Bounty Hunter (9781101611975)

by Yenne, Bill

  After so much overcast and snow in the preceding days, he was thankful for as much moonlight as he could get and thankful for it not to be snowing tonight. A snowstorm would have been ideal cover for the two gunmen attacking the camp.

  He had built the campfire down below larger than necessary, intending to have it remain burning late into the night as a beacon to lure the bushwhackers into the trap that he intended to spring.

  He thought about the grizzly and the feel of dreading the animal in the darkness. If he had, as Natoya-I-nis’kim believed, inherited the medicine of the grizzly, then he hoped that he would be a force worthy of such fear when the night brought the inevitable encounter with the bushwhackers.

  Suddenly, Cole was jarred into the moment by the sound of something moving on the hillside below.

  There was a little bit of a scratch, the tumbling of a small stone, then silence.

  What was it? A ground squirrel?

  Cole was certain that he had seen no animal larger than a deer approaching the hill from any direction.

  He peered into the darkness and quietly raised his Winchester. Then he saw the movement, barely fifteen feet beneath him on the slope.

  What?

  Who?

  At first he did not recognize Hannah Ransdell. She had undone the bun into which her hair was normally wound. It framed her face and tumbled across her shoulders.

  “What are you doing, sneaking up . . . ?” Cole hissed.

  “Wanted to keep you awake,” she whispered as she slid gracefully into a narrow hollow near where he had been lying.

  “I almost shot . . .” Cole began.

  “Shhh . . . I brought you some coffee,” she whispered.

  She had a cup in one hand and her rifle in the other. She had made the climb up from the camp with her hands full, and without making more than a trace of noise.

  He took the cup with a nod. The coffee was lukewarm, but warmer than anything atop this hill, including his fingers.

  Together, they crouched on the perch, scanning the approaches to their hill. He admired the skill and tenacity of this young woman. She was made of far hardier stuff than he might have imagined on that day when they strolled the streets of Gallatin City. Back on that day, he had found her attractive, dressed in lavender gingham, trimmed in lace—and with those three freckles on her nose which always drew a smile when he thought about them.

  Tonight, dressed in black, with a Winchester in her arms and her long chestnut-colored hair cascading about her shoulders, he found her even more attractive, more exciting and untamed in her appearance—not unlike that black mare she rode.

  As they sat quietly on their perch, each studying the distance, awaiting the arrival of their foes, he occasionally allowed his eyes the pleasure of falling upon his companion. Once, he caught her sneaking that kind of glance at him. She briefly made eye contact, smiled, and looked away.

  He thought about Natoya-I-nis’kim, and how there is something magical that is done by moonlight to the image of a beautiful woman.

  The night was passing slowly, and naturally there were other things he would rather have been doing with a beautiful woman. He imagined feeling the softness of her smooth skin and tasting her lips, but he forced these distractions into the back recesses of his mind.

  There were other things that must be done.

  Cole consulted his father’s pocket watch a time or two, more out of boredom than anything else. The news that it told was merely a reminder of how slow the hours were ticking by.

  The laborious ticking had moved the passage of time closer to four than three, and Cole was stifling a yawn, when he saw it.

  There was movement in the shadow of a neighboring hill. Was it another deer?

  He strained his eyes into the darkness until they saw the unmistakable glint of moonlight on a well-worn saddle.

  He nudged Hannah, who was looking the other direction, and pointed.

  She turned and nodded.

  This was it.

  Two men had dismounted and were creeping toward the fire, approaching so as to screen themselves behind the shoulder of the hill. The fire had died down considerably from its original roar, but it was still the brightest thing on the ground for as far as the eye could see.

  One of the men, apparently Lyle Blake, was nursing a limp. Joe Clark would walk, get ahead of Blake, and pause impatiently.

  Slowly, they made their way up the slope toward the ledge where the campsite was located.

  Clark prodded Blake ahead, and he stepped into the glow of the fire first. He went into action immediately, firing a pistol round into Cole’s bedroll, which had been previously arranged to appear occupied.

  “You missed,” Cole shouted from above.

  Blake turned to look up at the sound of the voice.

  His eyes were narrowed by the brightness of the still flickering fire, and he fired wildly. This was his only chance at a shot, for he was promptly cut down by a bullet from Cole’s rifle.

  Clark, still in the shadows, fired at Cole’s muzzle flash as Cole was ejecting the spent cartridge.

  Hannah squeezed off a shot.

  There was a loud curse, indicating a non-fatal hit, and Clark began to run.

  Hannah fired again, as did Cole, but they both missed.

  The moon was behind a cloud again, and Clark was moving quickly.

  Impulsively, Cole set down his rifle, stood up, and ran down the hillside in pursuit.

  Hannah watched as he slipped on an icy patch and fell, but managed to roll into an upright position and keep going.

  She fired again and watched Clark hesitate slightly, giving Cole a chance to narrow the distance.

  Clark reached the place where he and Blake had tethered their horses, glanced back, saw Cole coming, fired two shots from his pistol, and leaped onto his horse.

