Incident at Gunn Point

by Ralph Cotton

  “Gun-smoked believability…a hard hand

  to beat.”—Terry Johnson

  EVENING THE ODDS

  “Damn it to hell—Summers and the woman are getting away!”

  Langler ran to the side door and threw it open. Realizing his mistake too late, he flung himself to one side as Grayson’s and Fallon’s rifles exploded in the dark from their two separate positions. Bullets sliced past him. One clipped him in his forearm; another swiped his hat from his head.

  “Don’t shoot. It’s me!” he bellowed between rifle fire.

  “Cole?” Grayson shouted toward the open side door.

  “Yes, me, damn it!” Langler replied.

  “Where’s Cherry and the horse trader?” Fallon shouted, looking all around in the dark.

  “I’m right here,” Will Summers said in a firm voice, less than ten feet behind him.

  Fallon shrieked in surprise; he swung around with his smoking rifle cocked and ready. But all he saw was the blinding flash of Summers’ shot….

  INCIDENT AT

  GUNN POINT

  Ralph Cotton

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, February 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2012

  All rights reserved

  EISBN: 9781101575147

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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  For Mary Lynn…of course

  Table of Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 2

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part 3

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Will Summers had heard the sudden blasts of rifle and pistol fire echo out to him along the rocky hills far to his left. He’d stopped his dapple gray and pulled his four-horse string up alongside him. He listened intently as the gunfire raged for only a matter of seconds before falling away as quickly as it had started.

  What was that about…?

  Summers scanned the black roofline of Gunn Point above the thin fresh layer of snow lying between him and the small town. His first thought was that the shooting could’ve been a couple of range hands who’d awakened surly and hungover in the rooms above Caster Stems’ Maplethorpe Saloon, and crossed each other’s paths on the way to their horses. He’d known it to happen just that way, he reminded himself.

  But no, that wasn’t it. Not cowhands…too many guns involved.

  He watched wood smoke curl upward from tin stovepipes and stone chimneys and drift away on the crisp morning air. Beside him steam billowed and swirled in the breaths of the four-horse string. Their backs glistened, half frosted, half wet—more steam wafting in the heat of their bodies.

  Beneath him his dapple gray chuffed and snorted, and now that they had come to a halt, the big barb scraped a forehoof on the snow-covered ground, revealing a patch of dried wild grass.

  “Pay attention here,” Summers said quietly to the dapple gray, “you’ll get your breakfast.” He tucked up the reins to keep the barb from dipping his head. The dapple shook out his mane and blew out a steamy breath.

  As Summers continued scanning the distant rooflines, shooting broke out again, this time on the trail leading out of Gunn Point in his direction. All right, whatever it is…, he told himself, he didn’t want to be sitting midtrail on the open flatlands when the trouble arrived.

  Summers levered a round into the Winchester’s chamber and kept the rifle in his gloved right hand, the same hand holding the lead rope to his horse string. Like the dapple gray, the four horses had also begun scraping their forehooves and dipping their heads. He gave a tug on the lead rope as he tapped his heels to the dapple’s side.

  “Sorry, fellows, not yet,” he murmured to the string. “Let’s clear out of here.”

  Looking all around as he led the horses away from the trail and across the snow-streaked ground, Summers told himself the shooting must have been a robbery—a raid of some sort. That would have been his first thought had he been able to think of any business in Gunn Point worth robbing. But it had been over a year since he’d last been in town. Change came quickly in this rocky hill country, especially if there were any traces of ore in the ground.

  But that was neither here nor there, he reminded himself, scanning the barren flatlands. What mattered now was cover—a safe spot for him and his horses. Whatever was coming would be here soon enough, and he would deal with it. But given a choi
ce, he’d rather deal with it with his shoulder against a rock and his horses somewhere out of sight behind him.

  No cover…, he thought as he slowed the dapple and the string almost to a halt. “Now what?” he heard himself say aloud. His breath steamed off on a cold breeze. He looked toward Gunn Point as he heard heavy firing coming from closer to town, followed by a few shots farther along on the trail.

  “Yep, a robbery of some sort,” he concluded to himself and the dapple gray. He could picture it now, a band of thieves leaving town in a hurry, a sheriff and a group of hastily gathered townsmen in hot pursuit. That was it, he told himself, looking toward the sound of the gunfire as two black dots rode into sight at the head of a white trail of swirling snow.

