by B. S. Dunn
A thorny finger traced a path from the ranch to a point where the trail horseshoed. ‘Tucked in here is a big outcrop of rock. A great place to wait.’
‘He’s got a good start on me,’ Concho pointed out.
‘Not if you take the cut-off like I just showed you. You’ll beat him there and have time up your sleeve. Once you are done,’ Lance pointed at another spot on the map, ‘hole up here. There’s a line shack you can use. If I need you I’ll send a man. If not it will be the easiest five thousand you’ll ever make.’
‘Well then, I’d best be movin’.’
‘One more thing, Bell, don’t miss. He knows too much.’
Concho Bell didn’t even blink when he boasted, ‘I don’t miss.’
Chapter 3
Lucas Kane felt obliged to inform Brooks of the storm that was about to rain down upon his territory and urged his horse along at a canter. He’d warn him then leave town. He wanted to put as much ground between himself and his brother as possible.
There was no love lost between the two of them. Jordan had taken to the gun trail five years ago at the age of twenty-one. When Lucas Kane had begun to make a name for himself as a famous gunfighter, the stories began to filter through to home and Jordan had left then to try to do the same.
At first, Kane’s brother had taken to testing his speed on easy marks. Cowhands and drifters were his early prey. Then, in the small town of Porter in Kansas, Jordan came across a gunfighter named Jim Kent. A man of some repute, Kent was said to have killed five men in stand-up fights.
Kane’s understanding of the way it went down was that, as soon as Jordan had discovered the identity of the man, he’d braced him in the saloon and kept pushing until there was no other option left open to Kent but gun play.
When the gun smoke had cleared, the gunfighter lay dead on the sawdust-covered planks with two holes in his chest, his gun still in his holster. Men swore they didn’t even see Jordan draw.
From that moment on, he’d been chasing the title his brother held. Not caring how he achieved it, he wanted to be the best and Kane knew that one day Jordan would call his hand. It was for this reason that he had to leave. When all was said and done, Jordan was still his brother.
A giant mass of boulders loomed in the distance where the trail horseshoed around them. Great grey slabs piled atop one another stood out like a beacon across the land. Kane kept the buckskin at an even pace; scattered pines flitted by as he rode on.
As he rounded the bend, Kane moved the horse to the outside of the trail, away from the deep rut that had worn over time. He caught a blur of movement high in the rocks, but by then it was too late.
A rifle whip-lashed and Kane felt the blow of the bullet as it buried into his side. He was hurled from the saddle and landed heavily on the hard-packed trail, which knocked the air from his lungs. His head connected solidly with a protruding rock and bright lights flashed in front of his eyes before his whole world went dark.
Up amongst the rocks, a lone figure stood, his eyes on the prone form below, ready to fire his Winchester at the first sign of movement. He waited for a brief time and when Kane didn’t move, he turned away, sure his job was done.
If Concho Bell had waited a little longer, he would have seen Kane move his arm.
As Kane rolled on to his back, pain from the bullet wound in his side ripped through him and caused him to moan. He could hear voices far off in the distance, incoherent murmurings that he couldn’t understand. His eyes flickered open and the sun’s harsh glare almost blinded him.
Again the voices came to Kane. Distant. Incoherent. He opened his eyes once more and a kaleidoscope of faces swirled in front of him. Pain drummed through his head, his eyes closed and again blackness claimed him.
When Kane next opened his eyes, it was dark. He was in a soft bed with clean blankets over him and his wound had been bandaged. Pale moonlight shone through a side window which provided limited illumination in the room.
Kane tried to move but the pain in his side ripped through his body and took his breath away. He could feel the bandages wrapped around his lower torso.
He lay there and tried to piece together the events which had led to this point. The more he thought about it, the job, the ambush, all that remained were questions.
‘Hello?’ Kane called out.
It was more a croak than anything.
He cleared his throat. ‘Hello?’