  Cole dropped to the ground when he heard the first shot but was running again as Clark was mounting up. He pulled his Colt and fired one shot at the fleeing man.

  Without a second thought, Cole grabbed the reins of Blake’s horse and jumped on. He had left his Winchester behind because he felt that he could run faster without it. Now he wished that he had not.

  The clouds had passed, at least for the moment, and the pursuit continued briefly at a gallop in the stark black and blue of a moonlit night.

  As the open terrain abruptly gave way to one studded with more and more trees, however, both riders slowed, knowing that to run a horse in the dark over uncertain ground and through trees was dangerous. For a horse to trip, fall, and break a leg would be the end for the animal, but this would also put its rider at a great disadvantage.

  The fast pursuit had become a hunt in which stealth, not speed, would be the deciding factor.

  Cole stopped, straining his ears for sounds as he had earlier strained his eyes for a glimpse of Blake and Clark.

  Above the heavy breathing of Blake’s horse, he heard the light wind whining in the creaking branches of the low trees.

  In the near distance, the unmistakable sound of a horse walking in the brush was the proverbial music to his ears for which he had hoped. It was impossible to move silently with light snow covering broken limbs and other objects that made noise when a hoof stepped on them.

  Cole moved as quickly as he could, pausing periodically to listen. He heard Clark doing the same—moments of quiet, followed by the sounds of him continuing.

  He thought of taking a shot in Clark’s direction. The purpose would be only to keep him on edge, because the odds of hitting him in the darkness at this range were essentially nil.

  He felt around on the saddle and found Blake’s rifle, an old army-issue Henry, still in its scabbard. There was no way of knowing whether it was loaded and, if so, with how many rounds. Again, Cole cursed hims
elf for not bringing his own rifle.

  The thicker the woods became, the slower and noisier the pace became. Each man could hear the other, but neither was close enough for a decisive shot.

  Crunch.

  Crunch.

  Snap.

  Clunk.

  Pause.

  This could not go on all night—or could it?

  I could walk faster than this, Cole thought.

  Walk faster?

  Of course he could.

  At least he could walk more quietly.

  Pulling the Henry from its scabbard, Cole slid off the horse, whacked him on the hindquarters, and watched him disappear into the woods.

  He heard Clark, on the move again, adjusting his direction to match that of Blake’s horse. The hunted was now the hunter; Clark was maneuvering to attack what he believed to be his still-mounted pursuer.

  Moving carefully, and more quietly now that he was picking his own steps, Cole chose a path by which he could outflank his adversary.

  Time stretched out like a reclining house cat.

  How long has it been? Cole asked himself.

  It may not have been longer than about ten minutes, but it really did seem like an hour since he had dashed down from his perch in an effort to catch Joe Clark.

  Stepping as silently as possible—at least more silently than Clark’s horse—Cole circled through the woods toward the place where Clark was aiming to intercept his prey.

  Cole came over a small rise and peered into the woods below.

  He could see Blake’s horse rather clearly now, and a short distance away, a shadowy object was moving toward it.

  It was Clark’s horse, and it too was riderless.

  There was a brief exchange of snorting and whinnying. Without their riders, the two horses had sought each other’s company.

  Clark had the same idea as I did!

  Cole realized this with alarm.

  Which of us discovered it first?

  The bounty hunter had to credit the man from Gallatin City’s cesspool of ne’er-do-wells for being smarter than his pedigree suggested he should be.

  Somewhere amid the blackness, Clark was either still circling to the rendezvous of the horses, or waiting for Cole to show himself.

  There was the sound of snow falling from a branch, but it was a high branch, and it was not a man-caused event. Both men would have heard this, and each would have jumped a little at the sound against the stillness and the tension of the moment.

  It was Clark who first broke the silence, who first tipped his hand.

  “Hey, bounty hunter,” he shouted. “I ain’t got no beef with you. Let’s just go separate ways.”

  Cole was tempted to shout back that if he had no beef, why had Clark been trying since yesterday to kill him—but he resisted this temptation.

  By saying nothing, he did not reveal his position, and he therefore now had the advantage.

  Clark had revealed not only his position—or at least the general direction of his position—but also the fact that he was nervous about a shootout and wanted to get away.

  “See here,” Clark continued. “There’s nothin’ personal . . . I’m just gunnin’ for you for pay. You done shot Lyle . . . that should be enough for you to be satisfied with your night’s work and be ready to let bygones be bygones . . . I’m willing to just let bygones be bygones.”

  Again, Cole chose not to reply.

  Again, time seemed to slow to a crawl.

  There was no sound but that of the light wind in the trees and the two horses scraping in the snow for easily uncovered bunches of grass.

  At last, Cole could hear Clark walking through the snow toward the horses. He waited for sight of the shadow moving through the trees and took aim with the same Henry rifle with which Blake had taken aim at him the day before.

  He would not let Clark reach his horse.

  Krrr-ack!

