“You have a point, Yancy, but from the tracks we’ve seen, it looks like Jensen picked up some replacements somewhere. Be prepared for trouble.”
Hub Volker addressed the men who would be with him. “We’ll split off now, swing around on the flanks. When the boss is in place in front of the herd, he and five of the boys will charge the herd. We swing down from the side and start pushin’ them back along the trail. Those on the other side will hit at the same time. Get a movin’.”
They departed in silence, with nothing to say until the fighting ended. Each of the outlaws had wrapped himself in his private thoughts. Ainsley Burk wondered about that pretty saloon gal who had waved to him back in Muddy Gap while they were robbing the stores. Maybe he’d drop in on her and spend some of his take.
Prine Gephart astounded himself by recalling the face of the wife he had left behind in Missouri and his three freckle-faced boys, stair-stepped between five and nine. He hadn’t wanted to abandon his sons, but his wife had turned into a shrew, always complaining about not enough money. And when he had some, getting on his case about where he got it and how. Danged woman, she had driven him to robbing to supplement the meager income from their hardscrabble farm. Well, he’d shown her.
Virgil Plumm visualized the old, weathered ranch house in Texas where he had been born and raised. With the stake he would have, he could fix it up, paint it even. Then find him a good woman and raise a batch of young ’uns. Ranching was in his blood. His paw had put him atop a horse before he could walk proper. He had tried to rope calves the first time when he was five.
Awh, what the hell was he thinking? Outlawing was the only thing he had known since the age of sixteen. He’d never change now. The gray, warped siding of the house faded. He would just go get drunk, gamble away his profit and visit the bawdy houses until the last dime had been spent. Oh, and get his six-gun fixed. It had been hanging up of late. The recoil plate must be worn.
Bittercreek Sawyer saw a world entirely different from any of his fellow thieves. The soft yellow glow of gaslights played through his mind. Attractive young Creole women all in white lace and lawn hoopskirt dresses graced the wrought-iron galleries of the French Quarter and cast admiring glances at him as he rode in a spanking bright, black lacquered carriage along Saint Peter Street. A cotton-haired darkey drove the rig. Bittercreek wore a frilly white shirt, paisley vest, cutaway coat and top hat. A silver-headed cane rested in one gloved hand. The rich aroma of Cajun cooking wafted on a light, moist breeze up from Jackson Square. The bass hoot of a riverboat steam whistle startled pigeons off their eve roosts. All was well with the world.
With the impending fight drawing nearer, Lucky Draper concentrated on the scene of a smoky saloon, where he stood surrounded by his friends, who slapped him on the back and whooped for joy. He had just broke the bank. The faro dealer looked at him with a gaping mouth. Lucky’s pockets bulged with double-eagles. He ran more through his fingers like grains of corn. A tall, willowy blonde ankled over, hips swaying in a skimpy dancer’s costume.
She twined her arms around his neck and planted a big, wet kiss on his lips. Another lovely handed him a brimming glass of good rye. The cheering went on. Lucky tucked a twenty-dollar gold piece into the cleavage of each girl.
“Hold up!” came a low, but emphatic command.
It brought them all out of their dreams. Hubble Volker pointed at a low rise ahead. “Them horses are right beyond that ridge. We wait until we hear the first shots, then ride like hell.”
Smoke Jensen’s confidence continued into late afternoon. Then, before he knew what to expect, five men appeared on the trail ahead of them. They reined in momentarily, then came on at a gallop, weapons out and ready. The moment they came within range, they opened fire.
Tommy Olsen understood it all in a flash. “They’re back!”
In a storm, the outlaws rushed beyond those in the lead of the herd. Smoke Jensen shot one out of the saddle, and then the horses stampeded. Gunfire broke out on the right flank of the panicked animals, driving them back on those behind. Eleven men streamed over the ridge in pursuit of the unsettled remounts. Most of them fired in the air, though a few directed bullets toward the hard-working drovers.
One of the Leaning Tree hands threw up his arms and wavered in the saddle. His horse scented the freely flowing blood and went berserk. It crow-hopped and sunfished until it dislodged the seriously wounded rider. Smoke Jensen swung in his saddle and fired directly at the shooter.
