Colorado Crossfire (A Piccadilly Pulishing Western Book 15)

by Patrick E. Andrews

During his youth, Kiowa had been a member of a tribal boys’ society called the Rabbits. This organization was made up of males aged eight to fifteen years of age. Tutored by the older men, the Rabbits learned warrior fundamentals. Their particular dance, performed while jumping about and holding their hands next to their ears in imitation of those of real rabbits, was part of their ritual. They even made rabbit-like bleats during the ceremony. Wearing a single hawk feather thrust into a strip of elk hide tied around their heads, they carried their mimicry of the animals even farther by practicing cunning, speed, and deception.

  Now Kiowa once again was a Rabbit.

  Though he made no sounds other than the necessary noise of running, he feinted, dodged, and went to and fro at a rapid gait as he drew farther and farther away from his two pursuers. Under normal conditions he would have continued in that manner until he completed his escape. But his friend Lefty was still a prisoner and the Kiowa Kid was not the sort to run out on a pal.

  So he stopped.

  A stand of brush with a marked overhang offered a perfect hiding place. Dropping to all fours, he slid into the foliage to lay perfectly still. He moved not at all, barely breathing as he heard Clackum and Barlow approaching. Their noisy approach grew in volume until they trotted into his view.

  “Where’d that damn Injun go?” Clackum wheezed.

  Barlow, saving his breath, only pointed ahead.

  They ran past. After a half a minute, Kiowa left his cover and retraced his steps back through the woods. He moved slower now, making no sound in spite of the fact that his moccasined feet were treading on dried twigs and leaves.

  A Rabbit is a silent creature.

  After several moments he perceived the clumsy noise made by his pursuers. They had given up chasing him and, not knowing that he was between them and the others, were returning to rejoin their pards. Kiowa quickly chose a nearby tree and rapidly ascended its trunk, concealing himself in the thick branches overhead.

  “I don’t see how that bastard could run through these damn woods and not leave a single track,” Pud Barlow complained. “And he wasn’t making no noise at all that we could hear.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ben Clackum said. “We still got that godamned Lefty.”

  “Milo ain’t gonna be real happy that Kiowa got away,” Barlow said.

  “Well, what the hell do you want to do? Turn around and go looking for him some more?” Clackum asked.

  “It wouldn’t do no good,” Barlow said.

  “Then shut up and let’s get back.”

  Still talking and arguing, they hurried under Kiowa’s hiding place. After they’d passed his tree, Kiowa lowered himself to the ground. He followed them at a safe distance not stopping until the duo had reached Milo Paxton and the others.

  “Well?” Paxton asked in an angry voice.

  “He got away, boss,” Clackum said.

  “You two dumb shits!” Paxton shouted. “How the hell did you lose track of him?”

  “He’s a godamned Injun, boss,” Barlow protested. “And he’s on foot in the woods. What the hell did you expect us to do?”

  Bill Hays put a hand on Paxton’s shoulder. “They’re right,” he said. “It’d be impossible to run Kiowa down.”

  “How’s ol’ Ned?” Clackum asked.

  “Deader’n a skinned buffalo,” Craw Mindon said. “That Kiowa cut him deep.”

  Barlow looked down on him. “I’ll say! It looks like he’s grinning with two mouths.” He walked over to Lefty and backhanded him across the face.

  Lefty’s head whipped around, but he stood tall. “You’re a real tough hombre with my arms tied down like this,” he said. “C’mon, Milo, turn me loose so’s I can kick Pud’s ass proper for him.”

  Now Paxton hit him. “Shut your mouth. You been with that damn Injun so long that you’re near being one yourself.”

  “Better’n being one o’ your polecats,” Lefty snarled.

  Pud drew his pistol. “Let’s shoot this sonofabitch now, boss.”

  But Paxton shook his head. “Some o’ them miners is gonna be coming up there from Pan-And-Weep purty damn soon. I stalled ’em with talk about claim-jumping. A lot of ’em know Lefty and Kiowa. I don’t want to have to answer no questions. ’specially if that damn Injun gets down to ’em.” He punched Lefty again. “We’ll shoot this sonofabitch on the other side o’ the mountain.”

  Bill Hays had already fashioned a noose. He slipped it over Lefty’s head, drawing it tight. “I’ll lead you over there in case you lose the way.”

