by Abe Dancer
Now, suddenly, Cole wondered for one fleeting moment, if maybe they had found that way – getting him out here alone, carrying twenty thousand dollars.
CHAPTER 10
RECEPTION
The ransom was to be paid at Birdwing Wells, but Larry Creed had inferred the boy was still being held in the crooked canyon near the Church Spire rock.
The places were miles apart and the fact that the ransom was to be paid over in the middle of the night – well, it seemed mighty suspect to Cole.
It smelled of a set-up. And if that was what it was, Quinlan was bound to be involved.
But there had been nothing in any of the ransom notes naming Cole as the one to deliver the ransom money. Linus had asked him as a personal favour; in any case, Cole felt it was his bounden duty to take on the job: he still felt responible for Donny Charlton’s abduction.
They couldn’t have known ahead of time that he would be the one to make the delivery; in fact, there was a good chance they still didn’t know who was bringing the money.
He couldn’t work it out satisfactorily; maybe they planned to kill whoever brought the ransom. That way they would avoid being recognized or tied in with the kidnapping. They would realize that there would be a hue and cry afterwards. Bess Charlton would see to that, even if Linus didn’t.
That was if they didn’t kill the kid anyway, which was the only really safe way for kidnappers. Remove all chance of identification, starting with the abducted person, and whoever paid over the ransom, just to be sure.
He wasn’t about to risk his neck by riding in blindly, following the instructions in the note to the letter. There was no room for improvisation or changes of direction: right after moonset, leave the money under the round rock with one side sheared off, north side of the wells.
That meant being in a certain place, at a certain time, close enough to reach the deposit rock by deadline.
A perfect plan for dry-gulching. They would know where he was at any given time after he passed the point that would allow him to reach the rock right after moonset.
Like hell!
It was late afternoon when he rode close to the hills, using the creeping shadows to make him hard to see. He had deliberately chosen the black mount and a dark-coloured packhorse so they would be hard to distinguish at night or in deep shadows around sundown. He wore dark clothing for the same reason.
He had brought a map with him, although he had been out here once before, looking for a horse-thief; he’d found him in a ravine, dead, the equally dead horse lying on top of him at the base of a cliff. It was dangerous country and Cole figured to get within a frog’s leap of the Birdwing Wells while there was still light enough to see.
Which meant that anyone holed up with a rifle would be able to see him coming, too. But there was no avoiding it. He had studied the map closely and worked out a trail that would give him reasonable cover. Not that that meant much: if they were going to dry-gulch him, they would have all approaches under surveillance.
But, with the few facts he had, it was the best he could do. He rode with his rifle unsheathed, the butt resting on his right thigh; they would expect him to take precautions, so would shoot first, without warning.
This was country with lots of broken rock, crags jutting and hanging, making good lookouts for anyone wanting to see who was riding below, yet keeping hidden.
There were lots of shadows, deep black against the pale rock, but, at this time, there were still patches of sunlight that he was unable to avoid. His flesh crawled when he crossed these, eyes raking the heights, finger on the rifle trigger. He tensed at a flickering movement up there, relaxed almost immediately when he realized it was only a baby eagle, not yet ready to fly, flapping in a stick nest. While he watched the bird’s antics, looking out for the homing mother with food, he caught another movement out of the corner of his left eye. It was on a neighbouring jutting crag, some twenty feet down from the rim.
That was no bird. It was a man changing position, likely growing cramped on the narrow ledge. A slanting shaft of sunlight flashed back at him from a rifle barrel.
Cole turned the black and the packhorse under a ledge and dismounted. He crouched in front of the big horse, certain he had not been seen by the watcher. The man was in the right place for an ambush, having a good view of the trail where it came out of a narrow, winding section. But he wouldn’t be able to see the rider in that section, only when he reached the end and appeared in the open below the ledge.
