Wildfire

by Ralph Cotton

  Segan walked on with determination.

  “I’m not afraid of you, mister,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m not afraid of any of you bummers. I’m only going along with everything because I don’t want my wife molested.” He paused before saying, “Kill me if that’s what you all want to do—just leave my wife alone.”

  “You’re just one crazy, naive, empty-headed rube, ain’t you, Segan?” Gantry said, smiling to himself as they walked on to the tent.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Segan asked suspiciously.

  “Nothing, Segan,” said Gantry, thinking of the look that had been on Cheyenne’s and Caroline’s faces when he had walked into the tent earlier. “Not one damn thing.” He paused for a moment as they stopped out in front of the tent. With his gun still leveled at Segan’s back, Gantry found that he couldn’t keep his venom from spewing out. “I will tell you this much. If ever I get another chance, I will hang your wife’s undergarments on a tree limb and ride her like she’s a—”

  Gantry stopped short.

  Segan spun around so fast Gantry didn’t even get the chance to pull the Colt’s trigger before the young man’s powerful forearm knocked the gun from his hand. Gantry could only try to duck away from Segan’s large powerful fist as it shot out at his jaw. But he wasn’t quick enough. The punch connected, sending him flying backward off his feet, feeling the world explode inside his head. He floundered on a thin line of consciousness as the ground seemed to reach up and slam into his back.

  Segan Udall was upon him, his big right fist punching hard and fast, like a carpenter nailing down roof shingles until, at length, a hard sidelong swipe from Cheyenne’s long pistol barrel came out of nowhere and sent Segan tumbling over into the dirt, where he settled, knocked out cold.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, inside the Udalls’ tent, Red Gantry stood with his bloody, bruised face more battered and swollen than before. He had managed to drag himself to his feet and stagger into the tent, then wipe his throbbing face with a wet cloth Cheyenne had tossed to him.

  “He—he jumped me . . . when I was unexpecting it,” he said, his brain struggling to clear itself from the hard pounding he’d taken.

  “I saw the whole thing,” Cheyenne said in a clipped tone, not inviting any more to be said on the matter. “Wake him up,” he added, nodding at Segan, who sat slumped and unconscious, tied down to a ladder-back chair. Pressed against Cheyenne’s chest, Caroline stood watching, seeing a thin line of blood run down and drip from the side of her husband’s head.

  “With pleasure,” Red Gantry mumbled through numb, split lips. He drew back a half-filled bucket of water and slung it into Segan’s face.

  Segan jerked his bowed head up, spitting and spluttering until he opened his bleary eyes. Batting his eyes several times against the water running down into them, he managed to focus up at Red Gantry, then at Caroline, then finally at Cheyenne standing against her back, his left arm around her, holding a rope that was coiled around her neck. In his right hand he held his long revolver resting on her shoulder, pointed at her head.

  “Turn loose of my wife, you son of a bitch!” he shouted, already struggling against the rope wound around him, binding him to the chair.

  “Red . . . ?” said Cheyenne, giving Gantry a nod.

  Gantry tossed the bucket aside and jerked up a rifle leaning against a tent pole. He slammed his boot down on the edge of the chair between Segan’s legs, pinning man and chair in place. He cocked the rifle and held it an inch from Segan’s face, ready to fire.

  “Turn her loose?” Cheyenne said in a serious tone, the length of rope around Caroline’s neck, down her bosom, wrapped in his hand. “Make one more demand, Segan, I’ll put a bullet through her head. Then I’ll turn her loose, if you don’t do what I tell you.”

  Segan settled himself long enough to look into Cheyenne’s eyes and decide that the outlaw leader meant what he said.

  “Don’t hurt her, mister, please,” Segan said, his powerful chest and arms going limp, giving up all resistance. He paid no attention to the rifle pointed at his own head, only to the pistol resting on Caroline’s shoulder, like some shiny snake ready to strike her.

  “That’s more like it,” Cheyenne said, seeing the difference come over the young man. He let his revolver slump on Caroline’s shoulder but still kept it in place.

