by Will DuRey
The only light that penetrated the stable’s inner blackness came from the partly open door; it took a moment or two for the girl’s eyes to adjust to the darkness, which contrasted starkly with the reflected moonlight by which she’d travelled. Setting aside the bow and arrows, she located the necessary equipment, then set about harnessing the horse. The saddle was heavy and throwing it over the beast’s back resulted in a series of chinks and slaps as the leather and metal fastenings rattled and slapped in motion.
She paused, listened, and for a moment thought she’d heard the sound of a heavy tread breaking the brittle coating of frosted snow. Her hand grasped the handle of her knife, withdrew it from its soft leather sheath and held it in readiness to strike anyone who entered the stable. She waited, all senses alert for any danger signal. The skin at the back of her neck tingled but there were no more noises, no moving shadows in the doorway, nothing to suggest that her presence had been detected.
Waktaya replaced the knife and finished saddling the horse. Then, after gathering up her bow and arrows, she led the horse outside.
The barrel of a gun was pressed behind her ear and the mechanical sound of its cocking action stopped her in her tracks.
‘Figured it was you when I saw the small footprints,’ Gus Phipps said. ‘It was the horse you were after, eh? I thought it was beef you wanted but I suppose horseflesh is just as tasty for you people.’
Waktaya made to move as though there was a possibility of escaping the gunman, but the weapon was pressed more firmly against her head and Gus Phipps laughed.
‘You don’t really think I’m going to let you get away this time, do you? Drop the bow and arrows,’ he told her.
She let them fall and he grabbed her shoulder, his hand filling with the material of the blanket that was wrapped around her. He yanked hard, pulling it away with such force that with a tottering, ungainly movement she was twisted around until she was facing him. Leering, he cast aside the blanket.
‘So they send their young ’uns to do their thieving. Well, we know how to punish thieves like you.’
With his left hand Gus Phipps made a grab for the neck of her dress, the intention of ripping it from her body clear to see, but it was a rash action. Secure in the belief that he was in full control of the situation, he had allowed his right hand to drop to his side and the pistol it held was now in a non-threatening position, pointing at the ground.
Waktaya reacted with astonishing speed. In her left hand she still held the reins of Dean Ridgeway’s horse and she used them in her defence. She retreated a step, recoiling, it seemed, from the killer’s lurch for her dress, but in fact setting herself in a stance advantageous for her retaliation. With maximum leverage in her arms, she launched her attack, swinging the leathers in her hand, once, twice, thrice, striking her assailant’s face, aiming for his one good eye.
Gus Phipps yelled, raised his arms in an attempt to protect himself, but to no avail. The lashes cut his face and blood started running freely, so that even when he was able to open his eye his sight was blurred. His natural reaction was to use his gun on the girl, but he never got the chance.
While lashing the leather straps across Gus’s face with one hand, Waktaya’s other hand gripped the horse’s bridle and she ran him forward so that he barged into the outlaw, knocking him to the ground. The pistol flew from Gus’s hand and landed several yards away in the snow. Waktaya sprang forward. Now that she was unencumbered by the blanket, her knife was in her hand in an instant. She leapt at the supine figure, aiming to stab him as she landed on top of his chest, but her attack was thwarted.
Gus Phipps had been brawling against tough opponents all his life and he wasn’t about to become the victim of a girl. He’d brushed his arm across his face to wipe the blood from his eyes almost as soon as he’d landed in the snow and he’d seen the glint of the blade in the girl’s hand. Her leap almost caught him off-guard but he gripped her wrist and twisted it so that the point of the blade didn’t pierce his chest. Using the advantage of superior strength he pushed her hand away and began to roll over, intending to get on top to finish the fight.
It didn’t prove that easy. Waktaya jutted her head forward and gripped his ear with her teeth. She sank them in and bit until her top teeth ground against the bottom ones. Gus howled, the pain was intense. He flung an open-handed blow at her head, an instinctive response that landed flush on her cheek and knocked her sideways. He twisted her wrist violently; the knife spun away and, freed from its threat, Gus was able to deliver a more substantial blow. Its effect, however, was lessened by the fact that the girl was already moving away from it so that when it landed it was effectually little more than a push that shoved her clear of his body.
Waktaya was fighting for her life and knew that its preservation depended on her reaching the knife or the gun. The knife was nearest and she scrambled through the snow on her knees to reach it. Gus had been just as quick to react and, although he was behind her, he too reached for the knife. It was Waktaya’s hand that clamped around the hilt but as it did so the outlaw caught her throat in the crook of his left arm. As he dragged her backwards, his right hand grabbed hers, eventually wresting the knife from her grip. Now in possession of it, he meant to pay her back for the injuries she had inflicted on him. He raised the knife, preparing to plunge it into her heart.
As its arc reached its apogee, his hand was gripped and, in replication of the hold he had on the Sioux girl, someone’s arm surrounded his throat in a throttling hold. His hand was twisted, then smashed against a knee, forcing him to release the knife. When it fell into the snow the hold on his neck was released. His first thought was to discover the identity of his new adversary, but as he turned his head to look up a heavy punch landed on the side of his jaw. He sprawled on the ground but his coat was gripped and his head lifted so that another blow could be delivered to his jaw. He grunted and slithered but there was no respite. A third blow crashed into his nose, sending a stream of blood arcing through the air.
