Triple Peaks

by John Glasby

  Triple Peaks

  John Glasby

  © John Glasby 1966

  John Glasby has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work

  First published in 1966 by John Spencer Limited

  Originally published as High Vengeance by Chuck Adams

  This edition published in 2016 by Pioneering Press

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Outlaw

  Chapter Two: Heat Head

  Chapter Three: Gun Rage

  Chapter Four: Stranger in Town

  Chapter Five: Gunsight

  Chapter Six: Outlaw!

  Chapter Seven: The Wild Breed

  Chapter Eight: Shoot-out

  Chapter One: Outlaw

  There was a steady, hurting, hammering thud inside Turrell’s skull which throbbed worse every time his heart beat. It was something that hurt worse than anything he could recall, sickening, making it difficult for him to keep his grip on the reins. For the past ten minutes, his horse had plunged madly through thick pine and tangled underbrush; with snake-like branches, covered in thorns, lancing at him from the clinging darkness. But the pain with every heartbeat drowned out all other pain in his body and he scarcely felt the tearing of his flesh. He clutched desperately at the reins, hung on with his knees pressed tight into his horse’s flanks.

  Pain gripped him with fiery hands and made him want to vomit. His muscles felt soft and useless like rubber. Behind him, he knew, the pursuit was getting under way. Horses had been commandeered, deputies recruited for the posse, and now they were less than half a mile behind him, gaining every second.

  The night’s cold air brought its own numbness to his arms and legs, but his shirt was soaked with sweat in spite of the cold. A single rifle-shot came sharp and clear as a whiplash as he broke out of the undergrowth into a wide clearing and he heard the slug whine past his head and smack into the thick bark of one of the nearby trees. The horse galloped on its way and he bent low in the saddle. On the far side of the clearing, he found a thin trail of sorts, but speed was out of the question now and off in the distance, on either side of him he could hear the crash of other riders flanking him.

  Swiftly, acting on instinct, he reined up his mount, swung down from the saddle, his braced legs hitting the ground with a shock that sent agony searing through the muscles of his legs. Gritting his teeth, struggling to prevent the yell of pain from bursting forth from his lips, he dived for the nearest clump of bushes, veered off to his left for a couple of paces until he was crouched down among the thorny branches and pulled the sixgun from its holster. His horse came to a standstill among the brush some yards away, standing hipshot now that it was able to rest. He checked the impulse to run. To move out into the open now would be to invite disaster. He lay quite still, fighting for breath, eyes and ears searching the darkness for the slightest movement and the faintest sound.

  ‘Damn it, he’s got to be somewhere around,’ bellowed a harsh voice which he recognized as belonging to Cantry, the sheriff from Culver City, the man leading the posse.

  Turrell held his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he had a glimpse of a compact knot of men. They had been skylined for only a brief fraction of a second, but that had been enough for him to spot them. They were moving slowly through the dense brush to his left, urging their mounts forward through the rough ground. Somebody’s horse stumbled in one of the holes and fell, throwing its rider, causing shouts and yells and curses.

  Turrell’s lips pulled back in a vicious snarl. As he lay there, the gun gripped tightly in his right fist, his finger on the trigger, he remembered the events of that morning. Shortly after he had ridden into Culver City, he had spotted the wanted notice pinned outside the local jail. It had been an old poster, the picture on it bearing only a superficial resemblance to himself and he had decided that in spite of this, he would be safe enough in town for a few days. It had proved to be a wrong move. That goddamned bounty hunter had not been fooled by the age of the picture on the poster, had watched him for an hour or more while he had registered at the single hotel in the town, while he had eaten a leisurely breakfast, not making his move until he had stepped out on the street a couple of hours before noon. Then he had made his play, had almost taken him by surprise. Usually these bounty hunters shot their man in the back, took no chances themselves before claiming the reward money. But there had been a streak of bravado about this one and he had yelled a challenge just before he had pulled his gun. That yell had been the last sound he had made in this life. His Colt was still not clear of leather when the slug from Turrell’s gun tore through his chest, sending him sprawling in the dust.