As he waited, Kane heard soft footfalls on a timber floor. The door to the room opened and a woman dressed in a nightgown entered the room with a kerosene lamp.
Instinctively, Kane pulled the bed covers higher in her presence.
‘You’re awake,’ she said. Her voice had a soft lilt.
‘Where am I?’ Kane asked.
‘That’s not important at the moment,’ she said softly. ‘Get some more rest and we’ll talk in the morning.’
‘What’s your name, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘It’s Martha Hamilton,’ she replied. ‘My husband, Brock, found you on the trail. Now, no more questions.’
Kane watched Martha leave the room with the lamp which left the bedroom in darkness once again.
He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
In the morning, Kane was already awake when Martha Hamilton returned.
In the light of day, he could make out the features of the soft-spoken woman.
He guessed her age to be around thirty-one and she was slim with a grey gingham dress which hung loosely on her delicate frame.
Martha’s brown eyes were the same colour as her long hair which was tied in a bun. The flawlessness of her complexion struck him as odd due to the harsh conditions of living here in the west.
‘Are you OK?’ Martha asked.
‘Ahh . . . yes ma’am,’ Kane stammered. ‘I’m sorry ma’am, I didn’t mean to stare.’
Martha smiled warmly. ‘Are you hungry?’
Kane nodded. He realized how hungry he was once food was mentioned.
‘Yes, ma’am. I feel as though I could eat a horse.’
Martha laughed.
‘I don’t think horse is on the menu for breakfast,’ she said. ‘But I can find something for you, Mr. . . ?’
‘Name’s Kane, ma’am.’
She nodded. ‘Mr Kane, I’ll send my husband in and he can answer any questions you might have while I fix your breakfast.’
Martha hadn’t been gone long when a small head poked around the corner of the doorway and said, ‘Hello.’
Kane frowned. ‘Hello.’
‘Who are you?’ a little girl with flowing black hair asked.
‘I’m Lucas,’ Kane answered. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Elsie,’ she answered, then added proudly, ‘I’m six.’
Kane was about to say something more when he heard Martha’s voice call out to Elsie and the little girl disappeared.
When Brock Hamilton entered the room, Kane’s first impression of the man was that he was exactly like his wife, warm and friendly.
Hamilton was a couple of years older than his wife. He was of similar stature and even shared the same coloured hair and eyes.
‘Glad to see you awake, Mr Kane,’ he said as he offered his hand. ‘I’m Brock Hamilton.’
Kane took the calloused hand in a firm grip and shook it.
‘Your wife tells me I have you to thank for finding and saving me.’
‘It could have been anyone,’ Hamilton said. ‘I just happened to be comin’ along the other day and found you. Couldn’t leave you layin’ there so I brought you back to our homestead.’
Kane frowned. ‘The other day? How long have I been here?’
‘This is the third day.’
Kane remained silent, deep in thought.
‘My wife doctored you,’ Hamilton explained. ‘You see, she was a nurse in St Louis before we moved out here. She knows what she’s doing, even took care of the fever and all.’
‘Sounds like I have a lot to be thankful
to you and your wife for.’
‘Mr Kane, somethin’s been buggin’ me ever since I brought you here,’ Hamilton said uncertainly. ‘I’m not normally one to pry into another man’s affairs but in this case, I think I must. Not for me but I have Martha to consider and we have a little girl called Elsie.’
Kane’s face remained passive. ‘I know, we just met.’
Hamilton frowned but let it go and continued. ‘Our homestead borders Buford Lance’s B-L connected and where I found you . . .’ Hamilton’s voice trailed away uncomfortably.
‘The answer is yes,’ Kane said in answer to the man’s unfinished question. ‘I was comin’ from seein’ Lance.’
‘Are you a hired gun?’
Kane stared pointedly at Hamilton before he answered. But then, the man and his wife had taken him in.
‘I am,’ he said truthfully. ‘But before you go jumpin’ to any conclusions I turned down the job that was offered.’
‘What was it he wanted you to do?’
