by Paul Lederer
Colbert fell to the side of his chair, trying to dodge the burning log and Ned moved. He leaped on top of Colbert’s desk and, not pausing to look at Colbert, flung himself against the window, leading with his shoulder. He hit the dark earth outside, rising in a bed of shards. Ducking low, keeping below the window, he raced in a crouch for the corner of the house where he stood, taking in deep gulps of cold night air.
Colbert had not fired again, and now smoke was billowing from the window. The velvet drapes had caught fire and gone up quickly. Ned hesitated, watching the creeping flames. Was Colbert still in there, out cold after his fall, or had he made it to the door and down the corridor? He would not leave the man to burn to death, no matter what. He began making his way back toward the shattered window.
‘Hold it right there!’ a triumphant voice behind Ned called out.
Raising his hands, Ned turned to see the red-faced, jug-eared man he had met on the mountain. The one who had wanted to kill him there. He recalled the man’s name.
‘Jeter!’
‘I knew you were trouble from the start. You fooled Santana, but not me,’ Jeter said, stepping nearer, his pistol leveled.
‘Jeter, I think Colbert’s still in there,’ Ned said, nodding toward the fire which now could be heard crackling and growling as it made its way up the plank walls toward the ceiling. ‘We have to find out.’
Jeter didn’t laugh, but his smile was a scornful expression. ‘That’s a clever try, mister. ‘I don’t think we should go back there. I think you ought to precede me into the yard. Or,’ Jeter shrugged, ‘I can just kill you here. It makes no difference to me.’
Ned Browning tried pleading again, but got nowhere. Either Jeter’s loyalty was thin or he placed more importance on capturing one of the enemy to display to the other men. Ned believed that he could now smell flesh burning, but he hoped not. He would have had no compunctions about shooting Lyle Colbert in a fight, but to die that way.…
‘Are you going to move or am I going to kill you where you stand!’ Jeter shrieked.
What choice did he have? Keeping his hands held high, Ned turned his back on the burning room and started toward the front of the house.
It was chaos there.
Two men were fleeing the fire which had already started burning among the rafters while others rushed toward the blaze with a futile array of fire buckets. Among these were the two men who had acted as Ned’s guards. Horses whickered wildly and reared. Breaking free of their tethers, these made a dash for safety while their riders tried to chase them down. The flames were streaking the sky. Golden sparks shot high and floating ash sifted down. Jeter found his moment of triumph stolen from him. No one paid any attention to him and his captured enemy.
Seizing the opportunity, Ned stepped away from Jeter a few strides, grabbed a man by the arm and shouted: ‘Did Colbert get out?’
‘Not that I saw. No one’s been able to get in that far. Maybe he made it through the side window.’
He hadn’t. Ned knew that for a fact.
A man straining with the weight of the two water buckets he carried approached Ned on the smoke-shadowed porch. With a glance at the momentarily baffled Jeter, Ned said, ‘Let me have one of those,’ and took a bucket. Entering the house with two other men, Ned could see that the battle against the raging fire was a lost cause.
‘We can’t do anything else but watch it burn,’ he said. No one asked him who he was or what he was doing there. The fire made all other thoughts inconsequential. ‘We’d better just pull back ourselves!’ he shouted ‘Some of the trees will catch, and we don’t want to be standing near them when it happens.’
‘Let’s get our ponies out of the stable!’ a big-shouldered man suggested. Ned stayed close beside him as they exited the house, scarves held to their faces, black smoke rolling past them, hot flame at their heels.
Jeter was only briefly confused. He was able to pick Ned out of the retreating band of men, but what was he to do? Start firing into the crowd? He hurried after the smoke-streaked band of outlaws.
Someone had already opened the gate to the corral, and those horses had scattered widely into the fire-brightened night, but the stable itself still held half a dozen horses, rearing and complaining in their stalls as the scent of fire and smoke grew stronger. The Colbert men unlatched the stall doors and grabbed for their own horses, some not bothering to collect their tack.