Smoke’s bullet took him square in the chest. He flew from the saddle and disappeared under the hooves of the shrilling, stamping remounts. A bullet cracked past Jensen’s ear, and he looked to see that the five riders who had attacked from the front now seriously worked at killing every one of his hands, himself as well.
Eighteen
Reno Jim Yurian and the four men with him halted at the edge of the boiling mass of horses and took careful aim at the men who attempted to control them. Another Leaning Tree hand slumped on the neck of his horse. A bullet cut through the jacket worn by Smoke Jensen and burned a hot line across his shoulder. Damn, Smoke thought in a flash, that shoulder had only recently healed. Then he gave himself over to the battle that brewed around him.
There would be no containing the horses, Smoke realized at once. Already the outlaws pushed them down the trail in the direction from which they had come. Clouds of dust and powder smoke roiled upward to cut off clear vision of the violent confrontation. Heat became oppressive. Sweat ran down Smoke Jensen’s forehead and stung his eyes. He wiped with a forearm to clear them. Suddenly an outlaw loomed directly in front of him.
Smoke saw the muzzle rise to center on his chest; then he triggered his Colt. The bullet smashed into the open, screaming mouth of the gang member. The back of Prine Gephart’s head flew off with his hat, and his dreams died with him. Then his Smith American discharged, and a shower of stars exploded inside Smoke’s head. Immense pain shot down his neck, and he felt himself slipping from the saddle. Swiftly, blackness overwhelmed him.
Caleb Noonan found himself facing three determined rustlers. He knew the horses had to be controlled, yet the threat to his life forced him to draw and fire at one of the men. His shot went wild, and he recocked his Colt. Another outlaw took a shot at Caleb.
An aching line of fire ran along the outer side of Caleb’s right thigh. Then his mount surged into a frenzied leap as the slug burned into its belly. Caleb shot again and put a bullet into the meaty part of one outlaw’s abdomen. Then a giant pain exploded in his chest. All strength left him, and his horse threw him.
He landed hard enough to cross his eyes. When he straightened them, he looked up into the muzzle of a .44 Winchester pointed at his head. He saw only the first flicker of muzzle bloom . . . then blackness.
Granger Bolt saw Caleb Noonan go down. He twisted in the saddle and brought quick retribution to the outlaw who had killed his friend. That brought immediate attention down on him. To his regret, the surviving member of the trio who had gunned down Caleb turned his way. He and Bolt fired as one. To his surprise, in the face of the certain knowledge of his impending death, the bullet cracked past Bolt’s head. All around, the air moaned and crackled with flying slugs. With new wonder he saw the outlaw jerk, then slump in his saddle.
He might get through this after all, Granger thought to himself. Then nine more rustlers joined the fray. They rode in with cold determination. One sighted on Bolt and put a bullet through his head from a range of twenty yards.
Granger Bolt died without a sound. The fighting went on without him. By now, nearly half the herd had been started back toward Sheridan, Buffalo, and Bent Rock Canyon beyond.
Pulling out of the swirl of the combat, Ahab Trask decided that these rustlers were seriously trying to kill them all. It hadn’t been that way the first time. He tried to rally his muddled thoughts and make sense of what he saw. There seemed to be gunmen everywhere.
Worse, they fired with deadly accuracy. Another of the Leaning
Tree hands went to the ground, his chest bloodied from a shot in the back. Ahab Trask took the time he spent in observation to reload his six-gun. At such short ranges, it would serve well. Two rustlers charged straight at him, driving ten head of remounts before them. Trask raised his Colt and fired.
Unfortunately for him, the close proximity of the frenzied horses set off a fear reaction in his own mount. It jinked to one side and threw off his aim. Then the remounts surged all around him. To his horror, his horse reared and spun on its hind hooves. Trask felt himself slipping, and then a rifle butt drove out of seemingly nowhere and slammed into his chest. He fell with a scream under the unshod hooves of the surging horses.
Ahab Trask’s shrill cry quickly went silent. The remounts passed on. They left behind a lifeless ball of torn, bloodied clothes, bits of bone protruding from rents in the cloth.
