Robbers Roost

by James Reasoner

  McCoy was a big man with a thick crop of silver hair and a distinguished mustache. He said in a booming voice, "Who're these yahoos, Mack?"

  The spokesman for the sentries answered, "One of 'em's an Injun, boss. The other claims to be a U.S. marshal."

  "Marshal Gideon Elbridge, Mr. McCoy," Elbridge put in. "I'll be glad to prove my identity to you."

  "Bring that lantern over here, Dobie," McCoy ordered one of his men. When the cowhand had brought the lantern, McCoy told him to shine it on the two visitors.

  "I'll be glad to get my papers for you, Mr.McCoy," Elbridge offered.

  McCoy shook his head. "Not necessary. I've seen you in town, Marshal. You talked to the mayor, and I know he'd vouch for you. But I'll tell you flat out, sir, just because you're who you say you are doesn't mean I've got any use for you, or any other federal lawman, for that matter."

  "I know that you and many of the other people around here feel that way, McCoy." Elbridge put a harder edge on his voice now. "But I need your help, and I'm not too proud to ask for it."

  "Help in what?" Surprise was evident in McCoy's voice.

  "You heard about that Army payroll wagon being stolen by bandits a few weeks back?"

  "Of course I did."

  "Well, I have reason to believe that Three-Fingered Jack and his men from Robbers Roost were responsible for that robbery. I want the help of you and your men in rounding them up."

  McCoy shook his leonine head. "Only a fool'd go into Robbers Roost after an owlhoot like Jack."

  Elbridge leaned forward in the saddle and said, "I agree. But I also believe that the bandit and his gang are going to attack a mining claim in Alder Gulch very soon, maybe even tonight."

  Glidinghawk saw the sudden spark of interest in McCoy's eyes. "You know where he's going to hit?"

  "The claim is owned by the family that employs this Indian here. He brought me the word."

  McCoy gave a snort. "You'd take the word of an Injun?"

  'This one I would," Elbridge declared sincerely. "What about it, McCoy? I've heard you people around here complaining about Three-Fingered Jack and all the other outlaws at Robbers Roost ever since I got here. Now's your chance to do something about them. If we're lucky, we can wipe out most of that bad bunch, maybe all of them."

  McCoy lowered the rifle in his hands and rubbed a palm along his jaw thoughtfully. Gideon Elbridge's words made sense — if the Indian could be believed. And the lawman offered a chance to do something instead of just sitting around bitching and moaning about Robbers Roost.

  Glidinghawk could see the fires of vigilante justice rekindling in McCoy's eyes. It came as no surprise to him when the rancher abruptly said, "All right. We'll back your play, Marshal. I'll have my men get saddled up and we'll head for Alder Gulch."

  The Omaha drew a breath of relief.

  Now, all they had to do was get back to the mining claim before Three-Fingered Jack and his men arrived. Because if they were too late —

  Glidinghawk didn't want to think about that.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  With Landrum standing nearby with a rifle, Celia knelt beside the stream and worked with the pan while the sun slipped closer and closer to the horizon. The thought that there could be other nuggets like the one she had found drove her to a steady effort.

  She didn't really expect to find another nugget of that size, but even smaller ones would yield enough gold to make the risks worthwhile. If not nuggets, then gold dust. Celia would settle for either one.

  It was beginning to look like the first nugget was a fluke, however. As she worked the pan back and forth, washing the sand from the bottom of the stream, there was no sign of color in the leavings.

  And it was starting to get dark, too.

  Three-Fingered Jack would probably hit in the dark.

  Close by, Landrum watched Celia panning the stream. He was becoming more nervous by the second. They shouldn't be out here making targets of themselves. There would be time enough to search for more gold after the mission was attended to.

  It was hard to deny the pull of greed, though. The sight of the gold nugget had awakened things inside all of them that were perhaps better left asleep.

