by Scott Connor
Marvin nodded and wrapped his hands into the reins. He shook them enough to encourage the horses to edge a half-wheel forward.
The rider sat impassive and firm-jawed.
Marvin edged forward a full wheel turn.
The horses balked as they closed on the man, but he kept a tight rein on his horse and stayed still.
Now that they were closer, Lincoln saw a hint of the man’s eyes, which reflected the cold, fog-shrouded light. That was the only part of his features he could see.
Lincoln leaned forward, his eyes narrowed to slits, searching for a reason why this man wasn’t moving.
Then he saw it.
The man had a kerchief wrapped across his mouth.
‘Ambush,’ Lincoln murmured.
Crane swirled round to face him, but as he opened his mouth to ask how he knew, more shapes loomed from the fog. A rider to the left, one to the right, then another riding straight towards them.
The men all had rifles, but held them high.
This was all the warning Marvin needed and with a sharp shake of the reins, he urged his horses to head forward. With the rider still standing on the trail, the lead horses reared and whinnied.
The man edged his horse back a pace but stayed before them, and the stagecoach horses lurched to the side. Marvin fought the horses, then relented and let them veer from the trail.
He kept them on a tight rein as they skimmed past the rider, then hurtled onwards in a short circle.
They trundled past the rider, but even though Crane turned his gun on him, the man sat impassive, his rifle pointing to the sky.
‘Head back to the trail,’ Crane snapped.
Marvin looked left and right, peering at the flanking riders, who even as he stared, melted into the fog.
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘I’m staying off the trail.’
‘We can go faster on the trail. Off it, they can ambush us.’
‘If that was an ambush, it was the oddest one I’ve ever seen.’ Marvin shook the reins, lengthening out the tight circle. ‘If they follow us, it’ll prove whether it was one or not.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then you give me back my gun, because I’m not doing any defending without it.’
‘That isn’t what I . . .’ Crane sighed, then jumped to his feet and peered over the back of the stagecoach.
Lincoln glanced around the side of the stagecoach, but saw only the enclosing fog.
‘Anybody?’ Marvin asked.
‘Nope,’ Crane said, flopping back on to his seat. ‘And you’re still heading back to the trading post. Turn the stagecoach.’
‘Quit whining. I’ll look after the driving. You worry about the rest.’ Marvin glanced at Crane, but as Crane raised his gun to aim it at him, he winced. ‘Once I know for sure they’ve gone, I’ll head towards Sweetwater again.’
Lincoln turned and peered over his shoulder. He saw only the fog behind, but just as he was about to turn back, the outline of a rider emerged from the fog, then disappeared.
‘They’re still following us,’ he said.
‘At least we know they’re after us,’ Crane said. ‘Now, speed up.’
‘Going as fast as I can off the trail,’ Marvin said, rocking from side to side as they thundered over a rock. He leaned forward in the seat with his eyes narrowed to slits.
‘Then head back onto it and lose them in the fog.’
‘The fog’s spooking the horses. I’ll never get much speed out of them, and those men can just follow the wheel tracks.’
Crane slapped his thigh, then jumped up to peer in all directions.
‘The question you should ask is,’ Lincoln said, ‘are those men after you, or are they after the stagecoach?’
‘Good point.’ Crane dropped back into his seat and swirled round to face Marvin. ‘How long till we reach the trading post?’
‘Three minutes.’
‘Then stop.’
‘I’m not stopping. We can’t make a stand out here.’
‘I don’t intend to.’
Crane glared at Marvin until he pulled back on the reins, halting the horses. Even as they lurched to a halt, Crane was already dragging Marvin from the seat.
Crane gestured for Lincoln to follow him, then dashed round the side and threw open the door for Rocco to jump down.
‘What in tarnation are we doing?’ Rocco demanded. ‘Who are—?’
‘Be quiet,’ Crane snapped. ‘We’re heading back to the trading post.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Those raiders are either after us or after the stagecoach. If it’s us, we’ve got no chance when we’re in the open. If it’s the stagecoach, they can have it.’
