Showdown at Hole-In-the-Wall

by Ralph Cotton

  “Hold your fire unless you’ve got a target,” Beck cautioned him. “We don’t know how many there are, or how long we’ll be stuck here fighting them off.”

  “S’í, I understand,” said Hector, realizing Beck was right. He looked all around, knowing they could be stuck here unless they turned and made a hard run back along the trail under a hail of bullets. “Why here?” he asked the riflemen under his breath, seeing no reason for them to have sprung their trap from such a far-off position. He levered another round up into his rifle chamber and looked closely along the jagged ridgeline above the trail behind them. “Why did you not wait for us to get closer?”

  “We’re going to have to make a run for it, Hector,” Beck called out as more bullets whistled down at them. “We’ve got to get out of this narrow pass!”

  “No, wait,” said Hector, catching a glimpse of the rifleman on the ridgeline behind them. “That is what they want us to do. There are more guns up there, behind us. We’re hemmed in here.”

  “We’re not staying hemmed in,” Beck called back to him. “We’re riding one way or the other, but we’re not sitting here and getting ourselves shot to pieces!”

  “I agree,” Hector called out in reply, “but why did they wait until we—”

  His words were cut short as a blast of rock, dust and split trees billowed up, filling the narrow pass a hundred yards behind them. “Good God!” shouted Beck, falling back against the pile of rock and feeling it rattle loosely.

  “Dynamite!” Clarimonde called out as she felt the earth beneath her rise and fall with a tremendous thud, pulling her down off her feet.

  “They closed the pass!” Hector shouted.

  On the distant ridgeline, Lew Prado stood slightly and gazed down on the explosion, seeing how well the plan had worked. “Whoo-ieee!” he said loudly. Staring with a wide, cruel grin, he said, “Now, Mr. Memphis ‘By-God’ Beck! Let’s see how you, your lady friend and your sickly Mex get yourselves out of this!”

  The ranger had heard the firing commence as he rode the paint along the high trail at a walk. Only a moment after he’d booted the horse up into a run, to go see what the shooting was about, the explosion jarred the trail beneath him so badly that the paint horse began to spook as it struggled to keep its balance. “Hold tight, boy,” Sam said in an even tone, letting the animal slow down and collect itself. He patted its neck reassuringly and said, “Now, let’s try this again.”

  He nudged the slowed horse back up into a run along the winding, high trail. The rifles had fallen silent for a moment, but as he rounded a turn and headed in the direction of the dynamite blast, the firing began again, without letup.

  At the sight of Bream Cleaver on the trail fifty yards ahead of him, Sam slid the paint to a sudden halt and turned it sharply off the trail behind the cover of a large, half-sunken boulder. “Easy, boy. Let’s see what Hook-nose is up to here,” he whispered to the horse. He drew his rifle from its boot, stepped up atop the saddle and climbed over onto the wide boulder for a better look.

  Atop the boulder he stayed crouched, then climbed up to the rounded crest and flattened himself so he could get a good view of both Cleaver and the other two gunmen perched down a hundred yards farther along the ridgeline. Taking out a battered telescope from inside his duster, he uncapped it and raised it to his eye. Looking down into the narrow pass through a wide rise of dust, he saw the spot where the gunmen had concentrated their rifle fire.

  A full minute passed before a lull from the ridgeline brought Hector and Beck up just long enough to return fire, before dropping back down out of sight. The two had shown their faces for only a second. But a second was all Sam needed.

  “Memphis Beck . . . ,” he whispered to himself, watching a bullet send bits of shattered rock flying up from the boulders covering Beck’s position. Sam scanned over and watched until he caught a glimpse of Hector hunkered down behind another large rock across the trail. “Yep, and here’s Hector too,” he said, noting even under the circumstances how pale and drawn the young Mexican lawman looked. “This might be as good a time as I’ll get to give you your brother’s paint and get my stallion back,” he said with a faint smile.

  Lying flat, the ranger rolled onto one side long enough to adjust the sights on his rifle. “Let’s see if I can’t tip these scales in your favor, Memphis Beck,” he said under his breath. Then he rolled back onto his stomach and took his first aim at the two riflemen farther along the trail. He hoped to take Bream Cleaver alive, if he could.