  He had gone forward to check that the other was dead and, in that instant, he had been off guard. He had heard the soft movement of a man at his back, footsteps muffled by the dust, had half turned before the butt of a revolver had crashed down on to the back of his unprotected head. When he had come round, he was lying on a bunk in one of the cells of the town jail and Cantry, the sheriff, was staring at him through the bars. At first, his brain had been numbed by that smashing blow on the skull, then he had been able to think clearly. One look at Cantry’s face and the poster in his hands had convinced him of the futility of trying to bluff his way out of the jail.

  When Cantry had left for his evening meal, leaving the young deputy in charge of the jail, he must have figured that there would be no trouble because the deputy had fallen for the oldest trick on the book. Lying on the bunk, he had moaned sufficiently convincingly for the other to come running, open the door of the cell and bend down beside the bunk to examine him. Turrell’s lips twisted back into another vicious grin as he recalled how the deputy had fallen hard against the wall of the cell when he had sent his fist crashing into the other’s chin. Less than three minutes later, with the deputy trussed up on the bunk like a prize turkey, he had slipped out of the cell into the street, worked his way through some of the narrow, twisting alleys until he had come upon the livery stables. The groom had never known what had hit him as Turrell had come up behind him, cat-footed, slamming the butt of the deputy’s gun on to the back of his head. He had taken the fastest looking horse in the stables, ridden out of town and headed west. How the posse had found his trail he did not know, unless they had an Indian guide with them, one of the braves who could smell a white man half a mile away and follow a horse’s trail over rock, and in pitch blackness. But they had followed it and now they were busy beating the brush for him, with Cantry yelling orders at the top of his voice every few seconds.

  *

  A blast of gunfire came from the shadows over to his right. There was a shout, then silence. Whoever had fired that shot had been shooting at shadows, Turrell thought with a savage grimace. He squirmed back a couple of feet into the undergrowth, heard them moving again in his direction. He could see the head and shoulders of a man outlined against the skyline above the bushes on the far side of the clearing. More gunfire broke out, then Cantry yelled: ‘Hold your fire, men! We’ll never pick him out if we keep shooting like this. I want you to move around through the trees, then stop every fifteen seconds and listen. He’s sure to give himself away soon.’

  A voice that Turrell did not recognize sounded from the opposite side of the clearing. ‘How’d you know he ain’t ridden on through this goddamned brush, Cantry? He could be a couple of miles away, out in the open and headin’ away from us every second.’

  ‘We’d have heard his horse if he’d done that, Yacey. He’s pulled off someplace in this brush.’

  ‘I still figure he’s outsmarted us. He could’ve walked his horse on out while we’ve been crashin’ around here lookin’ for him.’

  ‘Yacey’s right, Sherif
f,’ called another voice from the darkness. ‘If he was hidin’ around here he could’ve shot down some of us from cover.’

  ‘Keep lookin’,’ called the other impatiently. ‘If we don’t smoke him out in five minutes we’ll move on away.’ Turrell eased himself further among the tall, rearing trees, making no sound. There was blood on the side of his head where a bullet had creased it, aggravating the wound caused by Cantry’s gun butt. His left eye stung like fire and it was difficult to see through it properly. His vision seemed oddly blurred and at times double. He rubbed at it angrily with his knuckles, cursing softly under his breath. If it hadn’t been for this posse coming up on him so fast, he could have been clear out of the county by now. He felt a slow trickle of ice-cold water soak into his shirt as he lay on his side, lifting himself up a little so that he would be able to get in a good shot at any of the men who came close to finding him. He could no longer see Cantry but he heard the snapping of dry twigs and the harsh wheeze of the sheriff’s breath as he thrust his none too lissom form through the bushes. Turrell clearly heard the lawman’s footfalls as he worked his way around the edge of the clearing. Sooner or later, he told himself, the other was going to spot his horse standing there in the shadows not more than fifteen feet away from where he lay and then they would know he was hidden somewhere around and nothing on earth would stop them from finding him eventually.

  ‘There’s a trail over here,’ yelled a voice excitedly. ‘Prints, too, but it’s hard to say how fresh.’