No one had claimed the big sorrel Ned found quivering in the rear stall and so he swung the gate wide and mounted the horse bareback, heeling it roughly to urge it into a running start. Jeter again was not fooled.
The outlaw stood near the stable doors and when Ned rode the sorrel down on him, he stepped nimbly aside and fired his Colt three times. The second bullet caught Ned in the shoulder, and he reeled in the saddle.
Clinging to the horse’s mane, he ran the sorrel as far as it could continue the frantic pace. The sky went from fire-bright to pitch black as Ned rode the horse into the sheltering forest toward the river. He was having difficulty holding on now. His vision blurred and his shoulder was shot through with pain.
He rode until he could keep his grip no more. Then he slowed the horse which was breathing hard, trembling now. His dismount was a sagging headfirst slide to the cold earth. The sorrel sidestepped away from its human burden and Ned lay still for a long minute, his shoulder fiery and throbbing.
The sound of a horse approaching brought him to his feet, his body responding reluctantly. Still he made it up, and he was ready and braced when Jeter burst from the trees, his rifle at the ready, his eyes bright with a killing fury.
TEN
The first shot from Jeter’s Winchester flared in the night, yellow-red and horrible in its intent. But the man was over-eager, and he had fired before his pony had fully halted. The bullet flew past Ned’s head, doing no damage. It was the muzzle flash that had an effect. His eyes, already blurred with pain seemed to have gone blind with the flash of brilliant light.
He took to his heels. Weaving wildly through the forest he ran on through the night, unarmed hurting and desperate. He had no doubt that Jeter was behind him. The man was determined to see Ned Browning dead.
Ahead something gleamed. There was a low murmuring which grew louder until it became a rushing sound, and Ned realized that he was looking at the river flowing swiftly past. He stopped, chest filled with fiery pain, legs wobbling. He could not see Jeter, but he knew he was behind him somewhere. Jeter must have known that he now had Ned pinned against the river and that there was nowhere left to run. He was taking his time approaching, but he would come, confident and quite deadly. Ned stumbled on until he stood at the very edge of the swift-flowing Snake River. He paused again. He could not go on. Could not!
Jeter appeared wraithlike from the dark forest, and he raised his rifle to his shoulder. Somehow he missed his shot again, but Ned did not wait for a second shot. He threw himself into the icy river and let it sweep him away. Jeter did not fire again. Perhaps he thought that he had tagged Ned with his first bullet.
It made no difference. Within minutes Ned was swept far downstream, the current surging around him. He had saved his skin by diving into the river, but now what? The current was far too strong for him to swim. The forest bunched close against the shore, tall sentinel silhouettes in serrated ranks. And he was drifting farther from them, bullied along his way by the relentless current.
It was a struggle just to stay above water with his injured shoulder. He could only watch the ranks of trees rushing past, the river surging on. His strength was rapidly fading. Twice his head went under and twice he rose sputtering and spitting out cold water. He did not think he could survive a third plunge into the icy river. The stars, he saw, were bright, silver, far-flung in a black sky. The moon was a pale mocking eye in the east. They symbolized nothing to him. Dead orbs. He was ready to join them in their dead realm, to give it up. What was the point in struggling against the inevitable?
His body was thrown
harshly against an unseen obstruction, driving the wind from his tortured chest. His movement was stopped dead although the current ripped by and clawed at his body. A rock? An unseen snag? He probed for the object with his hand. It seemed to be firmly fixed, and yet it was swaying. Cold, serpentlike.…
The chain! He had come up against the anchored north shore end of the massive chain. He was fifty feet or so from the riverbank, he saw. If he could only drag himself shoreward. He began to inch his way toward land. His right shoulder had no usable strength in it and so he simply gripped with that hand and pulled himself forward with his still-sore left arm. The current slapped against him, shifting even the monstrous weight of the chain as the river swept past.
It was no use. He knew that after another ten minutes, fifteen. He was never going to make it to the beach. The distance was impossible. He was frozen to the bone. His body was slow to respond to his commands or failed to respond at all. His lungs burned, his vision was blurred and the river rushed on, powerful, inexorable. His strength was waning, dying.
