Black Wind Pass

by Rusty Davis

  “He did. He’s the blacksmith for Lazy F. I don’t think he is comfortable with some of their recent actions, but a man has to eat. He came to see me last night. There’s some kind of plan in the works. All the men are being gathered; a lot of talk in whispers. A couple riders said they need new shoes before their horses take that rocky road over the hill. You know where that lets out. There have been some meetings between Lazy F and Double J, he thinks. I do not know if those were meetings that resulted in the ranches being allies or if they failed to reach an agreement. Easy Thompson hates Francis Oliver, but no one really knows Henry Petersen, the ranch manager, or even who is making the Double J’s decisions. The Lazy F hands think the range is going to be divided between two outfits and they think they are fighting for their survival. He thinks they plan to put the old Bar C out of business once and for all.”

  “Easy to say,” Carrick replied. Reb caught defiance in the tone; a touch of arrogance. Nice of him not to worry. She was scared half to death.

  “Carrick. We can’t stand up to both of those outfits—you, me Aunt Jess, Bad Weather, and a few . . . whatever they are!”

  He did not respond. She poked him. “Carrick! You gonna answer me?”

  “Oliver is planning a raid.”

  “What?”

  “Reb, the only way to get us off the range is to kill us, and kill us all. Oliver needs to act soon. They will wait for a time when they think we are all here, and then wipe us out. This isn’t about control of the range or the stock or even Colt’s men. This is about you, me, and your Aunt Jess. If Oliver kills us all, no one will stand in his way. Bad Weather might fight because he’s stubborn, but no Indian can hold title to land, so, once they kill us, they have no one to stop them. Oliver needs the land, and he is running out of time. He’s going after us because we are all that stands in his way. Colt’s folks are not going to fight for the range like we will. If we go down, they will drift. Maybe, if we know when Lazy F is coming, we can have a surprise of our own. Maybe we should give them an invitation so we know when they plan to attack. Bad Weather, anyone know you rode over tonight?”

  “I don’t think so; I waited until after dark.”

  “Did your friend say when they were coming? Tonight?”

  “Didn’t sound it. I got the impression it’s maybe a day away. Not much more,” replied Randy.

  “Go back, then. Act normally. Tomorrow, we will send someone to spell you a day or two down there while you go for supplies, some such excuse. Lots of cover down there; easy for them to spy on you. They may be already. If they figure you’re in town, they might make their move sooner.”

  “You want them to attack?” asked Reb.

  “Lazy F knows the country as well as anyone else. I know which way they’ll come. You know that back trail that leads out by the barn?”

  “It’s steep and narrow going over the hills. There are lots of rocks along the way. No one rides that.”

  “A man can ride that trail if he goes slowly enough. A man like Oliver might not care if a few horses fall by the wayside trying this in the middle of the night as long as most of ’em get through. Think about where that trail comes out. No one can see riders until they are on top of the house. Perfect surprise. They could put twenty, thirty riders here before anyone knew they had arrived.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  Carrick grinned. It was wolfish. Savage. “Put Francis Oliver in a place where he can’t ever hurt anyone again.”

  The sun would be poking over the hills to the east soon.

  Everything was ready. Randy had ridden in the day before, after making sure the riders who relieved him were told, loudly, he was heading for town. Every window of the house had someone waiting with a rifle. Even Aunt Jess, who tolerated hunting to eat but hated shooting anything, insisted she wanted a gun.

  “It wasn’t you he fooled,” she had told Reb earlier with no small amount of asperity. “I want the man in my sights for one second. I have never been so humiliated and degraded in my life, Reb.”

  “We’ll pay him back, Aunt Jess.”

  Reb was dubious, however, about the upcoming fight. She expressed her doubts to Carrick. “If Randy and Aunt Jess are the best we got, Carrick, we’re in trouble. Both of ’em are good people but they aren’t soldiers or killers. Eileen Ramsay and her bunch are willing, but I don’t know if they’ll stand. If Lazy F puts all its riders against us, Carrick, we can’t hold them off. What good is all this if Aunt Jess is killed?”

