by Ralph Cotton
Willie didn’t bother answering. He lowered his rifle and stepped out from behind the rock into full view. “I figure it’s best if I got in front of them around these slopes. There’s an old ruins in a cave at the top of that peak.” He pointed toward a higher hill on the other side of a natural rock bridge. “I’ll come at them from one side and you from the other.”
Sam stepped forward and looked down the steep drop. “You’re going to try to take a horse around these? The odds are long on you making it across this ice and snow . . . too long, in my opinion.” Sam eyed the dried bloodstain on Willie’s chest through his open coat.
“I know it’s long odds. That’s why I want you coming in from this side . . . in case I don’t make it.”
“In case you don’t?” Sam looked skeptical and shook his head slowly.
“I know,” said Willie, “but it’s for the kid, right? Us giving him a chance to draw to a better hand than this world dealt him starting out?”
Sam stood silent, looking down the long slopes. Then he raised his face to Willie and said, “We’ve still got business, you and me.”
“I know it,” said Willie John.
Sam murmured under his breath, “I hope that boy is worth it.”
“I’ve been saying the same thing to myself all day,” said Willie John. “I figure if I get around in front of them, I’ll fire two shots right together, get them following me in, keep them from killing Billy over him not telling where the hideout is.”
“So, you’re not even going to have the element of surprise,” said Sam. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it, Ranger . . . you just have to go along with it.”
Sam thought about Willie John’s plan, knowing the Indian was right—that Billy Odle was probably going to die before he’d help the posse. Sam thought about the body of Colonel Fuller lying in the snow. Red Booker must be reaching the end of his tolerance for the kid as well. All things considered, Willie’s idea was as sound as any. Sam nodded at the rifle in Willie’s hands. “How are you fixed on ammunition?”
“I could use whatever you’ve got to spare,” said Willie John, lowering the rifle all the way and letting it point down at the ground.
Sam stepped back to his saddlebags, raised the flaps and took a box of cartridges without letting Willie John see how much spare ammunition he had. When he’d shook out a handful of shining new cartridges and walked back and laid them in the Indian’s hand, Willie John stepped back without taking his eyes off of Sam, saying as he pointed his rifle upward again toward the next rise of hills with one hand, “Where the trail breaks into a Y, go to the right. It looks like an old elk path, but it’s really a footpath that’s so old it’s worn into the stone. Follow it out around the far side of the hills. By the time you get there I’ll be waiting on the other side. The snow will be stopped by the time we’re ready.”
Sam Burrack only nodded. Then he stood watching for a second as the Indian slipped out of sight, into the fading swirl of white, like a wisp of smoke.
Chapter 24
Herbert Mullins led his horse down from the path along the side of the hills to where Red Booker and the rest of the men sat waiting atop their horses. “The path ends around there,” Mullins said to Red Booker, his eyes shifting to Billy Odle’s as he spoke. Red Booker also turned his gaze to Billy Odle as he responded.
“What do you mean it ends there? Ends how?” Booker asked.
Billy Odle fidgeted nervously in the saddle in front of Nells Kroft. Kroft’s big arms encircled him, offering no chance at hurling himself from the saddle and making a getaway.
Mullins’s eyes hardened on Billy Odle as he answered Booker. “I mean it just stops dead right there. It narrows, then stretches out around the hill. You can’t see nothing at the end but thin air.”
Booker shifted back and forth in his saddle, looking out toward the western sky where the setting sun peeked through the gray heavens just enough to cast a pale red glow on the far rim of the earth. “It’ll be getting dark before long,” said Booker. “I want to be in spitting distance of that blasted Injun before this day ends.” A silence passed as a nerve twitched in his jaw. Then he looked at Billy Odle again. This time the blank expression in his eyes was enough to make the boy’s skin crawl.
“Boy,” said Booker, “I’ve given you every opportunity to cooperate with us. Now we’ve got to where the metal meets the bone.” The big knife appeared in his hand in a streak of shining steel from the sheath behind his back. “Either you tell me right now which way to go . . . or I am bound to trim something off of you and stick it down in your shirt pocket.”
