by John Glasby
‘There was nothing I could do for them,’ said Neil dully.
‘I understand.’ Jackson nodded. There was a curious expression on his face and Neil noticed the way he suddenly averted his gaze, as though afraid to meet Neil’s directly.
Neil kept them on the move, knowing that the best thing now was for the people in the train to work and not to think of what had happened. Soon, perhaps in the morning, they would have time in which to realise that some of their friends had died during the night, their bodies carried away by the sweeping current.
Three hours later he called a halt. They were almost five miles from the river on a wide stretch of ground, raised a little from the surrounding terrain, to form a miniature plateau. Overhead the storm clouds rolled from horizon to horizon and there seemed to be no place where they could get dry. It was dangerous to light a fire, and they settled down, shivering, waiting for the grey light of dawn to bring an end to their discomfort.
*
Five miles to the east Jesse Sherman reined his mount, peering through the teeming rain, looking down at the river where it stormed between its banks in the darkness. Sucking in his lips, swaying in the saddle from weariness and weakness, he turned and gazed at the men who had ridden with him. Tired men who had ridden far and hard. But they had to go on. The river faced them and there was a dull ache in his body which refused to leave him now, something which had always been there since they had set out on this ride and which had grown over the miles and the hours.
‘There’s one of the wagons down by the bend a couple of hundred yards downstream,’ said one of the men. ‘They’ve crossed the river and could be miles away by now.’
‘That wagon back there? What happened?’
The other shrugged. ‘Must have hit a rock in midstream. Nobody still alive and I doubt if anybody got out of it. They never stood a chance. Roberts seems determined to push ahead, even if it mean killing some of ’em on the way.’
‘He knows we’re around, close on his heels,’ murmured the other grimly. He pulled his cloak more tightly about him as gusts of wind pulled at his clothing.
‘Do we cross now?’ asked another man thinly. ‘Since we’re in this as deep as you are, I reckon we ought to know just why we’re after this wagon train. I know you’re intent on killin’ Roberts. That’s understandable. But what about the train?’
Sherman looked him over deliberately. He said: ‘You seem to be acting damned big at the moment. Are you workin’ for me, or aren’t you?? Remember, I can turn you over to the law and then you’re finished.’
‘I’m working for you,’ affirmed the other, ‘but I’d like to know why we’re going out to shoot up unarmed women and kids. I’ve a hankering for bigger game than that.’ He spoke boastfully, fingering the gun in his belt, ignoring the rain that slashed at them. He stared challengingly at Sherman. ‘I’d have preferred to have a gamer chance with some of Hollard’s men.’
‘You may get that chance before long,’ Sherman promised. ‘But right now we have another job to do. Go after that wagon train and finish it off. I don’t want a single person left alive when we’re done.’
The man nodded, relaxed a little. ‘You must hate Roberts to do something like this.’
Sherman forced a tight grin. That was the second time that night someone had said that to him. Yes, he thought savagely, with a tightening of the muscles of his arms, he hated Roberts, meant to see him dead before morning. With a sharp yell, he urged the men into the river, putting his own mount into the storming current. The river was so swollen in the middle that they were forced to swim their horses, and the current carried them almost fifty yards downstream before they climbed the further bank.
The storm increased as they hit the trail and started west, their horses plunging and rearing in spite of all they could do to calm them. Such terrible pounding storms had plagued this stretch of country for centuries, had been one of the natural scourges of the west. Storms that blew up swiftly, clouds running before the wind, bringing solid sheets of rain, great splashing streaks of lightning bolts and such savage roaring thunder that they were one experience which startled newcomers to these parts and were never forgotten by those who had the misfortune to ride through them.
Sherman forced himself to hold on tightly to the reins, leaning forward over his mount’s neck. The drenching rain never ceased to pound at them. The lightning showed them the trail, the streaking bolts searing across the sky in an almost continual succession.
