarm walked, holding the Winchester straight up and down in front of him. When he’d walked maybe ten yards, he caught the smoke scent again for about half a second before it disappeared.
He’d just passed a thumb of rock jutting from the base of the ridge when a pebble rattled down off the top of the scarp to his left. A cigarette butt followed it, sparking.
Longarm wheeled. Before him, standing atop the thumb, a man’s shadow was raising a rifle. The Winchester leaped and roared twice in the lawman’s hands, both shell casings clattering onto the ground around his boots. The man fired his own rifle between Longarm’s staccato shots, and the slug spanged off a rock somewhere near the creek upstream from the lawman.
The man atop the escarpment wheezed and raised his rifle barrel as he awkwardly levered a fresh round into the chamber. Longarm fired twice more quickly, and watched the man fall back off the thumb, heard the rifle clatter off the rocks.
Another rifle cracked upstream from Longarm. The slug tore into the side of the escarpment as he wheeled and dove behind a boulder half in and half out of the creek. Edging a look around the boulder, he saw a flash. The gun screamed, and a quarter second later the slug hammered the far side of the boulder, throwing rock slivers in every direction.
Longarm snaked the Winchester over the top of the boulder, aiming at the place where he’d seen the flash, and emptied the gun. The reports flatted out across the canyon, echoing. The empty cartridge casings clinked to the rocks over Longarm’s right shoulder.
Upstream, a man grunted. There was the clatter of a dropped rifle. A man bounded out away from a tree stump and ran stumbling into the stream where, a few yards from shore, he dropped to his knees, clutching his belly. He sagged forward until he was on all fours, then slowly fell to his far shoulder, and lay still, the water gurgling and flashing up against him.
Knowing he had an empty rifle and that his gun flashes had given away his position, Longarm bolted out from behind the boulder and into a cleft amongst more boulders at the base of the ridge. He pressed his back into a corner, then eased himself down to his butt, breathing hard, slipping fresh cartridges from the loops on his belt, and feeding them through the loading gate of his hot, smoking rifle.
When he’d fed the Winchester nine rounds, he levered one into the chamber and sank back against the boulders, holding the rifle straight up and down in his right hand, stock resting against the ground. He waited. Gradually, his breathing slowed. So did the blood washing through his ears.
When he could hear again clearly, he heard nothing but the stream for a long time.
Then a whinny rose from the direction of the corral.
There was the creak of the corral gate opening.
Longarm’s heart twisted. They were getting the horses!
He bolted out from his hiding place and ran across the creek, knowing his splashing would give him away, but without the horses, he and the girl would be stranded here. He pushed through the trees and brus
h, hearing the thuds of galloping hooves. A mule brayed, and a horse whinnied.
Longarm gritted his teeth and pumped his knees as he ran. But he wasn’t fifty yards from the stable before he saw it was too late. Two riders were hazing the horses off across the clearing, in the direction of where the main trail curved in. One rider whooped and hollered. The other fired a pistol into the air over the galloping herd.
Longarm dropped to a knee and raised his rifle.
A gun flashed from the nearest rider’s jostling, silver-limned shadow. The slug tore into the ground two feet to Longarm’s left.
Longarm triggered his rifle once, twice, three times. The rider cursed. Longarm lost the man in the darkness for a few seconds, then saw his horse drag him off across the clearing toward the main trail. He was grunting and groaning as he hoisted his back off the ground, trying to free his boot from its stirrup. Then he disappeared in the far trees and thick, dark night.
With Longarm’s stock.
A gun barked near the cabin, setting Longarm’s heart to racing once more.
He ran.
Chapter 16
Longarm was thirty yards from the cabin’s front door when he saw Jo standing outside, facing slightly away from him. In her right hand, she held the peach-gripped pistol that Longarm had taken off one of the first three gang members he’d killed in the mountains.
She was aiming the gun slightly out away from her, at a man kneeling about ten yards from her. The man was crouched slightly, hands clamped over his belly. His hat was off, and his close-cropped, coal-black hair glistened in the starlight. A pistol lay on the ground before him, near his hat. He lifted his head toward Longarm, and the lawman saw the thick mustache that curved down over the man’s wide knife slash of a mouth.
“Bitch killed me,” he told Longarm without passion, as though he were imparting the time of day. He gurgled deep in his throat, and then he pitched forward against the ground, shoulders quivering slightly.
Jo lowered the pistol in her hand and brought her other hand to her mouth.
Longarm continued forward past Jo and crouched to pick up the dead man’s pistol. He kicked the body over and pulled another pistol from a shoulder holster under the man’s short wolf coat.
“I heard him out here,” Jo said thinly, trying to keep her emotions in check as she stared down at the man she’d killed. “Just before they took the horses. I came out. I guess I surprised him.”
“Better him than you.”
Longarm shoved both spare pistols behind his cartridge belt, and snaked his arm around Jo’s shoulders. He gave her a gentle squeeze and stared off across the clearing toward where the two riders and the horses and mules had disappeared. Vaguely, he could still hear the fleeing mounts’ thudding hooves and cursed silently.
“I . . . never shot anyone before.” She looked up at Longarm, her jaws firm. “Wasn’t all that hard.”
Longarm gave her another gentle squeeze. “Best get on inside. They’ll be back.”
She turned and walked into the cabin. Longarm followed her inside, leaving the door open so he could hear what was happening outside, and set both pistols on the table. He turned the lamp half up, spreading a dull, buttery glow about six feet out from the table.
Jo sagged silently into a chair on the table’s opposite side, and Longarm went over to the range from which he picked up the coffeepot. He brought it over to the table and filled both their cups.
To each he added some Maryland rye. “Drink that. Settle your nerves.”
“Thanks.” She picked up the cup in both hands and brought it slowly to her lips.
