His intent was to set fire to one of Bell’s line shacks and use that as a distraction to draw back the two wranglers who’d left the shack earlier to check on the cattle. The fire would give him an opening to separate them from their horses and then scatter and stampede the small herd of prized Bell cattle about to be moved from winter grass.
After tying his horse in some trees about thirty yards back from the shack, he approached on foot with a certain amount of caution. That wisdom might not have been enough if one of the men hiding in a nest of boulders off to one side of the shack hadn’t scraped his gun barrel against the rock he was squatted behind.
Bob froze, dropping into a crouch in the open area in front of the shack. He had a bottle of coal oil in his left hand and his Winchester in his right. He couldn’t identify exactly what the scraping sound had been, but he knew it was out of place, wrong somehow.
His halted advance signaled to the men lying in wait that he’d been alerted. A couple of them panicked, hurrying into action before they should have, before they had Bob trapped quite as tightly as they’d meant to.
Some instinct or some sense of movement from inside the shack as well as in the bushes and rocks around the shack, caused Bob to spin away and throw himself to the ground just as a handful of guns exploded and sent bullets ripping through the air where he’d been standing only split seconds earlier. He scrambled frantically to a low, ragged spine of weed-choked rocks. The men shooting at him adjusted their aims almost as fast.
A volley of slugs slap-whined through the weeds while others smashed against and chewed at the rocky spine. Bob pressed himself flat to the ground, his mind reeling with the question of how anyone had known to be waiting for him, how they had known to set a trap for him. With no time to waste fretting and worrying over that, he had to figure out a way to get clear of the fix with his hide intact.
“We’ve got you now, Hammond, you sonofabitch!” shouted a familiar voice from within the shack. Former sheriff’s deputy Sam Ramsey was crowing like a prize rooster. “Go ahead and crawl on your belly like the snake you are, but it won’t do you any good. You ain’t gettin’ out of here alive!”
“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance a long time ago,” Bob hollered back. “I should’ve known that just kicking you in the crotch wouldn’t do much good, not considering how Cameron Bell has had your balls in his pocket for so long.”
That brought on another volley that cut the air close above his head and pounded against the cover he’d wormed in behind.
“You’re right about makin’ the mistake of not killin’ me when you had the chance,” sang out Ramsey in the next lull of shooting, “because I’m damn sure gonna be responsible for killin’ you now!”
As close as Bob could tell, he was up against about half a dozen guns. A couple were in the shack and the rest were scattered in the rocks and bushes bunched to either side. Plus, the two wranglers who’d left to check on the herd could possibly return. They weren’t hired guns, so maybe they’d been instructed to stay clear of any trouble that might break out.
If they did return, they would come from behind where Bob had taken cover. Pinned down by the guns in front of him, he was in bad shape as it was. If somebody closed on him from behind, his situation would be damn near hopeless. Ramsey had made it plenty clear that surrendering—even if such a thing was in Bob’s makeup—wasn’t an option. The former deputy was out to gun him down, no matter what.
To get out of the tight situation, Bob had to come up with an idea, and he needed to do it mighty quick.
Moving fast, careful to keep low behind his cover as periodic bursts of bullets were sent his way, he tugged his shirttail out of his pants. Laying the Winchester aside for a moment, he tore off a fairly long chunk, uncorked the bottle of coal oil he’d managed to hold on to, and stuffed the piece of shirt down into it, leaving a bit of a tail hanging out. Striking a lucifer against the rock spine, he lit the tail and let it get burning pretty good.
He drew his .44 pistol and shifted it to his left hand. With the coal oil bottle and its burning wick in his right hand, he twisted onto his back, thrust the hand with the .44 up above the protective rocks and through the weeds, rapid-firing all six rounds in the general direction of the shack.
Hoping the reckless spray of bullets would cause Ramsey and the others to momentarily hold their own fire and do some ducking, Bob rolled onto his left elbow, thrust up his head and shoulders briefly, and threw the burning bottle at the shack as hard and straight as he could. Before ducking back down, he had the satisfaction of seeing the bottle strike just to the left of the front door, shattering and splattering in a wide pattern that immediately burst into orange-gold flames.
While that drew a retaliation of hammering, zinging bullets, he quickly reloaded, weathering the response by hunkering low and tight. Holstering his sidearm, he took up the Winchester again. If his firebomb got the full results he hoped for, it would provide him a slim, desperate chance to escape from his pinned-down position. It would last for a precious moment so he had to be ready to move and move fast.
Shifting once more onto his stomach, Bob cautiously raised his head to a level where the weeds prevented exposure yet gave him some slivers of space through which he could peer out. He didn’t have to wait long.
The door to the shack—over which the flames were spreading hungrily, feasting on the dry, weathered wood—slammed open suddenly and Sam Ramsey and another man whom Bob did not recognize came running out.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Ramsey bellowed to his own men bracketing the shack. “Give us a chance to get clear!”
That was Bob’s opening. He sprang to his feet and levered four fast, furious rounds from the Winchester, no longer able to contain all the rage he had been bottling up to keep from doing more killing—not when it came to Ramsey. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he regretted not killing the ex-deputy before. He not only wasn’t going to live with that regret any longer, neither was he going to give Ramsey a future chance to make good on his own kill threat.