He pushed his sight ahead of him as far as he could whenever the vivid flashes lit up the terrain around them, a wild and rugged landscape of tumbled rocks and tall canyon walls, etched and fluted by long ages of wind and rain, where erosion had bitten deeply into the sandstone. Gusts of wind caught at them and threatened to hurl horse and rider from the trail, into the brush that rose up on either side. But by the light of the flashing lightning it was possible to see the deep ruts where the wheels of the heavy wagons had bitten deeply into the soft, muddy earth. Already they were filling rapidly with water. He kicked spurs along the flanks of his mount, galloped him into the darkness.
Half an hour later they followed the trail more slowly and warily. Sherman had the unshakeable feeling that the wagon train lay only a short distance ahead and he was not anxious to stumble upon it without warning. That could be asking for trouble if they had guards posted, although in this weather and after so long a ride, he doubted if the guards would be quite as watchful as Roberts would have wished. Still, there was no point in taking any unnecessary risks. Roberts himself and that great bearded giant might be on watch and they were a different proposition. They would never sleep while there was any danger to the train. He felt the tightness in his body once more, felt for the butt of the gun at his hip, and cursed the wound in his shoulder which made it almost impossible for him to use his right arm now. A half-cripple might stand little chance against a man such as Roberts, and yet he was determined that it should be his gun that killed the other and that Roberts should know he had pulled the trigger.
He turned things over in his mind as he rode, forming plans and then rejecting them almost instantly. He would have to rely on one of his men disarming Roberts. Then he would step in and take over. Every one of his men had explicit orders on that particular point. He wanted to kill Roberts. They had only to wound or disarm him. He would do the rest. His lips curled at the thought, at the sweetness of revenge.
Then they had topped a low rise and the vivid flash of lightning which lit up the whole heavens showed them the scene below. Less than half a mile from where they stood lay the wagon train. There was no mistaking the white canvas that flapped sluggishly in the wind. A slight shiver went through him as he narrowed his eyes against the glare. Then the lightning died and the darkness was deeper and more intense than before. He could see nothing, his eyes still dazzled.
‘There they are,’ said Trudeau. ‘Right where I would have figured they’d be. He’s no fool, that hombre. He know the best place in the territory to put a wagon train where it’s going to be most difficult to take ’em by surprise.’
‘He’s no fool,’ grated Sherman, ‘but in spite of that, he’s soon going to be dead and I mean to be the one to kill him. Don’t you forget that — any of you.’
‘You figuring on riding in there right now, running ’em down before they know we’re here?’
‘Now I know you’re a goddamn fool,’ snapped the other. ‘They’ll have guards on look out. If you want to get yourself shot, just try riding in like that.’
‘Then what do we do? Sit it out here for the rest of the night?’
‘We go down on foot. Get rid of the guards first. Once they’re out of the way the rest ought to be simple. Then we’ll be able to take the train by surprise. That way, even Roberts will be unable to stop us.’
He lowered himself unsteadily from the saddle, stood for a long moment, ashen-faced, steadying himself against the heaving flanks of the horse, sheltered a little from the wind and rain there. T
he pain in his shoulder lanced through his body now and his legs seemed to be losing their starch, unable to go on bearing his weight. Somehow, he forced himself to move forward, one leg in front of the other, walking stiffly, slowly, keeping his blurred vision focused on the wagon train in the distance, as if he needed something to maintain his iron will and determination to keep his tired, weary body moving.
7. Vengeance in Gunsmoke
Neil twisted in his blankets. Lying under one of the wagons, seeking some shelter from the teeming rain, some tiny sound penetrated into that part of his brain which never slept. It was only the faintest whisper of sound but it was sufficient to wake him, his right hand moving out towards the Colt, which lay in its holster within easy reach at the same moment that he eased himself up on to one elbow, wide awake, eyes peering into the darkness about him. He moved his legs a little then eased himself upright, standing by the side of the wagon, the Colts in his hands, every nerve stretched taut, every sense alert, seeking the source of the trouble, the danger. There was the soft clop of hooves in the distance as men rode close, then halted their mounts.