  They mounted up and, wasting no time, took off. Lefty, trotting to keep from being dragged and choked to death, was behind Hays’s horse.

  Kiowa watched them. After a couple of minutes, armed only with his knife, he crept up the mountain following their trail.

  ~*~

  Bigelow pulled on his reins, bringing his horse to a stop.

  Russ Wilson, beside him, also halted. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t feel right,” Bigelow said.

  “Yeah? You sick or something?” Wilson asked.

  “Naw, nothing like that,” Bigelow said. “I just got this feeling in the back o’ my mind that’s bothering me.

  “You can worry about it later,” Wilson said. “We’d best not tarry here. We oughta be down in Luckville to back up Lefty and Kiowa if need be.”

  “I don’t think they’re going there,” Bigelow said.

  “O’ course they are!” Wilson snapped. “They told me so.”

  “Maybe they changed their minds,” Bigelow said.

  Wilson laughed. “Now how the hell would you know that?”

  “Looky, Russ. I been in this business a long while. I learnt to rely on my feelings from time to time. I ain’t never been wrong. I know it deep in my bones , that Lefty and Kiowa ain’t gonna be in Luckville.” His voice had a tone of finality in it. “C’mon. We’re heading back for Pan-And-Weep.”

  Wilson whipped his Remington from its holster and pulled back on the hammer.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Bigelow asked, disturbed and surprised.

  “You might as well know, Jim. I work for Milo Paxton and always have,” Wilson said. “Even when I hired on to the Northwest and Canadian.”

  Bigelow held out his hands to show he wasn’t going for his pistol. “Just what’re you talking about?”

  “I give ’em the word on gold and money shipments through Ned Darnell,” Wilson said. “He’d meet with Milo and they’d have the gang down at the right place to meet the right train.”

  Now Bigelow snarled, “You sonofabitch!”

  “Hell, I even let ’em know when us railroad detectives was gonna come looking for ’em. ’course I was out on a run when you made the deal with Lefty and Kiowa, so I was late letting Milo know about it.” Wilson grinned. “Right now your ol’ pals is pris’ners of Milo. If they ain’t dead now they will be purty damn soon.”

  “You’re lower’n a snake’s belly, Russ Wilson,” Bigelow said in a cold fury. “You’re a no-good, lying, backshooting son of a bitch.”

  “It’s real dumb o’ you to talk like that,” Wilson said. “It riles me considerable. Maybe I’ll give you a belly shot ’stead of a quick ’un to the head.”

  “You figger I’ll just let you haul off and shoot me, do you?” Bigelow asked.

  “Don’t you try nothing!” Wilson warned him. “Raise them hands and keep ’em high.”

  Bigelow complied, his mind trying to come up with a ruse to get him out of the dangerous predicament.

  “Now,” Wilson said, “reach down real slow with your left hand and pull out your pistol and drop it to the ground.”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t want to do it here?” Bigelow asked.

  “Not on the trail,” Wilson said. Then he added ominously, “Unless I got to.”

  Faced with certain death if he hesitated, Bigelow did as ordered. As soon as the pistol hit the ground, he suddenly dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks. The ani
mal, the sharp pain angering it, jumped forward and bumped hard into Wilson’s mount. Both railroad detectives were unhorsed by the suddenness and violence of the collision.

  Wilson hit the ground hard, his pistol bouncing out of his hand. He rolled over and made a grab for it. But Bigelow dived on top of him. They rolled over several times in their struggles, getting farther away from the weapon.

  Finally Wilson ended up on top. He viciously pounded Bigelow’s face, then broke free and got to his feet. He ran toward the Remington, but Bigelow had a speed born of fear and desperation. He was immediately on Wilson’s back, dragging him to the ground.

  Now it was Bigelow breaking loose. He jumped up and ran a few steps, diving for the pistol. He grabbed it and rolled over only to have Wilson land on him and grab the hand holding the weapon. Gasping, choking, snarling, and biting, the two struggled and fought until the pistol flew free, hitting the dirt once more.

  Wilson slammed his opponent straight in the face with both fists held together. By the time Bigelow had recovered from the blow, he could only sit up. Wilson, holding the revolver dead on him, was standing only three short yards away.

