by Judd Cole
Bill reined in, cussing, as more shots rang out from positions along the hogback ridge.
“Stick to the plan!” Jimmy got out somehow as he pushed himself up into firing position again. “I got my target!”
Jimmy’s Winchester began cracking and bucking. Josh had too many things to do at once. Below, the stagecoach doors were thrown open and the sharpshooters rolled out, taking up positions. Joshua remembered, just in time, to get his own revolver out of its holster.
But too damn much was going on! Bullets thwacked into the coach, and Joshua glimpsed several men showing themselves momentarily behind the ridge, just popping up and snap shooting with rifles.
Joshua had been in a few scrapes by now, and this one wasn’t amounting to much. Jimmy’s very first shots, even though poorly aimed because Jimmy was slipping into shock, very quickly broke the attack. Even before Wild Bill had to fire a shot. He did get one off, wounding a man—Joshua heard the yelp of pain, the cursing.
However, he could only catch all of this in fractional glimpses, for Josh also had to monitor the soldiers. At first he was impressed by their bold agility as they covered down behind a knoll and opened fire.
Then he quickly became aware—no bullets were thumping into the dirt close around them. Of course, that could mean the obvious, that Wild Bill and Jimmy, both using rifles, posed the serious threats, not a preacher and a drummer with short irons.
But near as Josh could tell in all the confusion, those sharpshooters were not only missing targets by yards, but making no orderly effort to adjust. Just like Jimmy predicted—random shots.
At one point the one posing as the toupee salesman cast a furtive glance up at the box. Catching Joshua’s eyes, he turned away immediately and resumed his forward fire.
Now, knowing he was being observed, he aimed better. Or so it seemed to Joshua.
Hoofbeats retreated behind the ridge, and Wild Bill called out to cease fire.
“Jesus God that hurts,” Jimmy swore, laying his warm rifle aside to inspect his wound. “Jerusalem! It’s a high pucker, Bill. At least a three-hundred-grain bullet, I’m thinking. It’s got in deep, devil take it.”
With Joshua and the soldiers below covering against a false retreat, Wild Bill ripped Jimmy’s trousers away to inspect the wound.
“No blood spurts—that’s good. Missed any major arteries.”
Wild Bill had brought along a pouch filled with cornstarch to stem bleeding. He packed some into Jimmy’s wound.
“That’ll stop most of the bleeding until we get to Beecher’s Station. Then we’ll clean it out with carbolic, dig out that slug, cauterize the wound. Here, finish this off, Jimmy, for the pain.”
Wild Bill pulled out the rest of the Old Taylor, the bottle Dave Soss gave him at the last station, and handed it to the wounded guard.
“Let’s go, boys!” Wild Bill called out to the soldiers. “I plan to make schedule.”
“I think maybe you’re right to be leery of those two,” Joshua reported as soon as the coach was under way.
Bill looked at him, one blond eyebrow cocked. “Sloppy patterns?”
Josh nodded. “They seemed to get neater once they caught me looking.”
Bill mulled that. The news obviously didn’t sit too well with him. He slanted a worried glance at Jimmy, whose face was twisted against the excruciating pain in his leg.
“Kid, take Jimmy’s rifle and reload it. Take his bandolier, too, and put it on. It’s going to be me and you from here to Beecher’s Station.”
“Think they’ll hit us again that quick?”
Wild Bill’s eyes raked the terrain before he answered. “I think they’ll hit us again, yes, and I think they’ll hit soon. Real soon. There was no heart to that assault just now, even though they got lucky and tagged Jimmy. I think it was more like Stonewall Jackson’s kind of fighting. This Gil Brennan likes to play at ‘tactics.’”
Bill cracked the blacksnake, and the horses wearily began to pick it up to a trot. He looked at Josh again. “Get set, Longfellow. This next time won’t be so easy. They’ll come right down our throats, and we’ll also have our hands full with those two below.”
By now Jimmy had quaffed the liquor and was floating on a sea of alcohol and pain delirium. His eyes met Joshua’s.
“Movement to contact!” Jimmy barked out. “Recruits, you will not fire your goddamned ramrods into the goddamned pine trees!”
