Wildfire

by Ralph Cotton

  In the dirt, Latin and Tarpis were both frantically reloading their rifles.

  “Holy Jesus! Hurry up!” Latin said to Tarpis. He had just finished reloading, but Tarpis was still working at it.

  “I’m hurrying, damn it!” Tarpis shouted. Two bullets kicked up dirt in Latin’s face. To the side, Pace shook his head and fell into drunken, hysterical cackling.

  Seeing Tierney and Weedy move into sight and advance, firing with every step, Latin quickly turned his rifle, levered a round and shoved the stock against his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing . . . ! He tried levering the rifle again, hoping to kick out a bad bullet and make a fresh start. The lever wouldn’t budge—jammed!

  Good God! He lay shaking, jerking the rifle lever as the gunmen stopped firing for a moment and continued walking forward, as if they knew they were advancing on dead men.

  Tarpis let his reloaded gun fall to the dirt and raised his hands a little. He looked up and saw Tierney’s smoking rifle barrel looming only inches from his face. Next to him, Latin let his rifle drop too, and saw Weedy’s grinning, sweaty face above him, his smoking rifle cocked and pointed.

  “Don’t shoot, please, Weedy!” he said, raising his hands from the dirt as much as he could. “You and me were never enemies!”

  “Repent, repent . . . O ye sinners, repent,” Weedy said, grinning widely, liking the religious role he had taken on earlier with Tierney. “Lest ye burn in hell!”

  “I do repent, Weedy, honest to God, I do,” Latin said. Not far from his side, Delbert Pace lay hugging the earth.

  “Quit fooling around, Weedy. Shoot him!” Tierney said.

  “Oh, all right,” said Weedy, grudgingly.

  On Latin’s left his heard Tierney let out a grunt as a rifle shot exploded. He cut his eyes toward Tierney just in time to see him stumble forward over Tarpis and land in the dirt as a thick red mist of blood loomed in the air behind him.

  “What the—?” Earl Weedy turned quickly toward Tierney to see what was going on just as another rifle shot exploded. Latin flinched as Weedy’s blood splattered down on his face, along his back. This time Latin realized the shot came from the trees along the far side of the shack. He looked through blood-hazed eyes toward the sound of the shot and saw Cheyenne step out into the cleared yard, his rifle still up, smoke curling from its barrel.

  “Cheyenne . . . ,” Tarpis said with relief. He pushed himself up beside Latin and reached a hand down to him. Latin took his hand and rose to his feet, feeling shaky, getting himself back under control. In the dirt nearby, Pace rose onto his knees, his arms clasped across his belly, cackling hysterically under his breath.

  “Shut up, Handy!” Latin shouted. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

  They watched Cheyenne start toward them. But then they saw him stop and bolt back in the direction of the woods as the sound of hoofbeats raced, breaking through dry brush and undergrowth.

  Inside the trees, Cheyenne stopped and stared as the horse with Silvia on it disappeared from sight.

  Damn it to hell! he said to himself. She could have given him a chance. She didn’t have to run away, leave him standing here like a fool in front of his men. What was wrong with these women? He could have proven himself to her, somehow, he thought. Still feeling the pain throb in his crotch where she’d kneed him, he took a deep breath and turned back to the yard.

  All right. She didn’t want him? Then to hell with her, he told himself. That was her loss—he brushed a broken pine needle from the sleeve of his forearm—not his, he thought, walking toward the shack.

  * * *

  By the time Cheyenne had walked across the yard to join his men, Delbert Pace had managed to get his drunken laughter under control. He’d picked up the empty Colts and stood with them in hand while he wiped his wet lips on the backs of his hands. He loaded each pistol in turn, stuck one in his holster and the other one inside his shirt, behind his belt. Two long, wide streaks of urine darkened the inside of his trouser legs.

  Dock Latin had cleared and rechecked his jammed rifle when Cheyenne stepped in front of him.

  “Boss, you saved my life,” Latin said.