  Amid the exchange of heavy gunfire, Cleaver didn’t even hear the ranger’s rifle join in from only fifty yards away. But where the other two gunmen sat firing from their cover, Lew Prado noticed something had changed when a bullet kicked up a chunk of rock only inches from his face.

  “What the—?” He noted that the bullet had come from his right along the ridgeline, not from down on the narrow pass below them. Turning his gaze toward Cleaver, he said to Newson, “Noose, that crazy hook-nosed sonsabitch is shooting at us!”

  Teddy Newson stood up and waved his arms back and forth at Cleaver, trying to get his attention. Instead of drawing the hook-nosed gunman’s gaze, he presented a perfect target for the ranger, who leveled his gun sights on him just as he shouted, “Hey, Hook-nose! Watch what you’re doing over there. You damned near—”

  The ranger’s bullet sliced through Newson’s chest before he could finish his words. The impact of the shot picked Newson up and hurled him backward over the edge of the rock cover. He soared downward, bouncing off rock after rock until he landed on the hard ground more than a hundred feet below.

  “Holy Joseph!” Prado shouted in stunned surprise, Newson’s blood and gore splattered all over his face and chest. “Damn, Hook-nose! You shot Noose!” Prado shouted at Cleaver, who had turned toward their position in time to see Newson’s body making the long fall and the sudden stop.

  “Oh hell,” said Cleaver, knowing he had not made the shot. He tensed instinctively and stood in a low crouch, looking back and forth wildly along the ridgeline.

  From behind cover on the floor of the narrow pass, Beck saw that something had changed. He said sidelong to Clarimonde, “We’ve got help up there, Clair!” Then he called out to Hector, “Can you see what’s going on up there?”

  “No,” said Hector, “but I saw one of them fall from the rocks.”

  From his high position, Sam took aim at Lew Prado. But the confused outlaw had seen that whoever had entered the fray was not on his side. He’d already dropped onto his belly and scooted quickly away through the dirt and rock like a frightened snake.

  Sam rolled over, aimed his rifle at Cleaver and shouted, “Don’t move, Hook-nose. I’ve got you dead center.”

  But Cleaver would have none of it. He threw his rifle stock to his shoulder and had started to fire, when a bullet from Hector’s weapon bored through the back of his hand, shattered his rifle fore stock and sent the broken gun flying through the air. Cleaver grabbed his bleeding hand and screamed in pain, “All right, okay! Don’t shoot! I give up!”

  Sam stood cautiously atop the rock as he caught a glimpse of Prado’s horse racing away through the scrub trees and brush. Turning to the narrow pass, he waved his rifle back and forth slowly. Then he turned to Cleaver and called out, “All right, Hook-nose. Keep both hands in sight and walk to me.”

  “Hell, I’m shot bad, Ranger!” Cleaver called out in a painful tone of voice. “My hand is ruined, busted all to pieces!”

  “I expect that’s the risk you take, ambushing travelers,” Sam said. “Let’s go. We’ll bandage it up for you.” He stepped across the rock, keeping his eyes on the wounded outlaw.

  In the narrow pass, Memphis Beck leaned back against the tall pile of rock and let out a breath. “It’s Burrack,” he said to Clarimonde with a short grin. “I’m starting to like him better every time I see him.” He took off his hat and fanned it back and forth against the looming dust from the explosion. “But now I’ve got to face him and t
ell him his stallion got stolen right out of my care.” The two stepped up into their saddles and nudged their horses toward Hector, who had also mounted and was riding across the trail toward them.

  Chapter 9

  A half hour after the last shot had been fired and Lew Prado had made his getaway, Beck, Clarimonde and Hector watched the ranger ride down from the high trail, his pack mule clopping along behind him at the end of a lead rope. In front of the ranger, Hook-nose Cleaver rode along, unarmed, clutching a bloody bandanna to his wounded left hand. While the three had waited for the ranger to arrive, Hector had ridden forward, looped a rope around Teddy Newson’s feet and dragged his body back through the gravelly dirt.

  Cleaver eyed Newson’s body as he and Sam rode up and stopped a few feet from Memphis Beck, who stepped forward to meet them. “Howdy, Ranger,” said Beck, pushing his hat up on his forehead. “You couldn’t have arrived at a better time.” Glaring at Hook-nose, he said, “I should put a bullet in you right now, using dynamite you stole from us to box us in.”