He wondered what had happened to the two men he had placed on guard. Probably asleep by now, wearied by that long ride, by the danger of crossing the swollen river, thinking there could be no danger for what man would ride after them in that teeming rain, with the heavens open above them. They had clearly overlooked the driving hatred which could exist in the soul of a man such as Jesse Sherman, a man who would ride through hell itself to get his revenge.
At the edge of camp he caught glimpse of Calder, one of the men on watch. He was seated on a large boulder, his Winchester between his knees, trying to build himself a smoke in the rain. A second later a coiled rope fell over his shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides, hauling him out of sight.
Neil’s two shots, aimed high into the air, woke the wagon train. Then there was the roar of gunfire from all sides and he threw himself down behind the wagon with a savage curse on his lips. He ought never to have allowed those two men to have taken watch, he ought to have known that they would be half asleep, would not keep a good look out with the rain pouring down on them, with the belief that the nearest danger was many miles away, and would not catch up with them before morning.
He heard the bull-like voice of Clem Jackson yelling a harsh warning, saw him go charging forward between two of the wagons, his long-barrelled Winchester clutched in his huge hands, bringing it to bear on two gunhawks who came leaping among the rocks, firing as they ran forward. Bullets hummed about Neil as he picked himself up and flung himself forward. More pecked at the wet ground near his feet, or cut through the flapping canvas close to his head.
A dark figure stumbled forward from the direction of the rocks. Swiftly he brought the Colts to bear, squeezed the trigger, saw the other fall forward, the guns in his hands hammering savagely as he pressed down on the triggers with the last ounce of strength in his body. The brief orange flares from the guns showed in the teeming darkness. Then more gunfire had broken out to the rear of the wagons, and he knew they were surrounded.
Jesse Sherman’s harsh voice yelled from the darkness; ‘You’re finished, Roberts. Better throw down your guns and come out here with your hands lifted. The same goes for everybody else. If you don’t, then I’ll have to kill everybody in the wagon train. You wouldn’t want me to do that, would you?’
‘You’ll do it whether we throw down our guns or not,’ yelled Jackson harshly before Neil could answer. A rifle shot bucketed though the silence as the other fired in the direction of the voice.
Now the men in the wagons were firing and some of the women had guns too, were shooting at the shadows of the gunmen hidden among the rocks in the darkness, aiming for the orange flashes which gave away the positions of the gunhawks. Sherman and his men were well hidden, had evidently crept up on the train in the darkness, hoping to take them completely by surprise, would have done so had Neil not picked out the faint sound of horses in the near distance.
Everyone was shooting now, firing and loading — firing and loading. Six-guns answered from the boulders. Near the edge of the train Neil ran forward, crouched over until he came to where Jackson lay on his stomach, pumping shots slowly and methodically into the rocks.
‘Follow me!’ he said harshly. ‘We’ve got to take them out there, before they shoot down everyone in the train.’
Jackson nodded, understood in an instant, crawled forward after him. The lightning was retreating to the eastern horizon as the storm passed over. The rain was not so heavy now and there was a faint pencil of grey light in the east where the dawn was beginning to break. The air was still cold and beneath their bodies the ground ran with water.
Neil sucked in a long, heavy gust of wind, let it come out through his nostrils in slow pinches. Someone moved directly ahead of him and a moment later he made out the shapes of three men, crouched down behind the rocks. He touched Jackson’s sleeve, nodded in their direction.
Some sixth sense must have warned one of the men of the danger for he whirled swiftly, loosing off a single shot that scorched past Neil’s cheek, before Jackson blasted with his rifle. One man pitched backward with his arms outflung, hung against the rock at his back for a long moment, before sliding on to the rocky floor at the foot of the boulders. The other two tried to bring their guns to bear, died as Neil squeezed the triggers of his six-guns, felt them buck against his wrists. More ricochets whined off the rocks, jagged fragments of metal that hummed through the night.