  The sound of the shot shattered the peaceful stillness and impacted a tree very close to where Clark was walking.

  Clark paused to fire a shot in the direction of Cole’s muzzle flash.

  Clark was nervous, and he was anxious to escape. To save himself, he ran.

  As at the beginning of this misadventure, Cole again found himself running down a hill to pursue the man on foot.

  They crashed and thrashed through the brush for a few hurried moments, then the woods fell silent. Somewhere up ahead, Clark had decided to make a stand.

  Cole moved as quietly as he could, trying to close the distance.

  K’pow!

  Cole ducked.

  The shot came from very close, and it was a pistol shot. Had he, like Cole at the beginning of the chase, left his long gun behind?

  Cole squinted into the darkness and got lucky.

  He took aim with the Henry on the silhouette of Joe Clark’s bobbing head.

  Click!

  The hammer fell on an empty chamber. Blake had left his Henry with just one round in it.

  “I heard that,” Clark shouted. “You’re out of bullets!”

  “I’ve been counting, and I think you’re nearly down to none yourself,” Cole shouted back confidently. “I know you got yourself nicked back at the fire. Why don’t y’all just give up and we’ll go back and sit by that nice warm fire.”

  In fact, he had not been counting and wasn’t sure how many shots the man had left. It might be one, and he was sure it was no more than two. Meanwhile, Cole now had the advantage of Clark believing Cole had an empty gun, when he still had five rounds left in his Colt.

  Cole braced himself.

  The intuitive next step for a man facing another who was out of ammunition is to attack and finish him off.

  Instead, however, Clark turned and resumed running. Maybe it was Cole’s overconfidence, expressed in his invitation to the warmth of the fire, that made Clark believe that he was doomed unless he got away.

  Cole jumped a downed tree that crossed his path, and gave chase. Maybe Clark really was almost out of bullets.

  They came to an open area, and for a brief moment, Clark was exposed.

  K’pow!

  Cole fired once and missed.

  He eyed a boulder in the middle of the clearing and ran toward it, knowing that Clark would turn and return fire as soon as he reached the dark woods at the far side.

  K’pow!

  Clark’s shot hit the rock inches from Cole’s hand. The shards of granite kicked up by the lead stung his flesh.

  K’pow!

  Cole fired again as Clark resumed running through the woods.

  The pursued man grunted. Cole was unsure whether this meant that he had been hit.

  The stillness of the forest was bisected by two men running as fast as the underbrush permitted.

  Not far ahead, Cole heard the sound of feet slipping on loose gravel and the scrabbling noise of a man trying to keep his balance.

  “Aargh . . . ahhh . . . eeyoooooh!”

  Gasps turned to a single scream, which trailed off into the distance.

  Suddenly, Cole found his own boots scruffling in the uncertain footing of gravel mixed with snow.

  His feet went out from beneath him, and he fell on his back.

  Briefly winded, he caught his breath, sat up, and looked around.

  Barely two feet away, the ground dropped into a dark void. The patch of gravel on which he found himself seated was, literally, a slippery slope into nothingness.

  The moon drifted out from behind a cloud, and Cole stared at the broad canyon that lay before him. He was at the top of a vertical cliff. Had he not slipped and fallen where he did, he would have gone over.

  Grabbing a nearby tree root to steady himself, he stepped out to
a rock outcropping where he could look into the chasm.

  Far below, he saw Joe Clark, lying faceup and motionless on a slab of light-colored rock. The inky darkness spilling from his broken skull told the bounty hunter that he was never going to arise from this place.

  Chapter 28

  “WHERE’S CLARK?” HANNAH RANSDELL ASKED AS SHE entered the campsite. She had remained in the crow’s nest high above until she had seen Bladen Cole ride out of the woods.

  “He didn’t make it,” Cole answered.

  She didn’t ask how or why. She did not really care. The day ahead demanded her attention more than did the last loose end from yesterday.

  She had breathed a sigh of relief when she laid her peeled eyes on the bounty hunter and had come down from her perch to greet him. She was tempted to do so with a hug, but forced herself to remain focused on the business at hand.

  For Cole, the first order of business was a perfunctory examination of the other bushwacker, who had not moved since Cole had drilled the man the night before.

  “That’s Lyle Blake!”

  Gideon Porter recognized the body as soon as Cole rolled the corpse to face the gathering light of day. “What the hell?”

  “Meet the man who’s been trying to kill you since yesterday,” Hannah said, holding her rifle in a posture that Porter found a trifle threatening. “Him and Joe Clark.”

  “They won’t now,” Cole said tersely.

  “Why would they do this?” Jimmy Goode whined.

  “Because somebody wants you dead,” Cole answered. “It looks like Gideon’s ‘friends in high places’ don’t want to see you hang after all . . . they want to see you killed off before you get anywhere near a gallows.”

  “Gideon, is that right?” Goode shouted. Apparently, even after all the shooting on the previous day, it took the vacant stare of Lyle Blake to finally bring it home to Goode that someone was actually gunning for him.