by Ralph Cotton
“Wait, Cherry,” Summers said. “We need to get you fed and moving.”
“Huh-uh, after a while,” she said. “I’ve woke up with my mind sharp and my brain not swirling. Now come on. You can’t turn a gal down when she’s standing naked, waiting. I feel so good this morning, I don’t want to smoke, I don’t want to eat.” She stood up quickly and spread her arms and opened the blanket wide. “All I want to do is get you in this blanket and—”
Her words stopped short as Summers saw the gaping red hole appear in the center of her chest, a split second ahead of the roar of a rifle shot. A red mist of warm blood flew out behind the bullet and streaked across the side of Summers’ face. Cherry plunged forward across him, tipping him backward beneath her, dead as she hit the ground.
Summers knew she was dead; he didn’t have to check, although he would, he told himself—but not now! Another bullet struck the ground beside his head, followed by the sound of the shot. Right now he had to get out from under the woman and target whoever was shooting at him.
Another shot hit the ground as he struggled free and crawled quickly away.
From atop their horses, three of Jack Warren’s men sat watching as the fourth man did all the shooting.
“Whoo-iee! Look at him go,” said a middle-aged cattle rustler and gunman named John Root.
“You hit the whore, Bert!” another rustler said, this one a younger gunman named Luther Passe.
“Couldn’t help it, she jumped up at the wrong time,” said the rifleman, Bert Phelps. “But it won’t matter to Big Jack. He’d like to see her dead too.”
“This is bad,” a half-breed named Leonard Two Horse Tuell said. He shook his head and pulled his horse back a step, out of sight. “It’s bad luck shooting a whore.”
“He crawls faster than any man I’ve ever seen,” said John Root. He heard Luther’s rifle fire again and watched Summers duck away from the bullet when it hit the dirt. Root grinned and said, “Finish him off, stop fooling around.”
“I’ve got him,” Bert said confidently, staring down his rifle sights at the crawling figure two hundred yards away. He sighted the center of his target’s back, then lifted his barrel a little, allowing for his target moving away from him.
But on the ground, Summers suddenly stopped crawling. He’d rolled onto his side, levering a round into his rifle chamber. He dropped, facing the direction of the shooting, and took aim as Bert Phelps started to squeeze the trigger again.
Summers’ shot punched straight through the rifleman’s face, lifted him from his saddle and flung him away like a dirty shirt.
“Holy hell!” Root shouted, turning his horse, wanting out of Summers’ rifle sights. But before he turned the frightened animal, Summers’ second shot hit him high in his left shoulder and knocked him from his saddle.
“Help him, Two Horse!” shouted Luther Passe, swinging his horse around as he jerked his rifle up to his shoulder and began firing back at Summers.
“Damn this,” Leonard Tuell growled, even as he gigged his horse forward and rode into sight long enough to grab Root’s reaching arm and help him swing up behind him.
“I’m hit bad, fellows!” Root said as Two Horse and Luther Passe reined their horses to a halt thirty yards away from the open ridgeline. He slid down from behind Two Horse and examined his bloody shoulder wound.
Two Horse stepped down from his saddle. Luther watched as the half-breed rummaged through his saddlebags and came up with a dusty cloth. Shaking the wadded cloth out, Two Horse handed it to Root.
“Hold this on it,” he said.
Root looked at the cloth with disdain, but he took it and stuck it to his bleeding shoulder.
“I’ll be lucky this don’t kill me,” he said.
“You’re lucky the horse trader didn’t kill you,” Luther said from his saddle. “Now we’ll all three be lucky if Big Jack doesn’t kill us. What the hell were you thinking, you and Bert making a bet like that?”
“Bert was so damn cocksure he could hit something from up here,” said Root, “I had to take him on.” He frowned looking at his shoulder wound. “He hit something, but it was the wrong target. So I won,” he concluded.
“Good luck collecting,” Luther said.
“We didn’t even know it was the right man,” said Two Horse.
