by John Glasby
For a moment he pondered on the memory of the tall, golden-haired woman, then all thought of her, all thought of California and what might happen there, was driven from his mind. The sharp bark of gunfire came from the near distance, and close on its heels, he heard the drumming of running horses coming nearer.
Swiftly he was on his feet, the blanket thrown on one side, the Colts whispering into his hands as he came upright and turned to face the sound.
The two guards were firing into the darkness, loosing off shot after shot. A few moments later they moved back out of the shadows, and came into the ring of the wagons.
‘What is it?’ demanded Jackson, running forward, his huge face alight.
‘Gunhawks!’ muttered one of the men.
His right arm hung limp by his side. He held the Winchester in the other, turned and pointed. More gunfire broke out and then Neil made out the horses as they came plunging forward out of the darkness.
Bullets hummed and droned through the air close to his body as he flung himself forward, hitting the ground behind one of the wheels of the nearest wagon. He fired swiftly at the fleeting shadows, saw a man topple from the saddle, one leg caught in the stirrup, his mount dragging him over the rough ground.
More vivid flashes in the starlit darkness, more riders converging on the wagon train. One of the riders put his horse to the shafts of a wagon, leapt over them into the centre of the ring.
Turning, without pausing to take a deliberate aim, Neil fired. The first shot missed its target. The second took the man in the shoulder, slamming him sideways in the saddle.
Rifles opened up from the wagons. The whole of the train was awake now. Everyone was a gunman now — a fighter. The women were firing and loading. Harsh voices yelled as the gunhawks were met by a hail of fire that poured into their ranks, thinning them savagely.
More yells from the darkness around the camp. Now there were more bullets flying through the air, hammering off the metal uprights of the wagons, shrieking thinly in distorted ricochet.
Neil felt something pluck at his left shoulder, winced involuntarily. How long could the firing last? Half an hour? An hour perhaps? It was impossible to tell, for when a man’s life depended on killing his enemy first before he was killed himself, no one thought of time.
‘They’re turning away,’ yelled Jessup, shouting the words at the top of his voice. Neil lifted his head, peering into the dimness, saw that what the other said was true. There were unmoving shadows on the ground around the perimeter of the camp now. It had been a grim and cold business. There had been no quarter asked and none given. California lay only a few miles distant, and nothing was going to stop these people from getting there. They had been through too much for that to happen.
For the rest of the night Neil remained awake, eyes watching the darkness, but there were no further attacks, and in the morning they bandaged up the wounds of the men who had been hit, ate a meal of jerked beef, washed down with weak coffee, and moved along the trail again.
Ten nights later they made camp beside a wide river that flowed sluggishly between low banks, the water muddy from the recent rains, but the current slow and leisurely.
With the sunrise, they crossed the river, the Conestoga wagons rumbling slowly on to the broad strip of ground that lay beyond, over into the State of California, into a bright and golden sunrise that sent light flooding over the whole stretch of territory around them. For the first time since they had left the East, even Neil felt that the danger was past for them. Slowly he reined his mount, and watched as the wagons rolled by, slowly, cumbersome and heavy. But they were bringing a new state into being. These were the pioneers, he thought, with a sudden sense of pride. These were the men and women who had not been daunted by the dangers which had faced them along the thousand miles they had crossed. They had brought with them some vital spark which was so necessary if this part of the continent was now going to live and become ready to take its place with the others in the years that were to come.
He sat tall and straight in the saddle, on a small knoll, shading his eyes against the sunlight. Was it his imagination, or was the air here really warmer and gentler than back east? He shrugged, then turned his head.
Already the wagon train was beginning to pull away from him. Slowly, he raked spurs over the flanks of the sorrel, turned his back on the mountains to the east, keeping the sunrise at his back, and rode to where a tall, golden-haired woman waved to him from one of the wagons.
If you enjoyed Brand of the Hunted why not check out another John Glasby western:
Flashpoint
Justice at Red River
Sole Survivor
Crimson Dust
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