by Ralph Cotton
Inside the cave, the battle raged on. Sam limped inside, into the darkness, hurriedly but with caution, his boot filling with warm blood. Recognizing Sam, Willie John shouted from the ground on the other side of the low flames, “Look out, Ranger!”
Sweeping his pistol to his right just in time to see the rifle barrel swing toward him, Sam fired a shot at the same time as Willie John. Both shots found their target, spinning the gunman like a top as he melted to the ground. Sam moved back a step, his left hand clutching his bleeding hip, his pistol scanning the dark shadows.
“That’s the last one, Ranger,” said Willie John, rolling onto his side and standing slowly, having to use his pistol barrel as a short crutch to get him started upward. He remained in a crouch, staggering in place, his left hand cradling his stomach as if to keep his guts from spilling out. “Now . . . it’s just me . . . and you.”
“No, Willie John, not like this,” said Sam, lowering his pistol, cutting a glance at Billy Odle lying on the dirt floor, rubbing his throat and gasping for breath.
“Don’t worry . . . he’s all right,” said Willie. He tried to stand straighter but couldn’t. “Let’s . . . get it done.”
“I said no, Willie John.” Sam uncocked his pistol and holstered it. He wasn’t going to tell Willie that from the looks of his wounds he’d be dead in a matter of minutes anyway. He watched the Indian weave a step closer to the fire, then stop and try again to stand erect.
“What about . . . that Ranger?” Willie John rasped. “I killed him, never gave him . . . a chance. And I liked it . . . liked the way he blew apart . . . when the bullet—”
“Shut up, Willie John,” Sam snapped, cutting him off. “I see what you’re doing. But I ain’t going to kill you and that’s final. Look at yourself. What would the kid think, me shooting you the shape you’re in?”
“I’ve never . . . laid down easy, Ranger,” said Willie John, his words becoming more labored. “I don’t even know . . . how.”
When Sam didn’t respond, Willie John cocked the pistol and said as he raised it and tried to steady an aim, “Tell the kid to keep my horse.”
Sam cut a glance to the body of the big dapple-gray lying dead on the ground in a wide pool of blood. “He’s dead, Willie,” Sam said as gently as he could, all the while raising his own pistol from his holster now, cocking the hammer. Without looking at the dead dapple-gray, Willie squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then reopened them and said, “Well . . . he was a . . . one-man steed. Anyway . . . it’s the saddlebags I want the boy to have . . . buy him and his ma . . . a new life.”
“Money . . .” Sam let his words trail. “I won’t ask where it came from.”
“Good,” Willie said, his voice getting weaker. “I don’t know why . . . but I trust you’ll see he gets it.”
“You’re right—I will,” said Sam. He waited for a second, then asked, “Are you sure we have to do it this way? I wish we wouldn’t.”
“So do I . . . but damn it . . . it’s all I know.” Willie John managed to swing the pistol up and pull the trigger. “So long, Range—”
The sound of two shots exploding at once caused Billy Odle to shake himself the rest of the way conscious. He stood up coughing just in time to see Willie John fall back against the rocky wall and sink to the floor, a smear of blood leaving a trail among ancient stick figures drawn on the walls by long-forgotten hands.
“Willie!” Billy Odle screamed, running to him. He threw himself down onto his knees in the dirt, pulling Willie’s head into his lap. “No, Willie! No!” he sobbed, his arms cradling Willie’s head. “Please don’t die! Not now! I just now made it back here. We can ride away now! Please, no!”
“Come on, kid,” said Sam, lowering a hand onto the boy’s thin shoulder. “I know how much you thought of him, but he’s gone. There’s nothing you can do.”
“Who killed him, Ranger? Who? It wasn’t you, was it?” Billy Odle’s whole body shuddered with grief as he looked up at the Ranger with tears streaming down his cheeks. The Ranger knew there would be no peace between him and the boy if he told him the truth.
“No, young man, I didn’t kill him. It never got that far. I came inside the cave. A man rose up to fire without me seeing him.”
He nodded at the body of the gunman on the ground, then nodded back at Willie John. “Willie shot him dead before I even got a chance. He saved my life, I expect.”
“See?” Billy Odle said, his tears still running freely. “He did good. He could have kilt you, instead he saved your life. That’s how he was, Ranger,” he sobbed, his lips trembling. “See why he was my friend? My only friend? He’s the only person who cared anything about me!”
“Yes, I see,” Sam said, his voice soft and turning a bit too unsteady to suit him. There was no talking to the boy right now, no way to explain that no matter how highly he regarded Willie John, there were others who cared just as much for him as the Indian had. Or were there . . . ? He looked at the bloodstains, both old and new on Willie John’s lifeless chest. Then he looked around the small darkened cave and at the bodies strewn about like rag dolls. He reached down and patted Billy’s shoulder. Then he turned and limped outside, needing to get away for a minute to keep the boy from seeing his face until he collected himself.
Outside, Sam drew in breath after breath of cold, clean air. He walked to the edge of the high trail and looked down at the flatlands to the right toward Hubbler Wells. He saw the obscured sleigh wagon and the rider on horseback. Two women and a man. He could guess them by name, he thought. Then he rubbed his tired eyes and walked back inside. “Your ma’s on her way, Billy. Let’s get things done here and meet her down at the bottom of the trail.” His eyes went to the saddlebags, then back to Billy Odle. “You’re going to be all right, Billy . . . you and your ma both.”
But Billy didn’t seem to hear him as he stared down at Willie John’s face—the peaceful visage of an outlaw at rest. “I won’t never forget you, Willie, I swear I won’t,” he whispered. “You’ll always be my best friend. My only friend, I reckon.” Billy got himself under control and wiped his nose on his coat sleeve. He seemed to consider everything for a second, then looked at the Ranger with wet glistening eyes and added, “Well, not my only friend . . . but my best friend, I reckon, don’t you think?”
“Sure, Billy, if that’s how you see it,” Sam said. He stooped down beside him as he took the bandanna from around his neck and pressed it to the wound on the side of his hip. “It’s a person’s right to decide who’s their best friend, I figure.” He gave Billy Odle a tired trace of a smile. “But try to remember, some folks are your friends whether you realize it or not.” He stood up with the bandanna shoved into the hole in his trouser leg.
“I don’t know what that means, Ranger,” Billy Odle said, his voice sounding more steady now.
Sam didn’t answer aloud. Instead he limped over to the dead horse, crouched down and began loosening the saddlebags from behind the saddle. But maybe someday you will, Billy, he said to himself. Then he smiled and added, Let’s all hope so, anyway . . .
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
PART 3
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
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