  “Don’t blame me, Beck,” Hook-nose said in a pained voice. “All I did was what Angelo Sabott told me to do. Ain’t that what a man’s supposed to do?”

  Beck turned away from Cleaver and looked instead at the ranger. “Anyway, it’s good to see you up, Ranger. We were all three starting to think something happened to you.”

  “Howdy to all of you,” Sam replied. “As you can see, I’m fit as ever.” He courteously touched the brim of his pearl gray sombrero toward Beck, then toward the woman and Hector, who sat in his saddle a few yards back, his rope still around Newson’s feet. Hector stepped down from his horse and walked over to Sam’s paint.

  “What happened here, Beck?” Sam asked. “Some of your Hole-in-the-wall boys turn against you?”

  “They’re not my men.” Beck eyed him closely, but then decided the ranger had not intended for the question to be sarcastic. He gestured toward Newson’s body on the ground and then at Cleaver in the saddle. “These boys ride with Angelo Sabott’s Mad Balls Gang. They stole all of our dynamite. Clair had just finished making it and we stored it in a cave up near our place.” He nodded toward the distant north in the direction of Hole-in-the-wall.

  “I am helping him track them down, Ranger,” Hector cut in.

  Sam just looked at Hector for a moment, wondering why a lawman would be helping Memphis Beck track down a load of dynamite.

  “Sabott left the three of these vultures behind to dry gulch us,” Memphis Beck added. “I expect you heard them blow that pass closed behind us. They had us on a bad spot until you showed up.”

  Clarimonde cut in, giving Hook-nose Cleaver a hard, cold stare. “Angelo and his men are murdering thugs,” she said. “They would not have hesitated to kill the three of us, had it not been for you.”

  “S’í,” said Hector, rubbing the paint horse’s muzzle as he spoke. “We are grateful to you, Ranger Burrack.”

  “How are you feeling, Hector?” Sam asked, looking down at his gaunt face.

  “Much better, Ranger,” he replied, “now that I see my brother Ramon’s horse again. I hope he has served you well. As Beck said, we have been worried, wondering why it has taken you so long.”

  “Indeed, this paint horse has served me well,” Sam said. He patted the paint’s neck with a gloved hand. “I was on my way here last fall, after I finished up with Suelo Soto. But I got ambushed, shot in the back near Cedar Ridge. I’ve been all winter getting over it.”

  “What about Suelo Soto?” Clarimonde asked with a wary look in her eyes. “Is he . . . ?” She let her words trail.

  “As dead as he’ll ever be,” said Sam. Then, dismissing the matter, he looked at Beck and asked, “How is my stallion, Black Pot?”

  Beck gave Clarimonde a guarded look. The two stood in silence for a moment, long enough for the ranger to know something was wrong. “Hey, what is this?” Sam asked. “What’s happened to my stallion?”

  “Hold on, Ranger Burrack,” said Beck, noting the look in the ranger’s eyes. “When Sabott and his men stole the dynamite, they stole Black Pot too. That’s why we’re after them. If it was just the dynamite, I might take my loss and—”

  Newson cut in, saying, “You mean that Appaloosa stallion Angelo is riding belongs to the ranger?”

  “That’s right, Hook-nose,” said the ranger. “What about it? Is the stallion all right?”

  “Well, yeah, he’s okay I guess,” said Cleaver, letting the idea sink in. “I mean as far as riding stock goes, he is. But I have to say, Sabott is hard on riding stock. He goes through horses like Sherman went through Georgia.”

  Sam clenched his teeth and managed to keep his rage in check. “The other night when I had a run-in with Sabott and your pards, was my stallion with them?”

  “Sure was,” said Cleaver. “Fact is, I was holding his reins—holding all the horses’ reins while Angelo and some of the others slipped in on you.”

  “To think that I was that close to my stallion,” Sam mused bitterly.

  “You should have killed Sabott right then and there, if you had the chance,” Cleaver interjected, still clenching his wounded hand. “Odds are he’ll ride that cayuse into the ground before you ever see it again.”

  “Keep your mouth shut, outlaw,” Hector said, seeing how his words upset the ranger. Then to Sam he said, “Pay no attention to this man, Ranger. We will get the stallion back for you.”