  There was a renewed movement in the brush. Cautiously, Turrell lilted his head to stare out into the blackness. At first he could make out nothing. Then, gradually, he was able to make out shapes and contours as they emerged from the overall darkness of the background. He sucked in a sharp breath, then lowered his head very slowly and carefully. There was a man standing less than three feet from him, his back to him, so close that Turrell had only to reach out with his hand to touch him. Gently, he lifted the gun in his hand, lined up the barrel on the man’s back, his finger ready to squeeze the trigger if the other should turn to look behind him. How the man had got there without being seen or heard, he did not know.

  ‘Over this way, Bill,’ called Cantry harshly. ‘He could’ve lit out along this trail; it leads over the ridge. Once he was down there we’d never hear him. Let’s get after him.’

  ‘What if he’s along there waitin’ in ambush?’ asked one of the men in a low growl.

  ‘Maybe he is,’ snorted Cantry. ‘But I figured I’d brought men with guts along with me in this posse. If there are any more of you who feel scared, better pull out now and make your way back to town. I’m goin’ to bring in Turrell dead or alive.’

  ‘You sure it was Turrell?’

  ‘Ain’t no mistake about it. He’s been wanted in half a dozen states for more ’n two years now. That bounty hunter recognized him. That’s why he was killed. Could be he figured he had the drop on this outlaw.’

  There was a hoarse laugh from one of the men. Then Turrell heard them moving away into the brush and a moment later the man in front of his hiding place went off, not once turning his head to glance behind him.

  When he was certain they had all gone, Turrell rose stiffly to his feet, thrust the Colt back into its holster and gingerly put up a hand to touch the side of his skull. He winced instinctively as his fingers touched the bruised, torn flesh. A lance of pain throbbed through his brain and he put out a hand to steady himself. He was hurt badly, he knew; and the sooner he got to a doctor who did not ask awkward questions, the better.

  This country was new to him and he did not know how far he would have to ride before he reached another town like Culver City, where there might be the chance of getting his wounds treated. His hand reached down and he pressed the heavy money belt around his middle, a belt the law officers in Culver City had not found when they had knocked him out and dragged him off to their jail. There were sufficient golden dollars in it to tempt any doctor to help him and keep his mouth closed.

  Following that trail which led west along the ridge was out of the question now. His best chance was to cut slowly through the brush at its thickest point until he came out into the open and then cut around to the west again, hoping to stay out of sight of that posse. How far those men would ride until they gave up the chase, he did not know. But from some of the remarks that had been passed when they had been searching the undergrowth for him, several of them had no heart for continuing the search for him.

  Moving over to his horse, still standing silent and patient near the edge of the clearing, he somehow managed to swing himself up into the saddle. The pain in his skull had grown worse and it was all he could do to keep a tight grip on the reins and remain upright in the saddle as he gigged his mount forward into the dense brush. There was a solitary echo from far off to the west, but the sound was not repeated and he guessed that the posse was still working its way along the ridge, moving cautiously in case he was waiting in ambush, ready to shoot down the first one to get within range.

  He rode forward nervously now that the first tension was over, easing slowly from his mind. When he finally came out into the open, he was scarcely prepared for it. One moment the trees lay thick in front of him, the next they had thinned and fallen behind him and there was a cold wind blowing directly into his face and the ground dropped away steeply in front of him. He pushed the horse headlong down the slope, sliding, crashing occasionally to its haunches, thrusting against the slender saplings which were the only growths now barring its path. He felt himself being half swept from the saddle several times and only succeeded in hanging on by the skin of his teeth, clutching desperately at the saddle horn.

