Wildfire

by Ralph Cotton

  “It could be that young doctor,” said Hollenbeck. He rested his Winchester up over his shoulder, a little disappointed that they hadn’t seen any action since Cheyenne and his gang left town.

  “Yeah, I figure it’s the doctor,” said Corkins, “but this job has been dull as hell. I’m going to take a few shots at him just to keep myself from falling asleep up here.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Hollenbeck. “It’s been over two hours.”

  “These peckerwoods don’t even know if we’re still up here or not,” said Corkins. “Seems like one of them would have to go to the jake by now.” He stifled a yawn.

  “I haven’t been this bored since my grandpa’s hanging,” said Hollenbeck. He paused. They stood in silence staring down at the saloon doors. “Course I was only a child at the time, didn’t realize there was betting could be made on how long he’d wiggle—”

  “Here he comes!” Corkins said all of a sudden, cutting Hollenbeck’s story short. “You push him forward. I’ll keep holding him back.”

  The two gunmen raised their rifles to their shoulders. Below them at the saloon doors, the bald-headed young doctor stepped out onto the boardwalk and looked up at the two black silhouettes outlined against the purple night sky.

  “I’m Dr. Weltz,” he called up to the blackness, walking slowly along sideways, his arms spread wide, holding his leather bag out for the gunmen to see. “I’ve got to go pick up some more bandages and supplie—”

  His words stopped beneath the sound of a rifle shot. The bullet thumped into the boardwalk an inch from his foot, causing him to jump farther away from the saloon doors. Another bullet hit near his foot, forcing him to jump again.

  Holy Jesus!

  “Don’t shoot, I’m the doctor!” he shouted. He ran three steps, then stopped short as Hollenbeck joined the game and put a bullet in the thick boardwalk plank on his other side. The doctor shrieked and jumped back in the other direction, his black bag still in hand. Corkins put another bullet dangerously close to the doctor’s foot. Dr. Weltz shrieked again.

  Without facing Hollenbeck, Corkins jacked a fresh round into his rifle chamber and said, “What do you say, Sandy, ten dollars?”

  “You’re on,” Hollenbeck replied, his rifle up, ready to fire as the terrified doctor stepped back in his direction. “First one hits his foot loses?”

  Corkins nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s keep him dancing,” he said.

  “Go!” said Hollenbeck.

  Bullets thumped rapidly into the boardwalk on either side of the young doctor, kicking up bits and slivers of wood. The doctor bounced back and forth on tiptoes, like some mindless marionette attempting to keep both feet off the ground. His black bag flapped up and down at the end of his outstretched arm.

  Bullets pounded; splinters flew. Townsfolk stared in shock.

  “Whooee! Look at him go!” Hollenbeck said sidelong to Corkins, keeping his voice down.

  No sooner had Hollenbeck spoken than the doctor collapsed backward against the front of the saloon and his bag flew from his hand, landing a few feet away. Corkins lowered his Spencer rifle and puffed on his cigar.

  “Damn, we’ve come to a draw,” he said, sounding almost disappointed that neither of them had shot the doctor in the foot.

  “I expect it’s bound to happen,” Hollenbeck said, lowering his Winchester, “two crack shots like us going head-to-head.” He grinned and added, “I’ll shoot him in the foot for fun, if you want me to, but the bet’s off.”

  “Naw, forget it,” said Corkins. “I’m losing interest. Shoot his bag instead,” he said.

  “Ouch!” said Hollenbeck, giving him a look, even as he levered a bullet into his Winchester.

  “I mean his doctor’s bag,” said Corkins.

  “Good thing you said something,” Hollenbeck replied. He raised his rifle to his shoulder again.

  On the boardwalk, Dr. Weltz took the lull in rifle fire as a chance to get back indoors. He scrambled toward the leather bag, stretching his arm out for it. But just as his fingertips touched it, the impact of a bullet from Hollenbeck’s Winchester lifted it in the air and sent its contents flying in every direction.

  “Hold your fire, damn it!” the colonel shouted out from inside the doors of the saloon.

  “You were warned about trying to leave,” Corkins shouted back to him.