  Out of the white swirl two more black dots came into sight, riding hard to catch up to their partners. There’s the thieves….

  Summers turned his gray and jerked the string along beside him. Farther back along the trail, he saw another rise of swirling snow. And there’s the sheriff and his posse.

  He felt a little better knowing what to expect. But knowing didn’t provide much comfort, not when he and his animals were still out in the open, standing in a swirl of their own steam, about to be caught up in the midst of the fighting.

  “What a spot to be on,” he said, still searching back and forth for any cover large enough to stop a bullet. There were times to pitch in and help the law, and there were times it was better to drop back out of the way and let the law do its job.

  He considered quickly how this could all look to an angry posse—him out here on the flats with four horses, just the right number of mounts to have waiting. As he thought about it, he heard the shots firing back and forth along the trail, drawing closer every second.

  This was not the time or place to get in the law’s way. In the swirl of snow, their bullets had no way of knowing which side he was on. This was the time to lie back, let the thieves get past him—offer them no resistance, and wait for the posse. With any luck the sheriff and his posse would believe he had nothing to do with whatever the four riders were running away from.

  All right, it wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, he told himself, turning the dapple gray, but it would have to do. He loped farther away from the trail, at an easy pace, leading his string, trying to raise no more powdery snow than he had to. He wondered if Turner Goss was still the sheriff in Gunn Point. He hoped so, he thought, looking back over his shoulder at the second cloud of snow rising and swirling along the trail.

  Three miles back along the trail, riding sightless in the billowing snow raised by the fleeing gunmen, Deputy Parley Stiles stopped firing and raised a gloved hand.

  “Stop shooting!” he called out over his shoulder. He carefully slowed his horse down gradually until he realized the men following him did as they were told. As he slowed to a halt, the deputy could see the wake of powdery snow raised by the gunmen’s horses already beginning to clear a little.

  “Why are we stopping, Parley?” a townsman called out a few feet behind him. “We can’t stop now! Not while we’ve got them in our gun sights. Let’s ride them down!”

  “Settle down, Dewitt,” said the young deputy. “We’re not stopping any longer than it takes to clear the air some.”

  “But damn it, Deputy—!” the mining engineer named Horace Dewitt cursed before the deputy cut him off.

  “Strike that language from your mouth, Dewitt,” the young deputy demanded. “Else you won’t ride another step with this posse.”

  “I meant nothing by it, Parley,” Dewitt said, fuming, but keeping his temper in check. “I’m speaking for all of us! We need to stay right down their shirts until we—”

  “Don’t call me Parley again,” the young deputy snapped, once more cutting the miner short.

  “It is your name!” the engineer countered. “What the hell—I mean heck—are we being so formal about?”

  “I’m Deputy Stiles to every one of you,” the deputy said, loud enough for all to hear. “Especially while I’m leading this posse.” He looked around in turn from one face to the next through the steaming breath of men and animals.

  “We understand, Deputy,” said a meek voice among the townsmen. “But why are we stopping? Shouldn’t we—?”

  “To keep from breaking our necks and ruining some good horses,” the deputy said with authority before the timid apothecary clerk could finish his words.

  “Our deputy is right,” said a gambler named Herbert Long. “As long as they’ve got a clear trail and we’re stuck with riding in their wake, they’ve got the odds working in their favor.”

  Dewitt grumbled something cross under his breath, spit and looked away. “This ain’t no poker game, Herbert,” he said sorely, settling a little, but still clearly not happy about following the young deputy’s orders.

  “Oh, but I beg to differ with you, my ore-craving friend,” Long replied with a hint of disdain lying beneath a rich Southern accent. “It’s all poker.” He passed a slight knowing smile around to the others. “We’ve only just been dealt this hand. Now we need to study our cards closely before we commit to any—”

  “Anybody needs to step down and relieve himself, this might the best chance for a while,” said Deputy Stiles, cutting the gambler off as readily as he had the others.

