Terror in Gunsight

by Lauran Paine

  TERROR IN GUNSIGHT

  LAURAN PAINE

  Copyright © 2018 by Lauran Paine Jr.

  E-book published in 2018 by Blackstone Publishing

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-5384-7476-1

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-5384-7475-4

  Fiction / Westerns

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  Chapter One

  He approached the rising rimrocks of the westerly plateau, pushed swiftly upward, and hurried along to the final lip of the drop-off. There, he paused only long enough to seek out a way directly downward into the jack pine and manzanita country below before urging his horse outward—and downward.

  There was no trail here; not even deer used this perilous descent. It was too steep and, barring the single long spine of narrow ridge leading downward, there was no other way off the rimrocks.

  On either side of this stringy hogback of razor-like slope the terrain dropped precipitously away. He could easily see that one misstep meant a five-hundred-foot fall and certain death.

  He had no choice. He knew pursuit was even now passing rapidly across the dished-out plateau behind, swinging eagerly up toward the rimrocks, confident he was brought to earth. If he had not taken the risk, he would have been easily enough surrounded among the rimrocks and shot to death. So, he rode now—scarcely able to see his horse’s head out front, it was so far below him—with his hips jammed against the cantle and his booted feet thrust so far forward to maintain balance that his spur rowels from time to time were even with his horse’s sweaty ears.

  He did not raise his eyes or deepen the sweep of breath into his lungs until, six hundred feet farther down off the dizzying heights, he could see that his horse’s sure-footedness was going to bring him through this alive. Then he cast a searching, anxious glance out over the rise and fall of westerly countryside.

  Where mountain flanks drew sharply back beyond this broken, scrub country, lay a broad, lush, green valley. Around it, distantly purple in the midday sunlight, lay the encircling lift of still more mountains. The valley itself was sealed off by these monoliths from the rest of the world. It was a land unto itself.

  Near the center of the valley he made out, distantly, the squares of reflected daylight off metal roofs of buildings, but the distance was far too great for him to be able to determine anything more than that what he saw out there was a town. Still, he told himself, that was enough. If he could reach that town, he would be safe. There would be a sheriff there, or a town marshal, or some kind of a lawman who would protect him from the four hard-riding strangers who had fired at him, and who had then chased him this far.

  His horse began gradually to straighten up beneath the saddle. They were at last upon safe ground again. From here on there was manzanita, with its smooth red trunk coloring the flinty earth, and occasionally a patch or two of jack-pine shade. The animal’s shoulder muscles quivered from exertion. Its hide was shiny with sweat, and its distended nostrils showed their red-veined interior.

  He did not use the spurs again, but let the horse seek out and find its own way through the sticker-pointed scrub, which it did through employment of that mysterious sagacity in such matters, which all horses have.

  He was passing well along with only head and shoulders visible, when faintly came the flat smash of a single gunshot. He twisted to look back quickly. Overhead, upon the very edge of the precipice, sat the four pursuing riders. They obviously had no stomach for following his trail downward from the rimrocks, and that one long-range shot said as much.

  Around him the hot summer stillness bore down with an almost physical pressure. At least here in the breathless fold of eddying foothills there was no coolness, no little breeze or freshening scent. Beyond the last spread of out-falling land to the south, where the valley began, there would be blessed coolness—for Wyoming’s high country was never, even in the hottest of summers, without its succoring freshets of mountain air. These came down from perpetually snow-frosted crags above timberline in that season, and in the dark winter they froze the marrow in a man’s bones. In summertime, too, they brought a fragrance, a freshness, and a lift.

  He made for a small flinty knoll where a struggling red fir and an ancient, warped and twisted old juniper stood. There, he swung out and down, flung up the stirrup leather, tugged loose the latigo, and lifted the saddle for air to pass over his animal’s heaving back. The horse expanded his lungs to their fullest, then let out that air with a great sighing sound. Slowly, he moved his feet to stand hipshot, gazing with quickening interest at this country round about, which was new to both of them.

  The rider hunkered moments later to make a cigarette, to light it, to inhale deeply, and turn his steady gray gaze outward as far as he could see. Behind him, where the rimrocks ran east and west, there was no abridging rib of land as far as he could see in either direction, excepting the one he had come by, plunging downward. Since his pursuers had declined to use that one, he surmised, they would spend hours trying to find an easier and safer way of getting down out of those uplands.

  So he smoked, studied the valley, and waited for his horse to recover from the miles-long run and the frightening last descent to safety.

  It was, he thought, a beautiful and rich valley. Here, in the insular vastness of Wyoming’s high country, the world beyond scarcely existed. A man might almost feel reborn here. Whatever of himself might lay beyond the mountains, he could leave forever behind. Even the pursuit by four outlaws seemed part of the tribulation a man must endure in order to achieve this place of rebirth.

  Thinking like this, the horseman’s spirit rose. His assurance returned, and he arose, eventually, to tug up the latigo, toe in, and rise up to settle across his saddle with a sense of peace coming to him.