  Landrum wondered how Glidinghawk was doing in his quest for assistance. If Marshal Gideon Elbridge believed the Omaha's story and rounded up some of the former vigilantes from Virginia City, they might be able to give Three-Fingered Jack quite a surprise when he came calling.

  If Glidinghawk failed in his mission-Landrum shook his head sharply. He and Celia and Fox would probably die in that case, and there was no point in worrying about it.

  "We'd better get back inside, Celia," Landrum called to his partner. "You having any luck?"

  Celia shook her head, her shoulders slumping wearily. "I haven't found a damned thing," she said bitterly. "I think that one rock was the only gold in this creek, Landrum."

  "Could be. It could have been covered up in the stream bed for a long time and just happened to be washed up while you were working there." Landrum's eyes scanned the hills around them. "It's just too damned spooky out here. I'm seeing Three-Fingered Jack behind every rock. We'd better get back in the cabin and wait for Glidinghawk to get back with some help."

  "And if he doesn't?"

  Landrum didn't tell her that he had just been worrying about the same thing. "He'll be here," Landrum assured her.

  He stepped over beside Celia, holding the rifle in his left hand. Reaching down with his right, he grasped her upper arm to help her to her feet.

  A bullet cracked by his head as he leaned slightly forward. The slug geysered the water.

  Landrum reacted instinctively, diving forward, taking Celia with him. They fell half in the water. Landrum held the rifle high as he rolled, trying not to get it wet. He twisted around to face in the direction where the shot had originated.

  Another rifle blast split the chilly, early evening air. Landrum spotted the muzzle flash as the bullet spanged off a rock between him and Celia. The sniper was off to one side of the cabin, halfway up the hill, crouched behind some boulders.

  "Fox!" Landrum yelled. "Cover us!"

  From inside the cabin, Fox could open up on the attacker from the back window and keep him occupied while Landrum and Celia made a run for the door.

  But there was no response from inside. Fox didn't fire, didn't even acknowledge that he had heard Landrum's plea for help.

  Landrum snapped the Winchester toward his shoulder and triggered off a round. "Run for it!" he shouted to Celia as he levered another shell into the chamber.

  She came to her feet as he fired again. His shots were evidently proving a distraction, at least, because the next slug from the boulders didn't come anywhere close to them.

  While Celia sprinted toward the cabin, Landrum came up on his knees, crouching in the stream, icy water swirling around his legs. He sent another bullet whining into the clump of boulders and then surged up onto his feet. As he saw Celia disappear into the cabin, he started to run in that direction.

  They were still getting no help at all from Fox.

  As Landrum ran, he levered the rifle as fast as he could, pouring fire toward the ambusher's position. He wasn't going to hit anything like this, but maybe he could keep the man's head down.

  When the bullets first started flying, Landrum had expected them to come from all directions as Three-Fingered Jack and his men attacked the claim. So far, however, there seemed to be only one sniper. The shots were only coming from the single position. That didn't sound like a tactic Jack would use, from what little Landrum knew of the man.

  He would worry about that later, though. Right now he was more concerned with making it to the cabin alive.

  The fire from the boulders resumed as Landrum ran out of bullets in the Winchester. Several of the shots came close enough to make him flinch, but none of them hit their target. He dove forward, through the canvas over the door, into the cabin.

  His shoulder hit hard against the e
arthen floor, making him gasp in pain. He heard the crack of a rifle from the window and glanced up to see Celia there, blazing away with one of the other Winchesters. She let out a sudden shout of triumph.

  "I think I got him!"

  Landrum pushed himself to his feet and hurried to the window at her side. In the rapidly fading light, he saw a figure rolling down the hill toward the cabin. The man fell limply, bouncing off rocks as he came. When he reached the bottom of the slope, he sprawled loosely, like a discarded rag doll.

  Landrum took a deep breath. "He looks dead, all right."

  The Confederate was convinced that their attacker was dead. Nobody could fake a rolling fall like that. No one would take that much punishment just to lure someone out of their cover.