There was confused shouting in the distance as more of the gunhawks came under fire from the wagons. Evidently the gunslingers had not expected this savage return fire and were finding things a little too hot for them. Out of the corner of his eye Neil saw two men darting back over the uneven ground to where their horses were evidently waiting. Neither of the men was Sherman. He began to wonder about the other. Sherman had been hit badly in the shoulder during that fight in the saloon back in Twin Creeks, and he must have lost a lot of blood. That, coupled with the hard riding they had evidently put in during the night, meant that he would be as weak as a kitten, would still be holed up somewhere among the rocks waiting a chance to shoot him down from ambush.
He crept forward to the end of the narrow chasm in the rocks, with Jackson following close on his heels, reloading the Winchester. The shouting went on. There was the sound of feet scraping among the rocks less than ten yards away to their right. A burst of gunfire, then a regular fusillade of shots pouring into the wagons. The gunfire rose to a smothering racket that seemed to come from every direction, with the echoes bouncing back from the rearing, rocky walls that lay about them. Drawing his breath, Neil fired into the rocks, saw a dark shadow lurch to one side clutching at a smashed wrist, the gun clattering to the rocks at the man’s feet. He clawed for the other Colt with his good hand, but before he could draw it clear of leather another shot took him in the chest and he went down, to stay down.
Gradually the shooting was dying down. The gunmen with Sherman had no stomach for this kind of fighting, with the odds stacked a little too much against them. When it came to shooting down women and children, then they thought nothing of it, but several of their number had been killed, and even Sherman must have realised that they were in a tight spot. More slugs beat through the air as the gunhawks made one last attempt to locate Jackson and Neil, to drill them before they could cause any more trouble. But they might just as well have tried to hit a pair of shadows.
For several minutes shots sounded in ragged, uneven rhythm from the rocks. A man seated on the lip of one of the wagons suddenly gurgled and swayed to one side. Neil saw the woman behind him lean out of the canvas, grab him by the shoulders and haul him back into the wagon. Now the answering fire from the rocks had dwindled until there were only a handful of isolated shots that tore through the canvas or hammered off the wooden upright and shafts. Crouched down among the rocks, eyes straining to pick out any of the gunhawks, Neil heard the thunder of hoove
s in the distance, heard the horses move away over the crest of the small plateau and then towards the tall hills in the distance.
He drew in a deep breath and lowered the guns, then thrust them back into the holsters. Beside him, Jackson got to his feet, stood with his legs braced against the earth, staring out after the retreating horses. His shoulders moved, swaying a little, as his eyes continued to search through the drizzling rain. Then he gave a quick nod of satisfaction.
‘I reckon they had enough,’ he said dully. ‘I don’t figure they’ll come this way again in a hurry.’
‘I’ll feel safer if I know what happened to Sherman. Take a look and see if he’s dead. If he is, he’ll be lying somewhere in the rocks. I’ll go down to the train and check on the casualties there.’
Slowly he moved back into the ring of wagons. There was movement there now. Men who had been wounded by the flying bullets that had torn through thin, flimsy canvas, torn into flesh and bone and sinews. Women were busy tearing up long strips of cloth with which to bind up the wounds that bubbled red. Neil’s keen gaze took in everything in a single, wide sweep. Several men had been wounded, but no one killed. They had beaten off Sherman and his gunmen, had whipped them in the rain-drenched darkness. He felt a wave of elation pass through him, a feeling that vanished instantly and utterly as a familiar voice behind him, from near one of the wagons, said:
‘Don’t make a move for your guns, Roberts. I’ve got the drop on you and I only need the slightest excuse to kill you.’
Very slowly, without turning, Neil moved his hands away from the guns at his waist. He knew that there was one gun trained on him at that moment, that he could not possibly draw and fire before the other man, weak and wounded as he may have been, fired and the slug found his heart. But for a moment the idea lived in his mind, then was forgotten.
‘Better not tell any of your men to do anything foolish. This gun is trained on your heart and I can kill you long before they shoot me. That goes for the big hombre up there.’
