Hunter James Dolin

by Bret Lee Hart

  "That's why you and I are gonna' take shifts tonight with the scope on them there islands, lookin' for firelight or some sign of movement. Maybe, just maybe, we'll git lucky."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Someone's comin'," said Walt from his position behind a downed cypress stump.

  "One horse sloshin', movin' slow right for us," said Jebediah, "It's got to be him."

  Chic, chic came the sound of Walt's rifle. "Well, if it ain't him I'm gonna' unload this here shooter in their ass!"

  "Take it easy, old man," said Hunter from the darkness, as they rode in from the south side of the hammock. "Save your bullets for the bad guys."

  The clouds parted at that moment, letting the moon light shine through. The water splashed as Hunter brought the Appaloosa up onto the limestone island from the knee-deep waters.

  The old coots eased their triggers and walked over to the gunslinger and the lady.

  "Jebediah, Walt, this here is…" Hunter paused.

  The woman spoke up as he had hoped. "Helen, Helen Beckum. It's my pleasure."

  "Howdy, ma'am," said Jebediah with a removal of his hat.

  "Ma'am," followed Walt, pinching the brim of his hat between his thumb and index finger. "You son-of-a-gun; how the blazes did you git her outta' there with your scalp?"

  "Walt!" exclaimed Jebediah, "I swear your mouth sometimes runs before your old mind can think it."

  "He knows I don't mean nothin' by it. Hell, I kept me a squaw for ten year and she were ornerier than a wounded polecat. One time she…"

  "Would you shush up?" demanded Jeb. "Now ain't the time for campfire tales."

  Walt buttoned his lip reluctantly, long enough for Hunter to dismount and help Helen down from the Appaloosa's back.

  "Come on," said Hunter. "We may not have much time."

  He grabbed Zeke's reins and led him to their camp located at the center of the island, the rest following without reply. Once there, Hunter began digging through his saddlebags. He pulled out the spyglass and strapped on his gunbelt.

  He talked while doing his ammo check, "Brush down Zeke, feed and saddle him, and git ready to head east."

  "Well, that's the most sensible thing I'd heard yet," replied Jebediah. "Let's git the heck outta here."

  "Helen will ride my horse. Move from hammock to hammock, stoppin' only at night, and no fires. There's enough jerky to git you to Lake Worth."

  "You're not goin' with us?" asked Walt.

  "I'll catch up."

  "Catch up from what?" asked Jebediah, a hint of irritation in his voice.

  "I'm gonna' take out that posse."

  "And then?" asked Helen, her hands going to her hips.

  Hunter looked at her and wondered if he would ever see her again. Looking away, he went back to his business of checking his guns.

  "Me and Montgomery have unfinished business that's way past due."

  "Even if you manage to take out the posse," reasoned Jebediah, "you can't take them all on yourself, son. Let us help."

  "I don't mean no offense, but y'all will just slow me down."

  "Please come with us," pleaded Helen.

  The gunslinger made eye contact with her once more; he then turned and, at a run, he disappeared through the trees into the darkness.

  "Well, I guess that settles that," said Jebediah reluctantly.

  "SHIT!" exclaimed Walt as he took a brush to the Appaloosa.

  "We can't just leave and let him do this by himself, against all those men," shouted Helen, her hands still on her hips.

  Walt stopped brushing with a sigh and looked to Jebediah.

  Jebediah stared back, a look in his eyes that unfortunately Walt had seen before.

  * * * * *

  Hunter tapped into the Indian blood that ran through his veins, which was a gift from his mother, moving through the wilderness, unseen and unheard, like a predator. From his white father's lifeblood flowed his strength, determination, and nerves of steel – a gunfighter. The revenge he felt from lost loves was all his own.

  He made it to a hammock closest to the camp where Montgomery's men were placed. It wasn't hard to find, for it was not far inland from where his and Helen's tracks ended at the bank of the swamp. The moon shone bright enough where he could see the men with his spyglass, through the trees and palmetto bushes. By moving his position several times, he counted eight men sleeping or resting. There were two men on watch; one of them with a telescope of his own. The man had it draped over the horse's saddle, looking into the marsh, sweeping from island to island .He was looking for firelight or any signs of movement, no doubt.

