The rock formation was surrounded by thorny brush. Only a small, barely-visible path led through it – up to the rocks where there were no more natural barriers. Wilcox was sure that Kelly expected him to take this trail. But he had already made his decision – and because of that Kelly and his crew were in for a very unpleasant surprise.
He rode on slowly, searching for a way through the tight-packed thicket. The leather clothes saved him from too much harm. More than once, however, he had to turn around and search for another way through the barrier.
Patience and determination were the order of the day now. And eventually patience and determination paid off. He found trail after trail, though not one of those thin ribbons was worthy of the name. But they took him inexorably toward the spot he wanted to reach, and so he continued to walk the horse ever deeper into the maze, with the sun burning mercilessly on man and horse both.
An hour passed. The country was like an oven. Every so often he would rein down and check the high country around him. At first he saw nothing, heard nothing. He might have been the last man on earth, for all he knew.
Then he saw what he’d been looking for.
He spotted the slightest movement between rocks up to his left. Seconds later he saw the figure of a man in a derby hat, watching the path further down the hill.
Wilcox’s face hardened, for this was where the killing began.
Chapter Twelve
Cautiously he dismounted, ducked behind some rocks and continued his way silently toward the guard. It was Wilcox’s good luck that the man had taken position before an overhanging rock – and if Wilcox could just reach the shelter beneath it without being spotted, he would have achieved half of his plan. From there he would creep on sideways, and surprise would be on his side.
When the man in the derby turned his attention to the southwest, he ran swiftly to a small ditch. There he raised his head to make sure that he hadn’t been noticed.
He hadn’t.
A couple of minutes later he reached the shadow of the overhanging rock. The most difficult part now lay behind him. The guard was not far away from him, maybe twenty yards. He still had his back turned to Wilcox and was concentrating on the brush country at the bottom of the rock formation, from which he expected Wilcox to come.
He had no idea the man he was waiting for was already within killing distance of him.
Watching his opponent, Wilcox reached to his left hip, where he carried a Bowie knife in a leather sheath. He drew it silently and once more took cover behind the surrounding rocks. What he did now must be accomplished so quickly that his victim never got the chance to fire a shot or voice a scream.
Five minutes later he was so near that he could hear the other man’s breathing. Then he sprang up and threw the knife overarm, and it slammed Jimmy Evans in the back with a sound like a punch.
Jimmy never knew what hit him. There was a sharp pain, a moment of confusion. Then his legs would no longer support him, and as they folded he went down and stayed down.
Wilcox stood up, crossed to the dead man and retrieved his knife, wiping the blade on the dead man’s duster.
The plateau from which Jimmy Evans had been watching the trail led to a wide gully between misshapen white rocks. It was a perfect place for Kelly and his companions to hole up.
He crept closer, setting his weight down soundlessly with every step. And then, finally, he found them.
They had erected their camp on the right side of the gully. Billy was leaning against a rock, his hands bound behind him with leather strings. One of the two other men down there was big and stocky – although he had never seen the man before, it was Dub Winfield. And the man with him …
Kelly.
Holding his Winchester in his right hand, he ducked between the rocks. A minute or so later he reached the cover of a few tumbled rocks. Here he waited no more than the space of a single heartbeat, for he knew that speed was the key to making this work – speed and a ruthlessness that was absolute.
He came around the rocks with the Winchester braced against his hip. As Dub Winfield heard the sound of his approach he turned and reached for his sidearm. Wilcox fired, levered and fired again, and two .44/.40s punched through Winfield’s barrel chest and sent him staggering backwards. He dropped without a moan at Kelly’s feet, kicked a little, then died.
Kelly’s shock lasted just seconds. Then he drew iron and stabbed his pistol not at Wilcox but at Billy, at a spot right between Billy’s scared blue eyes.
He didn’t shoot. Instead he moved quickly toward the boy, dragged him upright, used him as a shield between him and the man who had come to kill him.
“No you don’t!” Kelly yelled, pressing the barrel of the gun against Billy’s temple. “You try it, Wilcox, and I’ll kill the boy for sure!”
Wilcox swore, managed, “All right, all right! Don’t do anything sudden, Kelly!” Quickly he threw the Winchester aside, raised his hands. “You got me. No need to hurt him anymore.”
Kelly tightened his grip on the boy. “You got Jimmy?” he said.
“The kid in the derby? Yeah.”
“Didn’t hear you get him.”
“I used a knife.”
Kelly nodded. “So that’s two good friends I lost today.”
“Price you pay, I guess, in this line of work. Now let the boy go and we’ll finish this between us, just you and me.”
“Not a chance,” said Kelly. “Throw that knife aside. And your Colt.”
“So you can shoot me dead with no risk to yourself?”
“Just do it, damn you!”
Wilcox tilted his head a little, studying Kelly as if seeing him for the first time. “No,” he replied.
“You’ll do it or I’ll shoot this here boy!”
“Shoot him,” said Wilcox. “But remember this, Kelly. Right now, that boy’s the only thing keeping you alive.”
Billy managed a nervous nod. “He’s right, Kelly. Kill me and he’ll kill you for sure!”
Wilcox planted himself right where he was. “Let the boy go and we’ll do this man to man, face to face. At least that way you get a chance against me. If not … I’ll shoot you right here, right now, no damn’ chance at all, and I can do it, too. I really am that good.”
Billy, looking at the gunman he so admired, thought, Oh God, Mr. Wilcox, I hope you are …
“I got a better notion,” said Kelly. “Piece of advice I took years ago.”
“Which is?” asked Wilcox.
Kelly’s face went flat. “Always shoot ’em while they’re still talkin’.”
Even before the last words had left his lips he flung Billy aside, aimed his gun at Wilcox and fired.
The gunblast echoed along the gully. Wilcox dropped to a crouch, drew his Colt faster than it was possible to see and returned fire. Kelly shot again. Wilcox fanned his pistol and sent three shots smacking into Kelly, one through his throat, two in his chest. Kelly staggered like a drunk, already dead on his feet. A moment later his arm went loose, his gun fell to the sand. Then Kelly himself, his chest streaming blood by now, went down to land on top of it.
Billy caught his balance, knew a moment of shock that it was over, his ordeal was actually over.
He looked at Wilcox, opened his mouth to thank him, then frowned. Wilcox was just standing there like a statue. Without looking at him, Wilcox said, “You all right, Billy?”
“I … I’m fine, Mr. Wilcox.”
“Good,” said Wilcox … and then collapsed.
Realizing the gunman had been shot, Billy stumbled over to him, turned, managed to free the Bowie from its sheath at Wilcox’s waist and somehow saw through his bonds. With numb hands he turned Wilcox over, groaned when he saw blood glistening on the man’s shirtfront.
“No...” husked Billy. “Oh Lord, please don’t...”
Wilcox managed to open his eyes, squint up at him. He said, “It’s all right, Billy.” His voice was eerily calm, and there was blood on his lips.
“
I’ll fetch help,” said the boy.
“No … ”
“But – ”
Wilcox reached out and grabbed his arm. His grip was weak, and getting weaker all the time. “Don’t worry on … my account … B-Billy. I always knew a day like this w … would come. And you know what? I’m glad it’s here at last. No m … more waiting. I’m headed for a better … place now.”
“Mr. Wilcox … ”
Wilcox looked up at him and smiled. “My friend,” he whispered.
He died.
Though he tried, Billy couldn’t hold his grief back any longer. He wept unashamedly, while in the distance hoof beats sounded and a voice he recognized as his father’s called, “Are you up there, boy? You all right?”
Help, he thought, was finally coming.
But for Sam Wilcox, help had come too late.
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