  “We don’t let that happen,” he told her. “If Oliver comes at us, we fight back with every last thing we’ve got. Bullets can kill anyone when there’s a scrap, but Randy’s supposed to watch your aunt doesn’t do anything stupid like try to kill them all. Oliver has to kill you and me. If we aren’t in the house, he’s not going to be trying to take it. You’ve got to focus. Your horse saddled?”

  “Yes, Carrick,” she repeated like a child telling an adult something for the thousandth time. “Two rifles, two guns over the saddle horn, enough bullets in the saddlebags to last as long as the Alamo held. Same as you told me and told me and told me.” He smiled at her; she paused. “You aren’t planning on you and I running away and leaving Aunt Jess to fight this out, are you?”

  “You think I would?”

  “Nooo, but . . .”

  “A little faith, woman. A little faith. If I tried that, you’d shoot me. If war teaches one thing, it’s how to surprise the folks that want to surprise you. What Francis Oliver thinks he’s coming up against and what is actually ready to meet him are going to be two very different things.”

  Carrick’s shadowed face was grim. His tone was as cold as death. Reb shivered. “I’m cold. I’m scared.”

  “Scared is good; keeps you thinkin’. Keeps you alive. Everybody’s scared before a fight. Can’t do much about that. Might do something about the cold part, though.” He held out his arms.

  She was half-dozing on his shoulder, underneath his jacket, when he shook her roughly awake.

  “Hey!” she started to yell. His hand was over her mouth. He pointed with the rifle he held in his other hand.

  This was it. She looked out the barn door. There was a shadowy shape moving beyond the tall grass. Another. And another. Fear was in her stomach. Her lungs. It broke out in drops on her forehead.

  “Easy. Easy.” The words staunched the advance of fear, but didn’t vanish it. “Nothin’ happening we didn’t expect. Glad they came the way we suspected. Gettin’ tired of stayin’ up all night waiting for ’em.”

  She could not share his calmness. She was always ready to fight back when provoked, but this was beyond what she knew, this cold planning to kill people. “How many are there?” she asked, hoping for a number that would ease her mind.

  “Twenty, maybe more. It’s not going to matter. Wait until Bad Weather opens the ball, then we do what I told you.”

  She peeked out the door again. The pre-dawn light was spreading. Figures of horses and men were becoming distinct. Incongruously, the birds had started singing in the distance, as if this was another peaceful Wyoming morning. She was up around this time every day to start chores. For a moment she wondered if she would be getting up tomorrow.

  He slapped her rump. Anger flooded her. “Mount,” Carrick growled. Miserable man! Then she looked at the riders in the half-light. They would pay, too. She didn’t see him grinning as he watched the anger take root and blossom. Anger was good. It would get her through the next few minutes. That, and a little luck.

  Bad Weather’s rifle opened. A moan responded. Milling riders were thrown into confusion for a moment, then responded by firing at the house. A volley answered back. The volume of sound made the sides seem evenly matched. Lazy F hadn’t brought everyone. Good! Carrick wondered if that was because some riders wouldn’t have stood for murder, or whether Oliver was that confident. Either way, it was what he was hoping for. Firing now became general; everyone shooting at what they thought they saw.

  �
�Now, Reb!”

  Carrick and Reb pounded out of the barn and down the pathway towards the main trail that would lead to either Lincoln Springs or Black Wind Pass. Reb fired blindly as she rode, not caring what she hit but hoping no one took good aim at them.

  “Come on, Reb,” Carrick called loudly as they passed through the Lazy F riders, standing up in the stirrups and waving. It was almost too dark, but he hoped they were visible. He stopped and leveled the rifle, firing into the horsemen. Then he nudged Beast to a gallop. If that didn’t get their attention, nothing would!

  Francis Oliver saw the two riders gallop away. Carrick! The other one had to be the girl. They were the thorns in his plans—the girl and the man who had ruined everything. He pulled his best riders aside and left the rest to continue the attack on the farmhouse. They couldn’t get away. Jessie Lewis and the dregs of Ramsay’s gang wouldn’t matter. It was like a snake. When he killed Reb and Carrick, the head would be dead and the body would die.