Nells Kroft cut in. “But, Red! You said you was keeping him as a bargaining chip when we—”
“Shut up, Nells! I know what I said!” Red Booker heeled his horse up close to Kroft’s, reached out and straight-armed Billy Odle from the saddle. Billy rolled in the snow at the gathered horses’ hooves, the horses snorting their steaming breath down at him, stepping wide and making room for him in the snow. “But he’s forcing me to do this! I can’t allow myself to be backed down by no snot-nosed kid!” Booker swung down from the saddle with the big knife held tightly in his hand, and said over his shoulder, “Mullins! Get us a torch lit. When I’m done with him, stick the fire to his wound so’s he don’t bleed to death on us!”
“Boss,” said Mullins, “this ain’t right, us carving up a kid like this.”
“You’re my lead man, Mullins,” Booker snapped at him. “Are you not going to do like I’m telling you?”
Herbert Mullins saw the look on the faces of the other men, and said, “Red, I’m just saying ease down, get a grip on yourself.”
“Ease down? Get a grip—” Red Booker raged at him. “Why you son of a bitch!” He threw the big knife down in the snow, and jerked his pistol from his holster, cocking it as he swung it up toward Mullins. But Herbert Mullins was not going to be shot without offering defense. His pistol also came up, cocked and pointed. Seeing the two men faced off and ready to kill one another, the others spread away from them in a wide circle. Billy Odle huddled farther down in the snow.
Red Booker started to yank the trigger. But before he or Mullins made their move, the sound of Willie John’s rifle resounded twice around the elk trail from less than a hundred yards, causing all the men to flinch, and all of the horses to jerk back in fright. “What the hell?” said Booker, his pistol still aimed at Mullins.
Mullins lowered his pistol an inch. “There is something around there after all, Red,” he offered. “Looks like I must’ve been wrong about the trail going off into thin air. I reckon I owe you an apology.” Their eyes went once more to Billy Odle, seeing the stunned expression on his face.
“Dang it, Willie John, why?” Billy Odle shrieked toward the upreaching path circling out into the sky. “I wasn’t going to tell! Why, Willie?” The echo of his voice rolled out across the canyon and came back as if mocking him.
Red Booker grinned at Herbert Mullins and said, “That’s all right, Mullins, anybody could have made that mistake.” He uncocked and holstered his pistol, picking up the big knife from the snow with one hand and grabbing Billy Odle with the other. He shoved Billy over to Nells Kroft who caught the boy and yanked him up into the saddle. “Save the crying, boy,” Booker added. “There’ll be enough time for that after we cleave that Injun’s head off his shoulders.” He chuckled, giving Herbert Mullins a wink. “If you behave, kid, maybe we’ll let you carry the bag we take it back in.”
Two miles farther down the trail, Sam Burrack had heard Willie John’s rifle shots as well. He was surprised the Indian could have made it that far so quickly. Upon hearing the shots echo off the walls of snow-capped rock, Sam heeled his stallion upward, pushing the big animal hard, hurrying to catch up to the posse before Willie John ended up facing them alone.
When Red Booker and his men rounded the path toward the old ruins, he stopped long enough to look back and say to three men at the end of the line, �
�Hickson, Murry, Rudd . . . stay back here and keep a watch for that Ranger. I ain’t getting this close to killing that Injun and having some lawdog step in and shoot him right under our noses.” The three men drew their horses back and stepped down from their saddles, pulling rifles from their scabbards.
Hearing Red Booker’s words, Billy Odle reacted violently, turning on Nells Kroft riding double behind him, shouting, “No, you’re not killing Willie John!” As he shrieked, he pounded his fists into Nells Kroft’s thick chest and struggled to free himself from Kroft’s hold. “Willie John, they’re coming! Run for it! Get away!” Billy screamed along the path ahead. The horse reared up, throwing Nells Kroft backward from his saddle. Billy Odle managed to hang on, and as the horse touched down he tried heeling it forward. But Red Booker was ahead of the move. He caught the horse by its bridle and checked it down.
