Bushwack Bullets
Page 12
Even if Ashfield had escaped death from the three bullets which had struck his body, Kingman knew that the man's skull had undoubtedly been crushed as he was dragged along the rocky ground. And his mount's steel-shod rear hoofs had no doubt hammered the trailing body, as well.
Dismounting, Hap Kingman gripped his bridle reins in one hand as he hurried to the far edge of the granite outcrop where he had taken refuge against the drygulcher hidden on the slope above.
As he did so, he caught sight of the ambusher scuttling along the hillside toward a nearby gully, his body bent almost double as he left the cactus thicket.
Swiftly Kingman triggered two shots at the running hombre, saw his bullets kick up dust far short of his target. A moment later the killer had vanished into the draw.
19
LONG-RANGE DUEL
There was a .45-70 Winchester carbine in the scabbard of Joe Ashfield's saddle, but it might as well have been on a distant planet.
Even as Hap Kingman watched he saw the foreman's horse, its saddle stirrups flapping wildly, vanish over a boulder-cluttered ridge a half mile distant.
Ashfield's body had not moved since it had broken free of the ox-bow stirrup that had trapped the Triangle S rider. It now lay, crumpled grotesquely, at the end of a settling pall of dust which marked the skidding path of doom.
"If I try to reach Joe's body and get that money belt, that ambusher will pot me," Kingman thought, wiping sweat from his face. "And it won't do any good for me to wait for him to ride down to Ashfield's body, because that's out of six-gun range."
Even as he spoke, Kingman saw the ambusher ride out of shelter of the low-rimmed coulee, mounted on a leggy roan mustang.
At two hundred yards, the cowboy could not tell who the ambusher was. He wore a Mexican sombrero, and a Mexican serape bannered in the wind as the ambusher spurred his horse wearily down the slope. He did not believe the ambusher was Everett Kingman.
"If it's Melrose, he's still wearin' his Señor Giboso costume," decided Kingman. "But it's probably one of Melrose's gunhawks, that he sent up here in wait for Joe."
The Mexican-clad killer was obviously heading down the hill toward Ashfield's corpse. Sunlight glinted redly off the barrel of a rifle which the ambusher kept in readiness.
"This skunk knows I haven't a rifle, or I'd've used it when I had the chance," thought Kingman, climbing back aboard his pony. "At this rate, all I can do is sit here and watch while that skunk robs Ashfield and rides off."
Halfway down the hill toward the trail, the sombreroed killer dismounted and knelt beside a boulder to rest the rifle barrel across it.
In the nick of time, Kingman realized that the drygulcher was intending to drive him to cover, for the lobo had now ridden far enough down the slope to catch sight of the cowboy who had ridden under the lip of the granite outcrop.
Even as Kingman reined his horse about and spurred for the protection of the outcrop's eastern end, the ambusher's rifle spat harshly and a .30-30 spanged on the rocks alongside Kingman.
The single shot had its intended effect; it drove the helpless cowboy around the corner of the rock.
When Kingman was out of sight, the rifleman proceeded down to the trail on foot, leading the roan behind him at rein's length. Reaching the trail, the outlaw strolled calmly to where Joe Ashfield's corpse lay sprawled in the rubble.
Hap Kingman groaned aloud. He could not leave his horse and take a chance on running from bush to rock and thus get within six-gun range of the ambusher who was coolly preparing to rob Ashfield's corpse.
To do that would be to risk being trapped in the open, and Kingman had already seen the ambusher's uncanny skill with a rifle.
Peering around the granite ledge, the cowboy cursed with impotent fury as he saw the serape-clad desperado jerk out the tails of Ashfield's shirt, going unerringly to the currency-stuffed money belt which the Triangle S foreman wore.
"Thirty thousand bucks, and me helpless to defend it!" moaned the cowhand, gripping his cedar-butted Colt in an agony of impatience. "And worse than that, Anna Siebert will lose her ranch if I don't get that dinero back!"
Even as he looked, Hap Kingman saw the killer stand up, the money belt dangling from his fist like some manner of snake. The ambusher rolled up the belt and tucked it under his armpit, then calmly tightened the girth of his saddle and remounted.