  The gambler gave a toss of his gloved hand as if in submission. He swung down from his saddle and stepped away reins length from his horse. Four more of the seven riders followed suit. Deputy Stiles stayed in his saddle, staring straight ahead into the settling crystalline veil. To his left, Horace Dewitt stayed in his saddle, as did Martin Heintz, the town druggist.

  As the splatter of the four dismounted men’s urine set new rises of steam curling up from the cold ground, Dewitt shook his head in disgust and turned away.

  Noting Dewitt’s gesture, the gambler grinned, shook himself off and said, “I don’t suppose any of you gentlemen had the foresight to bring along a bottle of whiskey, perchance.”

  “There will be no drinking, and no talk of drinking, in this posse,” Stiles called out before anyone could respond in any manner.

  “There you have it,” Long murmured to himself, buttoning the fly on his frayed and faded pin-striped trousers. He put on his right glove and closed the front of his wool overcoat. “The voice of the law has spoken.”

  Leading the thieves, Jackie Warren spotted Summers and his four-horse string sitting a hundred yards off the trail. With no warning to the three other speeding horsemen behind him, the young outlaw jerked his horse to a reckless halt.

  “What the hell!” shouted Henry Grayson, almost thrown from his saddle as his horse veered to keep from slamming into Warren’s horse and tumbling end over end. The other two also veered and reined down. When all three horses had stumbled and slid to a stop, their riders glared at Jackie Warren as their horses settled.

  “What’s wrong with you, Little Jackie?” Grayson shouted behind his bandanna mask. He circled in close.

  “Not a damn thing, Henry!” the young outlaw shouted in reply. He jerked his bandanna down from across the bridge of his nose and nodded toward the lone rider and the four horses sitting staring at them across the snowy flatlands. “Take a look at this.” He gave a grin. “Are those our horses?”

  The other three masked riders looked out at Summers, who sat with his Winchester resting propped up from his thigh—his warning for the four of them to ride on.

  “Hell no,” Henry Grayson said. He stared for a second, then said to Warren and the others, “All right, let’s get going. We still got the law on our rumps.” But before he could slap his reins to his horse and bat his boots to its sides, young Jackie reached out and grabbed his horse by its bridle.

  “What’s your hurry, Henry?” he said. “That posse has quit us. This is all going our way.”

  “Like hell they’ve quit us,” said Lewis Fallon, a young Texas outlaw out of Waco. He looked back warily toward the swirl of white still adrift on their back trail.<
br />
  “You don’t hear any shooting, do you?” Jackie said.

  “That doesn’t mean they’ve turned back,” said Avrial Rochenbach, known to the others as a former Pinkerton detective turned bandit.

  “What about this one?” Jackie said, nodding at the single figure looking back at them from a hundred yards out.

  “What about him?” said Grayson.

  “He’s got horses,” Jackie Warren said, a Spencer rifle in his gloved hand. “We ought to take them just in case ours wear out. Especially mine.” Behind his saddle his saddlebags bulged with stolen money.

  “We’ve got horses waiting. We don’t need his,” Grayson said. “We don’t need nothing he’s got.”

  “But he might have seen our faces,” Jackie said, searching for any reason to create mayhem.

  “Not ours, he hasn’t” said Grayson. “We kept our masks on like we all agreed to do.” He jerked his horse away from Jackie’s hand and slapped his reins to its withers. “This thing is set up perfect. Stick to our plans. Let’s ride!” he shouted.

  The other two outlaws booted their horses along behind him. But before turning his horse, Jackie threw his rifle to his shoulder and shouted, “Yi-hiiii!” out across the flatlands. He fired wildly.

  Summers saw the bullet strike the ground ten feet in front of him. Instinctively he raised his rifle. Yet he held his fire, hoping the outlaw was only giving him a warning.

  “That’s it, ride on,” Summers murmured. “We’ve both got better things to do than shoot each other.”

  He saw the first three horses already pulling away. The fourth was ready to bat his horse’s sides to catch up with them. But before the last outlaw left, he pulled off one more wild shot.

  From the string beside him, Summers heard one of the horses whinny in pain. He caught a sidelong glance as the horse half rose on its hind legs and toppled to the ground in a spray of blood and snow.

  At the head of the riders, Henry Grayson looked around at the sound of Jackie Warren’s rifle shot. On the flatlands he heard the dying horse and looked at it in time to see it fall.