Ramsey jerked, stopped running, and went into a spinning, loose-limbed dance as the Winchester slugs tore into him. Twin geysers of blood sprayed from his chest before he fell heavily to the ground. The man who’d exited the burning shack with Ramsey also went down, punched backwards to land on the flat of his back with his own arc of thick scarlet spurting up to mark another fatal hit.
The shooting lull ordered by Ramsey just before he went down was prolonged by the sight of him and the other man getting cut low. But only for a moment.
That was the moment that gave Bob the opportunity to bolt for better cover and the chance to escape.
In a hard sprint, Bob covered the slice of open space between where he’d been pinned down and a growth of heavy brush and trees. He crashed through the brush, tumbling and rolling, chased by a hail of lead sent courtesy of the remaining men who’d been in place to trap and kill him. He wasn’t completely clear of their damned trap yet, but he was in far better shape than he’d been in and he was by-God still alive and kicking.
The question was whether he should stay and make a fight of it, maybe eliminate more of those who were constantly dogging him, or if he should complete his escape and get out of there while the getting was possible. In the dense brush and trees, he had room to maneuver and repeatedly change his shooting position so that the incoming rounds were always chasing where he’d been instead of where he was . . . if he wanted to play it that way.
He didn’t ponder very long, concluding it would be best and smartest to call it a day and ride off as fast and hard as he could.
With that in mind, he made it as far as the horse he’d left tied farther down the tree line. While he was accomplishing that much, the shooters from around the shack continued to blindly blast the bushes in the general vicinity of where he’d disappeared. Since he’d left his horse in a spot where it couldn’t be seen from the shack, Bob figured he was only a few hoofbeats shor
t of getting away clean.
Hearing the gunfire, the two wranglers who’d gone out to check the herd came riding back. Cresting a low hill on the approach to the shack, they spotted Bob mounting his horse and immediately opened fire. Whether inadvertently or on purpose, one of their slugs hit Bob’s horse in the head and instantly killed it.
The beast dropped like a boulder, nearly pinning Bob’s leg underneath its sprawled body. He barely managed to kick free and promptly laid out close behind the carcass, using it for cover. Steadying the Winchester’s barrel across the dead animal’s haunch, he aimed and squeezed off two carefully spaced rounds. A wrangler pitched from his saddle with each shot.
That exchange brought the rest of the gunmen boiling down from the shack.
With his horse down and no chance to catch the fleeing animals the two wranglers had been riding, Bob had no choice but to accept the fact he was now on foot. He could have stayed and made a running fight of it—but he’d had enough killing for one day. Shooting Ramsey and the other hired gun was one thing. Having to shoot the wranglers, two working stiffs who’d been unlucky and foolish enough to get caught up in a lot more than they’d hired on for, bothered him. He’d never wanted to be part of anything like that.
So, snatching his war bag and bedroll off the dead horse, he faded into the dense trees and underbrush that ran up a gradually inclining ridge as far as the eye could see. If the remaining gunmen tried to follow on horseback, they would quickly find the trees too thick and the terrain too rugged. If they came on foot, he was confident he could easily elude and outdistance them. The ridge pointed like an arrow in the direction of the Devil’s River wilderness . . . proven to be a welcoming home to the Devil’s River Kid, even if he had to return there on foot.
From time to time, as he threaded his way toward the haven he’d relied on so many times before, he heard the faint sounds and shouts of the gunmen pursuing him. He could tell he was steadily outdistancing them, however, so they posed no real threat. Soon the clouds rolled in from the northwest and began dumping snow. It quickly became evident it wasn’t a late spring storm that would last for only a few hours or maybe a day. No, it was a howling, full-force blizzard that was going to smother the land and not recede any time soon.
His concerns became something far different from the men trying to follow in his wake.
Although he had polished his wilderness survival skills from a young age and had grown to know the whole territory as well as or better than most men—especially during his recent time as a marauding outlaw—he was in an area not as thoroughly familiar to him as other parts. Nevertheless, he slogged on.
With the essentials he’d taken time to grab from his fallen horse, he was able to beat the blizzard conditions even after darkness fell. He cleared a small area deep in a pine growth where much of the knifing wind was blocked and the snow had not accumulated too substantially under the thick pine boughs. He built a close, warming fire, pitched a rudimentary tent with his bedroll and slicker, and hunkered down for the night.
In the morning, the sky remained overcast even though the snow had stopped falling, but the wind continued to howl, quickly covering any tracks Bob left as he went on the move again. It took him most of the day to reach the area he was familiar with and the small cave he had previously stocked with provisions for just such an emergency.
For the next week and more, even after the weather cleared and the snow melted away with the return of more typical springlike conditions, Bob stuck to his cave. There was little doubt that word of his recent killings had spread like wildfire and the hunt for him would be more intense than ever. His resolve to end the outlaw way of life, the foolish bloody mission he had set himself on, was stronger than ever. As soon as Priscilla and Bucky were in the clear and not being watched so closely . . .