  Hunter considered moving around this bunch and heading straight for Montgomery. These men would do one of two things. They would head out into the swamp after him, Jebediah, Walt, and the girl, or they would head back to the big house. Hunter did not need these men running up his backside while he battled the rest of Richard's hired gunmen. The half-breed made up his mind, he would have to take them out here and now, God willing. The waiting game would now begin.

  Hunter looked up into the star-filled sky, gauging the position of the moon – just past two a.m. He would stay at the watch 'til four-thirty, allowing the men who would sleep to fall into it deep. He passed the time by whittling two spears from fresh cut, scrub oak branches, which he found growing near his position.

  In these kinds of situations, there was always a plan, but it was always a short one. In an ambush, you could decide how to start it, but the middle and the end are decided on the reactions of the attacked. The attacker must then overcome and adapt – something Hunter could do very well.

  Hunter looked to the moon through hundreds of bats that darted back and forth and up and down as they fed on mosquitoes. The bat was a sacred animal to the Indians; they were Mother Nature's bug exterminators. Hunter would rather have bats buzzing around his ears than the blood-sucking bugs that were particularly thick on this night. The men in the camp would find it difficult to sleep deeply as the insects fed on them with bustling annoyance, which could put his sneak attack in jeopardy.

  The half-breed moved north through the grassy water for a hundred yards. Turning east, he made his way to the shore before turning south, through the brush toward the camp. Hunter was a hundred feet from the enemy when he stopped and removed his gunbelt and the shotgun from his side-shoulder holster. With the Bowie knife in his front belt, he put one 44 revolver in his belt at the back. Leaving the shotgun in the crook of a chest high scrub oak, he took the spears, one in each hand and moved swiftly, straight for the sleeping men.

  Hunter's adrenaline was pumping and he could hear his heartbeat in his head, beating to the sound from the drums of Indian warriors of the past. He could see them lying there, unaware of what was coming. He ran at full speed past the first two who were motionless, appearing to be in deep sleep. The next two were moving. One was swatting bugs from his head; the other was changing position under his bedroll.

  The decision was made. The half-breed thrust one spear into the chest of the one, the second spear pierced the stomach of the other. A third man, wearing red leather on his boots, sat up, startled by the cries of pain. With lightning speed, Hunter removed the Bowie knife from its sheath, grabbed the Red Leg's hair to pull his head back, exposing his neck. The warm blood sprayed outward as one slash of the blade opened the man's throat at the Adams apple.

  The gurgling sound was suddenly masked by gunfire as bullets whizzed by Hunter's head. He pulled his 44 pistol and slammed his palm down on the hammer, unloading his six-shooter. He killed two and hit another, spinning him to the ground. The gunslinger retreated out the other side of the camp running hard, back and forth, dodging bullets from behind. There were two, maybe three, in hot pursuit.

  Hunter made a sweeping turn back toward his shotgun and gunbelt that waited patiently. He put more distance between him and the men with his deer-like speed. Hunter got to his guns with seconds to spare and strapped on his gunbelt then reloaded the empty revolver, slidi
ng it into its holster. Down on one knee, facing his pursuers on the newly made path, Hunter cocked back both hammers on the double barrel, took aim, and waited.

  Seven seconds passed before two men carelessly came running down the narrow footpath. The gunslinger pulled the double triggers before the leader saw him in his low stance. They came down the trail single file. The front man in his hurried pursuit was destroyed by both barrels; due to his larger size, he screened the second man from the buckshot. The big man's body hit the ground, back first at the other's feet, stopping him in his tracks; the few seconds of hesitation allowed Hunter to drop the shotgun, pull his revolver, and put two bullets in the man's chest. Hunter waited for the smoke to clear and for the quiet to return to the forest. The one lay on top of the other. Their positioning would be humorous to some men, or tragic to others. The half-breed gunslinger felt absolutely nothing.