  As he rode, one part of his mind, detached from the rest, reasoned with an astounding clarity that this headlong plunge down the hillside must have taken him a valuable quarter of a mile from the wood and that if he could only continue until he was across the wide valley that stretched away in front of him, a palely shimmering flatness in the starshine, he would have sufficiently outdistanced his pursuers to be reasonably safe. The horse was tired. He could feel that by the way it staggered at times in its headlong run and there was little doubt that its feet would be sore from the thorny, uneven ground inside the trees. But he had chosen it carefully from among those in the livery stables, knew that it was undoubtedly of thoroughbred stock and would be able to outrun most of the horses on his trail, especially if it were being pushed. And it was being pushed now. He did not like the way he had occasionally to dig in the rowels of his spurs, but it was essential that he should put as much distance between his pursuers and himself before dawn. The horse drew back its lips over the bit, surged forward gallantly, battling down the steep hillside, among the scattered boulders at the bottom.

  They hit the edge of the flats in a series of bounding, leaping strides, and now Turrell leaned low in the saddle, crouching down over the horse’s neck, easing his weight as much as possible in the stirrups, struggling to prevent himself from losing consciousness. He knew instinctively that he had lost a lot of blood, that the wound on the side of his skull was still bleeding and it was only a matter of time before he passed out and slipped from the saddle. A few times, his hold slipped and he almost slithered sideways and in those frightening moments, his blood threatened to freeze in his veins and he would jerk upright in the saddle, waiting fearfully for the tragedy. But it never came. Somehow, he managed to hang on to his buckling consciousness and it seemed that the bay had run across the mesa in no time at all.

  An hour later, with the moon lifting clear of the eastern horizon, a great slice of yellow that threw a pale, cold light over the terrain, he was riding through some of the roughest country he had ever known. The going was more difficult hereabouts, the horse more tired than before, and there were several times when it wanted to halt and only moved on because he raked his spurs along its flesh.

  Fifteen minutes later, he swung the horse off the trail, through a thickly tangled area of catscl
aw and mesquite, into a clump of vine-festooned trees where he reined to a halt and let it blow. The mount became hipshot at once, but its head was still high and the only sound was the great wheezing of air in and out of the animal’s lungs. Leaning back in the saddle, he reached for his tobacco pouch, twisted himself a cigarette, lit it and drew the smoke gratefully into his lungs. Even as he smoked, he turned his head slowly from side to side, his mind and senses alert to any unexpected sound in the dark moonthrown shadows among the rocks and trees nearby. In the yellow moonlight, vague shapes seemed to move among the rocks and more than once, he felt the cold sweat break out on his body at a sudden sound as some noctural creature moved through the mesquite.

  When he was sure that there was no pursuit, he slid from his saddle, finished his smoke, then took a long drink from his water bottle. Unfastening the cinch from beneath the horse’s belly, he pulled off the saddle, tethered the mount so that it had room in which to graze, set out his blanket and stretched himself out on the hard earth, resting his head on the saddle. The weariness in his body was so great that he was asleep almost at once.

  *

  When he woke it was still dark, but the moon had drifted across the heavens and was now glinting yellowly at him from behind the waving branches of the trees at his back. He lay for a moment staring up at the starlit heavens, then sat up suddenly as the horse uttered a soft, warning whinney. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that there was a pale strip of grey along the eastern horizon where the dawn was just beginning to brighten, the stars fading in that direction. The horse gave a faint murmur of sound once more and with an effort, he staggered to his feet, moved forward very quietly.

  He thought he heard an answering sound from somewhere in the darkness below him, but he could not be sure. The wind seemed to be carrying several vagrant sounds up to him through the blackness. For a long moment, he remained crouched at the lip of the ledge peering down into the darkness. Then a harsh shout, echoing clearly, reached him and switching his gaze, he saw the rider come out into the open some four hundred yards away and sit quite still in the saddle, staring up at the ledge. Turrell resisted the urge to pull his head down sharply. The other could not see him against the background of trees and rock even though he was probably staring straight at him. Presently, more men rode out and joined the other. They were too far away for Turrell to recognize any of them definitely, but he did not need to see their faces to know who they were. Cantry and the posse. Somehow, he had swung around the valley and come on him from the south. They appeared to be conferring among themselves and one of them broke off to point in Turrell’s direction. He guessed they were discussing the direction in which they should continue their search for him. He doubted if they could have picked up his trail, even in the moonlight. Pure luck would have brought them so close to him.