Manhunter's Mountain (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series Book 4)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  "There's where we'll set up," Bouchet continued. "Before sunset we'll have that damn busybody marshal in our gunsights and it will be as good as done."

  "Sounds good, Cole. Sounds real good," Rostler said.

  "You think so?" Bouchet prodded.

  Rostler frowned. "Said so, didn't I? It's how we been plannin' it all along, ever since we got shed of Parley and that block-headed Swede, ain't it?"

  "It is ... But what about this one?" Bouchet jerked a thumb in the direction of Merl, sitting his saddle on the other side of the bounty man. "He looks a little green around the gills, if you ask me, and it's getting more noticeable by the hour."

  "Merl?" Rostler said, surprised by the observation. "You got no call to worry about my cousin. He may be a little slow in thinkin' things out for himself, but he can be counted on to do whatever I lay out for us. He'll hold up his end."

  Bouchet studied Merl for a long moment with a baleful gaze, then swung his eyes back to Rostler. "I'll take your word for now—but if those green gills turn into a yellow streak down his back, then it becomes a different matter. We can do this with or without him. Hell, I can do it by myself ... But I need to know who I can count on and who I can't."

  "Hey, I'm sittin' right here," Merl spoke up, his nervousness around the bloodthirsty bounty hunter giving way to humiliation over the way he was being discussed and then finally a spurt of anger. "I ain't a block of wood, you know. You want to know something about me, then ask it of me. And until I do something to show I can't be counted on—which I ain't so far—then you got no call to question my grit for what's got to be done."

  Bouchet's mouth spread in a wide smile, gold tooth glinting in the descending afternoon sun. "Well, how-dee-do!" he exclaimed. "That's more words than I've heard strung together at one time out of you since we hooked up."

  "It ain't words that gets things done," Merl replied sullenly.

  "See, my cousin's got plenty of spunk. Just like I told you," said Rostler. "You got no worries where he's concerned."

  Bouchet put away his smile and he gave a curt nod. "All right, let's see to it it stays that way ... We've only got a few hours of daylight left, so we need to get in position. We'll have to swing wide to the north from here and come at the pass over the rocks, so we don't leave tracks in this fresh snow for them to see as they make their approach."

  "Good thinkin'. Lead the way, Cole," said Rostler in that eager-to-please tone he'd adopted toward Bouchet ever since they threw in with him—that tone was starting to make Merl want to vomit.

  Bouchet led out and once again Merl fell in at the rear. The expression he wore now was sourer than ever. And those troubled feelings were churning stronger and stronger in his gut.

  –ELEVEN–

  The creek was there, exactly as Little Red had promised, its water running rapidly and cutting only a slightly meandering course down through the ragged mid-range peaks for as far as the eye could follow.

  That was the good fortune.

  The bad fortune came minutes after they reached the water's edge and dismounted, pausing to stretch, rest their bottoms, and allow the horses to drink.

  From a nearby scraggly tree line, moving silently and unseen at first, emerged a lone timber wolf. Its eyes were red-rimmed and flecks of foam dripped from its bared fangs as a low snarl rumbled deep in its thick chest. Boldly, ignoring the human presence that ordinarily would have caused the beast to shy clear, it advanced on the nearest of the drinking horses—Freckles, Little Red's dappled mare.

  It was Paint who sensed the approaching danger and jerked his head up from the creek, simultaneously emitting a snort of warning. As the other animals started to react, the wolf sprang into motion, covering the separating distance in a blurred streak and then leaping onto the hindquarters of Freckles, growling and barking viciously now as it began to maul and bite into soon-bloody flesh with a mad frenzy. The other horses shrieked in terror and bolted in different directions.

  Cash reacted quickly, drawing his Colt and running toward the attack without hesitation, dodging frantic horses as he did so. It took costly seconds, however, before he was able to maneuver for a clear shot. When he did, the Colt spat flame and lead in a rapid-fire discharge that lifted the yipping, yowling wolf off Freckles' back and sent the carcass hurtling through the air until it crashed limply to the ground.