“The hell we didn’t,” said Root. “One man, traveling with a three-horse string? Cherry the whore riding with him? What else did you need to know? It’s him all right.”
“Yep, it’s him,” Luther agreed, “and we should have all opened fire at one time, not monkey around betting who can hit what.”
“We need to go down and finish this thing,” Two Horse said.
“I need to get back to the spread and get this shoulder looked at,” said Root. “You go on down there if you feel like it.”
“To hell with it,” said Luther, nudging his horse away from them. “I’m going back to the spread. You two do what you think best.”
“Come on, Two Horse,” said Root, “let’s go before he leaves us here. I’m not having him show up alone, telling Big Jack his side of the story.”
“His side of the story?” Two Horse stared at him.
“Damn it, you know what I mean. Come on, help me up. Let’s ride.” He held out his hand for help.
Two Horse turned away from his hand and swung up into his saddle.
“Go catch your horse, Root,” he said. “I’m not riding double. You smell like dirty long-johns.”
“Damn you, half-breed!” Root slapped his bloody right hand to his holstered Colt.
But Two Horse’s big Dance Brothers pistol came up fast and cocked toward Root’s face.
“Huh-uh, Root, don’t lose what little you have left,” Two Horse said.
Root let his hand drop from his gun butt. He spit and wiped his hand across his lips and watched the half-breed ride away. Holding the wadded-up cloth to his shoulder, he turned and walked in the direction his spooked horse had taken.
_____________
On the ground below, Summers lay listening, watching. He had levered and fired one shot after another, the explosions echoing out across the hills like the well-spaced beat of a drum. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was all over. The riders had disappeared out of sight.
He looked over at Cherry lying dead on the ground, a widening pool of blood still spreading beneath her. The blanket she’d held around herself—the warm blanket she had welcomed him into only a moment ago—now lay covering her from the waist down, a bullet hole in its center.
Summers walked over to her and stooped down and turned her onto her back. Her blank wide-eyed stare ignored him and gazed straight up into the morning sky. Her mouth was slightly agape in a surprised half smile.
“Jesus, Cherry…,” he whispered, cradling her in his arm, closing her eyes, her lips. He pulled the blanket up and around her, most of it wet with her blood. He swept her up and carried her over nearer to the horses and the pool of runoff water.
When Summers laid her down near the water’s edge, Cherry’s paint horse looked around at them and nickered low under its breath.
Had he failed her somehow? he asked himself, looking down at her dead yet still-warm body.
Stop it…, he told himself. There were many people who had failed her in her life, including herself, he thought. But he wasn’t one of them, and he wasn’t going to allow himself to think that way. He walked back to the fire and looked coldly off and up along the ridgeline.
The only person responsible for Cherry’s death was the man who pulled the trigger—no one else. Summers had seen his own shot nail that man, and watched that man fly from his saddle. Was it the same two men who’d ambushed them the other night? He didn’t think so. But he would find out.
He stooped and picked his Winchester up again and checked it, even though it had only been a moment ago when he’d levered a fresh round into its chamber. Looking back up at the ridgeline, he picked Cherry’s discarded clothes from the grou
nd and walked back to her and stooped down beside her.
“I’m going to dress you now, Cherry, and take you back to town,” he said quietly as if asking her approval. He brushed dirt from the side of her face. “We’ll get you buried, nicelike.”
When he’d finished washing her face and rinsing the blood from her, front and back, he dressed her and rewrapped her in his clean blanket and rolled the bloody blanket up and left it beside the pool of runoff water.
He tended the horses and kept Cherry’s paint horse beside him, her body lying across the saddle and tied in place. He led the string behind him on his other side, rode up the trail to the ridgeline and looked down at the body lying dead where it had landed, a large hole where its nose had been, the back of its head missing. A few yards away Phelps’ blood-splattered horse stepped warily into sight and stood staring at him.
Stepping down from his saddle, Summers walked over and led the shy horse closer and hefted Phelps’ body over its back.
