by Ralph Cotton
A dry gulch in the making. . . .
Across the rocky trail from the Cundiffs, he saw Cutthroat Teddy Bonsell and Jake Cleary. It was easy to see that these two had grown tired of watching the trail and stood leaning against the rock twenty-five yards away. Both of them were facing toward him, Cleary with his head bowed on his chest. Teddy stood smoking a thin black cigar. He fanned the smoke away after each puff.
So far so good, Sam decided. He stood still just long enough to check his Colt and rifle, taking stock of himself out of habit. Then he raised the Winchester to the pocket of his shoulder and steadied it alongside the boulder. This shot would be tricky, he reminded himself, but he wanted to take Cutthroat Teddy alive if possible.
Here goes. . . .
Taking tight aim on the Colt holstered on Teddy’s hip, he let out a breath, feeling the rise and drop of the gun barrel with each steady beat of his heart. He relaxed his right cheek on the rifle stock as if settling in for a nap. Then he cut his breath short, saw the gun sights stop dead on their target and squeezed the trigger in that perfect moment of stillness, his breath, mind and heartbeat centered on the fine black point of his rifle sights.
“Jesus, God!” he heard Teddy Bonsell shriek behind the roar of the rifle shot, throwing both hands up as if hit by a sudden attack of hornets. Sam levered a fresh round into the Winchester even as Bonsell’s holster, Colt and all, fell to the ground at his feet. The startled outlaw’s rifle flew from his hands as Sam’s rifle sights swung to Jake Cleary and he fired again. Cleary jerked back against the rock behind him, then staggered forward, bowed at the waist.
The Ranger quickly levered another round as he saw Bonsell sidestep and reach down for his rifle in the dirt. Aiming for the rifle stock, Sam fired again. But this time instead of hitting the rifle stock, his shot sliced two of Bonsell’s fingertips off at the top knuckles and sent the bloody inch-long nubs flying up into the outlaw’s face. Cutthroat Teddy let out another shriek, this one louder, longer.
“Don’t shoot!” Bonsell shouted, rolling down into a ball against the rock, gripping his left wrist, blood running from the mangled fingers. Both of his guns were three feet away. He dared not reach for them. Jake Cleary lay rolling, writhing in pain, still bowed at the waist, his feet scraping, walking him in a circle on the rocky dirt.
Sam swung the Winchester toward the Cundiffs as pistol shots resounded from their position. One of their bullets thumped the ground at his feet; another zipped past his shoulder. But before he could return fire, he saw the two brothers bounding in and out of sight, firing backward over their shoulders as they skittered down off the trail, breaking brush, hopping rocks, stumbling, rolling back to their feet, continuing on without missing a beat.
That went well enough.
The Ranger let out a tight breath. In the waft of gray rifle smoke, he waited and watched the rocky hillside for a moment longer. Twenty-five yards away Cleary groaned in pain and Cutthroat Teddy hunkered and panted like a trapped mountain cat. Wild-eyed in disbelief, Bonsell stared toward the Ranger, gripping his bloody left hand.
“You’ve—you’ve shot the wrong men, Ranger,” he cried out as Sam stepped away from the boulder and walked toward him, Winchester hanging in one hand, his Colt out and cocked, hanging down at his right side.
“No, I haven’t,” Sam said confidently, walking closer. “You’re Cutthroat Teddy Bonsell. That’s Jake Cleary. Howdy, Jake.”
Jake Cleary managed to stop groaning long enough to look up and give a stiff nod.
“Howdy, Ranger,” he gasped.
Sam turned back to Bonsell.
“I’ve got both your names on a list here in my pocket, Cutthroat Teddy,” he said. “Want to see it?”
“Hell no!” Bonsell said. “What if this wasn’t us?” he said, holding his bloody hand up for the Ranger to see. “What if you were tracking the wrong men—innocent men?”
Sam didn’t reply. He stooped and untied Bonsell’s sweaty bandanna from around his neck and wrapped it around his bloody shortened fingertips.
“Hold it there,” he said to Bonsell, placing the wounded outlaw’s right hand around the bloody bandanna. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jake Cleary struggle onto his knees and wobble there, clutching his lower belly.
“You okay there, Jake?” he asked over his shoulder.
“I’ll do,” Jake groaned, examining himself. Cupping his belly with one hand, he felt down his inner thigh past his knee. “Thank goodness,” he said in relief. His voice strengthened. “I thought you put a bullet in my gut rack, but you didn’t. It hit my CSA belt buckle, went down my leg and sliced down the side of my boot well.” He paused, then said, “I’m obliged, Ranger. I mean it.”
Sam stood and kicked Bonsell’s Colt and rifle out of reach. He only nodded in reply.
Watching, Bonsell couldn’t stand it.
“You’re both making me sick!” he spat. “This law dog ain’t that good with a rifle—nobody is!” He spun a harsh look at Sam. “Are you, law dog? Tell the truth.”
Sam didn’t answer. He only stared down at Bonsell. He had aimed at Bonsell’s gun belt, but hitting Cleary’s belt buckle was a fluke. He’d aimed at his belly. Yet Sam knew that the less he told these men about his intentions, the better.
“Speaking of telling the truth, Cutthroat . . . ,” he said, reaching down to help Boswell to his feet. “You and I are going to talk some about Braxton Kane and his pals—”
“Ha! You won’t have to go looking for Brax, Ranger,” Boswell said, sneering, cutting him off. “Soon as he hears you killed his brother, Cordy, he’ll come looking for you. Him, the Garlets, Buford Barnes and all the rest.” He started to point his bloody wrapped index finger at Sam before he realized it was missing. “So there’s no need in you talking to me—I’ll tell you nothing!”
Sam just stared at him for a moment. That’s a good start, Sam told himself. Cutthroat Teddy already giving him names before he even asked. He’d heard of Buford Barnes, knew him to be one of Braxton Kane’s regular gunmen. But he’d only heard of the Garlets a couple of times—newcomers to the craft of robbing and killing? Maybe, he supposed, or they could be coming farther west after wearing out their welcome somewhere. Either way, he had their names now. Now that he heard from Cutthroat Teddy that they were part of Kane’s Golden Gang, he wanted them. He knew better than to get in too big a hurry. He would get them all rounded up just like this, one, two and three at a time. The rest of the time he would be tracking them, watching, waiting and being there when the time was right.
“Have it your way, Cutthroat Teddy,” he said quietly, and he nodded toward the horses. “Let’s get on our way.”