Then, with a taunting wave in Kingman's direction, the robber spurred off toward the southwest, following the trail to Mexitex town.
Knowing that it would be suicidal to venture into the open so long as the outlaw remained in effective rifle range, Hap Kingman waited with mounting impatience until the killer topped the skyline of the next ridge and dipped from sight.
"He may hole up and try shootin' at me when I come out in the open," decided Kingman, remounting. "But my hoss can outrun his, if it comes to that."
The cowboy spurred into a gallop, drawing rein alongside Joe Ashfield's body.
If he had any hopes of finding a spark of life left in the unfortunate foreman of the Triangle S, that hope was blasted.
Ashfield's skull was split open from some jagged rock he had been dragged over. The leg which had become wedged in the stirrup was twisted, obviously broken.
Further than that, blood leaked from three bullet holes in the foreman's chest. Any of them would have proved fatal. Kingman doubted if Ashfield had been alive when he had toppled from saddle. He probably never knew what hit him.
"No time to bury you, old pard," panted Kingman, untying his own bedroll and covering Ashfield's corpse with a blanket. "Best I can do is try and tally your killer and get that dinero back. With darkness only an hour away, it seems that ambusher is going to win this pot."
Kingman left the trail, making a wide circuit along the southern base of the ridge beyond which the ambusher had vanished. He knew that to continue on the trail would bring an inevitable bullet, and he did not intend to share Ashfield's grisly fate.
Rounding the shoulder of the ridge, Kingman caught sight of the ambusher, a half mile away. Sure enough, the outlaw had halted as soon as he had topped the rise, waiting in case the cowboy rode in pursuit.
Then a moving object off to the left attracted Kingman's eye, and a low cry blew from his lips as he recognized Joe Ashfield's saddle horse a short distance away.
The foreman's mount had been attracted to a mountain bench sparsely stubbled with gramma grass, and was now grazing, the sun glinting off the polished seat of the empty saddle.
This was a stroke of luck. There was the .45-70 rifle in Ashfield's saddle scabbard, if it had not dislodged during the horse's wild gallop to freedom.
Unbuckling the coiled riata at his pommel, Hap Kingman shook out a loop as he spurred toward the dead man's horse.
The bronc threw up its hammer head and sniffed as Kingman approached, riding at a wild gallop.
Then Ashfield's horse bolted, but trailing bridle reins made the animal stumble and Kingman quickly overhauled the riderless mustang.
He kept an eye on the mounted killer up the ridge, as he closed in on Ashfield's horse with lariat whirling in air. He heard the far-off crash of gunfire, heard the high-pitched whine of bullets overhead as the ambusher sought to get his range.
But a running target was hard to hit, and a moment later Hap Kingman's loop settled about the horse's neck and he was snubbing the rope to his saddlehorn.
Leaving his trained peg pony, Hap hurried along the rope until he could seize the horse's bit ring.
He grinned with relief as he saw Ashfield's heavy carbine still intact in its scabbard. And hanging from the saddlehorn was a brown leather case containing a pair of field glasses.
The cowboy paused long enough to strip the horse of saddle and bridle and turn it loose. Then, uncasing the binoculars, Kingman squatted down and focused the glasses on the figure of the ambusher.
The latter had stopped shooting and was riding along the trail, as if uncertain whether to ride closer and open fire again on h
is target.
"Melrose!" gasped Kingman, as the high magnification of Ashfield's glasses revealed the crooked lawyer, seemingly close enough to touch. "Even if you get back to Mexitex, you'll swing for ambushin' Joe!"
The high-powered field glasses showed Kingman every detail of the Mexitex lawyer's hate-twisted visage. The lawyer at the moment was busy reloading the magazine of his Winchester, from cartridges contained in a Mexican-style bandolier slung across his chest.
Dropping the glasses, Hap Kingman pulled Ashfield's rifle from its boot, wound up his rope, and climbed back on his horse.
"Now we're on an even footin'," rasped the cowboy, as he spurred grimly in Melrose's direction. "In fact, my rifle will outshoot yours."
They were a thousand yards apart, now. Kingman had shot more than one mountain goat or elusive deer at that range, but the idea of hunting for a fellow human was a strange sensation.
