“I thought I’d get in some more practice as you said yesterday we are nearing Anvil fountain,” she said by way of explanation. “My accuracy’s improving, don’t you think?”
“Seems like it. Only thing is, if you ever have to use that toy in a real shooting situation, you won’t have time to take up a fancy stance like that. You’re going to have to shoot from the hip or a dozen other more awkward positions ... That’s when accuracy’s put to the test, not standing tall and steady and getting the shot off at your own speed.”
Anya finished reloading and snapped the chamber closed. “Show me,” she said with a slight challenge.
It was no chore for Yancey. He set up some targets, stood back about twenty feet, then drew and snapped off five shots, hitting a target each time, the echoes of the forty-five rolling heavily across the flats. The girl took her hands down from her ears.
“You still have one more shot left.”
Yancey nodded. “And I’m keeping it. Never empty your cylinder unless you have to. Pays off to keep one shot in hand.” Anya frowned, watching him reload expertly, thumbing in the loads without looking at the cylinder.
“I know I’ve a lot to learn about shooting ... I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shoot accurately from the hip.”
“Hope you never have to, but there’s a good chance you will where we’re going, so you better get in some practice.”
At his words, the girl grew tense again and he knew the fear was eating at her again. So he started showing her right away how to brace the gun-arm against the hip for steadiness, and to let the barrel line up naturally with the target. There was, he explained, some mysterious co-ordination between hand and eye that, once a man could train himself to allow it to take over, suppressing his conscious efforts, drew the gun barrel towards the target and pinpointed it. Yancey was only sorry that he hadn’t worked more conscientiously with the girl and her shooting along the trail. Both he and Cato figured to humor her and let her shoot at a few easy targets, never really reckoning on her getting into a real shoot-out. But he saw now just how determined she was and he was afraid that she might well start something when she came up against the Slades.
If there was gunplay and she was hurt, maybe killed, because she wasn’t able to use a gun properly, Yancey knew he would never forgive himself. In any case, he didn’t want anything to happen to her, and, despite her protests, he spent a full day in the draw, showing her how to shoot from the hip and the basics of getting the gun out tolerably fast. He worked on the Smith and Wesson’s small holster with his hunting knife, hacking off the button-over flap and making a short rawhide loop that could be hooked over the hammer spur and still hold the gun snug in leather. It had only to be flipped off the hammer spur so that the gun could be drawn smoothly and easily.
Anya wasn’t very capable at the fast draw techniques but at least she knew the theory by the end of the day and, despite some fumbling, she was able to get the gun out a lot faster than when the flap had been on the holster. She was hitting two targets out of five, shooting from the hip, and that was an improvement for, when they had started, she just hadn’t been able to bring the barrel anywhere near to target line without having to really work at it, swiveling from the hips and generally taking far too much time.
When they turned in that night, Yancey figured she would never be another Belle Starr, but she had the guts and determination to practice and he figured she would be able to take care of herself tolerably well from now on.
By sundown the following day, they were within sight of the mesa known as Anvil Mountain. It was a squarish, block-shaped mammoth of a rock, rearing out of the flatlands and commanding the country for miles around on every side. Yancey could see right off why Hondo Sackett had chosen it as his hideout. It was a fortress and he had no doubt that there would be only one or two carefully-guarded trails leading up from the plains to the mesa top.
Anya didn’t say much as they made camp that night and he could see by her actions and the tightness of her mouth that she was as tense as a fiddle string. She picked at her supper and he guessed her stomach was knotted up with apprehension.
“The Slades might not be there,” he told her quietly. “They could’ve moved on or Hondo could have slit their throats for the gold they’re carrying.”
“No!” she exclaimed, alarm showing on her face. “No! They must not be dead!”
“Bloodthirsty young devil, aren’t you?” said Yancey lightly, but he got no other response from her than a hard look as she sipped her coffee. “You know that word must have reached him by now about us? And the payroll we’re supposed to have with us?” She nodded. “He’s got the name for being the type who’d slit his own mother’s throat for a free dollar.”
“I know there’s very real danger that we may be killed in our sleep,” she said, her voice very tight, both hands wrapped around the coffee mug as if for comfort.
Yancey started to say more but figured there was no point to it: she had known the dangers all along and likely had had nightmares about them. She was closer to reality now and she was already on edge enough, he figured. “We’ll get an early night. Just one more thing, Anya. We might have to fight our way in, or we could even be picked off by their guards and not even know what hit us. I’m not trying to scare you: just pointing out what could happen. I’ve been thinking that it might be best if I try to go in alone.”
“No! We will try together.”
She tossed the coffee dregs into the fire and went to her blanket without another word. Yancey finished his cigarillo thoughtfully, banked the fire and then moved to his own blanket, beyond the circle of light cast by the flames. As he settled down, he heard the girl’s voice, very quietly:
“Whatever happens, Yancey Bannerman, I’m grateful for all you’ve done ... Most grateful.”
Yancey waited, but there was no more. He slid under his blanket and settled down with his head against his saddle, Colt close to his hand. ‘Poor kid,’ he thought, though Anya was only a few years his junior. ‘She’s ready to die trying ... ’ More than ever he felt a weight of responsibility for her safety.