‘Nothin’ more than plain murder.’
Hamilton thought for a brief moment then a look of recognition came across his face. ‘Are you him? Are you that Kane?’
‘Depends on which Kane you think I am.’
‘What do you mean?’ a soft voice asked.
Martha Hamilton stood in the doorway with a plate of food for Kane.
‘I’d hold off on the breakfast, ma’am,’ Kane told her. ‘At least, until you hear what I have to say.’
‘What? Why?’
‘It so happens that I’m a gunfighter, ma’am,’ he explained. ‘My name is Lucas Kane.’
‘Oh.’
Kane turned his attention to Hamilton. ‘Is that who you thought I was?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I thought you were the other one. But you bein’ here is just as bad. When you’ve had your breakfast I’ll ask you to leave.’
‘Brock!’ Martha protested. ‘He’s still not well enough.’
Kane nodded. ‘It’s OK, ma’am. I understand. Your husband is just lookin’ out for his family.’
Her face grew stern. ‘You’ll leave when you are well enough and not a moment before.’
The last part was directed at her husband.
‘OK, fine. But when he’s well enough. . . .’
‘I won’t stay any longer than need be,’ Kane confirmed.
Kane saw a brief hint of relief on Hamilton’s face. ‘Thank you.’
‘I take it that before when you said the other one you meant Jordan?’
Hamilton nodded.
‘He’s here you know,’ Kane confirmed. ‘I’m pretty sure that it was him who shot me.’
Hamilton’s face paled noticeably.
‘Who’s Jordan?’ Martha Hamilton asked.
‘He’s my brother,’ Kane said.
‘And he shot you?’ she asked incredulously.
‘I believe so.’
‘But why?’
Kane sighed. ‘How about I start at the beginnin’.’
When he’d finished, Kane waited for their reaction. He could see their minds working.
‘I’ll get dressed and be gone,’ Kane said to break the long silence.
‘No!’ Martha Hamilton said loudly. ‘You need to rest.’
‘She’s right,’ her husband said which totally surprised Kane. ‘If you don’t rest up your wound might open up again. Plus you’ve been out to it for a couple of days.’
‘I need to tell the sheriff. . . .’
‘I can do that,’ Hamilton assured him.
Kane considered the offer and nodded. ‘OK then. But be careful. Now how about that breakfast. I’m starved.’
‘And you say he thinks his brother is the one who shot him?’ Brooks asked, and raised his wild grey eyebrows.
‘I think he’s almost sure of it,’ Hamilton confirmed. ‘He said he was on his way here to warn you.’
Brooks climbed out of his battered office chair and walked across to the window. He looked out at the people on the street as they went about their business, totally oblivious to the storm which was about to envelop them and change their lives forever.
Brooks turned to Hamilton. ‘I knew there would be trouble when he showed up. But with his brother here it is a whole different situation.’
‘How so?’
‘Jordan Kane will be here for me,’ Brooks informed him. ‘If I become a problem that is. I guess it goes to show just how serious Lance is about keeping the Cottonwood Creek range for himself.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Not much I can do at the minute,’ Brooks informed him. ‘Nothing has happened.’
‘What about Kane being shot?’
‘Tell him to come see me when he’s up and about.’
Hamilton was puzzled. ‘What for?’
‘Just tell him to come see me.’
Three days later things changed, and they found out how serious the rancher was.
Lance scowled at the interruption and he looked up from the paperwork on the hardwood desk at the sound of the knock. The door swung open and Chuck entered the room with one of the ranch hands.
‘What is it, Chuck?’ Lance asked impatiently.
‘Crandle here just rode in from the Cottonwood Creek range,’ Chuck explained to his boss. ‘He’s been over there on watch.’
‘And?’ the rancher asked tersely.
‘The homesteaders have arrived.’
Lance nodded slowly and looked at Crandle. ‘Good work.’
Crandle stood there for a moment until a nudge from the foreman indicated that he was to leave the room.