  Hunter changed the cylinder out in his Colt for a full one from the right side of his gun belt. On the left side of his belt was where he kept his used loads, which varied in the number of bullets they contained. It was important for a gunslinger to know exactly how many shots he has during a firefight; keeping his weapons fully loaded at all times helped the memory count in stressful circumstances, which could mean the difference between life or death.

  Hunter finished his reload then stood from his crouched position; he holstered his weapon to the sound of a hammer being cocked at his head.

  "Don't move, mister, don't even flinch." The voice was high-pitched and a bit shaky. This one must have been behind him for some time before the silence returned to the woods, for Hunter would have heard his approach.

  Birdie's mistake would soon be revealed to him. Hunter could judge the distance between them by feel. He dropped down and spun one-eighty into a leg sweep, knocking the boy off his feet. Birdie's revolver fell from his grip before he could get off a shot. Hunter was upon him in a heartbeat, pulling him up by the scruff of his neck and putting the Bowie knife to his throat. They stood there, perfectly still and silent, the boy's back pulled tightly to the half-breed's chest.

  Hunter broke the quiet, "What's your name, boy?"

  "Birdie..." It came out more like a low screech, with the blade pressed against his neck.

  "Well, that explains a lot."

  The boy thought he sensed humor in this man's comment.

  "Are you gonna' kill me?" asked Birdie.

  "I don't know yet. How old are you, boy?"

  "I'm seventeen, soon to be eighteen."

  "Sounds like you're in a bit of a rush to grow old. Drawin' down on me ain't no way to do that."

  Suddenly, a rushing movement came from the brush. Down the path hurried a man Hunter recognized as the one who had a spyglass of his own. He held his pistol aimed right at them as he came to a stop at a distance of ten paces.

  "Don't do it, gunslinger, don't kill the boy," insisted Bodie.

  From Hunter's left a man appeared from behind a palm tree with a rifle in the crook of his shoulder, his eye running down the sight of the barrel and, no doubt, his finger was pressed against the trigger. He was moving sideways, slowly flanking the gunslinger. Hunter was turning with him using the boy as a shield and cutting off any angle that would give him an easy shot.

  "Back off, Joe," commanded Bodie, "I got this."

  "That boy is standing between me and a thousand dollar bounty!" shouted Big Joe. "I'm just in this for the coin."

  Bodie yelled back, "I'm warnin' you, if you don't do like I tell ya, I'll shoot ya my damn self."

  Big Joe came to a halt. Three seconds ticked by, he swung his rifle and fired at Bodie, but he wasn't fast enough.

  Bodie had known Joe for many years and he knew his love for money was stronger than any friendship, so he anticipated his move. Dropping to one knee as the bullet grazed his hat, Bodie shot from the hip, hitting Joe just above his left eye, killing him instantly.

  Bodie turned his revolver back toward the gunslinger and the boy.

  "Nice shootin'," said Hunter. "Now drop the pistol."

  There was a pause as Bodie seemed to be weighing his options.

  "All right, all right," replied Bodie as he slowly set the revolver to the ground. "Just don't hurt the boy, he's only sixteen years old and my responsibility."

  "Empty the other holster slow, and take a rest on that timber to your right there."

  Bodie did as he was told. He pulled his other pistol from his gunbelt and set it next to the other. He looked to the left.

  "Your other left," said Hunter.

  Bodie looked to his right then slowly moved three paces and sat on the downed pine log.

  Hunter removed Birdie's other pistol from its holster and stuck it in his belt as he spoke to the young man, "I'm gonna' take this steel from your neck. I want you to walk over there and take a seat with your partner there, got it?"

  Birdie could not speak or even nod, the pressure and sharpness of the blade was too much, but they did understand each other. Hunter let him go. There was blood trickling from his neck, but the wound was shallow. The boy took the short walk and sat down next to Bodie.

  The gunslinger retrieved the sawed-off shotgun from the forest floor without taking his eyes off his captors. He came back to them while reloading the shortened twelve gauge.

  Bodie gave the boy a bandana to dab the blood from the small cut on his throat.

  "You cut me," complained the boy.

  "Birdie, shut up," replied Bodie. His attention focused on the gunslinger.