Longarm returned the pot to the range, picked up his own cup, and carried it over to the open door, leaning a shoulder against the frame. He sipped the coffee and stared out at the night. He could see the dust still sifting in the wake of the galloping horses, but a heavy silence had again fallen.
Behind him, Jo swallowed, drew a breath, asked quietly. “How many are left?”
“I got three more. You got one. I’m thinking that leaves three or four, if I counted right.”
“We’re upping our odds.”
Longarm nodded. “They got the horses, though. Now we have no choice but to stick it out here.”
“See if they come back.”
“They’ll come. I was wrong before, but I’m right about this. This is a game for those fellas. They want vengeance, but mostly they want the hunt. You’d think that every time I killed one, the others would think twice about making another play.”
Longarm shook his head and sipped his coffee. “That ain’t how it is. They’re like wolves. They’ll keep comin’ even when they’re outnumbered. Even though there’s nothing here for ’em but prey. No money or hope of money. Just prey.”
Jo stared at him and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Robbing banks and stagecoaches probably got old. Dull.” Longarm stared toward the main trail, now hearing a distant coyote’s forlorn call. “Just wasn’t the challenge this is. They’re on the blood scent now. They know it’s either us or them. They like it. They like it too much. Means one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Like rabid wolves, they need to be put down fast.”
Jo took another deep breath and let it out slow as she stared down at the pistol before her. “Yes. I’ll help in any way I can.”
“Maybe you won’t have to.” Longarm glanced at her. “Close and bar the door behind me.”
Her eyes grew afraid. “Please, don’t leave me again, Longarm.”
Longarm set his cup and rifle on the table and kneeled down in front of her, setting a hand on her denim-clad leg. “I’ll be right outside. Won’t stray more than ten feet away. Be in hailing distance at all times. I’m just gonna sit out here on the bench where I can keep an eye and ear on things.” He patted her leg, rose, and kissed her. “Keep the coffee hot, will ya?”
She nodded as he picked up his rifle and coffee and went outside. When she’d closed the door behind him, he listened until he heard the locking bar slide into place, then walked a few feet into the yard, rifle on his shoulder, steaming cup in his hand.
Except for the still-mewling coyote and an occasional breeze rustle, there was only silence. He went over and sat down on the bench, and he was still there, several hours and cups of coffee later, when the sun smeared a pearl wash behind the eastern ridges. He lightly tapped on the door. Jo must have dozed off at the table, because it was a few second before he heard her chair scrape and her boots tap across the floor.
The locking bar scraped, and the door opened. “I must have nodded off.”
A rifle cracked in the clearing behind Longarm. The slug hammered into the door to Longarm’s left and only inches from Jo, who screamed, eyes widening and lower jaw dropping. Longarm threw himself forward and into the girl.
They hit the floor together hard, and as several more rifles barked, the slugs hammering the door and the cabin’s front wall, flinging splinters, Longarm twisted around and kicked the door closed.
More slugs hammered it from the other side, making it jerk in its frame. Guns popped from at least two other directions, bullets thumping into the rear and north walls. A shutter over one of the cabin’s two rear windows blew open.
Jo said, “Oh!” and turned to it, her hair flying.
“Stay down.”
Rising to a crouch, Longarm ran over to the window over the bed they’d made love in, used his rifle to close it as another slug tore into it, with a sound like a thunderclap, and latched it with his other hand. He pressed his back to the wall and looked around.
Jo was on the floor, belly down, chin lifted, pressing her hands to her ears. Her eyes were bright in the dim lamplight as she stared at Longarm.
He looked around the room, the cabin shaking as three gunmen hammered the place with lead—one from the front, one from the direction of the stable, the other from the rear.
“We’re all right,” he told Jo above the gun bursts and
the hammering thuds of the bullets. “These walls are stout.”
The last word was no sooner out of his mouth before a bullet split the chinking from two logs in the front wall, and flung it across the table, making the lamp chimney ring. It left a gap about two inches wide. Whoever was shooting from that direction was a good shot—he sent another slug hurling cleanly between the logs to screech across the cabin, then spang off the iron range about two feet to Jo’s right.
“Over here!” Longarm ran over, grabbed her arm, jerked her up, and half dragged her over to the cot. She dropped onto it and pressed her back to the wall. “Stay here and whatever you do, keep your head away from the windows.”
“Don’t worry!” she shouted above the din, again covering her ears.
Longarm ran across the room, pressed his shoulder against the front wall, and snugged a cheek against the shutter over the window right of the door. He peered through a crack but he couldn’t see anything.
The pearl wash was lightening gradually, but it was too dark to see much except for the steady burnt orange flares of the shooter’s gun. He was hunkered down beneath a low knoll about fifty yards in front of the cabin.
Longarm pulled his head away, pressed his back against the wall, felt the logs shudder against the fusillade. He squeezed the Winchester in his hands, waited until the shooting gradually died as the shooters emptied their guns. They each must have been packing several weapons, as the firing didn’t stop altogether until after they’d been shooting for three or four minutes.
When a heavy silence followed, punctuated by the whoops and yells of the ambushers, Longarm jerked the front shutter open, snaked his rifle outside, and fired two quick rounds where he’d seen the stab of the gun flames.
In the milky morning light, he watched his bullets kick up dust. One gave a spanging whistle as it ricocheted, evoking a mocking whoop from the man hunkered there. As the man cackled loudly, Longarm slammed the shutter closed and pressed his back against the wall once more.
No point in returning fire until the sun rose a little higher, so he could get a better fix on what he was shooting at. He’d let them deplete their own ammo stores. His biggest worry was that they might try to burn him out. He’d have to return fire every now and then to make sure they didn’t dare a sprint to the cabin. Otherwise, he’d bide his time, wait for the light to grow.