Before Billy had time to make another move, Red Booker snatched him up and pulled him over onto his own horse, across his lap. Billy kicked and thrashed wildly until Red raised him up and squeezed a tight forearm around his throat. “Keep it up, boy,” Red Booker warned, “and you won’t live long enough to see what’s going to happen to your Injun friend.” He looked down and saw Nells Kroft dragging himself up from the icy edge of the path, a terrified look on his face as he turned and looked back down the steep drop to the dark chasm that came close to swallowing him.
“Lord God!” said Kroft through steaming breath. He dusted snow loose from his chest.
“Yeah, you big idiot!” said Herbert Mullins catching the reins to the horse and holding it for Kroft. “You’re lucky the boy didn’t dump your fat ass for the buzzards!” He flung the reins down to Kroft. “Now pay attention!”
Less than thirty yards ahead, at the entrance of the cave, Willie John had heard Billy Odle’s warning. “Sorry, kid,” he’d said to himself. “There ain’t no getting away this time.” He stood at the entrance and listened as Billy Odle settled down and Red Booker’s voice called out to him.
“All right, Injun, I know you’re up there. Here’s the deal. Give yourself up or I gut this little fool like a fish.”
Willie John didn’t answer. Instead he waited and listened, judging the distance of the horses drawing closer around the snaking trail. Only as the first horse came into sight did Willie back a step into the darkness and reply, “What makes you think I give a damn about the kid?”
Red Booker pushed his horse ahead of Herbert Mullins and called out to the black slash in the rock face, “Don’t fool with me, Injun. I’ve been studying your moves from the get-go. I don’t know what the connection is, but you don’t want nothing happening to this boy, now, do you?” Booker stepped down as he spoke, dragging Billy Odle in front of him, using the helpless boy as a shield. Drawing his pistol, Booker stepped forward slowly, testing his hunch. He looked back and motioned for Mullins and the other two men to follow. Then he cocked the pistol and put the tip of the barrel to Billy Odle’s head. “I’m coming in there, Injun. Do something stupid, and this kid’s a dead duck.”
“Why are you doing this?” Willie John called out from back in the darkness. “You’ve got me cornered now, why not let the boy go?”
“Because I want you to see his face when I blow his head off,” Red Booker said, stepping boldly into the entrance, letting Willie John see him holding Billy against his chest, Billy’s head jammed to one side by the pistol barrel.
Willie John winced at the sight, but then said, “He’s not the first kid I’ve seen take a bullet. Turn him loose. Let’s play this hand like men, face to face, guts up and bark on, the way they write about it in nickel novels.”
“I don’t get much chance to read, Willie.” Red Booker spat on the ground, looking past the glow of a small fire. “I stay too busy hunting lousy bummers like you.” He saw the big dapple-gray standing in the closer shadows, then he squinted, looking farther back into the deeper darkness. “Now show yourself or the boy dies.”
“Don’t listen to him, Willie, he won’t shoot me,” Billy Odle blurted out. “Even if he does, I don’t care, I’ll—” His voice stopped abruptly, Red Booker’s forearm clamping on his throat.
“He’s one game little rooster, Injun,” Red Booker said. “It’s a shame what I’ll have to do to him. But if you give yourself up, you’ve got my word I won’t hurt him.”
Willie John watched the other three men move into the cave and spread out, their eyes searching for any form of cover, finding none. “Do what you need to do,” said Willie John, hoping his voice didn’t betray his bluff, “so’s we can run this string on out. The boy means nothing to me. If I have to I’ll shoot through his belly to get to yours.”
Red Booker let out a dark chuckle. “You better hope you mean it, Injun . . . ’cause I’m going to count to three. If you ain’t stepped forward and pitched them guns down, I’m dropping this hammer on him. There’ll be no second guess.”
Willie John only stood rigid in the darkness, his rifle in one hand, his pistol in the other.
“All right, then, here goes,” said Red Booker. “One!” His voice rang out in the cave. Willie John’s dapple-gray jerked its head to one side and scraped a nervous hoof on the dirt.
“Let the boy go,” said Willie John. “You don’t have to die like cowards . . . just because you’ve all lived like ones.”
“Nice try, Injun,” said Booker, “but no takers.” A breathless second passed, then his voice rang out again, “Two!”