He called up a picture of his map in his mind, relating the position of the ledge to where he knew Birdwing Wells lay ahead. Glancing at the sky, he smiled thinly: yeah! The sun was behind the hills now, throwing sawtoothed shadows in long, distorted patterns, misty rays fanning above the crags.
They would expect him to appear here just after sundown. That would still give him time to make his way carefully through the high ranges to the wells – where he could hole up until the moon set, and be ready to look for the broken rock and leave the ransom.
He figured he wasn’t meant to ride out again.
But he had a plan to change that.
The first thing he did was hide the ransom in the bottom of a crevice, covering it with smaller rocks. The brown packhorse was docile, obedient, long used to obeying commands of men. Cole off-loaded the packs, took out his bedroll, and searched for and found a reasonably straight branch about three feet long, fallen from a tree that had long ago been struck by lightning. It was still strong and he broke off some of the thin, projecting branches, rammed the remaining shaft through his bedroll, end to end. He stood this vertically on his saddle, tied it in place with his lariat to saddle-horn and cantle. It was unsteady but would suffice. He hung a threadbare denim jacket over the top and jammed his hat on to hold it in place.
It would never pass in daylight, but in the shadows of a winding narrow trail through these hills it would look enough like a man to hold a watcher’s attention. He hoped that the packhorse, once started, would automatically keep going, following the winding trail. He gave it a handful of oats, scratched it behind one ear. It nuzzled him and he stroked the muzzle, then stepped to the rear, slapping a hand across the rump.
The horse snorted a little but jerked forward and started along the deeply shadowed trail.
He glanced up between the towering walls and through the jagged slit they made against the darkening sky, saw the first faint stars. The three-quarter moon that had been hanging above the range all day began to glow as the light faded, fast now.
Hatless, he mounted, rifle in hand, and turned the black around, riding out of the broken entrance. He put the horse parallel with the rising hills, moving roughly in the same direction as the packhorse with its strange rig – and hoping it would hold and not topple from the saddle.
There was more light here and he was able to travel faster, but kept the black on softer ground where he could. He had worked out from his map where he should dismount and go in on foot, had climbed up a high rock for a better view and noted a lone pine tree about level with the position where he had seen the rifleman.
When he reached the tree he dismounted and tied the black to the trunk. He made a last check of his six-gun and rifle magazine, put a handful of spare shells in his shirt pocket, and ran back to the first slope of the hills. He began to make his way up. His game leg took the strain all right, but he moved cautiously. Stars were twinkling brightly above now. The moon was like a lantern washing the slopes with pale light – just enough to throw shadows over the twisting trail travelled by the packhorse. Sweat prickled him as the slope steepened and in two places he had to slide the rifle barrel through his belt at the back and use both hands to climb. He was breathing hard, trying not to snort too loudly.
His heart thudded against his ribs when he reached the place he had estimated would be level with the dry-gulcher’s position. He paused, heaving deep breaths, steadying himself, then, after quietly levering a shell into the breech, he clambered over the rock.
He had guessed well. There was the ledge below and to his right, with the man stretched out, his upper body rising a little so he could better see down to where the narrow trail opened onto the sandy area below.
The ambusher settled back, brought his rifle up to his shoulder. Cole heard the lever work, then, in the silence, the clip-clop of the slowly moving packhorse below.
Cole eased forward, swore softly as the movement sent a handful of gravel spilling over the edge. It pattered across the legs of the man below and he spun onto his back. Cole dropped. There was a startled curse from the rifleman as he tried to roll aside and at the same time bring his gun around. The brass butt plate scraped across the ground. He almost had the weapon in position to shoot when Cole’s body landed beside him. Cole threw himself across the man, jamming the hand holding the Winchester against a rock. He slammed it hard and the gun clattered. The man drew up his knees and kicked at Cole’s belly.
One boot took him on the hip – the wounded one – and searing pain drove through him. Fuelled by the agony, he smashed his forehead into the other’s face, felt nose and lips mash. Cole reared to his knees and slammed the rifle butt savagely across the ambusher’s head. The body beneath him went limp.