  He urged the horse ahead, riding a loose rein, letting his animal seek out and find its own way out of the thorny maze. He was in no hurry now, and in fact, after the custom of men inured to danger, he left all thought of the recent chase behind him as he passed beyond the final brushy fringe and emerged upon the valley floor.

  He passed along comfortably now, riding loosely, considering the land, the distant mountains, the signs of life, and, here and there, the grazing small bands of dark-red cattle.

  This, he told himself, was a prosperous valley. Here, the people would know comfort, peace, and probably wealth. He had a theory about these things—an idea formed over his years as a rider. In a country where the soil was deep, the people were substantial. In a land where the top soil was poor or shallow or gritty, people were edgy, troublesome, and sometimes suspicious of strangers.

  A weathered wooden sign with an arrow upon it pointing westerly, in the direction he was riding, had a single name upon it.

  GUNSIGHT

  He smiled at that, for by raising his glance only slightly he saw dead ahead, far beyond the town of Gunsight, a diminishingly narrow notch in the faraway mountains. This particular type of a mountain pass was referred to by westerners as a gunsight or a gunsight pass. It had required no imagination on the part of the citizenry, he thought, to name the valley’s only town.

  The silence, the timelessness, and the peacefulness which seemed to abide in this place, worked its subtle magic, and with the town of Gunsight well in view, perhaps twenty or thirty minutes away, he d
rew up again, this time in the filigree shade of creek willows, and dismounted. He was in no hurry, had never in his life been in any hurry, for that matter. The grass here was darkly luxuriant—his animal was hungry—there was a hurrying little narrow creek low in the grass, and there was the shade. No range man ever overlooked so inviting an opportunity to tarry a moment when such an enticing combination of conditions was present. He let the horse wander, dragging the reins, while he himself dropped down in the shade, pushed long legs out to their limit, tilted forward his hat brim, and settled back, his body going loose in the warmth of the afternoon. He was a little bothered by hunger. He had not eaten since dawn, on the sundown side of the mountains. But again, to a man accustomed to inconvenience, this was not a very important thing. He would eat in Gunsight.

  For a while the only sounds came from his eating horse and the little creek. Then, vaguely heard at first, but gradually coming on, there was the rapid pacing forward of ridden horses. He pushed back his hat to cast an indifferent but curious glance northward—then stiffened. Even at that distance he recognized the same four outlaws who had earlier pursued him.

  For a moment he was astonished, for although bands of bandits infested Wyoming’s mountains, he had never before heard of any as bold as these men. They were coming almost to the very outskirts of Gunsight itself, in their search for victims.

  He arose, moving swiftly, caught his animal, and swung up into the saddle. He then reined across the creek and started along the far bank beyond a screening of willows, toward town. He did not, right then, have any premonition of disaster. In fact, gauging the distance between his pursuers and himself, he knew he could reach Gunsight well ahead of his enemies, because, although they were obviously hunting him, they were still a long mile away.

  Where the creek ultimately veered southward he was compelled to ride clear of his cover. He was then less than a mile from town. Behind, came the faintly echoing shout of a pursuer. Over his shoulder he saw the four men converge, after sighting him, then urge their mounts onward through dazzling sunlight, rushing headlong after him. Because he was now at the outer extremity of Gunsight and felt completely safe, he reined up to briefly sit and consider. Never before in his experience had he ever even heard of, let alone encountered, such bold outlaws. He shrugged. The law at Gunsight must be very tolerant, he thought. His brother had once told him

  A crashing gunshot shattered this reverie and he lingered no longer but pushed ahead into the town of Gunsight.

  * * * * *

  Situated nearly in the exact center of the valley, Gunsight was a log, board-and-batten village with one very wide main avenue and a number of random side roads. At either end of town stood a large saloon, evidently placed there by calculating proprietors who assumed that the best place for business was where people either entered or left town. Between these establishments on either side of the central roadway, were opposite ranks of stores, shops, and offices. Near the middle of town, on the south side, was the livery barn. Directly across from the barn was a freshly painted log building with the legend: drovers’ and cattlemen’s restaurant emblazoned across its front. This, rather than either of the widely separated saloons, appeared to be the popular gathering spot for idlers. He guessed this was perhaps due to the only shade tree for the full length of Gunsight’s central roadway, which stood here, and around its enormous bole had been constructed several benches.

  As the tall, young cowboy scuffed through midday’s hot dust to draw up and swing down in front of the livery barn, a number of idlers seated beneath this tree ceased speaking and turned motionless for the length of time it took to appraise him, his horse, and the equipment carried by both. Finally, a rawboned man with his barlow knife in one fist and part of a whittled stick in the other hand, arose wordlessly, snapped the knife closed, pocketed it, and went ambling carelessly through the sun smash toward a dark and gloomy log building which bore the single word, sheriff, over its doorway.

  At the livery barn another man, older, shorter, less grim in the face, came out to take the young rider’s reins and gaze uncomfortably into his face.