With five horses and two bodies in tow, he turned the animals and followed the others’ hoofprints to the spot where Two Horse had abandoned the wounded John Root. Gazing far down along the trail, Summers saw a lone rider raising snow and dust across the flatlands. In the farther distance he saw the remnants of the other riders’ flurry of dust and snow. He raised his Winchester from across his lap, steadied the dapple gray with his knees and raised the rifle to his shoulder.
He took close aim and said under his breath, “Here’s another one for you, Cherry.” Yet, as realization set in, he judged the shot and knew it was too far out of range. As unrealistic as speaking to the dead, he reminded himself. He lowered the rifle and let out a breath.
“Another time, Cherry, I promise,” he whispered in spite of the futility of it. He uncocked the Winchester and shoved it down into its boot.
Back to Gunn Point, he thought with resolve—be prepared for whatever comes.
PART 3
Chapter 16
In the late evening light, Summers brought the horses to a halt out in front of the sheriff’s office. He was thankful to find the street empty save for a skinny yellow hound that ventured from under a boardwalk and trotted alongside the string, its nose sniffing toward the scent of dried blood coming from the dead rifleman’s horse.
Deputy Stiles looked out the dusty front window and saw the two bodies. As Summers turned the horses into the alley, Stiles hurried out, putting on his hat, and followed along the boardwalk.
“Every time I see you, you’re hauling a body, Summers,” he said, with dark, wry humor. “Ever think about buying yourself a hearse?”
Summers stepped down in the alley and gave him a grim look that offered no room for humor, dark or otherwise.
“One of them is Cherry Atmore,” he said.
“Oh…,” said Stiles, turning serious, not because it was Cherry Atmore, but because the look on Summers’ face demanded some show of respect. “What happened?” he asked solemnly.
“This man killed her,” Summers said flatly, nodding toward Bert Phelps’ body draped over the saddle, his limp arms swaying a little, his blue hands dangling toward the ground.
“Whoa,” Stiles said, seeing the open cavity that had been the back of Phelps’ head. “You—you shot him?”
“I shot him,” Summers declared. “I don’t suppose you can identify him.”
“I’ll try,” Stiles said, with the gravity the situation called for, “but judging from the back of his head, I doubt his own mother could identify him.”
Summers watched him step over and carefully find a way to grip the hair atop the dead man’s head. As he lifted, a thick strand of black congealed blood fell from the corpse’s mouth and bobbed toward the ground.
“No,” said Stiles, dropping the head and stepping back as the thick blood broke free and plopped into the snowy dirt. “But I’m going to speculate it’s one of Jack Warren’s cowhands. His shirt looks familiar. So does the horse.”
“Familiar from where?” Summers asked.
“Four of them rode through here last night,” Stiles said. He paused, then said, “I’ll be honest, they were asking about you.”
“Asking who?” Summers persisted, his questions coming in rapid-fire fashion.
“Everybody,” said Stiles.
“Including you?” Summers asked without a pause.
“Well…yes,” Stiles said, “including me.” He looked a little uncomfortable, but not too much. “I’m the deputy here. You might expect that they—”
“What did you tell them?” Summers continued without hesitating, cutting his reply short.
But Stiles saw what was going on. He would have none of it. He took a deep breath.
“I told them you left Gunn Point, Summers—you and Cherry Atmore. Anything wrong with that? I didn’t tell them when you left or where you were headed.” He gave a slight shrug. “I didn’t rightly know where you were headed.” He stared at Summers. “Any more questions?” he said, letting Summers know he didn’t like the implication that he might have told the gunmen where to find him.
Summer didn’t reply. He made no apology for his questions. He only stepped over to Phelps’ horse and tied it and Cherry Atmore’s paint horse a few feet away from each other.
“I’m taking my horses to the barn,” he said.
“I’ll take these two to the undertaker for you,” said Stiles. “I’ll have him prepare Cherry for a proper funeral.”
“Obliged,” Summers said, his voice turning almost friendly. “Do you have any hot coffee in there?”