He had never killed a man, but no restraint or revulsion was in the cowboy now as he spurred grimly toward showdown. If his marksmanship proved equal to putting a .45-70 bullet through Russ Melrose, he would feel triumph instead of regret.
Less than an hour of daylight remained, and Melrose had every chance of taking flight. A getaway would be easy.
But, strangely enough, the Mexitex lawyer was showing no signs of turning tail and making his escape from the approaching cowboy.
"He realizes I got him spotted, now," decided Kingman, as he saw Russ Melrose fling off the Mexican serape to give his arms freedom. "I've called him, and it's a showdown."
When he had cut the distance between them in half, Hap Kingman drew rein and levered a shell into the breech of Ashfield's rifle.
Melrose sat his horse, motionless on the trail at the top of the ridge. The hillside was barren; there were no coulees where Melrose could hide himself, let alone his horse. The rocky soil was even devoid of a boulder or a mesquite bush where Melrose could hole up.
The reason for the lawyer's choosing shootout instead of flight was obvious. So long as Hap Kingman was alive, and knew that Melrose had ambushed Joe Ashfield and robbed his dead body, then Melrose could not return to Mexitex and take over Anna Siebert's cattle syndicate.
Grimly, the lawyer leveled his Winchester carbine at the halted cowboy down the slope. Even as he pulled trigger, he saw Kingman's rifle flash.
Smoke cleared away from both guns, and the two long-range duelists saw that their opening shots had both missed their marks.
Then they spurred closer, each reloading their rifles as they maneuvered toward each other for a shootout which inevitably would bring death to one or both.
20
BUZZARD BAIT
Hap saw the lawyer rein up his horse and jump suddenly from saddle.
Ground-tied, the horse remained motionless as Russ Melrose ran a dozen yards to one side and put his mount out of the line of fire.
But the Flying K cowpuncher chose to remain in saddle, believing that he presented a more difficult target on a moving horse than on the ground.
Cagily, Russ Melrose did a running dive toward the ground as Kingman triggered two fast shots at the lawyer. The .45-70 bullets kicked up spurts of sand behind Melrose's heels.
Belly down to the ground, Russ Melrose propped up his smoking Winchester with one elbow, his gun-sights following the cowboy as Kingman broke into a gallop, making a wide circle to put the gray background of the mountains behind him.
Melrose's next bullet was desperately close, but Kingman knew the odds against being hit were in his favor. In all probability, Melrose would soon have to reload his rifle magazine, and in that moment when he had his enemy at a disadvantage Kingman intended to strike from closer range, where his unfamiliarity with the strange firearm would not count against him.
And then Russ Melrose changed tactics.
Disregarding the mounted cowboy who was keeping in constant motion, Melrose drew careful aim at Kingman's fast-moving horse.
The animal, broadside to the prone lawyer, was as good a target as a deer—and Melrose had reason to be proud of his marksmanship.
A yell of dismay wrenched from Hap Kingman's lips as he felt his pony rear aloft on its hind legs, its body jolted by the impact of a .30-30 missile which struck it through the withers and shattered its spine.
With a high-pitched neigh of agony, the Triangle S pony pitched groundward.
Desperately trying to kick boots from stirrups, Kingman felt the pony's legs buckle, felt the horse pitch sidewise.
A red wave of pain shot through Kingman as his right leg was pinned between the horse's barrel and the rocky ground. Even as the horse kicked violently in its death throes, the cowboy heard the grisly snap of his shin bone fracturing under the pressure of the horse's weight.
Darkness swirled about Hap Kingman and he fought doggedly to fight off unconsciousness. Fireworks spun before his vision; he became aware of the fact that he was pinioned to the earth with twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh on his broken leg.
His face gleaming with the sweat of sheer agony, Hap Kingman reached around for the rifle which he suddenly realized was no longer in his grasp. It lay on the ground well out of reach.
Then Hap's senses skidded over the edge into oblivion.
Russ Melrose leaped to his feet with a yell of triumph and raced for his horse. He levered a shell into the firing chamber of his Winchester as he spurred down the slope toward the trapped body of his victim.
Melrose approached warily, lest Kingman might be luring him into six-gun range with a ruse of unconsciousness.