Billy Odle squeezed his eyes shut against the coming explosion and said in a sobbing voice, “So long, Willie John, I just wish we could have—”
His voice was overcome by Red Booker’s, calling out, “Three!”
“Wait!” said Willie John, all pretense gone, his voice urgent, desperate. “I’ll do it . . . I’ll drop the guns! Don’t shoot him!”
Red Booker eased up on his trigger finger and let out a tight breath. “Say please,” he said, spreading a smug grin, knowing he’d just won the standoff.
“All right, please,” said Willie John in a defeated tone. He stepped forward into full view beside the fire. Behind him the dapple-gray shifted back and forth restlessly, as if knowing he stood in the line of fire.
“Now pitch them,” said Booker, his pistol barrel still jammed to Billy Odle’s head.
“It’s done,” said Willie John. He threw both guns to the ground, his arms falling slack and useless at his sides. “Now turn him loose, you’re choking him.”
But Red Booker only held a cruel fixed grin on his face and said to Mullins and the men behind him, “Come on up here, boys, we’ve bagged ourselves an Injun outlaw.”
Willie John raised his hands above his head, staring at Billy Odle’s pained face. “Turn him loose—he can’t breathe.”
“Huh-uh.” Red Booker shook his head, still grinning as Mullins and two men ventured forward. “As much trouble as this boy caused us . . . I might just have to kill him anyway.”
“You gave your word!” said Willie John, his hands clamping on the sides of his head in his rage.
“Yeah, but look who I gave it to Injun,” said Booker, a dark chuckle in his voice, his arm still tight around Billy’s throat. Billy seemed to go limp against him, ceasing to struggle. “I don’t owe my word to no two-bit outlaw. I changed my mind, Injun!” As he spoke, Red Booker lowered the cocked gun away from Billy’s head and leveled it toward Willie John.
“I thought you might,” Willie said. His right hand went back behind his neck as quick as the strike of a snake, then shot forward fast now, the big knife streaking from his hand with the low whistle of sliced air. Even as Billy Odle felt his consciousness slip away, he heard the whir of the steel and the deep thump as it lodged to its hilt beside his ear—the blade fully buried in Red Booker’s throat.
“My God, boys!” shouted Herbert Mullins. “He’s kilt him! Get that damned Injun!”
Red Booker staggered backward, his pistol exploding aimlessly into the ground; and as Billy Odle slumped straight d
own onto his knees then fell over onto his side, Willie John made a dive for his guns, both the pistol and the rifle seeming to be laid out perfectly, in wait for his grasp.
Back on the path, fifty yards from the cave entrance, Sam Burrack sat atop his horse, looking down at the three riflemen who stood mid-trail facing him. When he’d rode up, he’d raised his hands chest high, offering no resistance that might start a shooting and tip off Red Booker before Willie John made his move. But at the sound of the rifle and pistol fire exploding from the cave, Sam brought his hands down as the men turned their attention away for just a second. “Man! They found that sucker sure enough!” said one of the gunmen. “Let’s get around there!”
Sam saw their intentions in their eyes as they turned quickly back toward him, their rifles coming up cocked and ready. “Aw no!” one man shouted as Sam’s Colt exploded three times like the beat of a terrible bass drum. One man managed to get off a round before Sam’s third shot lifted him off the ground and slammed him backward alongside his companions. The rifle shot sliced along Sam’s thigh just beneath the skin, then opened a wider wound where it came out at hip level.
Rifles fell to the snowy ground in a spray of blood as the men settled into their twisted poses of death. In the deadly silence that followed, Sam stepped his horse away, keeping his eyes and his smoking pistol on the three men until he saw there was no need to. Then he heeled his horse forward toward the sound of battle raging within the rocky hillside.
As Sam slid his stallion down at the cave entrance, Herbert Mullins came charging out, firing his pistol behind him into the darkness. Blood spewed from his chest with each beat of his heart. When he turned and saw Sam stepping down from his horse, Mullins let out a long scream and swung his pistol fire toward Sam. One shot from Sam’s Colt silenced Herbert Mullins and left him flat on his back staring blankly up at the sky.