As Marvin whined, Rocco nodded and dragged Seymour and Truman to the ground. They huddled and to Marvin’s sullen directions headed off.
Within twenty paces, the stagecoach disappeared into the fog behind them, leaving them stranded in a sea of damp and cold air.
For another fifty or so paces they tramped. As shouting and barked orders emerged from the fog behind them, presumably as the raiders found the deserted stagecoach, Crane hurried them on.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Elwood said, peering into the whiteness ahead. ‘We should have got closer to the post.’
‘We took our chance when they weren’t near,’ Crane said. ‘And the post is close.’
In a huddle, they scurried. The raiders’ shouting and orders drifted to them, the disorientating fog sometimes making their voices sound as if they came from ahead, then beside them, but Lincoln judged that they weren’t closing on them.
By degrees, the ground become sandier, but the recent heavy frosts had frozen it, making it crunch with a crisp sound at every pace.
When Lincoln reckoned that they had traveled for the three minutes’ worth that Marvin had promised, and still the post hadn’t appeared, he glanced at Marvin.
Marvin returned a lip-biting look that said he also thought they’d missed it.
They still scurried for another minute before Crane pulled everyone to a halt. He slammed a finger to his lips, then stood with his hands on his hips, peering in all directions.
The fog remained as impenetrable as ever and the ground remained just as rocky and unyielding of clues as to which direction they should take.
Crane grabbed Marvin. ‘Which way now?’
With Rocco looming over him and cracking his knuckles, Marvin knelt and fingered the frozen dirt.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, then looked up at Seymour, who joined him.
Seymour knelt. He peered at the nearest rock, then stood and shrugged.
‘Unless I see a landmark, I can’t help,’ he said.
Rocco snorted. ‘Can’t or—?’
A shout ripped through the air, silencing him, the words indistinct but seemingly coming from within yards of them.
With short gestures, Crane directed the four hostages to sit in a circle, five feet apart. Then he and his men backed to take the four points, and knelt facing outwards with their guns drawn, facing the impenetrable wall of fog.
For a full minute Lincoln sat, but as Crane continued to peer at the mist, he shuffled round to sit closer to Truman, staring at him until Truman returned a glance.
‘We need to talk,’ Lincoln whispered from the corner of his mouth.
Truman shook his head. ‘We don’t. I’ll get us out of this alive.’
‘You won’t. That isn’t your job, but it is . . .’ An old cautious instinct grabbed Lincoln, forcing him to look over his shoulder. Seymour and Marvin were both leaning back, clearly listening to the conversation. Without analyzing why, Lincoln lowered his voice to the lowest of whispers so that only Truman could hear him. ‘Say nothing, but I’m a US marshal.’
Truman blew out his cheeks.
‘You travel with a man for two days and he doesn’t tell you that,’ he whispered.
‘I traveled with a man for two days and he didn’t tell me about a stash of gold he’d foun
d.’
‘Point taken.’
‘Now listen.’ Lincoln raised his voice so that the others could hear. ‘We’ll all live through this, but only if you don’t try to escape, or take on Crane’s men, or do anything unexpected.’
Seymour and Marvin grunted their approval, but Truman shook his head.
‘That won’t help us.’
‘It will. I’ll do something unexpected at a time of my choosing or when the opportunity arises, but to succeed you need to tell me the truth.’ Lincoln lowered his voice to the faintest of whispers again and placed his mouth over Truman’s ear. ‘So, tell me about the gold.’
Truman leaned back, sneering. ‘I’ve told my story. There is no more.’
‘When a man stares down the barrel of a gun, he’ll say anything to stay alive.’ Lincoln smiled. ‘I don’t have a gun on you.’
Truman glanced over his shoulder at the others, then sighed and leaned forward on his haunches to place his mouth over Lincoln’s ear.
‘I can’t tell you,’ he whispered.
‘I understand, but if finding buried gold and doing nothing with it is a crime, it isn’t a big one.’ Lincoln patted Truman’s shoulder. ‘I’ll speak up for you.’