He could not make it. The night went black, colder, fading to nothingness.
The nightmare had returned to haunt him. The men without faces, wearing badges, stood silently around him. This time he was lying down instead of standing among them. One of the shadowy figures bent low over him and a voice that sounded as if it were coming from the depths of a well said, ‘Hello, Walt. Welcome back.’
Ray? Ray Holden?
‘Ray?’
‘It’s me, Walt,’ the lawman said. ‘We didn’t think you were going to make it for a while. Welcome back to the land of the living.’
Slowly, as his vision cleared, he recognized the other two deputy marshals, George Shaftner and Willie Randall. They both stood smiling down at him, hats held in their hands.
‘Where was I? Where am I … how?’
‘Take it easy,’ Holden said. ‘You’re in a hotel room in Hoyt’s Camp. They were towing the timber barges upriver this morning when they came upon you lying on the beach. They brought you into town – a man named Bright and a couple of others whose names I didn’t get.’
‘Orson Bright?’
‘That’s it. Do you remember him, Walt?’
‘Like someone out of a dream,’ was the reply.
‘Bright seemed to know you well enough, but he didn’t seem to know your name.’
‘No … no, but then neither did I. Can you fill me in a little, Ray? My memory seems to have some holes in it.’
‘We sent you up here from Cheyenne to look into the timber wars. It seems that you took care of that all right! They tell us Lyle Colbert is dead and his men scattered. To top that, you got that renegade Santana as well. You’ll have to tell us all about it when you’re feeling better.’
‘I don’t know if I recall it all. What happened to me in the first place, Ray? On the road to Hoyt’s Camp, I mean.’
‘The Liggett boys and a couple of their friends. You recall Dave and Lawrence Liggett? You got them for rustling about a year ago. They came back to settle accounts. When they found out that you were riding out alone, they decided to ambush you.’
‘The Liggetts—’ They, too, seemed only a hazy memory.
‘George, Willie and I went out looking for you when you didn’t wire us from Hoyt’s Camp. We found your horse … dead … and Willie tracked you to the edge of the Snake River Gorge. We figured you for dead. No man could take that fall and survive. I guess we underestimated you again. Good work, Walt. I suppose we’d better let you get your rest now.’
Dusk had settled over the town when he awakened again. There were other people in his room now, three of them. With difficulty he recognized Orson Bright, Andy and the girl he had thought he had known only his dreams.
‘Tess!’
‘It’s me,’ she said. Concern shaded her eyes, but she managed a brave little smile. Orson Bright eased up to the foot of the bed, Andy at his shoulder.
‘Good to see you alive, son,’ Orson said. ‘We didn’t think you’d make it. Was it you that burned down Lyle Colbert’s house?’
‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘I was there.’
‘No matter. The rascal is dead. His gang is scattered. I don’t think they’ll be back.’
‘No, men like that don’t fight for no wages.’
‘They told you about Santana, didn’t they?’ Andy said excitedly. ‘I found him when I went looking for Tess and Mother Rose. Do you remember getting him? That was a long time coming. The man who killed my brother, Dan. Did you know that the girl, Doris Hancock, came back to town and she’s telling everyone now that it wasn’t a fair fight that got Dan. Santana cut him down from an alleyway.’
‘You’re babbling on,’ Orson Bright growled. ‘Can’t you see the man’s still tired. There is one thing I’d like to say,’ Orson said. ‘I’m sorry I lied to you. In the end, though, you did earn the money I promised. You got rid of Colbert and Santana. I’ve two hundred dollars now, after the sale of my timber. I’d like to offer it to you.’
‘No,’ the man on the bed replied firmly. ‘I’m a lawman, and you know a lawman can’t accept money for doing his job. I’m sure you have better uses for it, anyway.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr … Marshal—?’
‘Walt Strahan,’ the wounded man said with a twisted smile. ‘It sounds odd to me now, but that’s my name’
‘Well, then, Marshal Strahan, I guess we’ll be going. That’s about all we came to say.’
‘I haven’t had my say,’ Tess said. She looked at her father, at Andy.