~*~
Yancey was surprised that they had been allowed to get this close to the Anvil Mountain without some sort of challenge or warning-shot. They were making their way slowly up a trail so narrow they had to proceed Indian-file. Yancey was leading, his hand close to his six-gun butt, the rifle already loosened in the scabbard. He didn’t want to risk riding openly with firearms in his hands, in case Hondo’s guards took it as an overt act of aggression and shot first.
Anya kept her mount close to Yancey’s and she had her own right hand on the small, curved butt of the Smith and Wesson. Her eyes were darting everywhere and she let out a small gasp as a lizard sent a tiny avalanche of gravel spilling over a shadowed rock as it moved. They rode on and up slowly, Yancey expecting at any moment to be challenged. He couldn’t figure this: Hondo had to know of this trail and he had to have it guarded. Unless the guard was asleep ...
Then they rounded a bend and Yancey knew why there had been no sign of guards up to this point. It simply hadn’t been necessary, for the trail became so narrow now that a man had to slip his boots free of the stirrups so that his mount could pick its way between the sandstone walls. They seemed to crush in on the riders and, when Yancey looked up, with clouds passing across the slash of the defile, it gave the appearance of the walls toppling inwards.
At the same time he spotted a man with a leveled rifle perched out on a small rock platform about forty feet above.
“Back!” Yancey yelled to the girl, hauling rein and yanking his own mount backwards, at the same time palming his six-gun and snapping a shot at the man above. Within the confines of the defile, the gunshot thundered and roared and slapped at his ears and Anya gave a small cry as she frantically tried to back out her work pony. The animal was baulking, confused as Yancey’s mount’s rump pushed against it.
Yancey’s shot spanged off the rock pla
tform where the guard was and the man took his sight unhurriedly, knowing the rocks would protect him from below. He squeezed off his shot and Yancey instinctively ducked as the lead slapped into the wall just above his head and almost instantly leapt across the defile to the opposite wall, then back again, zigzagging from wall to wall in deadly ricochets. He knew why there was only one guard: this defile was a death trap.
Anya was working her pony backwards now and Yancey was forced to give his own mount its head as he holstered his Colt and fought to drag his rifle out of the back-sloping saddle scabbard. The outlaw guard fired again and Yancey reeled in the saddle as a fleck of rock bit into his cheek, grimacing as the lead buzzed from wall to wall not a foot in front of his face. The horse whickered and tried to rear up, panicking when it found the walls gripping its flesh too tightly. Yancey yanked his legs onto the saddle horn and then stood up, afraid of getting his limbs crushed in the animal’s frantic thrashing. Anya had her pony almost out of the defile now but the other mount was getting more and more frantic and Yancey had trouble keeping his balance atop the hunching, writhing back. The guard triggered a third shot and Yancey fell off the animal, over its rump, hearing the buzz of the lead, seeing the rock dust spouting. The horse squealed and reared up this time, oblivious as the rock tore its hide. Yancey hit on his back and scrabbled to the rear desperately as his mount’s hoofs threshed madly in the defile, coming closer. Anya yelled something and he kept working his way backwards, eyes watching the horse rear up ahead of him and dance backwards in the defile. He felt the rocks crushing his shoulders and he felt himself being dragged. He kicked with his legs, not seeing where the guard’s shots went now, too intent on keeping out of the way of his horse’s hoofs as the animal fought its way backwards, fore hoofs sending sparks from the walls as it struck wildly.
Then he was free of the defile and had a glimpse of Anya falling backwards, panting, as he rolled onto his belly, spun behind a rock and thrust up to his knees, bringing the big Centennial Model ’76 Winchester to his shoulder. His thumb flicked the tang sight upright with a practiced motion and the blade of the foresight centered in the hole, crossed the body of the guard as he leant out over his perch to fire again, and Yancey squeezed the crisp trigger that Cato had tuned to perfect fineness. The heavier rifle load slapped through the defile, almost drowned by the high-pitched squealing of Yancey’s horse as it finally broke out, turned and ran off. The guard up there was lifted clear to his toes, teetered on the edge of his platform for a long few seconds and then tumbled forward, his rifle dropping first into the defile. Anya covered her eyes with her hands as the man’s body bounced from wall to wall of the defile and finally jammed a few feet above their heads, torn and bloody.
Yancey went forward swiftly, pulled the man free and carried the body out of the defile and dumped it behind some boulders. He turned to the girl, replacing the fired shells in his rifle and in his Colt.
“You can look now ... And thanks for dragging me clear. I’d have been stomped-on for sure if you hadn’t.”
White-faced, Anya stared at him, “Will the shooting bring —others?” Her voice was hoarse, shaky.
“Guess so. He nearly nailed us. Fact that he started shooting right off doesn’t look good.”
He glanced past her at her work pony where it stood nervously in the wider section of the trail. It was unharmed, which was more than he could say for his own mount which was still running down the trail. There were patches of blood on the defile walls where it had cut itself during its wild rearing and plunging.
“I’ll have to take your horse to catch up with mine. You’d better get amongst the rocks and keep out of sight till I get back.”