A wicked smile playing on his lips, Reno Jim Yurian thought the whole plan had gone well. At the outset, not all of the men knew of his plan to kill everyone and leave no witnesses, or the chance of pursuit. Only those who rode with him, and those he placed on the left flank, had been aware of that.
He allowed himself a moment to gloat as those flankers crashed into the milling defenders. Two more drovers went down. One fell under the hooves of the remounts. Yes, well before sundown they would have the herd back together and under their control. Yancy Osburn rode out of the melee to join Reno Jim.
“They fight like wildcats, Reno. Ever’thing’s so mixed up we’re shootin’ more air than men.”
“So are they, remember. I don’t see anything of Smoke Jensen.”
“I think I saw him go down early on, Reno.”
“Damn. I wanted him for myself.”
“Anyway, he won’t be a bother to us anymore. You have any spare cartridges?”
“In my left saddlebag. Take a box.”
Yancy grinned. “If twenty rounds don’t finish it, I’ll eat my six-gun.” Whistling lightly, he reached for the ammunition and returned to the fight.
“Give ’em hell, Yancy!” Reno Jim yelled after him.
Harper Liddy had a hard time keeping his mount between his legs. Gunshots cracked all around him. Ol’ Reb, his trusty mount, constantly twitched his loose hide and made mincing side steps to express his discomfort. Everything was in such confusion. He could not prove it, but a moment ago it seemed as though the horses that had been driven off from the herd had started to return. How could that be? He had little time to speculate further.
A yowling rustler burst out of the miasma of dust and smoke and charged right at him. The hard case had a revolver blazing in each hand, his reins looped over the pommel. To Liddy’s good fortune, the outlaw turned out to be a lousy shot. Hot lead flew past Liddy’s shoulders, and one cracked overhead. A galloping horse provided a poor platform from which to fire a gun.
Harper Liddy took careful aim and ended Virgil Plumm’s hopes of the good life in the French Quarter. Another, wiser, gunhand shot Harper Liddy from a standing horse. The bullet cut through Liddy’s chest from front to rear. Bad hurt and knowing it, Harper fired point-blank at the charging outlaw, turned in his saddle and killed the man who had mortally wounded him before he himself fell dead at the feet of his mount.
Intent on protecting the Olsens, Jerry Harkness fought his way from behind the rustlers toward the wagon. He and the five men he had brought along arrived only seconds before the attack. Two of the men died in the effort to penetrate the gang. Jerry had taken another grazing wound. Now he dismounted and crouched beside the frightened family. From above him, a Winchester cracked, followed by a shot from a lighter weapon, a Marlin, Jerry thought. He added his own firepower to it and saw immediate results.
A surging roan went down right in front of him, yanked from its front hooves by its dying rider. Jerry cycled the lever action of his .44 Winchester and fired at another outlaw. These bastards don’t care about the horses, they’re more interested in killing us, he realized at once. He centered on another bandit and squeezed the trigger.
Jerry’s slug took the man in his hip. He howled and turned away from the fight. Another of the volunteers Jerry had rounded up died as a trio of the rustlers discharged their revolvers into him from three directions, not more than four feet away. Jerry bit off a curse.
Two hard cases swept past him, and the weapons above went off in a roar. One gunman fell. The other turned back and pointed his six-gun at the occupants of the wagon. Too late to take aim, Jerry thrust himself upward, arms out to deflect the revolver. He got his hand on the barrel and succeeded in his purpose, only to have hot pain explode in his palm when the Colt discharged. A second later, a shot came from his left and bored through his chest, bursting his heart.
Head throbbing, Smoke Jensen regained consciousness to find an eerie silence blanketing the battlefield. Had the horses been taken and the gang gone from there? Slowly he roused himself, conscious of a steady seep of blood down the side of his head. At least, he thought, it was the side and not his forehead. Slowly, Smoke gained control over the focus of his eyes. He saw a number of the outlaws sitting their horses and staring in horror off across the plains. What were they looking at? Smoke raised himself farther.
When his gaze moved to the ridge surrounding them, his features mirrored the same shock as that on the faces of the outlaws. He blinked, then slowly, painfully, came to his boots. He could hardly believe what he saw.