  * * *

  Some miles away, crouching on a boulder-choked ledge overlooking the entrance to Split Rock Pass, Cole Bouchet became and fully alert as he focused on the faraway crackling noise that reached his ears from somewhere off to the south.

  A dozen yards away, also crouching in a nest of broken boulders, Hank Rostler popped up his head and said, "What was that?"

  "Gunshots," Bouchet said tersely. "What the hell did it sound like?"

  "Laramie and his bunch?"

  "Don't know who else."

  "What would they be shooting at?"

  "How the shit am I supposed to know? Quit asking dumb questions, let me think." Bouchet scowled in contemplation, rubbing his jaw with one gloved hand.

  "Could be they spotted some game and decided to bag a supply of fresh meat. Maybe that was it," Rostler suggested.

  Bouchet shook his head. "No, that wasn't hunting gunfire ... those were pistol shots."

  "Maybe Ames tried to make a break for it and Laramie had to gun him down."

  "That'd be more like it," Bouchet allowed. "Then again, could be the other way around. Maybe Ames got the drop on the marshal." He smiled slyly. "Either way would make my job easier."

  "Long as our whores didn't get caught in some kind of crossfire," Rostler muttered. Then, frowning, he added, "Thing is, though, didn't those shots sound like they came outta the south? Wouldn't that put the marshal and his bunch off course if they're headed this way?"

  "Sounds do funny things in these mountains," Bouchet said stubbornly. "Yeah, it sort of seemed like that shooting came from further south than it should have ... But no way to say for positive. Hell, it could mean those fools just wandered off course a ways. But no matter what, they've got to come through here sooner or later ... And when they do, we'll be right here waiting for them."

  Twenty yards down slope from Bouchet, Merl Crane stayed silent and smiled to himself. Well now, he thought, maybe the big fearsome bounty hunter with all the answers don't have everything figured so fine after all ...

  * * *

  After Cash killed the wolf, the creekside scene remained chaotic for several minutes before the frightened horses finally got rounded back up and everything and everybody started to settle down some.

  Little Red was in a state, fretting over the injuries to Freckles. Faye was fussing over her, trying to get her calmed while at the same time assisting in bringing the horses under control.

  Lobo Ames stood impotently by and watched, silently cursing his luck that the distraction—which might have been a godsend under different circumstances—offered no reasonable chance for him to make a break. On foot, handcuffed, in wild country with a fresh ground cover of snow through which he'd leave tracks as plain as a painted sign ... any such attempt would have been wholly futile. All he could do was just stand there and wait for the others to regroup.

  But, with his mouth, he could work on keeping their minds unsettled. "Ya'll know what a lone wolf attackin' like that means, don't you?" he said to no one in particular.

  Cash, who was digging a tin of medicinal salve out of Paint's saddlebags, cut him a sharp look. "Could mean a lot of things," he snapped. "But there's no way of of knowin' for sure, so let it drop."

  Raising his handcuffed wrists and touching the scar on his face with a gloved fingertip, Ames said, "I got the unfortunate experience of knowin' a thing or three about wolves. And where I come from—"

  "I said drop it," Cash cut him off.

  Ames thrust out his chin defiantly. "You tellin' me now I ain't even got the freedom to speak? What are you gonna do—handcuff my jaws shut, too?"

  Cash took
a step toward him. "You keep runnin' that mouth, I'll come over there and damn quick show you what I'll do to shut it."

  "Never mind him, Marshal. I know what he's getting at." Little Red spoke softly yet her words had a firmness that caused Cash to halt his advance on Ames and turn back to the girl. She was still focused on the injured mare, standing close to its head, gripping its bridle in one hand while the other glided down the side of its neck in long, soothing strokes. Her eyes never left Freckles. "Only a rabid animal," she continued, "would attack like that wolf did. And now there's the chance his bites carried the rabies to Freckles, right?"

  Cash walked over, carrying the tin of salve. "That's the way it sometimes works," he allowed.

  "The way it usually works," Little Red corrected him.

  Cash moved to the horse's flank, where Faye was washing away the blood and cleaning the lacerations with a bandana she'd dipped in the icy water of the creek. Freckles, being gentled by Little Red, held perfectly still for these ministrations. Faye wore an anguished expression from listening to the exchange between Cash and Little Red.