Wild Bill howled with mirth, sharing some distant, ghastly memory with his old battle companion. But Joshua only stared out into the fading sunlight, feeling the weight of the cross-chest bandolier, praying to God to make him brave, feeling Jimmy’s delirious words slide down his back like ice.
Chapter Eleven
“Dobber!” Sandy Urbanski called out. “The hell you boys doin’ out here in the open? You three’re s’pose to wait behind the cottonwoods ’til I give the high sign.”
Sandy’s blood bay gelding splashed quickly and easily across the gravel ford at Miller’s Creek. Rick Collins, massive in the saddle, followed on his big claybank, eyes watching the three men who sat their saddles on the south bank. Flanking Dobber Ulrick were A.J. Clayburn and Waco McKinney—all three fired by Leland Langford when Overland cleaned house in the Dakota Division.
“A.J. here was just saying some things, is all,” Dobber replied in his hill-country twang.
Sandy took out the makings and shaped a smoke while he spoke. The ridged scar tissue under his eye matched the ugly slash formed by his scowling mouth.
“Things?” he repeated. “More a them stories A.J. learnt from them bog-trotters back in Loo’zana?”
A.J. held his face in a deadpan, refusing to argue with a know-it-all like Urbanski. But the washed-out cowboy, Waco McKinney, had a reckless mouth and liked to scrap.
“Laugh it up, big man,” he told Sandy. “We was all there watching it happen. That slope shoulda crushed the coach like a dung beetle. But Hickok pulled it clear somehow.”
“This ain’t the first time, neither,” Dobber pitched in. “Look how the ambush with your fancy explodin’ arrows didn’t touch him. Now, Devil’s Slope ... and I’m not countin’ three or four dozen more times he’s escaped death in his lifetime.”
Urbanski looked at Rick, and damned if he didn’t look skittish, too. Urbanski swore out loud, his cigarette hanging on to his lower lip.
“Nerve up, you damned squaws! It was what he done to Race, wunnit? Stringin’ him up on display? It’s got alla yous scairt spitless.”
Dobber’s dull features suddenly looked dangerous. Sandy reminded himself about the slim throwing knife tucked into Dobber’s right boot.
“It ain’t just Injins that talk up Hickok’s charmed life,” Waco pointed out. “Nor just squaws that believe it.”
Sandy shook his head like they were all pathetic and pitiable. “Never mind all them stories your maw-maws told about Rawhead and Bloody Bones. Hickok is just meat and bones like the rest of us.”
“Then how’s come he don’t die like the rest of us?” Waco flung at him. “That bastard’s got big medicine from somewheres.”
Sensing a revolt on his hands, and with time passing quickly, Urbanski switched tactics. After all, he wanted to claim that reward for killing Hickok. These superstitious chaw bacons were playing right into his hands.
“All right,” he told them, his tone less caustic. “You three just settle your hocks behind the trees and watch me and Ricky. We’re leaving our horses on pickets way out of sight from here. Then we’re taking up prone positions in them hawthorn thickets yonder, and we will send Hickok to the big reservation. If we kill him, will you boys kill the team? We won’t have a good angle from the thickets.”
All three men nodded.
“Kill Hickok,” Waco said, “and with the darky already wounded, hell, maybe Saville and Appling will earn their cut by killing the rest.”
“I don’t care how it plays out,” Sandy insisted. “Just so that coach gets stopped here. And just so ther
e’s enough of us to help Ricky lift that strongbox after we blow it loose and haul it out. Brennan claims he’s got a safecracker lined up who knows Wells Fargo locks.”
Sandy spurred his horse, but then reined in again to turn and shout behind the trio of men: “We miss it this time, boys, we’re liable to miss the roundup and payoff. Don’t forget how open the country gets after Beecher’s Station.”
“You just bragged how you’re going to free Hickok’s soul,” Waco called back. “You do that much, we’ll handle the rest.”
~*~
Following Wild Bill’s instructions, Joshua used a rolled-up neckerchief for a bandage, knotting it snugly around Jimmy’s wounded thigh. The cornstarch did a good job of clotting the blood, and so far Jimmy had suffered no great blood loss.
“But he’s shock-simple,” Wild Bill explained to Josh. “Don’t forget the human body’s mostly water. A three-hundred-grain bullet has got enough velocity, it sends a shock wave through all that water. I’ve felt it before myself. It’s like a dozen mules kicking inside you all at once. Jolts your brain, too.”