  “He’s the doctor!” the colonel shouted. “He needs more medical supplies!”

  Corkins chuckled and turned to Hollenbeck.

  “Listen to this, Sandy,” he said, grinning. He shouted down at the saloon, “Who’s the doctor?”

  “He is, damn it,” said the colonel, “the man you’re shooting at!”

  Keeping himself from bursting out laughing, Corkins pressed his gloved knuckles to his mouth and got himself under control.

  “Why didn’t he just say so?” he called out.

  “He did say so, damn it to hell,” said the colonel. “He said so several times!”

  Hollenbeck stifled his laughter.

  “Then he should have made it more clear,” he shouted down to the saloon.

  Corkins stood chuckling beside him.

  But they both stopped laughing at the sound of a gun hammer cocking on the roof behind them. They turned around slowly, rifles in hand, and stared at the dark, shadowy outline of the Ranger. Moonlight glinted off the big raised Colt in his hand.

  “Shame on you two, shooting at an unarmed doctor,” he said, his face blackened out by the brim of his wide sombrero.

  “Who the hell are you?” Corkins demanded.

  “Arizona Territory Ranger Samuel Burrack,” came the quiet voice from beneath the sombrero.

  “Ah yeah. Well, I’ve heard of you, Arizona Territory Ranger Samuel Burrack,” Corkins said mockingly. “I’ve got news for you, this ain’t Arizona Territory.”

  “I didn’t say it was,” Sam replied coolly.

  As Sam and Corkins spoke, Hollenbeck eased his right hand back along his rifle until his thumb lay over the hammer.

  “Here’s some more news for you,” Corkins said. “You’re not taking us in. You’re not taking us anywhere!”

  Hollenbeck cocked his Winchester. Corkins started to raise his Spencer rifle.

  “I didn’t say I was,” Sam said in the same quiet voice. “That’ll be up to you.”

  Corkins and Hollenbeck made their move as one, without hesitation.

  But Sam saw it coming. The big Colt bucked in his hand. An orange-blue flame split the darkness. His first shot hit Corkins dead center and hurled him off the facade to the street below. Corkins’ long duster flapped out around him like the broken wings of some great dying bird.

  A shot from Hollenbeck’s Winchester sliced through the air past Sam’s cheek. But then the big Colt bucked again and Hollenbeck sailed off and down behind Corkins.

  As the shot resounded, Sam stepped forward on the empty roof and looked down on the dirt. Ten yards away the townsfolk stared up at him, seeing the big Colt hanging in his hand, yet unable to make out the rise of smoke curling up its barrel and across the back of his hand.

  In the gathering of townsfolk, an elderly woman crossed herself and stared upward.

  From the doors of the saloon, the colonel had seen both bodies fall to the dirt as if cast out of heaven. He gazed up at the dark outline of the Ranger.

  “Who’s that up there?” he called out.

  “Arizona Territory Ranger Samuel Burrack,” Sam said for the second time in the past five minutes. “Tell your men to hold their fire, Colonel Moser. I’m coming down.”

  The Ranger turned and walked to the rear of the roof. He looked off to the southwest and saw an orange, fiery glow against the purple sky. More wildfire coming, he told himself. After he’d climbed down a
wooden ladder Corkins had leaned against the building, he gathered his horse from where he’d left it hitched and walked out to the street, through grateful, onlooking townsfolk.

  By the time he’d gotten to the salon, Dr. Weltz had gathered his bullet-struck medical bag and scattered supplies from the boardwalk and gone back to work bandaging Junior Moser, who lay limp atop a battered faro table.

  When the Ranger walked in, Dr. Weltz gave him a quick nod of appreciation on his way to the bar, where the colonel stood surveying the mess the robbers left behind.

  “We’re grateful to you, Ranger,” the colonel said, pouring them both a glass of whiskey. He slid Sam’s drink in front of him.

  “Obliged, but not tonight,” Sam said. “I’m on the trail.” He pushed the glass away with a finger. “Any of these bodies Cheyenne’s men?”

  “Not a damn one,” the colonel said in disgust. “He also took a young dove of mine hostage named Silvia.” He gritted his teeth. “I expect I know what he’s got in mind for her.”