  “Hell, all our lives,” Tarpis put in.

  “I owe you a bunch,” Latin said to Cheyenne.

  “Obliged, but forget it,” said Cheyenne. “What do you think, that I could leave you out here to die?”

  “No!” said Latin, he and Tarpis both shaking their heads vigorously. “If ever I might have had doubt,” Latin continued, “I for sure know better now.”

  “We went the right way, going with you, Cheyenne,” Tarpis put in. “But I reckon we already knew that.”

  Cheyenne nodded and said modestly, “Don’t make a big thing out of it. This is the way I ride.” He looked over at Pace, ignored the man’s wet trousers and said, “Handy, you got any more of that idiot juice?”

  “I bet I can come up with some,” Pace said, already turning toward the loose horses standing huddled near the spot where the hitch rail had been.

  “Give everybody a drink on me,” Cheyenne said. He looked around the yard, taking his time, not wanting it to appear that the money was the real and only reason he’d come to his men’s rescue.

  “You got it, boss,” Pace said over his shoulder.

  “Where’s the money?” Cheyenne asked Latin and Tarpis.

  The two looked all around on the ground, then at each other with stunned expressions.

  “The woman and the Indian took it, boss,” Pace said, stopping on his way to the horses. “Soon as the shooting started, I saw them heft it between them and take off toward the woods.”

  “Damn it, Handy,” said Dock Latin, “were you going to tell anybody?”

  Pace shrugged.

  “I just did,” he said.

  Seeing Caroline Udall finally venture up from behind the log, Cheyenne let out a breath.

  “Talk about it later,” he said to the men. “Drink your whiskey while we ride. We’re not letting Gilley and that crippled Indian skin us out of our money.” He reminded himself bitterly that this was the second time Gilley Maclaine had taken his money. No matter what else happened, the minute he caught up to her, she was dead.

  As the men hurried over to the horses and began sorting through the animals, Cheyenne stepped over and lifted Caroline enough to sit her back on the log.

  “I was on my way back here for you, Caroline,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m all right,” Caroline said, looking away from him. “You don’t have to lie. You weren’t looking for me.”

  “Sure I was,” said Cheyenne. He lifted her face toward his on his fingertips. “Look at me, Caroline,” he said, gently but firmly, forcing her attention on him. “I don’t know what you think was going on between me and the dove, but it was only business. I had to play to her a little just to keep things going my way.”

  “I don’t care,” Caroline said in resignation, forcing her face away from his.

  “It’s true, Caroline,” Cheyenne persisted. But seeing his talk was getting him nowhere, he was glad to hear Tarpis call out to him from the horses.

  “Boss, we’re going to be a horse short if a woman is going with us,” he said.

  Cheyenne gazed down at Caroline. She continued to look away from him. He could tell she was crying softly. Shaking his head, he said, “Caroline, I’m going to have to ask you to wait here for me.”

  “Go on,” she said, “leave me here with the dead. I’ll be all right.”

  Cheyenne looked around at the three bloody bodies lying in the dirt.

  “But I am coming back for you, Caroline,” he said, sounding sincere. “Don’t even think for a minute that I’m not.”

  “Just go,” she said, still not facing him.

  Cheyenne bac
ked away without another word.

  For the next few minutes, from her seat on the log, Caroline heard the commotions of the four men getting their horses ready for the trail. Finally, as she stared off into the woods through watery eyes, she heard the horses’ hooves galloping away, splashing across the stream and fading deep into the surrounding pines.

  In the silence so still she thought she could actually hear the sunlight move westward across the sky, she continued to sit and stare out at the distance where familiar brownish black smoke rose and bellowed. An hour passed . . . two hours. The smoke inched closer on the wind.

  Finally she sighed, stood up and took a deep, cleansing breath. She walked to the two bodies lying almost side by side in the dirt. She stooped down, slipped a big Remington revolver from one of the dead outlaws’ holsters, stood up and cocked its hammer using both hands.