  Lazy F’s men galloped down the flattened trail. It was flat land here; no chance of an ambush.

  “Boss!”

  One rider was pointing. Dust kicked up from two sets of hooves was visible in the light; then they saw the two riders heading across the flat prairie for Black Wind Pass. Oliver spurred his mount harder. They had to catch them before they cleared the pass. Even Dan Hill might have to do something if Reb Lewis came bearing this tale. There was always fear the army might look into this if it got big enough. If anyone poked into the valley to investigate, the railroad might get skittish and look elsewhere for its coal, and all of this would be for nothing.

  “Ride!” he growled at his men. They cut through twists and turns in the woods to gain on Carrick and Reb, losing sight of their quarry now and then in the process. Once they heard them firing back. They must be getting close.

  Soon, they were on the last winding uphill piece of the trail to Black Wind Pass. They had to have come this way, or the riders would have run into them. Oliver spurred his horse in desperation. His men followed.

  Orange from the rising sun filled the pass ahead with a glow. The riders were not visible. Oliver moved out further from the rest. As he and his men neared the pass, they saw the blackened remnants of the ruined cabin. The sun was in their eyes, making it hard to discern the riders they were chasing, but they knew there was no other trail; no other path. They were up there somewhere.

  Then Oliver saw the silhouette. One black shape against the deepening reddish orange of the sunrise. One defiant man in the middle of the pass. He was standing in a relaxed posture, with his right hand leaning casually against a rifle. That loose, unconcerned stance reminded Oliver of a big cat watching prey, not caring if it was seen because it knew it would kill whomever came close.

  Something in Oliver shivered as he reined in his horse. He was not a man who believed in anything, but, for a moment, he thought he was seeing death. No one could have gotten there that far ahead of them. They had been on their heels forcing them to fire wildly only a few moments ago. No matter. Carrick was there and if he wanted one final showdown, Oliver would give him one. He growled and cursed and turned in his saddle, pulling his horse to a stop. His men were soon behind him.

  “Calhoun! Smith!” Oliver called. He pointed. “Get rid of him.”

  The two Lazy F riders did not hesitate. They drew their guns and rode into the pass, where the trail narrowed to allow only a few horsemen at a time to enter. Oliver watched through the dust kicked up by their horses. The lone cowboy was lost in the cloud. Guns fired. Oliver saw red flashes wink within the dust. He held up his hand to block the sun from his eyes but the glare was too strong.

  Silence.

  The fine cloud of dust dissipated slowly as the faint morning breeze blew through the pass.

  No one was in sight. Beyond the pass stood Calhoun’s gray stallion, riderless. There were two lumps on the ground that looked like bodies. Oliver cupped his hands to his mouth and called the riders’ names. No one answered. For one final moment of rational thought, Oliver knew fear and knew the only way to live was to slink away. Then his desperation returned and he waved his gun theatrically over his head and pointed it toward the pass.

  “Boys! Get ready to charge!” The remaining eight riders drew rifles.

  One let loose a scream and pitched from his horse. Another crumped silently in his saddle. Another cried out. From the shack, rifle fire was moving down the line of mounted targets, picking them off one by one, like targets on a fence rail. Oliver and his men had no choice. They could either rush the pass and face Carrick or remain sitting ducks for the hidden sharpshooter.

  Oliver pointed to the pass. “Ride him down! We’ll come back for her when we’re done!” Slowly, stirrup to stirrup, he and the three remaining unwounded Lazy F men rode. Oliver’s eyes probed for the target he sought. The rifle fire behind them continued, but was now more of a nuisance than a threat.

  There! A silhouette moved as Carrick jumped from one rock to the next. Oliver’s riders anticipated his command. Rifles opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off the rocks to their left where Carrick had taken cover. Oliver knew from his days in the war that men on horseback were an easy target.

  “Dismount.” Oliver waited. Carrick thought he was tricky. Oliver had a few tricks of his own. They slapped the horses ahead of them. As the horses galloped through the pass unmolested, the gunmen advanced under cover of the dust. They used the screen to reach the rocky edge of the pass. They spread out to flank the rocks their antagonist had used as cover. The breeze was stiffening. The dust was dissipating. They moved fast.