  “This is it, Jim. I can’t let you spoil a good thing,” Wilson said.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The Remington, its barrel stuffed with dirt from being bounced around on the ground, exploded and sent shards of metal into Wilson’s face. Howling and blinded he flopped over on his back, his heels kicking the ground in his agony.

  Bigelow got up slowly listening to the other man’s screams. He walked over to his horse and pulled the carbine from the saddle boot. He went back to the badly injured man.

  “Ow! Shit! I’m blind! For the love o’ God, I can’t see nothing!” Wilson yelled.

  Cocking the carbine’s lever, Bigelow chambered a round. Taking careful aim, he pulled the trigger. The bullet crashed into Wilson’s skull with such force that the man pivoted around in the dirt. After a few spasms he was still and dead.

  Bigelow picked up his own pistol. He started to reholster it, but checked the barrel first to make sure no dirt had gotten into it. Then he mounted up and turned his horse back toward Pan-And-Weep.

  ~*~

  Kiowa was no longer a Rabbit. Now, rather than being pursued, he was the hunter. He imitated his namesake the wolf when it prowled after a herd of elk or buffalo. Though outnumbered and outsized, he was still formidable, cunning, and dedicated to the task ahead.

  He had only his knife as a weapon, but Kiowa was more than ready to use it to its best advantage. Keeping in eye contact with Paxton and his men only intermittently, he did his trailing mostly by following the tracks left by the horses and the hapless prisoner following them. The young half-breed experienced a feeling of exhilaration and excitement not unlike the times he hunted on the prairie.

  Lefty, in contrast, was having a hell of a bad time.

  Several times he’d either stumbled over tree roots or been jerked off his feet. Falling to the ground, he felt the rope pulling on his neck, strangling him until he could get back onto his feet. But the rope kept getting tighter until he finally fainted.

  “Don’t let him choke, goddamn it!” Milo Paxton yelled.

  Bill Hays quickly dismounted and loosened the rope. Lefty breathed in deep gulps of air as his chest heaved involuntarily in an effort to suck in life-giving oxygen.

  “Why don’t we just string him up over one o’ these trees?” Pud Barlow asked.

  “I don’t want him found,” Paxton said. “The damn railroad’s gonna send somebody else – maybe a whole lotta somebody elses – and not knowing what happened to Lefty is gonna make ’em nervous about getting too close to us.”

  “Right,” Bill Hays agreed. “And some prospectors might find him strung up, too. That’d made it hard for us to move around in the mining settlements like we need to.”

  Lefty had his own suggestion. “How ’bout taking this damn rope off me?”

  “Hell no, we won’t,” Paxton said. “You kilt a bunch o’ my boys. You don’t do that and die easy.”

  “I don’t see no reason to drag me along like this,” Lefty said.

  “It hurts you, do it?” Ben Glackum said. “That’s good enough reason right there.”

  “Let’s get a move on,” Craw Mindon said. “I’m anxious to see this sonofabitch dance on air.”

  The trip resumed and Lefty struggled along again, the dreadful rope again tightening around his neck. Behind the small column of men, the Kiowa Kid was now closing in. With knife drawn, moving like a wolf, he finally reached the last horse in the group. Striking silently and skillfully, Kiowa went up over the rump of Craw Mindon’s horse. Clamping one hand over the man’s mouth while slitting his throat with a vicious swipe, he pulled Mindon out of the saddle and to the ground. After taking his victim’s pistol, Kiowa moved off to one side and penetrated deeper into the trees.

  Meanwhile, Lefty was down again. This time he kicked and struggled as he tried to breathe. Bill Hays loosened the noose. “We’re gonna have to keep this off him, Milo,” he said. “Or he ain’t gonna make it down the other side o’ the mountain.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Milo agreed. He looked back and noted Craw Mindon’s riderless horse. “Where the hell is Craw?”

  Pud Barlow laughed. “I reckon the dumb bastard fell outta the saddle.”

  “Yeah,” Ben Clackum said, also guffawing. “Let’s wait for him.”

  Suddenly Pud stopped laughing. “Is that blood on the saddle?” He rode over to the horse. “Goddamn, fellers! Something awful’s happened to—” The bullet cut off the words as it did his life. Pud flopped out of the saddle and slammed to the ground.

  “Run, Lefty!” Kiowa yelled.