Sounds carried from the front of the cabin; those inside had been alerted by the noise outside and were coming to investigate.
Jim Braddock, who had rushed to the cabin when Dean Ridgeway informed him of Waktaya’s purpose, hurried the Sioux girl to her feet.
‘Quickly,’ he urged, ‘get on that horse and ride.’
She paused a moment as though about to protest that she wouldn’t go without him but she saw his horse waiting at the side of the house. While he ran to his horse, Waktaya sheathed her knife, gathered up her bow and arrows then climbed into the saddle of the other mount. She had almost joined him when the gunfire began.
Drum Hayes had attributed the first outside noises to Gus Phipps returning from the privy, but a moment or two later Choctaw pushed aside the flimsy curtain at the window to peer outside. He thought he’d heard an approaching horse but there was nothing to see. He reported that it was a clear night: no sign of more snow. Then there had been more strange noises and something bumped against the rear wall of the cabin. They’d gone outside to investigate going, out of habit, around the side of the building beyond which stood the privy. That was when they saw the girl riding away, disappearing round the opposite side of the cabin and out of the line of the bullets they fired after her. Choctaw ran to the front of the building, saw that she was accompanied by a second visitor and emptied his gun at them. He wasn’t confident he’d hit anyone.
‘This time we do it my way,’ snarled Gus Phipps, dabbing at the bloody lash marks on his face. ‘We find them and we kill them.’
Before they rode away Gus set fire to the cabin.
‘Nothing to come back here for,’ he declared. ‘After I’ve got my revenge for this,’ he pointed at the angry marks on his face, ‘we ride on. Besides,’ he added, as they watched the rising flames, ‘that’s easier than digging a grave for Frank.’
CHAPTER TEN
Jim Braddock looked behind and saw the flickering pink glow in the night sky. It was obvious to
him that the only thing that could cause such light was the burning of the line cabin.
‘They’ll come for us this time,’ he told Waktaya.
They rode on. Jim was aware that there was a decision to make: whether to follow the tracks they had made earlier or veer away and confuse their hunters by creating a second trail. In the end it was concern for the safety of Dean Ridgeway that forced Jim’s hand. They couldn’t leave him unprotected and in ignorance of the situation. If they forged a new trail, the chances were that the outlaws would split up and Dean might reveal himself to someone following the original tracks.
The answer, Jim decided, was to repeat the ruse they had attempted earlier. Accordingly, as they neared the place that was Dean’s refuge, they slowed their pace to enable Waktaya to pass to Jim the reins of the horse she was riding, then scramble on to high boulders to avoid leaving footsteps in the snow. She did it with reluctance; she had argued against his plan to tackle three killers alone, but Jim had insisted that it was the best way to ensure Dean’s safety. In the lad’s confused state, Jim told her, the rancher’s son was likely to betray his presence to anyone who rode by. The outlaws had already tried to kill him once and perhaps still thought he was dead; they would have no hesitation in finishing the job if they found him again. Unarmed, he would have no chance of survival.
Indeed, in confirmation of Jim’s fears, they could see Dean behind the boulders, watching as they approached.
‘If I haven’t returned by daylight,’ Jim told the girl, ‘get him back to the site of the cabin. People will be arriving from the ranch who will get him home. Your pony is behind the boulders with Dean so you can begin your own journey home. Be careful.’ Then he was gone, leaving Waktaya to join Dean Ridgeway and bring him up to date with the events at the line cabin.
The outlaws were closer behind than Waktaya had expected, the twice-used trail making the going surer for their horses than it had been for those who had created it. But they rode by without any slackening of pace, too intent upon following the tracks that stretched away into the distance to be distracted by the odd disturbance of snow so close to the boulders. Within moments the outlaws were out of sight. Waktaya and Dean were left to wait for events to unfold.
The horse under Jim Braddock was beginning to weary; it had travelled far that day in difficult conditions, sometimes shin deep in drifted snow. He allowed the other horse to draw alongside and, on the run, took his place in its saddle. The more hilly country was being left behind; they were running down the long sloping meadow that led to the tree-lined creek that fed Fetterman’s Pool. A glance up at the clear sky showed the Big Dipper in such a position below the North Star as to indicate that almost two hours had passed since midnight. The darkness that was commonly to be expected at this morning hour was offset by the reflection of moonlight, and Jim had no doubt that he presented a stark silhouette against the white landscape. If he was sighted by the chasing gunmen before he reached the trees he would be a sitting target.
The first shot cracked the silence with whiplash sharpness. The bullet struck a tree, scattering snow in all directions. Jim Braddock ducked his head, kicked his heels against the flanks of his mount and dodged into the woodland cover that he’d almost reached without being discovered by the men who were chasing him. He wasn’t sure if they had had the opportunity to notice that the second horse was riderless, but now that was of little importance. They had caught him and any thoughts of trying to fool them had to be abandoned. There would be no opportunity to pretend he was riding south, then double-back. He had a fight on his hands and he knew he wasn’t favourite to win it.