  A moment later, a single gunshot shattered the silence and resounded off through the woods. Birds shooed upward as one, like a handful of husk pitched onto the wind. On the woodland floor, the single rider stopped for a moment, but only for a moment. Then he batted his heels to his horse’s sides and led the two spare horses behind him as he raced toward the sound of the shot.

  In the clearing, Caroline stood stunned, her ears ringing loudly, a streak of burnt hair smoking across the back half of her head. She looked up from the gun lying on the ground at her feet and saw the ragged, bandaged figure and his black-smudged horses riding toward her.

  “Caroline!” the rider shouted from thirty yards.

  Although her ringing ears didn’t allow her to hear the rider, she saw something familiar . . . something in the way he rode, the way he sat in his saddle.

  “Segan . . . ?” she said, not realizing how loud she’d said it.

  “Oh, Caroline, yes, it’s me!” Segan shouted tearfully, sliding his horse and his smoke-blackened spare horses to a halt.

  He stiffly climbed down from his saddle, bandages covering his face, his chest, his forearms, like some ancient mummy from the Valley of the Kings.

  “Thank God!” he said, turning, grabbing her into his arms, pressing her against him. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “Se-Segan,” Caroline said, standing limply against him, only catching shallow echoes of his words.

  “Yes, it’s me, Caroline,” Segan said, holding on to her even though she offered no return of his embrace. “Nothing could keep me from finding you.”

  Caroline stared off over his shoulder into the woods as he babbled on into her deaf ear.

  “I have burned every inch of ground behind me following Cheyenne’s trail. I saw them ride away from here earlier. When I didn’t see you, I knew they must’ve left you behind. So I came straightaway!”

  Caroline only nodded, knowing he’d said something about following the trail to her.

  “I stole the horse I’m riding from the settlement. I found these two wandering along a stream where somebody must’ve lost them. They’re battered and skinned up something awful, but they’ll ride. I brought them in case I found you. And now I have, thank God, thank God!” He squeezed her tighter; she only nodded.

  He held her at arm’s length, his big hands on her small shoulders.

  “Things are going to be fine now,” he said, “just fine from now on.” But when he’d stopped speaking, she saw his countenance change before her eyes. “But tell the truth, darling,” he said, “did he force himself upon you? I won’t hold it against you if he did. Only I’ve got to know, for my sake, for our sake.”

  Caroline did not hear what he asked, but she could tell what subject he was broaching by the way his grip tightened on her shoulders.

  “He never touched me, Segan,” she lied, her voice raised against her own deafness. “He gave his word and he kept it.” She studied his face, gauging if what she said was going to be enough. His expression changed, but only slightly; she had to give him more, she decided.

  “He would have had to kill me if he tried, Segan,” she said, hoping that was all it would take. And it was.

  Relief flooded Segan’s face. He pulled her against him again.

  “Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God. . . .”

  Caroline only nodded. While she stood woodenly, smelling of burnt hair, her arms limp at her sides, she did reach a hand up and carefully patted his bandaged back.

  “Just take me home, my husband,” she whispered, not hearing, or even caring what he’d said. “Just take me home. . . .”

  Segan pulled away but kept an arm around her. The two turned and walked toward the horses. Smelling the burnt hair, seeing the big Remington that had been smoking on the ground, he gave her a questioning look.

  “It was nothing,” she said. “I tried to shoot myself.” She raised her arm and encircled his waist, accepting him back. “But it appears I missed.”

  Chapter 24

  When the gunfight began, Gilley Maclaine had snatched up the bag of saloon money, thrown it over her shoulder and taken off running, Little Foot right behind her, the small Indian limping and struggling to keep up with her. Inside the woods, Gilley had stopped once, only for a moment, to look back and warn him.

  “As soon as they finish killing each other, whoever’s left alive will be coming for this money,” she said, slightly out of breath. She dropped the heavy bag of money on the ground.