‘Obliged, but what can I say to convince you I told the truth?’
‘Just look me in the eye and tell me what we’ll find in your summer house. If the gold isn’t there, it’ll just change the way I deal with this.’
‘The gold is in my summer house.’ Truman placed his hand on his chest and stared into Lincoln’s eyes. ‘I swear that on my life, on my wife’s life, on all our lives.’
Lincoln searched for any hint of deception on Truman’s part, but Truman looked at him with firm conviction in his gaze.
‘Then I believe you, and don’t worry. I’ve been in situations like this—’
‘Quit talking, you two,’ Rocco snapped, pacing from his point to confront Lincoln. He narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m getting a big dislike of your face. If you annoy me again, I might think it isn’t essential that you live long enough to see that summer house.’
‘Rocco, you aren’t hurting anyone, and we are getting our gold,’ Crane said, looking over his shoulder. ‘We start doing that now. I reckon those raiders were after the stagecoach. So, they can have it, while we head to that summer house.’
Crane jumped to his feet and consulted his men as to which way they should go. Elwood peered at the sky, then pointed to the side and directed everyone to head that way.
‘That isn’t the right way,’ Marvin said. He pointed over his shoulder in the exact opposite direction to the way that Elwood had pointed. ‘That is.’
Crane tipped back his hat, his eyes flaring.
‘You don’t even know where the post is, so be quiet.’
‘We want to head away from the stagecoach and find the trail,’ Elwood said. He pointed to the sky. ‘It’s lighter up there, so the sun is that way and at this time of day, it’s in the south. I reckon we should reach the trail in two minutes.’
Elwood considered Marvin with his eyebrows raised until he nodded. Then Crane shepherded everyone into a group.
Crane muttered firm orders to the hostages to stay quiet, then took the lead with Elwood at his side and Rocco and Wallace walking behind the hostages.
At a steady pace, they headed in the direction Elwood had indicated.
For five minutes they shuffled forward, silence surrounding them and no landmarks appearing to confirm whether they were heading in the right direction or steering a straight course.
Then, from out of the swirling fog ahead, a shape appeared, dark and angular.
Crane halted everyone and edged forward three more paces. He hung his head, then beckoned everyone to approach.
Lincoln joined him, peering ahead at the shape. He winced.
The shape was the stagecoach.
Chapter Four
Beside the stagecoach, Crane ordered the group to halt. He peered around. The raiders had gone and so had the horses.
‘Hot damn but they didn’t have to take my horses,’ Marvin whined, slapping his hat against his thigh.
Seymour snorted. ‘We’re stranded, a gang of jailbirds are holding us hostage, and another group of raiders are harassing us. And all you care about is your horses.’
‘Yeah,’ Marvin said, shrugging.
‘Anything stolen?’ Crane asked.
Marvin nodded. ‘Yeah. They took everything and ran off my horses.’
‘Did they take anything valuable?’
‘My horses.’
‘Anything else valuable.’
Marvin pointed at the stagecoach roof. ‘I was delivering a whole heap of bags to Sweetwater. I guess there could have been valuables in them. They didn’t take your spades, mind.’
‘So, at least we know for sure that they weren’t looking for us,’ Crane mused, then motioned for Rocco to circle the stagecoach, twenty-five yards out, the maximum distance that kept him in view.
When Rocco returned and confirmed that he hadn’t seen or heard the raiders, Crane ordered the hostages to stand by the stagecoach, leaving Wallace to guard them while he considered his options with Elwood and Rocco.
‘Now that we know we’re safe, we should head to that summer house again,’ Rocco said.
‘Perhaps, but as your suggestions are usually wrong . . .’ Crane glanced at Elwood.
‘I reckon we can walk all day,’ Elwood said, gesturing all around him at the blanket of fog. ‘But until this fog lifts, we’ve got no way of knowing for sure if we’re heading in the right direction.’
‘Unless you get it right and we find the trail,’ Rocco grunted.