  “I’ll get him back,” Sam said with determination. He gazed off toward the west, the direction Angelo Sabott and his men had ridden, as he swung down from his saddle and handed Hector the reins to the paint. “Here, take your brother’s horse. I’ll swap him for the one you’re riding, if that’s agreeable.” He nodded toward the dust-colored barb Hector had bought from one of Beck’s men.

  “S’í, it is agreeable to me,” said Hector. “I only wish I had your stallion to give to you in return.” He nodded at the horse he’d traded to Sam. “I must tell you he is tired and needs graining and water before you take him a long distance.”

  Sam gave the bard an all-over look and sighed, not wanting to lose a minute, but realizing the perils of tired horses on a high trail. “Gracias, my friend,” he said with a nod. “I’ll rest him down and attend to him before I leave.”

  “Ha,” Cleaver cut in, “if you plan on catching up to Sabott, you’d better have more than one horse with you. He’ll run you ragged and choke you on his dust.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Sam said. He walked calmly over to Sabott, yanked his boot from the stirrup and flipped him sidelong out of his saddle. “I’ll take yours along as a spare.”

  Cleaver landed with a hard thump and a billowing blast of dust. He began spitting and cursing as soon as he caught his breath. “You had no call to do that, Ranger! Is that how you made your reputation, bullying wounded men?” He struggled to his feet and slapped dust from himself with his battered Stetson. Dirt fell from his bushy, tangled hair. Blood ran from beneath his bandanna-wrapped hand and dripped from his fingertips. “What am I going to do out here without a horse?”

  “You can catch up on your walking,” Sam said, “take some time to think about how to keep from ending your life at the end of a rope.” He took the reins to Cleaver’s horse and led it over to Hector’s barb.

  “I ain’t leaving this earth at the end of a rope, Ranger. I’ll go down fighting before I’ll give up to a hanging.” He paused, then said, “Hey, wait a minute, Ranger. Sabott said you told him and the boys that you wasn’t up here on business.”

  “That’s right,” said Sam. “I told him I was here on a personal matter, and I am.”

  “Then how the hell come you’ve got me shot down like a dog and holding me against my will?” Cleaver glared at him with a crafty grin.

  “I was only doing what any good citizen would do,” Sam replied. “I saw you ambushing innocent people and I stopped you.”

  “Innocent?” Cleaver gave a dark chuckle, gesturing toward Memphis Beck. “I be
t that’s the first time he ever heard that word hurled in his direction.”

  “I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Cleaver,” said Sam. “You’re a man on foot in rough country. You’re not under arrest, but I’m leaving you with these folks. Whatever Beck decides to do with you will be up to him after I leave.”

  Cleaver gave it quick consideration, then said, “Oh hell, Ranger, Memphis knows I’m only funning with him. Right Memphis?” His grin turned friendly.

  Memphis Beck gave him only a cold stare. To Sam, Beck said, “I want you to know I’m sorry about your stallion getting away from me, Burrack. I gave you my word and that’s not something I take lightly.”

  “I understand,” Sam said. “I’m not blaming anybody but the man who did the stealing. But I don’t have time to stop and talk about it. If I can get a good start, I can get on Sabott’s trail where I left it. As soon as I rest these horses a spell, I’m gone. The fresher the trail, the easier the tracking.”

  “We’re still going after Sabott for stealing our dynamite,” said Beck. “As many men as he has riding with him, we’d be wise to stick together.”

  “Obliged,” said Sam, “but I’ll travel faster on my own, at least until I have a firm lead on his trail. Maybe you’ll catch up to me on the high trail.” He’d already begun stripping some supplies from the pack mule and stuffing them into his saddlebags.

  “You’ll need more supplies than that,” Beck cautioned.

  “No,” said Sam, “I’ll travel even faster if I leave the mule with you. You’re welcome to anything he’s carrying. If I need more, I can always drop back and find you.”

  “What about him?” Beck asked, giving a nod toward Cleaver. “What do you want us to do with him?”

  Sam saw Cleaver’s eyes fix on him and he gave the outlaw a hard stare, saying to Beck, “I don’t care, so long as you don’t boil him and eat him.”

  “There’s no danger in that,” said Beck. “I’ll let him walk to the high trail. He can lead the mule.”