‘Well, say it,’ Orson prompted. Andy nudged his father in the ribs and Orson’s expression changed. ‘Oh,’ he said, and together he and Andy eased out of the room.
Tess pulled a chair up to the bedside and cocked her head. ‘Do you make a habit of doing this?’ she asked. ‘Getting shot up, I mean?’
‘You might not believe it, but I’ve only been wounded twice in the line of duty. And each time I’ve awakened to find you at my bedside.’
‘Does that mean that I’m bad luck?’ Tess asked.
‘Bad … I was just thinking how lucky I’ve been to have you there when I needed someone.’
‘Do you plan on continuing in law enforcement?’
‘I don’t know, Tess, I haven’t had the time to think about it.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose it matters one way or the other. We’ll find a way to get along.’
‘We’ll … Tess, what are you saying?’
She had taken his hand between her own and now her smile deepened. ‘I’m proposing to you, of course! If I wait for you to say anything, I’ll be an old woman and still waiting.’
‘Oh.’
‘“Oh”. That’s your answer?’
‘It’s a kind of new thought. Why don’t you let me have a small kiss while I think about it?’
Tess bent low and kissed him and when she withdrew he was grinning. ‘I guess you’ll do all right,’ he teased.
‘Well, that’s settled then,’ Tess said. ‘It wasn’t very romantic, but it’s settled. There’s just one thing, Mr Whatever.’
‘Walter Strahan.’
‘Mr Strahan. It’s a good enough name. Yes, I can carry that name. If I call you ‘Ned’ now and then, just let it go.’
‘I’m pleased,’ Walt Strahan said with a straight face, ‘that my name is good enough for you.’
‘Good! It’s better than good, Walt. Imagine going through life as Mrs Hezekiah Pybomoski!’
Walt pondered that odd comment as sundown blanketed the town of Hoyt’s Camp with soft darkness. He would ask her sometime what she had meant. Right now it seemed quite unimportant. She was holding his hand still, and as his eyes closed again, the settling night spread its healing peace over his bed.
When the hotel room door slowly opened, the hinges creaked slightly, and Walt Strahan, who had been half-awake anyway due to the pain in his shoulder, came instantly alert. He thought he recognized the figure silhouette
d in the doorway, but was not sure until he spoke.
‘This is the end of the line,’ Jeter said, thumbing back the hammer of his Colt revolver.
Walt Strahan threw himself from the bed. He landed on the wooden floor with a jolt that shot fresh pain through his body but he caused Jeter to miss his shot. Little good it would do him. As he tried to sit up, to stand, Jeter took three steps toward him, cocking his weapon again.
Walt saw the second shadowy figure in the doorway, heard a muffled curse. Jeter spun at the sound of footsteps and tried to fire at the shadow, but Andy Bright’s shot was quicker and truer.
‘Heard someone in the hall passing my room. He had his gun out. Knew whoever it was he was up to no good,’ Andy said in a shaky voice. No matter his eagerness to be a fighting man, this was the first time Andy Bright had ever taken a life, and it was obvious that the young man didn’t like the feeling.
Other feet were rushing toward the room. Walt had lifted himself to sit on the bed. Andy had touched fire to the bedside lamp’s wick.
‘Everything all right?’ Ray Holden asked loudly. He had his pistol drawn as did George Shaftner. Both lawmen eased into the room, looking down at the still form of Jeter. On their heels Tess rushed in, still in her night dress, wrapper thrown loosely around her shoulders. Holden had crouched to examine the dead man.
‘Who was he, Walt?’ the marshal saked.
‘The last shadow of Frank Lavender,’ Walt said. Glancing at Tess, he added, ‘And the last echo of Ned Browning.’
About the Author
Paul Lederer spent much of his childhood and young adult life in Texas. He worked for years in Asia and the Middle East for a military intelligence arm. Under his own name, he is best known for Tecumseh and the Indian Heritage Series, which focuses on American Indian life. He believes that the finest Westerns reflect ordinary people caught in unusual and dangerous circumstances, trying their best to act with honor.