‘Then it’s three, maybe four miles to the summer house, and that’ll take more than an hour, and—’
‘Quit whining,’ Crane grunted. ‘I’ve had enough of waiting, too, and I know you can find the trail.’
Crane glared at Elwood, receiving a nod, then held his hand to the side, letting him choose his direction.
With Crane’s confidence in him swelling his chest, Elwood hunkered down beside a sprawl of hoof prints and sniffed the air. He shrugged, then pointed at the slight indentation the wheels had made in the frozen ground.
‘We’ll follow the tracks first,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll veer to the left and reach the trail more quickly.’
Crane nodded and told Elwood to fetch a spade from the stagecoach. Then he placed Truman and Lincoln at the flanking positions ten yards to his left and right and a pace ahead of him so that he could watch them both.
They set off with everyone else trailing in a line behind him and with Rocco at the rear.
As they veered from the wheel tracks, Crane ordered Elwood to stop and at intervals of twenty paces, use his spade to gouge a furrow, which pointed back towards the stagecoach.
For five minutes they walked at a steady pace, then Elwood raised a hand, halting them.
With a finger to his lips, Crane swirled round and gestured for the others to halt, while Elwood craned his neck with his right ear held high, his studious gaze making an obvious show of his listening.
For a full minute Crane humored Elwood, then stalked to his side and slapped a hand on his shoulder.
‘I can’t hear anything,’ he said.
‘Be quiet,’ Elwood whispered. ‘I can.’
Crane glanced at Lincoln, who shrugged, but then matched Elwood’s posture, even cupping his ear as he listened.
Crane sighed, then joined them in the strained listening. With everyone standing rigid and with the absence of even the lightest breath of a breeze, total silence surrounded them, the lack of sound as thick and cloying as the constrained vision in their white prison.
Then a horse whinnied.
Crane nodded to Elwood who flashed a smile back.
‘Seems we won’t have to walk,’ Elwood said, slapping his thigh. ‘We can still go to the summer house in Marvin’s stagecoach.’
Crane snorted. ‘You offering to drag it the
re?’
‘Nope. They may have ran off the horses, but horse-thieving is a mighty serious offence for little reward. I reckon they’ve had enough sense to abandon them and just keep everything else.’
The whinny came again, then the clop of hoofs, and the sounds were closing.
Elwood winced and shuffled back a pace.
Crane grabbed his elbow and dragged him towards the direction of the whinnying horse.
‘The horse is that way,’ he said, pointing forward.
‘That isn’t the problem,’ Elwood said with a gulp. ‘This horse has a rider.’
With a snap of his wrist, Crane released his grip of Elwood’s arm.
He gestured to everyone to head back to the stagecoach, and the group paced backwards, but then the sounds came – a horse clopping, leather creaking, and Lincoln reckoned it just had to be one of the raiders.
From the sound of it, he was only yards away.
Then a rider appeared ahead, faint and spectral, tendrils of fog wreathing his form, and he was heading straight at them.
Crane didn’t need to deliver any more warnings as everyone turned and dashed back towards the stagecoach. At a trot they reached the first gouged mark in the earth, then, as one, thrust their heads down and hurtled for the second marking.
Lincoln glanced over his shoulder. The man had disappeared back into the fog, but then appeared again only to disappear a moment later.
Rocco danced round, still running, then fell back as he arced his gun up to fire when the rider next appeared.
‘Don’t,’ Crane said. ‘Firing will tell the rest where we are.’
Rocco grunted, then slammed his gun back in its holster and concentrated on running.
They scurried past the third and fourth markings.
Lincoln reckoned Elwood must have marked out at least twenty and a man couldn’t outrun a horse over that distance, but every time he looked back, their pursuer was just on the edge of his vision.
‘What in tarnation is he doing?’ Rocco whined.
Elwood slowed his running to a trot and fell back.
‘He’s toying with us,’ he said. ‘That’s what he’s doing.’
Crane ran on for another few paces, then slowed to let Elwood join him. Lincoln slowed, too, and glanced over his shoulder, but still the man stayed back so that the fog blurred his form.