“God dawg, boys!” Jimmy abruptly roared out. “Worm castles and embalmed beef!”
Despite the trouble they all faced, Wild Bill chuckled at the words. “He means hardtack and canned meat. He’s back in the war now. Bullets didn’t kill you, the grub would.”
But Josh could see that Wild Bill, who was not one to reminisce, had been mulling something closely for the past mile or so. Suddenly he stared at Joshua. “Why, pitch it to hell!”
“Pitch what to hell, Bill?”
“This—what I’m doing. I’m damned if I’ll haul my own executioners another foot. We got enough to fret about, Longfellow. We’re checking two items off the worry list right now. Fair and square, every man gets his chance. Stay up here and cover me, kid. Haw! Haw!”
Wild Bill reined in the team, set the brake, and wrapped the reins around it. Then he quickly leaped down to the ground. He stepped back about ten feet from the coach. “Sergeant Saville! Corporal Appling! Front and center!”
Hickok had pushed his canvas duster back, exposing both Peacemakers. His eyes narrowed to slits, and he watched both soldiers as they climbed out of the coach, their faces curious.
Jimmy, drunk and pain-delirious, shouted out, “No quinine for the coloreds, boys! Nor the Irish! Give ’em purgatives!”
“Hush, Sergeant Davis,” Bill called up, and Jimmy did quiet down some.
“What seems to be the problem, Brother Hickok?” Saville asked, using his preacher tone.
“Hell with that,” Hickok snapped. Charlene stared out the window, not understanding any of this.
“I know you’re Gil Brennan’s gun-throwers, bought and paid for,” Hickok told them. He watched them both close, especially their hands. In an eye blink Hickok had drawn both Colts, covering the two.
“Bill, you are mighty mistaken,” Saville retorted. “We’ve both got copies of our orders from General Durant in our—”
“General Durant?” Charlene cut in. “How do you know my fath—”
“Shut up,” Hickok snapped at her.
“Bill,” Saville protested, “this is—”
“Stow it,” Hickok ordered him tersely. “I know by now when men are watching for a shot at my back. Now you’re getting a fair chance to kill me. Better than fair, because there’s two of you. Now pull out your shooters, nice and easy, and tuck them into your belts.”
“Bill, you’re—”
“Shh! I got no slack left in these triggers, Sarge. Don’t make me so much as twitch. Ease them guns out ... that’s it, slow and easy. Now muzzles behind your belts ... that’s the gait.”
“Mr. Hickok!” Charlene Durant protested. “I demand to know what is going on.”
But Wild Bill had his hands full monitoring the sharpshooters.
“Josh,” he said, “come down here and talk to Miss Durant before I shoot her.”
She protested again and tried to push open the door on Bill’s side. But his left leg shot out hard, kicking it shut in her face. “Sit tight,” he ordered her.
“I will not! You are obviously goading my father’s troops into a showdown! This is ... Why, it’s murder!”
Joshua climbed in on the far side, said something low and urgent in her ear, and Charlene fell silent, though she turned her head.
“All right,” Bill said when both men had their weapons secured behind their belts, butts protruding. “Hands straight out from your sides, that’s it. Higher, lift ’em higher, straight out to the sides just like louse inspection. There you go.”
Eyes never leaving the men, Wild Bill tucked his own guns into his waistband. He brought his arms straight up like theirs.
“Two against one,” he announced. “Make your move, boys.”
“And if we don’t?” Appling demanded.
“Then I’ll go first.”
Charlene, eyes closed tight, emitted a little moan of fear and revulsion. But Joshua knew exactly what Hickok was doing, and he approved. Bill’s chief responsibility was to get this coach to Denver, and with Jimmy useless to him right now, these suspected traitors had to be shot.
“Bill,” Appling pleaded, “Brennan thinks we’re on his payroll, but—”
“Shut your damn mouth,” Saville cut him off, and now Joshua lost his last vestige of doubt about Hickok’s instincts. These men, too, were Gil Brennan’s minions.