Ringing the entire swale, a double circle of Cheyenne warriors sat their ponies. They looked down in silence while the dust and powder smoke drifted from the scene of conflict. The horses driven off earlier milled in front of those on the south side. While Smoke Jensen looked on in astonishment, Iron Claw raised his rifle, and the Indians began a silent, baleful advance down into the shallow basin.
Iron Claw looked down on the slaughter below. Of all the white men who drove the herd, only Smoke Jensen remained alive. He and the boy and a woman held weapons in their hands. Iron Claw’s keen eyes caught movement in the bed of the rolling lodge, and he made out two small girl children. All of the others had died. Had he not made the decision to come here when sounds of the fighting reached his ears and those of his dog soldiers, even his friend, Smoke Jensen would have perished. He turned to his brother, Spotted Feather.
“We have come in time for our friend, Smoke Jensen.”
“Not for the others,” observed Spotted Feather.
Iron Claw shrugged. “They were white men. Now we will deal with the men who try to steal the horses of my friend. Then we will think on what is to be done next.”
Iron Claw raised his feather-decorated rifle as a signal, and the Cheyenne began to advance.
Only Smoke Jensen knew the Cheyenne to be friendly. That resulted in utter chaos among the outlaws. Only escape filled their minds. The herd meant nothing now. Half a dozen took off to the north, to meet a wall of bullets and arrows. Recovered from his initial shock, Reno Jim Yurian shouted to the remaining outlaws.
“Band together, boys, we’ll shoot our way out.” He pointed the nose of his horse to the west and waited while the gang assembled behind him. When they had, with Utah Jack at his side, Reno Jim opened fire on the Cheyenne and spurred his horse.
Twenty-three hard cases began that fateful charge. Three got knocked from their saddles before they had covered fifty feet. The gang reached full gallop halfway across the slowly contracting ring of Indians. Abruptly, Reno Jim and Utah Jack reined in and let the others rush past them. As a result, the surviving outlaws took the brunt of the Cheyenne response.
Firing blindly at the Indians, the desperate hard cases crashed into the approaching ranks on a broad front. Rifles and revolvers fired an irregular volley that opened a narrow path through the Cheyenne ponies. Fighting at point-blank range now, the Yurian gang surged into the opening. More of the Indians moved to close the gap.
Before they could, Reno Jim spoke sharply to Utah Jack. “Now!”
They bolted forward and bulled their way through the
rest of the gang, who struggled hand-to-hand now with the Cheyenne. Slowed to a walk, Reno Jim and Utah Jack shot two ponies out from under the last Indians blocking their escape. When the riders fell, the two white men spurred their mounts and broke into the open. They wasted no time. Turned to the south, Reno Jim Yurian leaned low over the neck of his horse and kept up a steady pricking with his big Mexican star rowels.
Back inside the contracting ring of warriors, Iron Claw started to call out for pursuit. Smoke Jensen stopped him with a raised hand. “No. Those two are mine.”
Iron Claw nodded his understanding. “Go with good medicine, Smoke Jensen.”
“I reckon I’ll be needing some of that.”
So saying, Smoke swung into Cougar’s saddle and started south, after the outlaw leader and the traitor. The exertion of keeping in the saddle at a full gallop made his head spin again, and black spots rose before his eyes. Smoke had hastily tied a bandanna around his scalp graze, which had stopped the bleeding. For that he was thankful. Now all he had to do was catch up to his quarry.
Smoke ran Cougar about a mile, then slowed to a fast trot. It would be too easy to wind his mount and end up afoot. Considering the behavior of the fugitives, they might not take that factor into account, Smoke speculated. Ahead he could see the rising dust of their passage. With any luck, their horses would wear down soon and he could catch up. Only gradually did the realization of the effect of the attack register on him.
Too many good men had died back there. Jerry Harkness, Harper Liddy, Ahab Trask, Granger Bolt, Caleb Noonan and all those who had offered their help. The two he chased had a hell of a lot to account for. And Smoke reckoned to be the one to make them pay.
Ordeal of the Mountain Man Page 18