  “Yes, but only . . . because you . . . took the money,” Little Foot said, gasping for breath. “If you left it there . . . they wouldn’t care . . . what we—”

  “I wasn’t about to leave without it,” Gilley interrupted, “not after what Cheyenne put me through.” She wiped a hand across her sweaty forehead. “You’ve got to keep up, or I’ll have to leave you behind.”

  Her words stung and shamed Little Foot. He wanted to tell her that he was doing his best to keep up, but that his withered foot would not allow it. But that would be an excuse, and even though it was a good and honest excuse, his warrior’s pride would never allow him to say it, even with the whiskey he’d drunk still glowing warmly in his brain.

  “You go on ahead . . . don’t worry about me,” he said, starting to catch his breath. “I am a warrior.”

  “I don’t want to leave you,” Gilley said.

  “Go on,” said Little Foot. “I stake myself out here. I will ambush them . . . and kill every one of them.”

  Gilley stared at him for a moment, then looked down and shook her head.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I’m sorry, Little Indian. But I’ve got to go.” She hefted the bag back up onto her shoulder.

  “I am not Little Indian,” Little Foot said, correcting her. “I’m Little Foot, remember?” He raised his small, withered foot and wagged it a little, as if to remind her.

  He was drunker than she’d realized.

  “I know that,” Gilley said, placating him. She left him without looking back and hurried along the rocky trail toward the smoke and flames that lay atop the hills ahead of her. How she would avoid the fire, she had no idea. But she had money, plenty of it. Something would come to her. It always did. Keep moving, she told herself.

  As she disappeared out of sight, Little Foot squatted on his haunches and continued catching his breath. After a moment he looked around at the many rocks strewn along the trail. Good rocks for throwing, at least some of them, he thought. He sorted through the loose rocks, running his hands over them until he’d selected half a dozen that fit just right in his hand.

  He stood up and gazed back along the trail, the whiskey lending him courage, and a sense of well-being he had never felt so strongly. Let them come, he told himself, taking a warrior’s stance, one rock in his right hand, the other five cradled against his chest in his thin left arm.

  As he stood waiting, he began chanting a warrior’s death chant, or at least he hoped that’s what it was
. With his having grown up for the most part in the white man’s world, there were things he knew, and things he didn’t about his people. There were also chants for weddings, for giving birth, for just giving thanks to this spirit or that. But it didn’t matter, he told himself. What the chant was intended for was not as important as what he felt in his heart as he spoke it.

  In his heart he spoke the chant a warrior speaks before hurling himself, his life, his arrows, his only spear . . . or rocks, at his enemy. This was all that mattered.

  As he prepared for death, be began hearing the beat of hooves coming up the trail toward him. He tensed himself and stood more firmly. His chanting quickened with intensity. The whiskey boosted his courage, but it did not create it, he was certain. The courage had to be in his heart to begin with for the whiskey to bring it out.

  Either way he was ready for death when death came galloping into sight.

  As the glimpse of horse and rider appeared in a glint of sunlight, his chanting stopped. He let out a fierce war cry and began hurling rock after rock. Yet, as the harsh sunlight waned and his third rock left his hand, he recognized Silvia Darnell, her gaping mouth, her terror-filled eyes as she caught a flash of a rock the size of goose egg whistling toward her forehead.

  “Oh no! Oh God!” he exclaimed.

  He’d killed her! he thought, seeing her roll backward out of her saddle, her arms outspread, both legs flung open in the air. She flipped off the horse’s rump and slapped facedown on the ground like a limp bundle of rags. The horse, feeling the weight of its rider gone, slowed down to a halt and looked back as if in curiosity.

  Little Foot dropped his remaining rocks and ran limping to the woman, who was sprawled on the hard, rocky ground. This was not at all what he’d chanted for. This was not the act of a warrior; this was the act of a drunken fool!

  Damned whiskey! he cursed to himself, suddenly sober, stooping, turning the woman over in his arms. Hearing her groan, he brushed dirt and particles of pine bark from her face, her open mouth. A knot the size of the rock that had felled her had already risen on her forehead.