  “What do you want me to do?” Segan asked.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Cheyenne. He gave Gantry a nod. The battered gunman stepped back with his rifle still pointed, as if at any second the powerful young man would rise, break the chair and rope as if it were kindling and string and hurl himself onto them.

  “Caroline? Are you all right?” Segan asked.

  Before Caroline could answer, Cheyenne gave a sharp jerk on the rope around her neck.

  “Huh-uh, Segan,” Cheyenne said. “Nobody talks unless I say they can talk. Don’t make me say it again.”

  “I’m sorry, mister. Don’t hurt her,” Segan said. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Good, then we’re all going to get along,” said Cheyenne in a no-nonsense manner. He paused and then said, “Here’s the deal, Segan. I’m sending you and Gantry here out to set fires across the three main trails leading up out of the territory.”

  Segan stared at Caroline, then at Cheyenne. “I don’t know the trails well enough—”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Cheyenne, cutting him off. “I’m sending Little Foot with you. He knows this country like the back of his hand.”

  “I’ll do whatever you tell me, but Caroline must go with me. I won’t go otherwise,” he said firmly.

  “All right, this ain’t going to work,” said Cheyenne. He cocked the revolver. “Sorry, Caroline.”

  “No! No! Hold it, please! Wait!” said Segan, rising, chair and all, then stopping as Gantry stepped in with the rifle and shoved him back down. “I’ll go!” he cried out. “I’ll go.”

  Cheyenne lowered the revolver enough to speak to Caroline, who stood shivering against him.

  “I get the idea your husband doesn’t believe I’ll kill you, Caroline. Anything you want to tell him?”

  “Segan, he’ll kill me. I know this man, and I know what he’ll do. You’ve got to listen to him and do what he says if you want to keep me alive. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Segan said, recognizing the des-

  peration and terror in his wife’s voice. He collected himself and said to Cheyenne, “Whatever you want from me, I’ll do it. I’ll burn this whole territory down if you tell me to. Only . . .” He stalled before saying, “Mister, please don’t force yourself on my wife. That’s all I ask.”

  “I don’t want you to burn the whole territory down, just the pinelands along my back trail,” said Cheyenne. He stared at Segan straight-faced. “Do that and you have my word I will not force myself on your wife while you’re gone.”

  Segan appeared a little relieved. Gantry let his rifle down slightly and said to Cheyenne, “You best mention to him that I’m in charge. He doesn’t do to suit me, I’ll come right back here and tell you. Whatever happens to his wife after that is his own damned fault.”

  “Did you hear all that, Segan?” said Cheyenne.

  “I heard it,” Segan said. He looked at Caroline and said, “Don’t be afraid. I need you to be strong for us. I’ll be coming back for you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, write her a letter,” Gantry said mockingly. Stepping around behind him, he tilted Segan’s chair back and dragged the tied man out of the tent.

  As soon as Segan was out of sight, Caroline let out a sigh.

  “I don’t like being a deceitful person,” she said remorsefully. “I feel bad about doing this.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get over that,” Cheyenne said. He turned her
to him by the rope around her neck and kissed her. She returned his kiss. He started to remove the loop of rope, but she stopped him and pulled her lips away from his long enough to whisper, “You can leave it there, I don’t mind.”

  “What about the gun?” he said, still resting the long barrel on her shoulder.

  “That too—I don’t mind,” she whispered urgently.

  Chapter 10

  At dawn, Dock Latin sat on an empty nail keg out in front of the large tent Cheyenne had reserved for all of his men. An odor of wood smoke and brimstone permeated the air, wafting in on a morning breeze coming off the hill range. Dock sat smoking a thin cigar, pitching cards down onto the ground in a game of solitaire. Behind him the ragged tent seemed to rise and fall with a loud chorus of snoring.

  After a while, Latin looked at the tent in disgust, gathered his cards and walked toward the front porch of the trading post. Before climbing the steps to the porch, he turned and saw the wagon roll into sight, coming from the weathered barn. Red Gantry rode beside the rig on his horse.