  They froze.

  Above them was the clear sound of a cocked hammer. “Drop ’em or die.”

  Oliver roared out a curse, firing up the slope of the pass until a bullet stifled his rage and sent him toppling over. The rider next to him went down as well. The shooter ducked back to avoid the fusillade that erupted from the remaining two riders.

  The tableau held. The sun rose. A crow called. Two men pressed against the rock had lost any reason to fight, but would not give up. This was no longer about Lazy F. This was a fight to the finish. They had beaten longer odds. With one look, they nodded. They split up, one each way. They clung to the rocky sides of the pass. Waiting. Sweat trickled down their faces. Dust-caked lips were dry. Silence. There it was! A boot moving rocks. They leaped up the final few feet to the top of the rocky sides of the pass. Each saw nothing but the other. Trap!

  They started scrambling back down, but the hidden sharpshooter who had moved away from the ruined shack to take up a new position in the rocks opened fire on them. When they stopped to return it, Carrick ended it quickly, emerging from his own hiding place with his gun blazing. Then he held up a hand toward Reb. “Stop!” he yelled.

  There were distant sounds. Somebody was moaning. Then it stopped. The clinking sound of metal casings hitting rock was the only sound to break the silence. Then the chamber of a revolver spun, clicking faster as it whirled until Carrick stopped it and locked it back in place. Footsteps warily moved toward the men. Dead. Carrick let loose the breath he did not know he was holding. It was over.

  Oliver alone had not died instantly. He was leaning against the rocks at the side walls of Black Wind Pass. His chest was red and wet, but his eyes were still alive with fury. He had his revolver in his hand, waiting for one clear shot at his enemy before he died. Laboriously, he worked to cock back the hammer of the weapon, his hand trembling as he put every bit of effort left in his life into taking Carrick or Reb with him.

  From nowhere, a boot kicked the gun out of a hand too weak to hold it. The dying rancher looked up. The sky was a faint pink dotted with blues and white. A woman knelt down next to him.

  “You killed Carrick’s friend. You humiliated my Aunt Jess. You tried to take my land away from me!”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “I wanted to finish you off, Oliver. I wanted to finish you myself! You aren’t worth it. I think I’ll let yo
u die slow instead.”

  Francis Oliver saw Rebecca Lewis stand and walk away. Her figure merged with the shadows that were converging on his sight until it seemed the girl had walked away down a tunnel that was closing slowly, closing faster, and then closed altogether.

  Reb stood next to Carrick, looking down upon Oliver’s barely dead form. “He died too fast,” she said with anger and regret.

  “It only matters he’s dead, Reb. He got what he deserved. Help me heft him.”

  “Can’t we leave him for the vultures? I’m not going to bury him.”

  “We need to end this, Reb. There’s been enough killing. His men aren’t going to fight for Lazy F once they realize Oliver is gone. They need proof. Time for Francis Oliver to do something good for once in his life.”

  They threw him over a horse and rode down the pass. Distant desultory gunfire said the old Bar C house was still under siege. At a safe distance, Carrick surveyed the scene. The Lazy F men had found such cover as they could. There must not have been enough to rush the house because Oliver split the men. Now he had to hope nobody wanted to be a hero.

  Carrick tied a white cloth to his rifle. He waved it as he rode up to the scene of Lazy F surrounding the old Bar C house.

  “Lazy F, this here is Carrick! Listen here! Got Francis Oliver here, boys. Dead.” He pushed Oliver off the saddle. The rancher lay sprawled face-up in the dust. Carrick walked Beast around in a tight circle as he spoke. “Oliver wanted the ladies’ range; he got the dust he can swallow. He had a scheme that was going to make himself rich and nobody else. The man was out for himself, Lazy F. Not you! Way I figure this, it ends here. Your boss told you lies, you swallowed them, and you rode with him. All of that is over. Not minded to vengeance, but if you aren’t off the Lewis ladies’ land in the next minute, every last mother’s son of you gets the same.”

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then Harvey Edwards, Lazy F foreman, stood with his hands up, walking toward Carrick.