  But the fact that the man was dead didn't mean there weren't others waiting out there to throw down on them.

  Landrum discarded his empty rifle and took the one from Celia. This weapon still had several shots left in it. "Get the field glasses from my pack," he told her.

  When she brought the glasses to him, he lifted them one-handed to his eyes and peered through them, trying to make out details in the gloom.

  "Best I can tell from his clothes, he's a miner," Landrum said a minute later. "Could be one of those claim-jumpers we ran off earlier. There's a good chance he came back on his own and that there's nobody else out there. But we're not going to take that chance."

  "What are we going to do?"

  "Let him lie there."

  Celia frowned. "What if he's still alive? He could bleed to death."

  "He should have thought of that before he cut loose at us with that rifle of his." Landrum knew his words sounded cold and unfeeling, but the facts were true enough. The would-be claim-jumper — and Landrum was convinced that was what he was — had taken a gamble and lost it.

  "All right," Celia nodded. "I guess that's all we can do." She looked around the cabin, her frown deepening. "Landrum . . . where's Fox?"

  Landrum's eyes snapped around the small interior of the ramshackle building. There was no place that Fox could be hiding, but he was certainly nowhere in sight.

  The former second lieutenant was gone.

  "Damn!" Landrum grated. 'The young fool ran out on us!"

  That was why Fox had not given them any covering fire from the cabin during the brief skirmish. Somehow, Landrum thought, he should have expected this from Fox.

  "But where could he have gone?" Celia asked.

  "I think I know," Landrum said grimly. "I think he slipped out the window and took off for Robbers Roost again." He pushed the canvas in the window aside and glanced out at the horses tied behind the cabin. The animals were settling down again, now that the gunfire was over.

  And there were only two of them.

  Landrum grimaced again. "He waited until we were busy down at the stream, then led one of the horses off until he was out of earshot. Hell, I didn't give the boy credit for that much common sense."

  "What can he accomplish by going back to Robbers Roost?"

  "He can get himself killed." Landrum shook his head. "Idiot or not, I wish he was here. He was an extra gun, and we may need all of them we can get."

  "What now?"

  "Same as before," Landrum said. "We wait for Three-Fingered Jack."

  It never occurred to him to look in the small box where the dynamite he had bought in Virginia City was stored.

  * * *

  Glidinghawk felt impatience gnawing at his guts like a small animal.

  Silas McCoy's men didn't waste any time getting saddled up and ready to ride, but to the Omaha, every second that passed was another instant when his partners could be getting themselves killed.

  There was no assurance that Three-Fingered Jack would raid the claim in Alder Gulch tonight, but the chances were good. The outlaw was not the kind of man to wait around very long to take his revenge, and he would have the added spur of the rumored gold discovery.

  Every instinct in Glidinghawk's body told him that this night would be filled with flames and death.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours even though it was only minutes, McCoy and his men were ready to ride. The rancher urged his horse up next to Elbridge's and said, "All right, Marshal, lead the way."

  Gideon wheeled his mount around and urged it into a trot. McCoy stayed at his side, and Glidinghawk rode only slightly behind. Usually he would not have made even this small gesture of deference to the white men, but now was not the time to make any kind of statement about equality.

  There were at least twenty men in the group that rode through the night. Three-Fingered Jack could probably muster at least that many henchmen of his own, but Glidinghawk had a hunch that McCoy's salty crew would be more than a match for the desperadoes.

  Elbridge and McCoy suddenly reined in, the marshal holding up a hand to order the others to stop. Glidinghawk started to ask the reason for the abrupt halt, but then he heard it for himself.

  Gunshots — a lot of them.

  "Damn," McCoy breathed. "Sounds like a war up there. That where we're headin', Marshal?"

  Elbridge glanced at Glidinghawk, who nodded grimly. The sounds of battle were coming from Alder Gulch, all right.

  And the group of rescuers was still at least ten minutes away. A hell of a lot could happen in that time.