Lance watched him go then said to Chuck, ‘Get Kane and tell him to bring his hired men. It’s time he earned his money.’
Chapter 4
A line of twenty canvas-covered wagons arrived with their weary owners on the Cottonwood Creek range. Drawn by four-horse teams, the heavy conveyances were laden with everything that the homesteaders owned.
The sun was not long past its zenith when they began to set up camp a short distance from the cool clear waters of Cottonwood Creek. It had been decided that they would disperse to their quarter sections tomorrow to begin their new lives.
Ernest Hughes stood outside the loosely circled wagons and stared in awe at the surrounding countryside.
Huge snow-capped mountains towered into the sky. Tree-clad ridges and foothills could supply their timber needs and the fertile ground and water from the creek would sustain their crops or whatever else they chose to do with it.
He watched an elk venture out of a stand of spruce on a far ridge and look the new arrivals over. Hughes smiled and said quietly, ‘God has provided.’
He was a religious man in his first year past thirty. He was very tall and the past few weeks of travel had tanned his face several shades darker than it had been before.
‘Sure is mighty fine country, Ernest,’ a voice said, intruding on Hughes’ reverie.
He glanced briefly at the man beside him then returned his gaze to the view. ‘It sure is, Floyd, it sure is.’
Floyd Long was in his early forties and had been allocated the quarter section next to Hughes’. Though shorter than Hughes, there was a distinct difference between the neighbours. At Long’s waist, there was a gunbelt with an old 1863 Remington converted from cap and ball to cartridge. Hughes never wore a gun.
They stood in companionable silence and continued to take in their new surrounds when nine riders appeared on a low hill to their north.
‘Who do you suppose they are?’ Floyd asked.
Hughes remained silent but eyed the men curiously as they sat there and watched them. Suddenly the group moved forward down the hill and approached the wagon train.
Initially, they bunched up but gradually spread out in a line as they neared the encampment. There was something menacing about it that made Hughes feel uneasy.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said to Floyd.
Floyd’s hand dropped to his six-gun.
> ‘You ain’t the only one,’ he agreed.
When the riders drew closer, Hughes realized the cause of his unease. Every one of the riders wore a hood over his head.
‘Oh my lord,’ he heard Floyd gasp hoarsely.
‘We need to warn the others,’ Hughes said as he turned.
He ran back within the circle of wagons and shouted as loud as he could. The alarm had sounded throughout the immigrant camp and all of the new arrivals prepared to meet their attackers.
Floyd Long froze as he stared at the oncoming threat. He stood transfixed by the sight and sound, unable to react as the thunder of thirty-six hoofs echoed in his ears and the vision of so much horseflesh bearing down upon him rooted him to the spot.
He was shocked quickly back to reality when the first shot came and whipped close by his head. He immediately went for the holstered Remington.
His momentary paralysis had caused too big a delay and before he could get the six-gun halfway clear, a bullet smashed into his chest and knocked him off his feet.
The riders thundered into the centre of the loosely circled wagons and drew up sharply. They fired at random targets as their horses milled.
Hughes dived under a wagon with his wife, Rose. He was in shock after being witness to Floyd’s callous death. His hands now held a Winchester rifle. He worked the lever and jacked a round into the breech.
Before he could fire, he watched in horror as a homesteader by the name of Marsh fell to the ground with several bullets to the front and rear of his torso.
Hughes’ wife’s screams filled his ears at the sight of the dead man. He gritted his teeth and fired at one of the riders and watched the man slump forward in the saddle.
Another rider holstered his weapon and moved his horse in close to assist the wounded man.
A fusillade of shots peppered the wagon Hughes had taken refuge under and wooden splinters scythed through the air. He hugged the ground as more slugs carved into the wagon.
The mêlée continued. Cries of pain, horses screamed and attackers shouted. Though he couldn’t see what they were doing next, Hughes had a fair idea that their stock was being slaughtered as well.