  The cowboy said: “Better cool him out. I had to run him a little beyond town.” He did not mention the pursuing four horsemen and only shrugged when the liveryman also spoke.

  “Pretty hot for fast riding, stranger.”

  “I didn’t have much choice.” The cowboy turned to run a considering gaze along the roadway. “Where’s a good place to eat?”

  The liveryman stood there, running the reins through his fingers nervously without replying. His gaze was fixed fully upon two men angling across toward him from the direction of the sheriff’s office. His face paled, and he made a quick circuit of his lips with the tip of his tongue.

  The cowboy faced back, faintly frowning. Words were upon his lips, but he did not utter them. The liveryman’s expression kept him silent. Following out the liveryman’s stare, he saw both approaching men. He watched as the hard slam of their booted feet raised up little puffs of dun dust from the roadway. Within him something instinctive stirred. Some intuitive warning flashed along his nerves.

  Then the two men stopped, one moving sideways away from the other, older man. The faces of both men were tough-set and resolute. In that moment the rider recognized the imminence of peril. When two men went up against another armed man, they did not stand together for the elemental reason that, by forcing their adversary to shift position in order to fire twice, he could not hope to shoot both men.

  The older man then spoke. His voice was without inflection, and it was deadly.

  “Unbuckle that gun belt and let it fall,” he ordered, not for a second taking his eyes off the young cowboy.

  Behind them, across the roadway, idlers at the benches around the cottonwood tree, began moving well out of any line of fire. Northerly too, came the slowly paced movement of four red-faced men riding fully abreast. These, the cowboy saw at once, were the same four who had pursued him. The same four who had fired at him, and whom he had never for a moment doubted were outlaws. They now ranged themselves, still astride, behind the sheriff and his afoot companion, training upon the cowboy four cocked revolvers.

  “I said let that gun belt fall!” the older man ordered again.

  There was no alternative to obedience. The gun belt fell into the dust, making its own soft rustling sound, as the cowboy said: “I don’t know what this is all about.” He sounded genuinely bewildered.

  From one of the horsemen came the flinty words: “I reckon you don’t at that. I reckon you didn’t expect us to be ready like this.”

  “Ready for what? What are you talking about?” asked the cowboy.

  “About hired killers,” said the grizzled, thin-lipped and deadly eyed sheriff. “I reckon you figured you’d just ride in, shoot whoever you’ve come to kill, then ride out again. By God, stranger,” went on that cold voice after a brief pause, “you made the biggest mistake of your life coming to Gunsight.” The sheriff relaxed a little, tilting back his head and staring bleakly down his nose. “What’s your name, gunfighter?”

  “I’m no gunfighter,” protested the young cowboy.

  “What’s your damned name, I asked!”

  “Pete Knight.”

  “Come on, Pete Knight,” growled the sheriff. “I got a special cell for your kind.”

  Chapter Two

  “Hobart sent for him,” said an idler under the cottonwood tree. “I’ll lay money on it.”

  There were five of them sitting there in the shade. The man who had spoken was chewing tobacco and leaning with his shoulders against the tree trunk. He had both fisted hands shoved deeply into pockets. His eyes were pinched nearly closed.

  “Hobart’s going to continue bossing this country if he has to hire himself a dozen gunfighters.”

  A wizened man with skin the color of old wood, said simply: “He’ll be fightin’ mad when he hears us to
wnspeople corralled his gunfighter.”

  “Let him get mad,” snarled a third man, looking grimly at the piece of wood he was whittling. “He don’t own this town.”

  “He thinks he does. He sure as the devil owns everything else in the valley.”

  “But not the town.”

  A heretofore silent man said: “They ought to tar and feather that there gunfighter.”

  “They ought to lynch him,” said another idler, speaking up strongly. “That’s what they ought to do. Hobart’s men have rid roughshod over folks hereabouts too damned long. It’s about time one of ’em was made an example of.”

  The leaning man turned his pinched down eyes to stare at this last speaker. He withdrew his fisted hands and folded them in his lap, fingers intertwined. After an ensuing moment of silence, he said: “You’re plumb right, August. He ought to be lynched and we ought to have a celebration after it’s accomplished.”

  This thought, with its ugly implications, held all of them silent for a long time. A man who had taken no part in this discussion at all so far, scratched his jaw, spat amber liquid into the roadway dust, and arose. “Been an awful lot o’ talk!” he exclaimed shortly. “And nothin’ but talk.” He studied the other men sitting with him beneath the big cottonwood tree. “Any you fellows ever seen a lynching?”

  No one replied. Every head had dropped into a low position, eyes were averted, but they were carefully listening now.

  “I have,” said the narrow-faced standing man. “I helped pull the rope.”

  Someone quietly asked: “What had he done?”

  “Stoled a horse,” replied the standing man. “But he was a gunfighter, too. Where I come from we took care of them kind right quick.”

  Silence settled again. The only sound was the buzzing of the blue-tailed flies. The town around them dozed in midday somnolence. A horseman jogged past, heading northward. No one even looked up.