  "We hold no malice towards you, Mr. Dolin, we was just doin' our jobs."

  Hunter squatted down in front of the two men, leaving a good distance between them before he spoke, "This must be the part where you try to talk your way out of this shit."

  "Look," reasoned Bodie, "I hold no loyalty for Montgomery, It was just my work, and I had no idea you would be involved when we signed up. We can gather our horses and you'll never see us again."

  Hunter grinned just a bit. "In my experience, in war you let prisoners go and they end up shootin' back at ya later on."

  "At least let the boy go, I give my word he will ride outta this state for good."

  "I won't leave without yah, Bode," said Birdie with conviction.

  "You will do as I say, boy. Now pipe down and let the adults talk here."

  Birdie stood up and threw the crumpled bandana to the ground.

  "Sit down," ordered the gunslinger as he brought up the shot-gun and leveled it out toward the two men.

  Birdie sat with some help from Bodie, who grabbed his wrist and pulled him downward.

  "Look, I heard what happened to your family in Myakka, and knowin' Montgomery like I do, I'm sure he pushed it. We'll fight with ya; all I want is enough of the gold he's got on the second floor of that house so we can move on far away from here."

  "You really expect me to trust you?" asked Hunter.

  "We ain't no Red Legs," explained Bodie. "We're Crackers born and raised, If Matt were alive here today, he'd vouch for me?"

  This last statement caught Hunter's attention. "How did you know Matt?"

  "He was my late wife's second cousin, we grew up together. I met your pa a few times. I don't scare easy, but he was a dangerous man to git on the bad side of."

  Hunter and Bodie locked eyes for some time; Hunter detected a look of hope in Bodie's eyes, while Bodie saw what he thought to be a look of ponder staring back at him.

  "You're a good talker, mister," stated Hunter. "Besides, I don't know what else to do with yah. I'm not an executioner, but I am a survivor. Be warned, if I see any wide of the mark thoughts come across your eyes, I'll know it, and you won't even see me comin'."

  "Don't you worry none, gunslinger," said Bodie with much relief. "We won't disappoint."

  Hunter stood and put the shotgun in its side-holster. "Collect your weapons, we got travelin' to do."

  "Well, all right then," said Bodie.

  "Yes sir," said Birdie boy.

  Chap
ter Sixteen

  History was being made all across the United States as the North and South were engaged against one another in a bloody Civil War. As great men fought to unite their country – General Ulysses S. Grant who fought for the north and General Robert E. Lee fighting for the south – Richard Montgomery was fighting for himself. Buried deep in the swamps, he was carving out his own territory in a state that was left for the savages and cattlemen. He did not care about God and Country, only about his own power and wealth. His plan was working perfectly, except for one thing – a half-breed named Hunter James Dolin.

  Richard Montgomery was on the second floor of his big house, sitting at his custom made oak desk; a beautiful piece anyone with any knowledge of good furniture would know had been built in the state of North Carolina.

  He was three glasses deep into a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon as the sun began to rise. The man's demeanor was quickly deteriorating with every sip. He could not believe a half-breed rebel was threatening years of his sweat, hard work, and planning. The son-of-a-bitch just would not die. He slammed back the last of his drink and began pouring another, when there came a knock at the door.

  "Come in."

  The captain entered the room, ducking slightly under the doorjamb. He grabbed a glass from a serving tray on a table against the wall, and with a flip and a catch he set it down on the desk, rim side up. He spun a wood armchair around backwards and sat down on it across from Richard.

  "Mornin', Monty, don't mind if I do."

  Richard ignored the captain's rudeness and poured him a drink; he had bigger problems at the moment. "Any word from Bodie or the hunting party?" he asked.

  "Aw-w, the Hunter is now the hunted, but for how long?" replied the captain before downing his whiskey followed by a wink. Then he slid his glass forward, indicating he would like another. "No, no word, but I would not expect one this early anyhow. I did some askin' around. You picked the wrong man to piss on."

  "He's one man," said Montgomery through slightly clenched teeth. "A bastard, no less."

  The one eyed sailor took the bottle from the table and poured his own, sensing he would not be served in an amount of time to his liking.