“Yes, I do,” said Stiles, a little surprised after the way Summers had questioned him so relentlessly. He stepped over to the two horses with the bodies over their saddles. “It’s on the stove. If I’m not back yet, you help yourself.” He watched Summers gather the reins to his dapple gray and the lead rope to the string. “Danny Kindrick is back there, if you want some help,” he said as Summers walked away, the horses walking along behind him.
Before Summers reached the livery barn, the wide middle doors swung open and Danny Kindrick ran out carrying a lantern in the failing evening light.
“Soon as I saw it was you, I dropped what I was doing and come running,” he said, reaching out and taking the lead rope from Summers’ hand.
“Obliged, Danny,” Summer said. The two walked on the last few yards and through the doors. “I see you gave up the shoulder harness.”
“Yeah, I did,” Danny said, patting the side of his shirt absently, looking a little embarrassed. “I said if it was all the same with Deputy Stiles, I’d just as soon not wear it anymore.”
Summers nodded as they walked inside and Danny hung the lantern on a wall peg.
“Did he ask why?” he said.
“Yeah,” said Danny, “I told him you said the shotgun might be better.”
“What did he say?” Summers asked.
“He said he agreed, it might be. Said he should have thought of that to begin with. Said it was too easy for a man like Rochen—whatever his name is to snatch away from me and use to make a break for it. Said he was sorry that he might have gotten me killed.”
“That’s big of him to say so,” Summers said dryly. He drew his Winchester from its boot and leaned it against a center post. He loosened the cinch under the dapple gray’s belly and swung the saddle off onto a saddle rack.
“What brought you back this way, Mr. Summers?” he asked.
“Cherry Atmore got shot and killed,” Summers said quietly, not liking the sound of his own words. “I brought her back to be buried.”
“That’s terrible,” Danny said. “She was a nice woman. She said when I got a little older, she would take me to her room and, you know…”
“Yeah, I know,” Summers said.
“She gave me some puffs on her Indian tobacco once when I was feeling bad. Told me to draw it down in my chest and hold it there, which I did. Whooee! I didn’t feel bad for long. I kept crossing and uncrossing my eyes. Every time I did it, I cou
ld see farther on either side of my head. I could almost see behind me. I’ve always liked her for that.”
“What a gal,” Summers said, feeling sad for Cherry and what her short miserable life had been.
Danny said, “Does she have any family or anybody to come to a funeral if she has one?”
“I doubt it,” said Summers. “Maybe some of the other girls from the saloon where she worked.”
“I’d come to it,” Danny offered.
“That would be real kind of you,” Summers said. He changed the subject. “Speaking of Avrial Rochenbach, how is the prisoner doing?”
“He seems all right. Says his head is hurting less. He doesn’t seem to carry a grudge for us sticking him back in jail.”
“No reason he should carry one,” said Summers. “He robbed a bank.”
“I know,” said Danny. “But as robbers go, he doesn’t seem to be a bad fellow. He didn’t shoot me, or knock me out. He could have. I wouldn’t have been able to stop him.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Summers said. He grained the dapple gray, watered it and wiped it down with straw while Danny attended the three-horse string.
“I know he’s an outlaw now, but he once was a respectable lawman like Sheriff Goss and Deputy Stiles,” Danny said.
“That he was, Danny,” said Summers.
When he finished with the gray, Summers led the animal into a single-horse stall and flipped Danny a gold coin for tending to the three-horse string. “I’m going to the sheriff’s office for coffee,” he said. “Get those three in a stall when you’re finished rubbing them down.”
“Sure will, Mr. Summers,” Danny said, looking favorably at the gold coin in his palm as Summers turned, picked up his rifle, walked out the door and headed back toward the sheriff’s office.
In his cell, Avrial Rochenbach heard the front door open and close. A moment later he saw Summers walking back toward his cell with two mugs of coffee hooked on his fingers, his Winchester hanging from his right hand. Rochenbach looked him up and down warily.