She looked alarmed as he swung aboard the work pony, legs too long for the length of stirrups that had been set for the girl. She ran forward as he lifted the reins.
“Can’t I ride behind you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Sorry, I have to get that horse. You’ll be okay if you stay out of sight.” He slid her carbine out of the scabbard and tossed it to her. “Keep this with you.”
The girl instinctively made to catch the carbine and Yancey worked the pony around and spurred back down the trail before she could say any more. Anya opened her mouth to call, but changed her mind and, looking apprehensively through the narrow defile, backed into the boulders beside the trail. She squatted down out of sight, her hands sweaty against the stock of the carbine, her mouth dry ...
~*~
Yancey had one hell of a time catching up with his wild-running mount but he cornered it in a draw eventually and got down from the work pony to approach it on foot, hand out in front, talking soothingly to it. Its hide was bloodied and foam-flecked and its eyes rolled wildly, but his familiar, quiet voice had the desired effect and it slowly calmed. It trusted him enough to lay a hand on its quivering muzzle and then it only needed some patience before he could hold the reins while he examined the torn hide closely. The wounds were more abrasions than gashes though there were two fairly deep cuts on the shoulders. He used water from the saddle canteen to wash them off and he poured some of the liquid into his hat for the horse to drink. He stroked it gently, soothingly, and it settled down again, though he figured he would have trouble with it when he got back to the defile.
It made no protest as he swung up into the saddle, sheathed the rifle and picked up the reins of the work pony. Yancey rode slowly out of the draw and turned back towards the bulk of Anvil Mountain where it reared blackly against the sky.
The horse, a buckskin he had bought in Dallas, gave him no trouble starting up the mesa trail but, as he had anticipated, when the entrance to the narrow defile appeared, he felt it instinctively baulk and begin to fight him. It tossed its head, eyes widening, nostrils flaring, slowing its pace until it stopped completely. Yancey figured he would get around to the problem of working the horse through the defile in a minute. He glanced up at the guard’s rock platform, seeing it was empty, as he called:
“Andy?” He reckoned he had better play it safe and use the ‘kid’s’ name: he couldn’t tell how far his voice might carry or who might be listening up there. “Andy?” he called again, dismounting and palming up the Colt as he moved closer to the clump of boulders where he had told the girl to hide.
“Drop it, mister!” snapped a voice behind him.
Yancey froze, turning his head slowly, but not his body, still holding the six-gun. He saw a bearded man in trail-stained clothes standing in front of rocks right at the defile entrance. Yancey couldn’t see any gap in the rock but he knew there had to be one, for the man couldn’t just suddenly appear out of thin air. Behind the man, another one showed, dragging Anya out by the upper arm, a cocked six-gun aimed at her head. She looked on the point of collapse.
“I said drop it!” the first man ordered, making a jerky motion with the barrel of the Colt he held cocked in his fist.
Yancey nodded slowly and began to turn to face the two men holding his Peacemaker well out to the side, lowering the hammer very gently. As he had figured, both men watched the process, eyes instinctively going to the hammer under his thumb. It was only for a fraction of a second but it was all he needed. He suddenly flung his Colt from him, yelling simultaneously. Both men started and, for another fraction of a second, were undecided whether to watch where the gun fell or look back to Yancey. He made up their minds for them.
He hurled himself forward, into the first man, driving his shoulder hard against him, sending him staggering against a rock. The breath gusted out of the man and his knees sagged. Yancey left him for the moment, continued his charge towards the second man who was bringing his gun around to cover the girl.
Then Anya reacted, showing just how courageous she was, even though badly frightened. As the gun barrel came around to line up with her head, she reached up and grabbed it with both hands, twisting with all her strength. The outlaw hadn’t been expecting that and the gun was almost wrenched from his hands. He had to turn his attention to
the girl and hit her across the face with his free hand, snatching his gun from her grip with the other. But by the time he swung back to face Yancey, the big man was upon, him and a rock-hard fist slammed the outlaw between the eyes. He staggered and Yancey crushed him back against the rock, hit him in the belly and, as the man sagged forward, kicked him in the face. He didn’t wait to see the man fall or to pick up the dazed girl. He spun sharply and leapt back to the first outlaw as the man came forward, bringing up his gun.
He was close enough for Yancey to reach and he slapped at the rising six-gun with his left hand, hitting the barrel and knocking it aside as the gun exploded. He heard the bullet ricochet and then he had closed with the bearded outlaw, ramming his shoulder up under the man’s chin, slamming him in the midriff with both arms going like pistons. The man staggered back and Yancey kicked the sagging gun from his hand, backhanded him across the mouth and used his weight to drive him into the rocks. The man grunted but clawed up a handful of sandstone dust and flung it at Yancey as the big man came in close. Most of the dust missed Yancey’s face but some stung his cheeks and forehead and he instinctively threw up his arms. The outlaw thrust off the rocks, cannoning into Yancey and carrying him backwards into the center of the trail. The outlaw slammed away at Yancey’s body and the big man retreated step by step, stumbled over the girl’s legs as she tried to get out of the way, and went down, rolling.
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