  “How long ago did all this happen?” Sam asked, seeing the tangled and twisted birdcage still lying atop the bar, the blood, the bullet holes, the bodies being carried out to the dark street.

  “A couple of hours, three at the most,” the colonel said. He threw back his shot glass of whiskey in one drink. “What brought you here anyway?”

  “Tracking these same men,” Sam said. “Luckily I didn’t ride into their gun sights. I heard shooting, came on a back street and caught those two pinning you down.”

  “Yeah, the sons a’ bitches,” said the colonel, pouring himself another glass of rye. “Both of them are gunmen who’ve been living here among us for a while. Cheyenne must’ve talked them into keeping us holed up while he made his getaway.” He shook his head. “Gunmen are not known for their powerful brains.” As he spoke, by coincidence, two men carried Stanley Rait’s headless corpse past them and on out the front door. The colonel shook his head.

  “They’re going to pay for this,” he swore. “Soon as I see Junior is going to live, I’m in a saddle leading my men. We’ll stretch their necks from a tree, or shoot them down where they stand. I don’t care which. I want my money back, and I want the dove back too.”

  Seeing there would be no talking the colonel out of riding after Cheyenne and his gang, Sam said in an even tone, “You and your men be careful. I saw more wildfire coming—and watch your shooting. I’ll be on the trail in front of you.”

  “You can wait and ride with us,” the colonel invited. But Sam had already turned and started toward the door.

  * * *

  Cheyenne and his gang stopped at the rocky three-forks in the trail where they would turn north and ride on to Dutchman’s Gulch. While they rested their horses, Cheyenne stepped down from his saddle and helped Silvia from hers. Caroline Udall stayed atop her horse, staring in silence. When Cheyenne came around to help her down, she took his hand. But once her feet touched ground, when he offered her a canteen of water, she only turned and walked away.

  “I sense a lover’s quarrel in the air,” Silvia said quietly, taking the canteen, uncapping it and raising it to her lips.

  “We’re not what you call lovers,” Cheyenne said. “At least not anymore.”

  “Oh?” said Silvia. “Does she know that?” She handed the uncapped canteen back to him.

  “Not exactly,” said Cheyenne. He paused and said, “It’s sort of a complicated story.”

  “I bet it is,” Silvia said knowingly. “I’d love to hear it.”

  “Not right now,” Cheyenne said. He gave her a smile. “I’d rather talk about you.”

  “Huh-uh,” Silvia said. “I’m your prisoner, remember? I’m not giving anything up.”

  “Don’t be that way,” Cheyenne said. “We can still be close—”

  “Cheyenne! Somebody’s coming,” said Royal Tarpis, standing beside his horse, the closest man to the trail leading back toward Nawton.

  “Who could that be?” Cheyenne said with a puzzled look. “We left everything ablaze behind us.”

  “Ever think it might not be somebody following you?” Silvia said smugly. “There are other people in this big world besides you, you know.” She winked and turned away from him.

  Damn it! He needed some time alone with this one to bring her around, he thought. But that would have to wait.

  “Everybody take cover,” he said to Tarpis and the other two gunmen, he himself starting to hear the soft clack of iron shoe against rocky ground. He stepped over closer to the trail and hid himself behind a tall rock. The others vanished behind tree and rock until the trail stood silent and empty.

  * * *

  Thirty yards back, from the direction of Nawton, Little Foot and Gilley Maclaine walked along leading their horses. Gilley’s horse hadn’t stopped limping, but it was doing better without the weight of a rider on its back. Still shirtless, Little Foot wore a thin, ragged blanket he had foraged from the livery barn in Mandell and wrapped around himself.

  “I heard something,” Little Foot said, stopping suddenly in the moonlight. He jerked his horse to a stop beside him. He paused for a moment in the silence of the night, listening intently. “Did you hear something?” he asked in a whisper.

  “No,” Gilley replied, also whispering.

  “Well, I did,” said Little Foot. “I heard it with these Ute ears of mine—ears that are as powerful as those of the wolf.”

  Gilley only stared.

  Little Foot waited with a puzzled look on his face, not hearing another sound. He tugged the blanket around himself, the cloth still dried tightly to the wound on his side.