  "All I know," Cash said as he began applying salve to the open wounds, "is that I've seen a few cases where the rabies didn't take. So there's always hope."

  Little Red considered this. "Then nobody will be hoping and praying harder than me. But if it comes to the worst, if Freckles does get ... sick ... then I know what has to be done and it should fall to me to take care of it." Now her eyes finally left the horse and she swung her gaze to Faye and Cash. "If that's the way it goes, I don't want anybody trying to baby me ... All I'll need from you, Marshal, is the loan of your Winchester."

  Cash held her brave eyes for a long beat, then nodded. "If that's the way you want it."

  "Not the way I want it ... Just the way it might have to be."

  * * *

  They made it past the first waterfall with dusk settling in fast.

  The way had been rough, exactly as Little Red had predicted. Narrow, steep, and slippery from the spray off the falls wetting the rocks and then freezing to a skin of slick ice. They'd had to dismount and walk the horses most of the way. Little Red took the lead, Cash brought up the rear with Ames kept in sight right in front of him at all times.

  As soon as they reached the bottom of the falls and their passageway widened and flattened out somewhat, they pitched camp in a horseshoe-shaped area at the base of a high rock slope. There was enough deadfall and stubborn tree growth from which to scavenge firewood and in no time they had a good-sized fire burning. Next order of business was to strip away any damp clothing, replace it with something dry, and hang what they'd removed close to the fire so it would be ready for morning travel.

  After that, while the women set to making coffee and a meal, Cash grained and watered the horses. Since there was no ground forage for the animals here, he scooped a hatful of oats for each one out of the bulging sack they'd purchased from Abe Bushberry and fed it to them. He also applied some more of the medicinal salve to Freckles' wounds.

  Some time later, after they'd eaten, while Little Red once again mingled with the horses and a securely chained Ames snored raggedly inside his cocoon of blankets, Cash and Faye sat beside the fire, sipping coffee and talking as they had the previous night.

  In a low voice, her expression pained by the thought, Faye said, "That mare almost certainly will get the rabies, won't she?"

  "Most likely," Cash admitted.

  "How long will it take for the signs to start showing up?"

  "Couple days. Maybe three."

  "We'll be down out of these mountains by then. In a town. But there's still nothing that can be done for Freckles, is there?"

  "Nothing I know of."

  "Damn it, of all the horses why did it have to be that one? I have no particular attachment to mine and Ames sure as hell doesn't care about his—why couldn't it have been one of them?"

  Cash shook his head. "We don't get to choose those kind of things."

  "Well it's a raw deal, that's all I know."

  "Maybe so, but life can do that sometimes. Little Red's tough, she'll make it through."

  "But why does it have to be that way? Why do some people—good people, who deserve better—have to keep getting tested over and over? Hasn't Little Red been through enough?"

  Cash shook his head again. "I don't have any answers for that. Way I see it, if you're able to stand on your own and take in breath, then you've always got a chance as long as you push on. The only other way is to give up and lay down, just let the bad breaks grind you under. But I think Little Red—and you, too, for that matter—has got a helluva lot more grit than that."

  –TWELVE–

  "You no-account bastard!"

  Cole Bouchet swung his gloved fist in a slashing backhand that slammed hard against the side of Merl Crane's head. The blow knocked the young man off the flattened boulder upon which he'd been slouched and sent him sprawling to the snowy, gravel-studded ground.

  Bouchet moved quickly to loom over the fallen figure. "Sleeping on watch, that's grounds for getting shot in some quarters," he growled, drawing his six-shooter.

  Merl stayed where he was, looking up fearfully. "Jesus, Bouchet, you wouldn't do that, would you? ... I - I wasn't asleep. Honest ... Not sound asleep ... I was just ... "

  "And now you're lying to boot."

  "No. No, I wouldn't do that ... Oh God, you're not really gonna shoot me, are you?"

  "I ought to."

  "Give me another chance ... I promise not to let you down no more."

  "You're chicken-livered, I saw it right from the get-go. I knew you couldn't be trusted to hold up your end of things."