  A hell of a lot of people could die.

  "Come on!" Elbridge cried, putting the spurs to his horse. Galloping over rough ground in the dark was dangerous, but so was facing a gang of murderous outlaws.

  The men rode hard, but, Glidinghawk feared, still too late.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Fox was in the hills about half a mile from the claim in Alder Gulch when he heard the sharp cracks of Winchester fire coming from behind him.

  He grimaced, realizing from the sound that someone was attacking the camp. Landrum and Celia had been outside when he slipped away from the cabin, and if they were still down by the stream, they might be sitting ducks.

  Fox had figured that Three-Fingered Jack would not attack until full dark, which was still a little while away. Perhaps he had miscalculated. It would not be the first time, he thought bitterly.

  The plan he had devised was supposed to make everyone forget about his past mistakes, though. He was going to take everyone by surprise, his partners included, and save the day, thereby redeeming himself from previous failures.

  Failures such as the one at Robbers Roost — which had been another plan designed to heap glory on himself.

  Now, if the outlaws were attacking the cabin, Fox knew that he would be too late to help. It would look as if he had run out on Celia and Landrum, that he had been trying to save his own skin and to hell with them.

  Fox started to turn the horse. If that was the case, then by God, he could at least charge back in there and sell his life dearly along with his friends.

  And they were his friends, he thought. He had little in common with them, and he knew they thought he was a fool, but still he had come to care for them. He liked to think that they cared for him as well.

  He was about to kick the horse into a gallop, back into the jaws of death, when he realized that there wasn't enough gunfire going on to signify an attack by Three-Fingered Jack and his men.

  Fox frowned. Even as he hesitated, the shooting came to an abrupt halt.

  The battle, such as it was, seemed to be over.

  But that didn't make sense. Who else except the outlaws would be trying to attack the cabin?

  Claim-jumpers? The idea occurred suddenly to him. That was a possibility, all right. What with the way that loudmouthed miner Elroy had spread the news of Celia's discovery of the nugget, there could be dozens of thugs in the area who would not hesitate to try to steal the claim-who would not hesitate even at murder.

  Fox was torn. He wanted to ride back to the cabin and make sure Landrum and Celia were all right, but on the other hand he might still have time to prepare his little surprise for Three-Fingered Jack
. It wouldn't take long to get ready, once he was in position, but he was going to have to work his way around to the right spot.

  And it was getting darker with each passing second. Colder, too. Fox shivered as a gust of frigid air puffed around him.

  He made up his mind. From the sound of the shots, there had been one man attacking the camp. Landrum and Celia could handle one man. Fox was sure of that.

  He turned the horse once more and started on in the direction he had been heading before the gunshots stopped him short. A little further on, he found a trail leading up higher into the hills, a trail that would, if he was lucky, wind around until he was back above Alder Gulch and the mining claim.

  The moon was beginning to rise when Fox found the spot he was looking for. Thin tendrils of cloud blew across the sky, and the stars were brilliant pinpricks of light.

  Far below, Fox could see the moonlight and starlight reflecting on the narrow stream that ran through Alder Gulch. He saw a deeper patch of darkness that he was convinced was the cabin where Landrum and Celia were holed up.

  Fox felt a slight wave of vertigo as he looked down into the gulch. He lifted his gaze to the faraway horizon, but that didn't help much. Again, his dislike of open spaces struck him, and space couldn't get much more open than this.

  He drew a deep breath and then swung down from the back of the horse. Before slipping out of the cabin's window, he had hung one of the packs over his shoulder, and now he set it carefully on the ground.

  There was a scrubby bush about thirty feet away from the edge of the slope. Fox led the horse there and tied its reins to the bush. That should be a safe enough distance for what he had in mind, he decided.

  He wished he had had more opportunities to observe dynamite being used.

  Well, the worst that could happen was that he would blow himself into a million pieces. That was a deserving fate for a man who would abandon the woman he loved to a life of slavery and degradation.