  “What the hell happened to your face, Red?” Latin asked as the wagon rolled up closer to trading post.

  “Not a damn thing, Dock,” Gantry said in a brittle tone of voice. “What happened to yours?”

  Dock let it go. He shrugged and looked at the small, thin Indian beside Segan Udall on the wagon seat.

  “Where you headed off to this morning?” Latin asked.

  “Any questions you’ve got, Dock,” said Gantry, “I’ll oblige you to take them straight to Cheyenne.” He looked Dock up and down as his horse stepped past him. “I expect you were too drunk last night to hear what Cheyenne said.”

  Dock walked alongside his horse. Looking up at him, he scratched his head up under his hat brim.

  “I guess I was,” he said, remaining amiable. “What did he say?”

  Gantry jerked his horse to a halt while the wagon rolled on and looked down at him crossly.

  “He told everybody that me and this crippled Ute and the arsonist there are headed out to make sure nobody is able to get on our trail and stay there very long.”

  “Yeah?” said Dock, looking curious. “And how is it you’re going to do that?”

  “How do you think?” said Gantry, nodding toward the wagon where the tin of coal oil, torches and other fire starting paraphernalia lay in the wagon bed.

  “Jesus,” said Dock. “You’re going to start more fire?”

  Gantry looked at him, annoyed.

  “Tell me something, Dock,” he said. “When you saw me coming just now, did I look like I might want to stop and answer whatever damn-fool question you might come up with?”

  “Keep riding, Red,” Latin said, his tone of voice turning cold and testy. “No damn wonder to me your face looks like a busted washboard.”

  Gantry gigged his horse and caught up with the wagon. He looked at Little Foot, then at Segan Udall, his hand going to the rifle across his lap.

  “I’m telling you both right now,” he said, “I don’t want no damn trouble out of either damn one of yas.”

  Little Foot looked at Segan Udall, then settled back on the hard wooden seat and stared straight ahead.

  * * *

  Inside another rental tent, three tents down from all the loud snoring, Cheyenne sat straight up, wide-eyed, on the pallet of blankets he and Caroline had made up on the dirt floor after the cot gave way under the strain of their intense passion. He shook his head and batted his eyes to get his senses cleared and working.

  Damn it, he thought to himself, why hadn’t he checked sooner?

  He stood up naked and picked up the set of saddlebags lying within arm’s reach next to his gun and gun belt. Come on, come on! Be there, he demanded as he loosened the straps holding the thick leather bags shut. He felt the bags as he worked the straps in a hurry. They appeared right, just about the way he remembered them, he thought. He was worrying over nothing, he told himself, letting out a sigh of relief.

  But then he upended the saddlebags and felt his heart sink and hit bottom as he watched Gilley Maclaine’s undergarments and dirty clothes tumble from the bags onto the pallet.

  “Holy God! No!” he cried aloud, clamping his hands on either side of his suddenly aching head. He fell straight down onto the pallet as if his legs had given out on him.

  “What is it?” Caroline asked, awaking to the sound of his voice. She rubbed her eyes, turned onto her side and propped herself up onto an elbow. Cheyenne sat staring in disbelief at the clothes and undergarments.

  “Nothing . . . ,” Cheyenne said idly, trying to get a grip on his situation.

  “You kept your word to Segan,” Caroline said dreamily. “You didn’t force yourself on me.” She reached a hand over onto his bare shoulder. He sat in silence.

  “I’m going to hold you to your word not to force yourself on me every night while Segan is out starting fire for you.” She lay back on the pallet, folded her arms back under her head. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered how this would be . . . the two of us, alone, all the time in the world—”

  “I’ve got to go,” Cheyenne said abruptly, almost before she’d finished talking. He hastily stuffed the dirty clothes and undergarments back into the saddlebags without her seeing them.