  "No, that ain't true." Merl's eyes swung to Rostler. "Tell him, Cousin Hank. For God's sake, you ain't gonna just stand there and let him kill me, are you?"

  "He's got no say in what I do or don't do—not if he knows what's good for him," Bouchet said, cutting a warning glance toward Rostler.

  Rostler stood nearby, looking on anxiously, but saying or doing nothing to get involved in the situation.

  Smiling smugly, Bouchet's eyes fell once again on Merl and he said, "Lucky for you I'm willing to settle for just teaching you a lesson ... but I'm going to by-damn make it one you won't soon forget." With that, the bounty hunter began kicking Merl, driving the toe of his heavy boot repeatedly into ribs, shoulder, and stomach. Merl yowled with pain at first and then was able to only groan. Bouchet grunted loudly each time he swung his foot. As he stomped, he continued to brandish the drawn pistol and once or twice glanced over at Hank Rostler, as if challenging him to try and interfere. Rostler looked on, his expression grim, but he made no protest.

  Bouchet took his last kick and then backed away from the man on the ground, puffing from the exertion. "You give me grief or fail in a duty I give you one more time, I'll leave you on the ground permanent-like," he said to Merl. He turned to glare at Rostler. "And I'm holding you equally responsible to see that he don't."

  Rostler's head bobbed. "Merl won't give you no more trouble. I promise he won't."

  "Get him on his feet and get him put back together, then. When I return I want the both of you ready to ride and ride hard if I give the word."

  Bouchet started for his horse and Rostler followed after him. "When you return from where?" he wanted to know.

  "Look around," Bouchet said, waving one arm in a sweeping gesture. "What do you see?"

  Rostler's gaze darted in all directions. He looked confused. The morning sun was fully risen above the eastern peaks, providing startlingly clear visibility, but as far as he could tell there was nothing out of place or unusual about their rugged surroundings. No movement, no sign of tracks in the snow except for their own ... nothing.

  He stated as much.

  "That's the whole damn point, don't you see?" said Bouchet as he began saddling his mount. "Where's Marshal Laramie and his bunch? We should have seen or heard something out of them by now ... Something fishy is going on."
r />   "But last night you said—"

  "I don't give a damn what I said last night. This is a new day and it's what I'm saying now that counts. I'm going to ride out and see what's going on, find out what's wrong."

  "Wouldn't it be better if we stuck together? Shouldn't we go along with you?"

  "No. I want you and your half-wit cousin to stay here and guard the pass—in case it turns out that damn bunch is simply moving godawful slow and they do show up before I can make it back."

  "What happens then? What should me and Merl do?"

  Bouchet jerked his cinch strap tight then rolled his head to look at Rostler. "What the hell's wrong with you? Some of your cousin's simple-mindedness rubbing off? If they show up, you blast them when they get in the middle of the goddamn pass, just like we've been planning. Is that so hard to figure out?"

  "Well, no. Hell no," Rostler blustered.

  "You only have to get one man—Laramie. They'll be moving slow. The two of you shooting from different angles sure as hell oughta be able to cut him down, right?"

  "No problem."

  Bouchet shrugged. "Kill Ames, too, if you want. Save me the trouble. Otherwise, just keep him and the whores pinned down 'til I get here. Ames'll be in chains, he won't be going anywhere in a hurry ... and the whores are strictly your concern."

  Bouchet swung up into the saddle. "I'm riding out wide, the way we came in, and then I'll cut across until I pick up their sign. If I hear your ambush start up, I'll come riding hard. Other way around, if I need you I'll fire three shots quick together and expect you to show up pronto."

  "You can count on us, Cole," Rostler said.

  Bouchet grunted. "I'll believe that when I see it." He started to gig his horse forward but then reined back and twisted around in his saddle to address Rostler once more. "I shouldn't have to tell you this, but I hope you've got brains enough to know you'll have to keep a cold camp while I'm gone. Wherever Laramie is, we can't risk him spotting smoke in this clear air."

  "Sure, of course I knew that," Rostler said somewhat indignantly. But, in truth, he was freezing his ass off and had been thinking how good it would feel to get a fire going and hunker in close to warm away the chill that had sunk into his bones during the night.