  “All right,” he said, “perhaps my ears are wrong, too much of the white man’s whiskey.” He tugged the horse’s reins and started walking on. “Perhaps instead of hearing somebody, I smelled them. It’s easy to mistake things with senses are as keen as mine.”

  “That must be it,” Gilley whispered in reply, walking her limping horse.

  A few minutes later as they reached three forks in the trail, Little Foot squatted to search the dark ground for the barb’s hoofprints. But when he spotted the freshly made hoofprints leading back for the direction of Iron Hat, he stood up with his hand on his pistol and looked all around warily.

  Dock Latin’s voice called out from among the cover of rock above the trail, “Lift your shooter with two fingers, Injun, and let it fall.”

  Little Foot thought about drawing the Colt and blasting away. Warrior-style, he told himself. But as he looked up and around and saw the black silhouettes of the four gunmen rise as if ascending from the bowels of hell around him, he sighed heavily, lifted the Colt slowly and let it fall.

  “Holy cats, Cheyenne, look who’s here,” said Dock Latin, recognizing Gilley standing with her hands chest high, facing him on the grainy, dark trail. “It’s Gilley Maclaine.”

  “Gilley . . . ?” said Cheyenne, stepping into sight, walking toward her while Tarpis stepped over and picked up Little Foot’s Colt from the dirt. “Jesus, Gilley, I thought you were dead,” he added.

  “Oh?” said Gilley. “What you mean is you thought you killed me, right?” she said.

  “Well, yes,” Cheyenne said. “We did have that little spat between us.”

  Just listening to the sound of his voice, Gilley could tell he hadn’t told his men everything that had happened. He didn’t sound upset about her stealing his money—didn’t sound like it, but she knew he was, she told herself. She decided to keep quiet, see what gains she could make for herself and Little Foot by letting Cheyenne know she would keep her mouth shut.

  “A little spat is putting it mildly,” she said. “You tried to kill me. Then you tried to burn me alive. But none of that is why I’m here. I came because you forgot to pay me for those horses.” There was sarcasm in her emphasis.

 
“Gilley.” Cheyenne grinned, taking her by the arm. “You’re making it sound worse than it was.” He led her away from the others, shooting a nervous glance at both Caroline and Silvia. Caroline stared blankly. Silvia gave him a smug twist of a smile, judging him poorly, he thought.

  Latin and Tarpis shot each other a look.

  “What’s going on here?” Delbert Pace asked, a fresh bottle he’d taken from his saddlebags hanging in his hand.

  “Keep still, Handy,” whispered Latin. “We’ll tell you all about it later.”

  Chapter 20

  While the three gunmen, the Indian and the two women sat watching, Cheyenne turned Gilley by her arm and walked her away a few yards, out of listening distance. When he jerked her to a halt, he squeezed her arm tight.

  “Where’s my damn money?” he said, in a harsh, threatening tone.

  Gilley didn’t back an inch. She stared at him with a short vengeful grin and said, “Where’s my damn undergarments?”

  “Don’t be funny with me, damn it . . . and do not think I won’t kill you,” Cheyenne threatened. The words came out of his mouth at a rapid pace.

  “Kill me?” she said in disbelief. “Now, there’s a surefire way to get your money back.” She rounded her arm free from his grasp.

  “I mean it, Gilley,” said Cheyenne, calming down, softening a little. “You don’t want to play with me on this.”

  Also calming down, Gilley looked him in the eye, reached up and brushed his hair from his forehead.

  “I don’t have it, Cheyenne,” she said, “and that’s the gospel truth. Ranger Burrack has it. He saved me from the fire, then took it from me.”

  “Burrack . . . ,” said Cheyenne. “All right, where is he? I’ll kill him and get it back.”

  “He’s trailing you, Cheyenne,” she said. “If you’re smart you’ll stay clear of him. I’ve been with him long enough to know that he is tough as a pine knot. He’ll kill you graveyard dead.”

  “You’ve been with him?” Cheyenne asked, his voice taking on a different tone. “How do you mean?”

  Gilley noted the change. She relaxed even more and decided to take advantage of it.