  “Oh . . . ?” Caroline raised herself up onto both elbows and gave him a puzzled look. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine, Caroline,” he said, reaching a hand over and stroking it down her cheek. “Perfect, in fact.”

  “Yes, wasn’t it, though?” Caroline said, taking his hand and holding it to her lips.

  Cheyenne smiled and kept cool about his findings. He wasn’t about to let her know what was bothering him. He had to keep this a secret. He wasn’t about to let his men know that Gilley Maclaine had gutted him of all his money. Jesus! How could he not have checked the saddlebags before riding away, leaving her there on that burning hillside?

  “All right, I’ve got to get my men gathered up,” he said, pulling his hand gently away from her.

  “Right now?” Caroline purred.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Cheyenne, thinking about how much money he was going to owe Bagley for all the food, drink and tents. Damn! It struck him that he had less than three dollars in his pocket.

  Caroline lay watching curiously as he stood up, dressed and turned to the door.

  “I am going with you, aren’t I?” she asked as he pulled his boots on and slung his gun belt up over his shoulder.

  “You bet you are,” he said. “Get dressed and ready. We’ll be heading out of here in an hour.”

  “What are we going to do about Segan?” she asked, throwing the blanket aside and standing up naked in front of him. A length of rope still hung from her neck.

  “Don’t worry, Red Gantry’s keeping an eye on him. They’ll catch up with us,” Cheyenne said, getting ready in a hurry now, hoping he could bypass Bagley altogether and get out of town without anyone knowing what had happened to his money. It was all about saving face, he told himself. Being the new gang leader, he had to show these men he was nobody’s fool.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Caroline said. She stared at him. “I meant is your offer still open?”

  Cheyenne stopped and looked her up and down.

  “What offer is that?” he asked.

  “Your offer to kill him for me,” she said in a calm, steady voice. As she spoke she tossed the rope around behind her and hooked her arms on his neck. In reflex his arms wrapped around her. She drew herself against him, the rope dangling down her bare warm back. “You did say you would, after he was finished doing what you wanted.”

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll kill him for you, Caroline, first chance we get,” Cheyenne said offhandedly. He felt the heat of her through his cloth
es. He smiled, looking down into her eyes. “Anything else I can do for you this morning?” His hand found the rope hanging behind her and jerked down sharply on it, just enough to cause her to gasp in surprise.

  He saw the excitement shine in her eyes. She clutched him to her, running her fingertips up and down his back. She grazed her hand over the gun belt hanging from his shoulder, enjoying the feel of the leather, the hard brassy feel of bullets standing in a row—the cold edge of the gun butt pressed to her soft flesh.

  “Yes, there is,” she whispered in a breathless voice, “now that you mention it.”

  Jesus, Cheyenne thought, how had he ever let this woman get past him before, back when she was Caroline Darby, when she and her late husband, Herbert, had nursed him back to health? He knew he’d been weak and wounded back then, but damn! He must’ve also been out of his mind. Well . . . he wasn’t weak and wounded now, he told himself. He wrapped the length of rope around his hand and pulled her down to the pallet with him. Whatever else he had to do could wait awhile, he thought. What was another few minutes? Not everything had to be all about business.

  * * *

  Inside the trading post, Dock Latin rested his hand on the edge of the plank bar and watched as Dewey Fritz refilled a mug with hot, fresh coffee and slid it back in front of him. Steam wafted. Without being asked, Dewey reached around on a shelf behind him, took a black cigar from a tall leather cup and laid it on the bar beside Dock’s coffee.

  “Obliged, barkeep,” Dock said, eyeing Dewey as he picked up the cigar and stuck it between his teeth.

  As if out of nowhere, a match appeared in Dewey’s thick hand. He dragged it along the underside of the bar top, struck it and held it out to the tip of Dock’s expectant cigar.

  “Obliged again,” said Dock. He puffed the cigar to life, then blew out a thin stream of smoke. He sipped coffee from the mug and let out a breath of satisfaction.

  “Where’s your boss this morning?” he asked the large bartender, making conversation.