Finally, on a partially overcast night with the moon only a ghostly sliver whenever it managed to peek through, Bob made the long, cautious trek to his parents’ ranch, where he met a series of surprises. First off, he discovered that everybody thought he was dead. In spite of his body not being found, no one believed he could have survived the sudden, fierce blizzard that had overtaken him and his pursuers.
A second surprise was that two of those were confirmed victims of the storm.
After getting over the shock that he was alive, his parents were naturally overjoyed to see him. But they were the only ones present to welcome him. A third surprise—Priscilla, Bucky, and Consuela had departed for Chicago just the day before.
At first dismayed by the news, Bob soon came to realize that the combination of everything could actually work out for the best. If everybody—or most people, at least—continued to believe he was dead, there would be little cause to closely monitor Priscilla and the others for the chance of him showing up. With the smaller risk of attracting attention, he could join them that much sooner, and they could proceed with their plan to relocate under new identities.
To play it safe as possible, Bob remained at his parents’ home for three more weeks. Never venturing out, careful to stay away from windows and open doors, strictly laying low. They understood that when Bob did take his leave it would be for good, meaning they’d likely never see one another again. It was a time of deep, special bonding that made his departure somewhat easier to bear.
* * *
Bob made it to Chicago without incident and reunited with Priscilla, Bucky, and Consuela. Things went smoothly, but he kept looking over his shoulder, expecting and half-fearing someone would show up to nab him.
No one did and, except for Priscilla’s ongoing struggle with her poor health, things continued to go smoothly as they went on with the rest of their plans—assuming the new family identity of Hatfield as opposed to Hammond and relocating eventually to Wyoming Territory in a place called Rattlesnake Wells.
Chapter 40
Bob came out of his long reverie and grinned wryly at the cold snow of the present gusting against his face. He considered how some people said certain things in life come back around in circles. He’d never quite understood that concept but was willing to give it a little more credence. After all, he could hardly deny that he was participating in another fugitive chase through a late spring snowstorm. His role was vastly different, but there were still similarities.
The circumstances had eventually worked out in his favor five years ago in Texas. He hoped that similarity would repeat again in his adopted Wyoming Territory.
As the day wore on, he kept going. He changed horses regularly, always with a fresh mount under him. While there was daylight, he stopped only once to feed the animals some grain and let them eat snow for water intake. As for himself, he chewed jerky and took sips of water as he rode, still counting on endurance—his and the horses’—to make his venture a success. He’d figured his sheer stubbornness would force him to measure up.
By mid-afternoon he had to face the fact that town life as the marshal of Rattlesnake Wells had softened him more than he’d reckoned when it came to long, steady hours on the trail.
Late in the afternoon, the snow stopped and the sky started to clear. Bob heaved a sigh of relief. With the continued aid of his compass and, with luck, some moon- and starlight to illuminate the rolling countryside, he could continue forging ahead after dark.
At one time he might have pushed on all through the night, but he saw the impracticality of such a notion. Allowing himself a few hours rest was sensible and necessary. It plain wouldn’t be smart to catch up with his quarry in a stiff, sore, exhausted condition. Plus, although the horses were receiving periodic breaks from carrying his weight, they were still steadily on the move and could doubtlessly use a more complete rest themselves.
At no point had Bob believed he could ride straight toward his quarry and simply catch up to them. Having that much luck was never a realistic hope. What he did believe might be possible—provided his hunch was right about the general direction they’d gone—was that his steady, grinding pace could outdi
stance them. Ride past however far they made it, in other words. Then he could circle back, making wide sweeps in hopes of either catching actual sight of them or some sign of their passage.
A long shot, one he’d admitted from the beginning, but he’d committed himself to it and there was no turning back until he’d played it to the hilt.
* * *
“Thank God the rain and snow finally stopped,” said Libby, leaning close to the campfire flames making shifting patterns of light across the strain and weariness that showed on her face. “I appreciate these nice warm clothes you fixed me up with, Brock, but I gotta admit I was still cold and miserable most of the day. I tried not to show it, but I was.”
“You held up good, Libby,” Brock said. “You’re a real trouper.”
“I hope so. I’m glad you noticed.” Libby glanced up at the sparkling night sky. “If it stays clear like this, the sun ought to be bright and warm tomorrow, don’t you think?”
“Most likely. That same clear sky and all this snow on the ground is gonna leave it pretty brisk through the night.”
“That’s all right. I’m so tired I expect to sleep like a log . . . and when we wake up, the sun will be out.” She capped the sentiment by tipping up her bottle of tequila and taking a long swallow.
“You keep guzzlin’ that Mex firewater like that,” Sanders commented from where he sat a few yards apart from the other two, “you’ll sleep like a log, all right. You’ll be passed out.”
“No skin off your nose, one way or the other,” she told him.
“You might at least share a snort or two,” Sanders said, his tone turning plaintive. “I got nothing but this lousy blanket and you’ve got me parked a mile away from the fire. A little heat on the inside would do me a powerful lot of good.”
Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming Page 23