Cole sat back, gasping, massaging his throbbing hip, hoping the rest of the reception committee weren’t close enough to have heard the scuffle.
When the thwarted bushwhacker came round, he found he was bound hand and foot and his own neckerchief had been wadded up and pushed into his mouth to gag him.
He could hardly breathe through his nose: it was clogged with blood, but there was something hard blocking his left nostril as well. It hurt when he twitched his nose and he looked up with wide, puzzled eyes at Cole sitting on a nearby rock.
There was enough light for them to make out each other’s features and Cole leaned forward, fumbled a match out of his shirt pocket. He held it up in front of the now thoroughly scared prisoner, thumbnail against the match-head, ready to snap it into flame.
‘Just gonna say this once, amigo. What you’ve got stuck up your nostril is a bunch of four vestas, just like this one. I flick my thumbnail and it lights up. I move it closer to its pards hanging out of your nose and …’ He stopped speaking, shrugged. ‘You’re dumb but I reckon you got enough brains to figure out what’ll happen. And you can see why I’ll only ask you just once what I want to know. You won’t have a second chance. OK?’
The man was grunting endlessly, trying to speak, squirming in terror.
‘Take it easy. What I’m gonna ask you is how many of your pards are waiting at Birdwing? When I ask, you nod if you’re gonna tell me and I’ll take that as your word you won’t make a noise. If you break your word….’
The man was nodding frantically, bulging eyes fixed on the match only inches from his face: he understood all too well.
‘OK. Consider the question asked. Now, do I light this or … Ah! You want to talk? Uh-huh. Now make sure you savvy what I want you to do …’ More frantic nodding and whining sounds. ‘Here we go, then.’
Still holding the threatening vesta close to the battered face, Cole tore the wadded, saliva-wet kerchief from the man’s mouth. The prisoner coughed and gagged, spat.
‘I’m waiting!’ Cole said impatiently.
‘Thr … three. Quinlan insisted – on – comin’ his – hisself.’
‘Quinlan! So, that snake is behind it. All right, friend. One more question: have they got the kid with them?’
Panic-stricken eyes stared and Cole sighed, lifted his thumb, ready for the thumbnail strike against the match. Sweat struck his face as the prisoner quickly shook his head.
‘No!’
‘Not so damn loud! Where is he?’
‘In – in some canyon Creed found earlier.’
‘OK, friend. I know where it is.’
‘What – what you gonna do with me?’
Cole put his vesta back in his pocket and reached for the ones still jammed in the man’s nostril. Suddenly, with the immediate threat gone, the man stupidly lunged at Cole, hands and feet bound, trying to ram the top of his head into Cole’s face, using his weight in an attempt to knock him over the ledge.
The sheriff dodged to one side, slipped and sprawled. There was a brief yell and a clatter of falling rocks as the bound man hurtled off the ledge. He crashed head first down to the clear area below where the packhorse waited patiently, its fake ‘rider’ having slid all over to one side, and was now minus the hat.
Cole looked down, but his prisoner wasn’t moving: his head was twisted at an odd angle, a spreading stain darkening the shale underneath.
Well, that solved one problem, anyway,
CHAPTER 11
CHURCH SPIRE
ROCK
It was deathly quiet at Birdwing Wells. Not even a single insect buzzed or hummed or whined.
The moon was low down, sliding behind the bulk of the mountain, balancing on the crest briefly, then dropping gradually until it was hidden from sight. The glow still outlined the crest but slowly faded and a solid darkness claimed the slopes. The stars blazed coldly and shed a meagre light, but nothing could be seen to move.
Then there was a sound: a slight rasping of cloth as someone hidden in the rocks facing the north side of the wells changed position.
‘Sit still, damn you!’ hissed a deep voice and there was discernible anger in the few words.