The fight at the cabin had confirmed for Jim that the men who had killed Harvey Goode and wounded Dean Ridgeway were Frank Felton and his gang. Among his pursuers the patch-eyed face of Gus Phipps was instantly recognizable and Jim knew that punching him into submission had been a mistake. He should have killed him. At the time he’d kidded himself that his reason for not shooting the outlaw was that he’d hoped to get Waktaya away before the other occupants of the cabin became aware of their presence, but that was only an excuse. The truth of the matter was that he wasn’t sure he had the courage for a gunfight.
He had killed men during the war but that had been almost twenty years ago. He’d been little more than a youth then, and firing at distant targets was a lot different from shooting a man standing close enough to talk to. It required a ruthlessness such as he doubted he had ever possessed. He didn’t know how many men he had to face now, but he was sure they would all be more accustomed than he in the use of a gun and killing people.
Even Waktaya, he thought, had shown a willingness to kill if it was demanded by circumstances. It startled him to find himself thinking of the young Sioux girl and smiling when his life was in jeopardy.
From the cover of the trees he looked back to get a glimpse of his enemies. He counted three and saw that they were splitting up. One was halfway across the meadow, following the tracks he’d made to the tree line, while the others were riding in wide arcs, one to the left, the other to the right, preparing to catch him between their guns. The immediate choice was to ride on, try to outdistance the gunmen and hope, as he had hoped when he’d attempted the ruse earlier, that they would soon abandon any pursuit that took them towards Big Timber. But that had been in daylight, when there had been a greater chance of alerting the posse. No one would be abroad at this hour.
Jim was also aware of the disadvantage of being chased. As soon as he came within range he would be at their mercy. Without a second thought they would shoot him in the back and leave him to rot where he fell. After that they would wonder about Waktaya. Without doubt Gus Phipps would want revenge. They would backtrack, search more thoroughly for peculiarities in the hoof prints in the snow and they would kill her if they found her. An old Hall single-shot and a bow and arrows wouldn’t save her from such vicious men. No, fleeing wasn’t the answer. He had to make a stand here and kill them if he could.
He took in his surroundings. He was in a long stand of trees that stretched both ways along the bank of the creek. If he stayed among the trees they were as much an advantage to his attackers as they were to him. They gave him temporary cover but also allowed the outlaws to get close to him unobserved. It didn’t need a military tactician to predict that he would soon be overcome in their three-pronged attack. At this place the bank itself rose no more than six feet above the watercourse and so provided a natural breastwork against a frontal attack. However, it gave him no protection on his flanks. Indeed, he would surely be overpowered by any attack along the creek.
Another quick glance in the direction of the pursuers told him he had no more time to deliberate. They were within rifle range and as soon as they saw him they would begin firing. When he moved he almost surprised himself. He pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and dismounted. He slid down the bank, ran across the stream and clambered up the far side. There were trees there, too, and using those for protection gave him a double advantage. His hunters would expect him to remain close to the horses, his leaving them on the other bank would encourage the outlaws to concentrate their search for him around that area. With luck, he would get a clear shot at someone before they realized their error. That could reduce the odds to two to one if he didn’t make a mess of the opportunity.
The second advantage to crossing the creek was that his pursuers would be in the open and exposed to his gun whenever they followed. If they didn’t plan their attack, came at him one at a time, then he had a chance at survival. He checked the chambers of his revolver, put a cartridge in the empty one, then worked the mechanism of his rifle and waited.
The moonlight that had lit his flight from the cabin was almost obliterated by the trees and it was difficult to discern movement of any kind on the opposite bank. The course of the stream itself was in such dark shadow that it gave the impression of being a long tunnel. But Jim Braddock kept his gaze fixed on the place where he’d left the horses, watching for th
e smallest movement that would confirm they had not wandered away. He lay still against the bole of a willow, his rifle barrel resting on a raised, snow-covered root, watching, waiting.
A shout first alerted him to the fact that one of the outlaws had found the horses: the one who had followed his tracks, he supposed, because they were the direct route to that place.
‘They’re on foot!’ went up the cry, providing a fillip to the cowboy’s spirits. They thought Waktaya was with him, which meant that if they killed him they would continue to search for her in this area. They wouldn’t backtrack to find her. She was safe from them and he was content. He took off his hat and rested it, too, on the long root of the willow tree. The night chill was almost painful on his head but he ignored it, he was ready for battle.
No one responded to the call and for three, four minutes, the encircling silence worked on his mind and made him begin to doubt what he’d heard. He was able to pick out the horses but they seemed to be relaxed, not fidgeting, making no sudden movements or giving any of the usual signs that betrayed nervousness. But in the dim light it was hard to be sure. A movement caught his eye, something slight that could have been the flick of a horse’s tail or a small fall of snow from a high branch. Jim watched the spot, his gaze fixed, almost staring, so that it was a moment before he realized he was looking at the back of one of the outlaws. The man had dismounted and was moving slowly, carefully, circling around Jim’s horses as if he expected to find his quarry squatting at their feet. He was carrying a rifle, it was pressed against his right shoulder ready to be fired.
