by Jake Logan
“Jist the three varmints?”
Slocum shook his head. He hoped so. Two down, one to go presented easy odds. If there were more, they would be in for the fight of their lives. Without saying a word, he began wiggling down the ditch. Vannover lay so that the crown of his hat poked up over the edge of the ditch, offering a decent target. Slocum hoped the outlaw would be too intent on filling the hat with holes to notice him.
When he got close enough to a sweet gum tree, Slocum clambered to his feet and slipped through the grove, thinking to flank the remaining outlaw. After only a few yards, he realized what they faced. He saw two more men crouched, clutching rifles, waiting for their chance at a killing shot.
He had not checked the six-gun in his hand to see how many rounds remained. It might carry a full load or it might be empty.
“Here goes nothing,” Slocum said, stepping from behind the tree. He leveled the six-shooter and fired twice into the first man. As the second outlaw turned in surprise, Slocum shot him twice also. A fifth shot caused the hammer to fall on an empty chamber.
He dropped the empty six-gun and took both rifles. Already exposed, he knew only audacity would keep him alive. Striding purposefully through the trees, he came out a few yards away from the man who had Marshal Vannover pinned down. A rifle came easily to Slocum’s shoulder. He squeezed off the shot and ended the man’s life.
Then he held out his hand to keep Vannover in place. Slocum strained all his senses. All he heard was wind through the trees. He sniffed hard, and then sneezed from the noseful of pollen. Nothing moved that shouldn’t. Only when he had waited a decent length of time that would have caused a nervous outlaw to bolt and run or attack did he signal the marshal to join him.
As Vannover came hobbling over, he scooped up the dead outlaw’s pistol.
“Can’t have too much firepower.”
“Here,” Slocum said, tossing him the second rifle. “I think we got rid of all of them.”
“We? You’re a one-man army all by your lonesome,” Vannover said in admiration. “Do we find their horses and take whatever we can?”
“They must have come straight here from their camp. We’d better ride like we mean it. Any more of them who show up aren’t going to be as pleasant.”
“Pleasant? That what you call having your hat shot off your head?”
“My hat,” Slocum said, frowning. He went back to one of the outlaws he had killed in the woods and snatched up the man’s hat. It had a snakeskin band around it and a small white feather. Slocum plucked out the feather and dropped it on the dead man’s chest, then settled the hat on his head.
“Seems like a fair trade,” Vannover said. “One of them ventilates your hat, you get this one. Why didn’t you keep the feather?”
“Don’t want to be mistaken for an Indian,” Slocum said. For a moment, Vannover stared at him, then laughed.
“You got a weird sense of humor, Slocum.”
They took what they could from the bodies in the way of pistols and ammunition, then found their horses where they had left them tethered. A quick search failed to find the horses ridden by Magee’s killers. It didn’t matter, although more ammo would have made Slocum feel a tad more secure. He swung onto the paint, and then reached back to find his spare box of ammunition in the saddlebags. The balance and accuracy of his Colt Navy were unparalleled. He kept the weapon well oiled and in good repair so it would not fail him when he needed it most. Like now.
“You look like you’re openin’ a gunsmith’s store,” Vannover said. “You’re positively bristlin’ with guns.”
Slocum remembered what it had felt like riding with Quantrill. He didn’t like it one bit.
“Whatever gets us back to Charity is fine with me,” Slocum said, shoving a pair of six-shooters into his belt and making sure his Colt rode easy. He still had his Winchester, but left the other rifles behind.
“Do we head straight on back or try to lay a false trail?”
Slocum considered the marshal’s question carefully. They had exchanged a considerable amount of gunfire killing the outlaws. If that alerted others, trying to gallop back to town would be foolish. Before they had ridden a couple miles, the entire gang would be on their necks. However, the longer they stayed in the area, taking their time to cover their tracks, the more likely an outlaw would blunder onto them. The hills were teeming with Magee’s killers.
“Straight back, fast, hard,” Slocum decided.