“I saw it right off in your eyes, Appling,” Bill said. “Saville is good, but you’re poor shakes as a liar. Make your play, one of you, or I’ll slaughter you where you—”
Saville’s hand moved to his gun, Appling’s a heartbeat behind. Wild Bill beat both men. But by the time he’d plugged Saville, Appling had ducked wildly to one side, getting off a shot.
Wild Bill felt a sharp tug as the slug passed through the left armpit of his duster. But he quickly pivoted on his right heel, following Appling and drilling him in the forehead before he got off another shot.
The “preacher’s” eyes were still open, the death rattle noisy in his throat.
“Dust thou art,” Wild Bill recited quietly, “and unto dust shalt thou return.”
He tossed a quick finishing shot into Saville. “Joshua?” he called out quietly.
The reporter’s mouth had gone dry, and he had to pry his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Yeah?”
“What kind of law were we instructed to uphold for this mission?”
“Gun law,” Joshua replied.
Bill nodded. “Just a reminder. Now help me move Jimmy down into the coach. There’s a seat left free for him now, so we’ll stretch him out.”
Jimmy, though still ranting at times, was cooperative. The two men got him down off the box and into the coach.
“Well, are you feeling better, Mr. Hickok?” Charlene demanded coldly. “Your day must feel complete now—you’ve killed somebody.”
Bill gave her an uninterested look. “Sometimes it’s kill or be killed, Miss Durant,” Bill replied calmly. “Those two were hired to kill me and help steal this gold. They were both soldiers from Fort Bridger, your father’s command. But evidently your old man is as gullible as you are. I’ve no doubt his ‘handpicked’ men would have raped you before they killed you.”
Her face flushed with rage, but Wild Bill ignored her. Joshua saw him glancing out the open door at the two bodies, a speculative glint in his eyes.
“What?” Joshua demanded.
“That attack back at Silver Wolf Pass was a feint,” Bill replied. “They could have pressed it harder, but they didn’t. That means they’re laying for us. And according to the map Leland gave me, the ideal place to attack would be the creek coming up. It’s a gravel ford surrounded by trees and thickets.”
Again Wild Bill’s gunmetal gaze cut to the dead bodies. This time a little grin twitched at his lips.
“Now killing is funny?” Charlene fumed.
“I wish you’d shut up,” Bill told her calmly. “You whine too much. Jos
hua?”
“Yeah?”
“Climb topside and get that coil of new rope tied to the saddle I used.”
“Sure, but—what for?”
“You’ll see in a minute,” Wild Bill promised.
“He wants to hang the bodies on display,” Charlene taunted.
Bill nodded. “In a manner of speaking. Since these two dead soldiers were intended as our military escort, that’s just what they’re going to be. Quick, kid, get me that rope.”
Jimmy regained awareness and looked at Charlene Durant. “Lord, it’s an angel, and a pretty one! Let us cross the river and rest in the shade.”
~*~
“Here they come, Ricky,” Sandy Urbanski gloated from his position in the hawthorn thickets overlooking the freight road below. “I hear the tug chains jingling.”
Sandy jacked a round into the chamber of his Yellow Boy, careful not to bang it against anything—he still hadn’t replaced the worn sear. Rick lowered the breechblock of his Big Fifty and inserted a round into the chamber.
“There,” Sandy said as the lead team first emerged around a long bend. “There they ... ”
He trailed off, his jaw going slack in surprise. “What in Sam Hill? It’s Saville and Appling, ain’t it? Sure it is, driving the stage.”
The coach, holding the same stately speed as a hearse, creaked closer to the shallow creek. Now Sandy frowned.
“Christ, they drunk? Lookit how Saville’s head is flopping around ... Jesus! Lookit the blood on Appling’s face!”
“Sandy,” Collins cut in, his voice high with fright. “D-D-Danny’s got a buh-bullet hole in the middle of his fuh-fuh-forehead! He’s ... gawd-damn, Sandy, they’re both dead!”
“Listen to yourself,” Sandy scoffed. “Dead men don’t hold reins and drive stagecoaches. Damn them,” he added when the sudden drumming of hoofbeats erupted behind the stand of cottonwoods. “Sonny and them other ignut bastards have took off.”
Rick eased his hammer back to half cock and scrambled to his feet, remarkably quick for a man weighing almost three hundred pounds. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta here, too. Them dead men are too driving that coach!”