‘I hear him!’ another voice said in hushed tones.
And then came the soft, cautious plop of a horse making its way to the water where the stars were reflected.
‘He’s not s’posed to—’
‘Christ!’ growled Quinlan in exasperation. His rifle came up as he glimpsed the shadowy outline of the rider on the slow-moving horse below.
The Winchester’s crashing shots tore the night apart, slammed back from the rising rock walls, the sound intensifying as the other guns blazed.
The rider below was blown out of the saddle as the horse whinnied and reared, jerking away. It ran, dragging the body for several yards before it fell completely clear.
‘Stop the goddamn hoss! It’ll be carrying the ransom!’
Two rifles hammered and the horse whickered, reared, stumbled, and then slid down the slope to come to rest at the edge of the water, which rippled violently, shattering the stars’ reflections.
Three men slid and lurched their way down the slope, all making for the fallen horse.
‘Check Cole!’ Quinlan snapped at one man who swore under his breath as he veered away and crossed to where the rider was sprawled face down.
Quinlan and the third man came upon the horse which was quivering its last. At a sign from Quinlan the other man began searching for the saddlebags which were jammed underneath.
The man upslope ripped out an oath. Quinlan spun. ‘What…?’
‘This ain’t Cole. It’s Smitty! Looks like he fell off a cliff.’
Quinlan’s huge bulk climbed up the slope and he looked down at the battered body of the man who had been left to cover the trail to the wells – and to cut off Cole’s retreat.
‘Son of a bitch!’ Quinlan’s deep voice thundered across Birdwing Wells. ‘He killed Smitty and roped him to the saddle! Now, where the hell is he?’
‘Gone after the kid, I reckon. Smitty never did have much guts. He’d talk if Cole went to work on him.’
The man examining the empty saddlebags stood up and put in his two cents’ worth:
‘He’ll have a damn good start! All the time we been waitin’, thinkin’ it was him comin’ along that narrow trail—’
‘Go get the horses!’ growled Quinlan, at the same time cursing. He had been the one who insisted they leave the mounts at least half a mile away in a small wash, blocked off with brush, in case the animals sensed the lone rider’s mount approaching the wells and whinnied, giving away their presence.
Now they would lose more time collecting the damn horses! And every minute, Cole was moving away from them –
closing in on the Church Spire canyon where two more men had the kid.
‘He won’t get past Rooster or Blackie, Quick,’ said the man who had examined the body, trying to sound reassuring.
‘He better not,’ gritted Quinlan, kicking the ground in his frustration. ‘Now get the goddamn horses!’
Cole was sorry he had had to sacrifice the packhorse – it had been obedient and uncomplaining – but it was necessary. He’d recovered his bedroll and replaced it with the dead man from up on the ledge, roping him in the saddle.
At best it was only a delaying action, but every minute he could confound Quinlan and whoever was with him was a bonus.
He knew the way to Church Spire Rock and even in the now moonless night he rode at a good clip. The black was strong and fast, actually ready to run a lot faster than Cole was allowing it to, but he was leery of the horse’s strength. Some of these big, muscular stallions and geldings once they cut loose took a lot of stopping.
He was careful to keep the spur rowels away from the black and when he came out of the tangle of gulches and hills where the Birdwings were, he put the mount across the grassy flats until they ran into dusty ground, then he slowed again. The horse was not pleased, turning its head and taking a half-hearted snap at his left leg.
‘Yeah, I know. If you had the chance, you’d chomp me good. I savvy your frustration.’
The horse wanted to run again, eager for the exercise, but now was the time to go into those canyons at a wary pace. Starlight was not very helpful in there with the high walls and narrow passages. He found himself all tensed up, mouth dry, belly muscles hard, hand gripping the rifle until his bones ached.
He was over-confident at one stage, became lost and thought for a time it would be damned near daylight before he found a way out of the tangle of canyons and dead ends he had ridden into.