“I’m up for it. Reckon my horse is, too, havin’ done nuthin’ but rest while we were getting shot at.”
The marshal swung around and trotted off in the direction of Charity. Slocum followed a dozen yards back, alert for any sign of trouble. It took only minutes to find it.
“Vannover, hold on! Up ahead!”
The marshal drew rein and saw the riders working along a ridge, moving in and out of the thick growth of trees.
“I don’t know this terrain too well, but if we follow the stream, it’s got to lead us somewhere that we can find a road,” Vannover said.
Slocum nodded and let the lawman slosh about in the shallow stream. The running water would cover both their tracks and the sound of their horses, but he didn’t like the way they had to travel. The stream might have been the one near the outlaw camp. If they went too far in this direction, chances were good they would find themselves in Magee’s gunsights.
“They’re on either side of us,” Slocum said, “but they haven’t spotted us. Keep moving but do it quietly.”
Vannover craned about in the saddle and looked at Slocum, then nodded. Slocum saw how the man winced as he moved. His ankle might be so swollen they’d have to cut his boot off to examine it. Right now, though, Slocum and Vannover had other problems.
Slocum heard loud splashing in the stream behind them. They were boxed in and being herded forward. He started hunting for a place to make a stand, but the forest provided nothing in the way of shelter. He urged his horse to a faster gait, caught up with Vannover, and said in a low voice, “We’re going to have to fight it out.”
“Behind us?”
Slocum’s opinion of the marshal went up a notch. He had noticed the outlaws on their back trail, too.
“We might have a slim chance,” Slocum said, looking up. He pushed back the hat he had taken from the fallen outlaw to peer through the canopy of leaves at the sky. The day had begun bright and sunny, but leaden clouds had drifted in. He caught the scent of rain on the air. If the sky opened up with a typical Oklahoma frog strangler, they might snake past their hunters.
“Don’t count on it being in our favor,” the marshal said. He jerked his thumb upward. “If ’n it rains, we’re likely to get washed away.”
Slocum saw that the streambed was broad with steep, cut banks. He had not considered this might turn into a raging river, if only for a short time after a summer cloud-burst. Still, he would rather be washed away than be caught by Magee and his bravos.
“The trees are thinning out. They’re sure to spot us from one side or the other,” Slocum said. He turned and looked behind. The stream was straight, but no one had come into sight yet. The sounds of horses in the stream were distinct, however. Their time was running out. “We’ve got to get under cover.”
As he spoke, a fat raindrop spatted against his gun hand. Then came another, colder, bigger. Soon enough, the rain against his hat sounded like someone hammering tin.
“What do you think? It’s not much, but it’ll have to do us.” The marshal pointed to a lightning-struck tree lying along the bank. It had partially rotted and would give almost no protection against a bullet.
“It’s all we’ve got.”
Slocum got his paint up the steep bank and went to the fallen log. Close by, it gave even less protection than promised from the middle of the stream. Termites had hollowed out the tree and rot had done the rest. If they intended to hide, it provided small cover. Shooting it out gave them no hope at all. Every last bullet aimed at the wood would rip throug
h into anyone hiding behind.
“We can try to run.” He found himself raising his voice to be heard over the rain. Leaves above hummed with drops hitting hard. Thunder in the distance told of an even greater storm moving in their direction. Slocum had long since given up trying to imagine what his dying day would be like. Violent? That was most likely. He wasn’t the kind who died of old age or in bed, unless it was with a filly who had a jealous boyfriend with a fast, accurate gun. Still, he had never imagined his last minutes being in a gunfight in the rain.
He hit the ground and swung his horse’s reins around a low limb before pulling his rifle from the saddle sheath and diving behind the log. Vannover was slower to join him, hobbling so much that he dragged his leg behind him as if it had turned into lead.
“Three rifles,” the man said. “I got two, you got one. And our six-guns.”