But the cowboy made no move as Melrose approached from the rear. Kingman's arms were outflung, and his weight was resting on one holstered gun. Before Kingman could possibly draw his other .45 Colt, Melrose could shoot.
Dismounting, the lawyer approached the fallen horse and rider, and made certain that Kingman was knocked cold.
Melrose pressed the muzzle of his rifle against the back of Kingman's head, but then he seemed to change his mind. He squatted down to remove the uppermost Colt from the cowboy's holster, noticing with relief that it was his own gun which Hap Kingman had taken from him in the Rio Grande cavern.
Lifting Kingman's weight, the lawyer tugged the other six-gun from its scabbard. It was Dev Hewett's six-gun legacy to his son, its backstrap significantly notched thirteen times.
Melrose tossed the gun aside. He had kept it in his safe for eighteen years, and nothing but evil luck had come from it.
"It'd serve you right, Kingman, if I waited for you to come to and told you how I tricked you into thinking you were Dev Hewett's whelp, instead of Warren Allen's," thought the lawyer with a sadistic grin. "But if I use my common sense, I'd salivate you and then hit the trail for Mexitex."
For a long interval Russ Melrose pondered another scheme. He seriously doubted if Hap Kingman, regaining consciousness, would be able to extricate himself from the weight of the dead cow pony. And there was a good chance that Kingman's leg had been broken by the fall.
Unbuckling the cowboy's lariat from the pommel, Melrose proceeded to lash Kingman's arms behind his back, knotting the rope securely.
"Reckon I'll leave you here for buzzard bait, cowboy!" rasped the lawyer. "Nobody passes this spot once in a blue moon. And when your bones are discovered, nobody'll blame me for this job."
Remounting his own horse, Russ Melrose spurred back up to the Mexitex trail. Five minutes later he he had vanished over the next ridge, riding into the sunset.
Wracking pain brought Hap Kingman to his senses after darkness had fallen. He lay there in a stupor of numb agony, hardly able to realize that his arms had been trussed tightly behind him.
As the long hours of a cool mountain night revived him, Kingman became increasingly aware of the pain of his fractured shin bone. The crushing weight of the dead horse brought a numbness to his entire body.
Phantomlike shapes prowled about the fallen horse and rider, during the black hours before the dawn:
Timber wolves, att
racted by the scent of the dead horse which held Hap Kingman prisoner, helpless on the cold earth, here in a forgotten corner of the desolate Sierra Secos.
Exhaustion finally overcame his pain, and Kingman slept.
The sun was several hours high when its hot, penetrating rays finally brought the doomed cowboy back to his senses.
"Looks like here is where I cash in my chips," thought Hap Kingman. "I'll be lucky if I'm not in hell and the coyotes nibblin' my carcass this time tomorrow!"
His frantic efforts to wriggle his broken leg from under the dead saddle pony brought only nausea and dizziness.
Awakening from one of the fainting attacks brought about by his desperate efforts to crawl free, Kingman scared away a trio of gaunt, rednecked buzzards which had swooped down out of the Texas sky to alight on the pony's stiffening legs.
As the boiling sun baked the vitality from his body, Hap Kingman became more and more feeble in his attempts to scare away the waiting, black feathered scavengers of the malpais.
Thirst tortured him. At intervals, he raved in delirium, until his voice was lost in the raw cavern of his throat.
Finally, as mid-afternoon came after an eternity of time, one of the buzzards ventured to alight on Kingman's shoulder.
The puncher's swollen tongue and parched throat were incapable of screaming out the horror that seized his heart.
His spirit recoiled from the grim bird of death, but his quivering movements were not enough to frighten the buzzard.
Hap Kingman felt his sanity reeling as the bird of prey tightened its sharp talons on the muscles of his shoulder, flapped its wings with a rush of sound like a death knell.
Then the buzzard poised over Hap Kingman with cruel beak ready to rip into the cowboy's defenseless face.
21
SIERRA SECO PROSPECTOR
Dimly, above the steady tom-tomming of blood in his eardrums, Hap Kingman heard a muffled shot.
With the crash of sound, the pain-racked cowboy was aware of the fact that the gaunt buzzard astride his shoulder had been miraculously snatched away.