  Lefty, knowing exactly what to do, bolted toward the sound of his friend’s voice, running as fast as he could with his arms bound to his side. Several shots slapped past his Irish ears, but he kept pumping his legs until he finally caught sight of Kiowa behind a tall evergreen. He rushed over yelling, “Cut me loose! Cut me loose!”

  Kiowa quickly did the job. “You ready to run?”

  “The only reason I’m gonna run is ‘cause I can’t fly,” Lefty said.

  “Take off!” Kiowa said. He fired two shots in the direction of their pursuers and quickly turned to follow on his friend’s heels.

  They headed downhill, picking up speed. The sound of thundering hooves closing in on them made them wish the woods were thicker to slow down the gang’s horses. They reached a dry stream bed and decided to follow it a bit before turning back into the trees.

  Ben Clackum, ahead of the others, suddenly appeared to their right. Kiowa had no choice but to shoot. He took careful aim and fired. Ben, hit high in the chest, pulled on his reins, forcing his horse to stumble. He went over its head and hit the ground, going limp.

  Now Lefty and Kiowa found they’d gone into a small canyon. They struggled uphill, desperately trying to reach the top and the safety offered there.

  “There they are, Milo!” Bill Hays yelled.

  “I see ’em!” Milo Paxton answered.

  Shots splattered around the fleeing pair. Kiowa was forced to shoot back. The last two bullets in the pistol missed, but they were near the top of the canyon.

  “Oh, shit!” Lefty exclaimed.

  There was an overhang. Clawing desperately both tried to pull themselves over the top. But the grassy knoll gave way under their weight and the pair tumbled down, landing hard in the stream bed.

  Milo Paxton and Bill Hays looked down at them, their eyes filled with murderous glee.

  “The game is up, boys,” Paxton said.

  He and Hays took careful aim at their victims only ten yards away.

  Twenty-One

  Milo Paxton urged his horse over toward his helpless victims. “You boys have pushed me worser than any hunnerd men have ever done in all my life,” he said.

  “It weren’t nothing personal, Milo,” Lefty said. “We’d have did the same to any train robbe
r.”

  Bill Hays sneered. “Now that makes it all fine and dandy, don’t it?” he said.

  “Now die, you two sonofabitches!” Paxton said.

  Anticipating the impact of the bullets, both Lefty and Kiowa closed their eyes and flinched.

  The four blasting shots sounded unnaturally loud in the closeness of the woods. Paxton and Hays both jerked back awkwardly in their saddles before falling to the ground.

  “Are you lads alright?” The voice of Phineus Carrington sounded from the top of the canyon’s overhang.

  Lefty and Kiowa opened their eyes. They looked at each other, their mouths agape.

  “That ain’t us laying there, is it?” Lefty asked.

  Kiowa shook his head.

  “Hey, there!” Phineus called. “I asked if you were alright.”

  Lefty looked up. “I reckon we are.”

  “Where the hell did you come from, Phineus?” Lefty asked.

  “I was on my way back to our meeting in Luckville when I heard the shooting,” Phineus said. “But hold on a bit. It is most difficult to hold a discussion from here. Wait there, my boys. It will take me a few minutes to wend my way down to the bottom of the canyon.”

  Lefty, grinning, replied, “You bet, Phineus. Well stay put, don’t worry.” He looked over at Kiowa. “I knowed we’d be alright.”

  “Yeah?” Kiowa remarked. “Then why don’t you put down your damn hands?”

  “Oh! Sure,” Lefty said.

  He lowered his hands. “I was askeered shitless,” he admitted.

  Kiowa nodded. “I figgered I’d be in the spirit world within a coupla minutes.” He pointed to the two men lying on the ground. “Let’s go check ’em out.”

  They walked over to the downed men. Bill Hays, his eyes open in death, was flat on his back. Milo Paxton, huddled on his side, was breathing in shallow gasps.

  Lefty rolled him over. “Well, Milo. I reckon this is how it ends.”

  “Yeah,” Paxton said weakly. “What the hell did he shoot us with?”

  “Ol’ Phineus has a buffalo rifle,” Lefty said. “The damn things goes about .60 caliber.”

  “Let me see where he got you,” Kiowa said. He made an examination. “You got a shoulder wound and a bullet in the chest.”