Slocum drew both the pistols he had taken from the dead outlaws and laid them where the rain wouldn’t hit them directly. He had a pocket full of ammunition for his rechambered Colt Navy and a desire to get the fight over with.
Through a curtain of frothy white rain he saw a rider coming up the stream. He sighted along his rifle barrel and got a good sight picture as he prepared to start what would likely be the last fight of his life.
10
“Somewhere ahead,” said the scout, Lasker. “Not too damn far either.”
“Get the boys ready,” Albert Kimbrell said, the cold hatred in his gut beginning to warm. He tapped the butt of a six-shooter shoved into his belt and imagined what it was going to be like when he drew and fired six rounds into the belly of the son of a bitch who blew up all their ammunition. His hand moved to another pistol. That one was reserved for the other son of a bitch who had cut the ropes and scattered the horses. It had taken more than a half hour to round up the frightened animals and get them back into camp.
He wanted to kill both men, but would settle for either one.
“How you want to do this? Both flanks move in, squeeze ’em back downstream so we can take potshots at ’em? Or maybe all sides close in and crush ’em that way?” Lasker spoke in a low, matter-of-fact voice. He didn’t get the pleasure out of killing that Kimbrell did.
Kimbrell thought a moment. He had found tracks going into the stream and had guessed the two riders were going upstream, since that was in the direction of a town Magee’s gang had already destroyed. One rider had sported a badge. It might be the town marshal out to get some revenge. Kimbrell wished that the major hadn’t ordered them away before they had finished their work. The bank hadn’t been properly looted and stores still held goods they could use later. Whatever phantasm Magee chased was just ahead, or so he’d said, and they had left loose ends dangling.
A marshal and deputy were plenty loose. Now he had to find both of them and kill them, as he should have done back in town.
“Keep the men on the flanks alert. We’ll keep goin’ up the stream till we find them. I want to personally gut-shoot them and watch them die real slow.”
The scout shrugged. It made no nevermind to him what Kimbrell wanted. Lasker got the same share of the loot whether they tortured people to death or ended their miserable lives with a single shot to the back of the head.
“Don’t think there’s much in the way of hideouts for ’em,” the scout said. “Only problem’s the damn weather.” Lasker pulled up his collar against the cold rain. It would have felt good later in the day, after they had stewed like prunes in the heat. This early in the morning only turned everything the rain touched to shivery cold.
“There’s not gonna be any problem,” Kimbrell said. He pulled his rifle from its sheath and cocked it. “How far ahead you reckon they are?”
“No more sound of horses’ hooves. Can’t be more than a quarter mile. Maybe less. I’ll keep my eyes peeled in case they crawled up in tree limbs, thinkin’ to ambush us.”
Kimbrell rode up beside the scout in the water and listened hard. He thought he heard a horse neighing not too far off. It might be a horse of one of his men, but probably wasn’t. They had run the bastards to ground.
“I’ll take the lead,” Kimbrell said, putting his heels to his horse’s flanks. The horse sprang forward at a trot that kicked up froth and water from the streambed. Kimbrell was ready for some serious killing.
When he spied a horse tethered to a tree, he knew the fight was at hand. He raised the rifle to shoot the horse, just to see what ruckus would occur, when the pounding hooves behind him caused him to glance back along the stream. The rain veiled the rider, but he knew who it was. He cursed and turned back to kill the horse. Limbs weighed down by the increasing rainfall hid the horse now. Before he could ride a few yards farther upstream for a decent killing shot, a man called his name.
“Kimbrell! Albert! Got orders. The major wants ever’ one back in camp pronto.”
“Soon,” Kimbrell said. “I got work to do.”
“He ain’t kiddin’. He said now. In that tone of his.”
“Go to hell.”
“You’ll be there a long time ’fore me if you don’t break off and come on back. The others are already gallopin’ back to camp.”
“All of them?”
“Ever’ last one, includin’ Lasker. They don’t want to see the major mad again. You know what happened last time he got really pissed.” The courier sawed on the reins and got turned around. He had delivered the message and didn’t much care if Kimbrell obeyed Major Magee’s order or not. If he reported he had given the message and Kimbrell wasn’t there, Hell would be a nice spot for a leisurely vacation compared to the wrath and destruction Magee would bring down.
Kimbrell had seen the major skin a man alive for disobeying orders. Better to desert and never stop riding than to cross Clayton Magee.
With a savage snarl, Kimbrell lifted his rifle and emptied it through the leafy branches of the tree in the general direction of the horse he had spotted. He had no idea if any of the lead he spewed forth hit its target, but the invective had to. Only a deaf man could have missed the cursing as he shoved his rifle back into its saddle sheath and galloped off, leaving behind two men he knew were going to pop up again, just like a damned prairie dog from its burrow. Magee would be sorry he hadn’t finished off those two lawmen.
Kimbrell overtook the courier within a mile, and beat the man back to camp by almost a minute. Even then, he was skirting the edges of Magee’s ire. The major paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. His face was more florid than usual, and his bushy mustache twitched.
“Discipline,” Magee cried, “discipline has been too lax. The sentries will forfeit all the pay for the last month!”
Beside Kimbrell, a man grumbled, “They don’t give a shit. They’re deader ’n doornails.”
“Shut up,” snapped Kimbrell. He was in no mood to mince words. If Magee tried to dress him down, there just might be a showdown. The only reason he hadn’t shot Magee a long time back was the major’s uncanny ability to lead men. If Kimbrell took over, more than half the gang would simply fade away. Those remaining might be good enough to pull a stagecoach robbery or hold up a train, but razing entire towns and looting them would be out of the question. Kimbrell liked the killing as much as he did the plunder from banks and businesses. One town—he never did know the name of the place—had a stagecoach depot that offered up more than three thousand dollars in gold. Not very much of that had made its way into the general coffers. As with so much of what he stole, it got stashed along the way so he could return later and retrieve it.
Kimbrell was going to be a very wealthy man by the time somebody shot Clayton Magee. And the dead major would get the blame for everything because he wore the major’s uniform and issued the orders to attack. Nobody would remember Kimbrell. That was about as perfect as any robbery could be.
“We lost a great deal of our ammunition, although our food and other supplies remain untouched,” Magee said. “That means we must be more careful in our next assault.”<
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“You got a new place all mapped out, Major?” asked Kimbrell. His heart beat a little faster at the notion. If he couldn’t leave those two lawmen stretched out dead for the buzzards, burning down another town might put him in a better mood.
“A scout returned just after you lit out, Mr. Kimbrell,” Magee said.
Kimbrell tensed. That meant the major had sought him and hadn’t found him.
“What’d the scout report? Did he see ’em in town? The two women?”
Magee remained as closemouthed as could be, but Kimbrell knew the best way of deflecting any anger was to mention the women. As always, it worked. The look on Magee’s face changed from anger to anticipation. Or was it eagerness to kill? Kimbrell didn’t care. Magee was not going to chew out his ass, and that was all that mattered.
“The scout saw one of our quarry in a nearby town. We are short on ammunition, so we must make our raid as quick and efficient as possible.”
“We don’t shoot nobody?” asked one of the newer recruits.
“Kill whomever you please. Spare me the women.”
Kimbrell knew that wasn’t really how it worked. Killing the women was just fine, as long as they started with the whores in the saloons and worked their way up through clerks and waitresses who weren’t blond. Even then, Kimbrell knew the killing was fine because they would never set eyes on the two Magee chased all the way across Oklahoma. They might be figments of his crazed imagination, or if they were real, they were already well on the way to California.
Or Kimbrell might have put bullets in them before he raped them in some town weeks ago. He didn’t care.
“We ride in ten minutes. Mr. Kimbrell, I want a word with you.”
Magee fixed him with his steely gaze, but Kimbrell did not flinch. There was no reason to. If anything, he ought to be mad at the major for pulling him away from the fight just when he had caught the varmints responsible for raiding the camp.
