CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
They buried their dead in the darkness before dawn. Dulce and Gwen cried softly over Bigfoot’s grave as the blanket-wrapped body was lowered from sight. They covered the grave with rocks to protect it from scavengers, and, when it was done, Peewee wedged a final stone at its head with Bigfoot’s name scratched into it with a nail.
They laid Paddy O’Rourke to rest some distance away, but no one cried over his grave or suggested they protect it from wolves or coyotes.
By dawn, they’d recovered eighteen of their mules, and with that small bunch secured, Buck made his choices from among the Box K teamsters. Ray, Charlie, Joe, Lou, Chris, Mitch, and Little Ed would accompany him after the remuda. The rest would stay behind. With Milo still on their back trail keeping tabs on the Crowley and Luce outfit, Buck put Peewee in charge of the wagons.
Zeke had been one of the first mules recovered, and Buck was glad to have a familiar mount under him. His rifle, a rolling block chambered in .50-70 Government, was already booted under his right stirrup strap, but he carried only a handful of rounds for it in one of his pommel bags. He dug a cartridge belt out of the mess wagon that held an additional forty rounds and snugged it around his waist, above his gun belt. Then he rummaged through his gear for a box of .44 Henry Rimfires for his Colt. Food, a slim bedroll, and a rubber poncho in case of rain, completed his outfit.
Stepping into the saddle, he rode over to where Dulce and Gwen were watching from the shade of the mud wagon. Gwen moved away when Buck came up, leaving him alone with Dulce.
“You’ll be all right,” he assured her.
“I know. Thad’s promised to look after me as he does Gwen.”
“Well,” Buck shrugged uncertainly, “that’s good, I reckon. Thad’s a capable man.”
“Yes, he was a comfort last night … while you were off seeing to everyone else’s needs.” Her eyes sparked. “Someone shot at me last night, Buck.”
“A lot of us were shot at last night,” he replied, then shook his head impatiently. Dulce was staring him in the eyes as if willing him to say more, but Buck had nothing more to give, and, wheeling Zeke, he rode off at a trot.
It didn’t take long to locate the raiders’ trail. Close to a hundred and fifty head of mules, driven through the night at a breakneck run, churned up a path even the poorest tracker could follow. Buck kicked Zeke into a lope and the others quickly fell in behind him. The trail led south for almost a mile before bending to the west, but the remuda’s pace never slowed. By noon the teamsters’ mules had worked up a good lather, and Buck had the men dismount and loosen their cinches, but they didn’t stop. He kept them walking for an hour, then ordered them back into their saddles.
The country turned increasingly rugged as the afternoon wore on. The rolling hills rose into steep-sided ridges, the draws between them sinuous but dry. Slabs of stone jutted from the hillsides like the bones of prehistoric beasts. The raiders weren’t making very good time, and, from the sign, Buck knew at least one of them was badly wounded. The bandits were stopping often, and everywhere they did, drops of dried blood spotted the soil.
“They’re gonna lose that one if they don’t slow down,” Ray commented at one point, and Mitch, staring west along the path of trampled grass, added: “He must be a honcho of some kind. Otherwise they would’ve shot him to keep him quiet and gone on.”
They closed the gap steadily, but still hadn’t caught up by nightfall. After picketing their weary mules on grass alongside a slow-moving stream, the men suppered on chunks of last night’s pan bread and strips of jerky, washed down with canteen water. It was a couple of hours before the moon came up. When it did, Buck, Ray, and Mitch walked to the top of a nearby rise to study the lay of the land to the west.
“Hell,” Ray said, after his eyes had adjusted to the dimness. “It ain’t that dark.”
“We can track by this,” Buck agreed. “The mules’ll need some more rest, though. We pushed them hard today.”
Pointing toward the flanks of a low mountain range about fifteen miles away, Mitch said: “You boys see anything over there?”
At first Buck couldn’t make out anything. Then he perked up. “Kind of a glow, but real faint?”
“Yeah, like a campfire’d make if it was reflecting off a big rock or something.”
“I don’t see anything,” Ray grumbled.
“It’s there,” Mitch replied, lowering his arm. “What do you think, McCready?”
Buck was silent a moment, weighing the pros and cons, then said: “We’ll rest here for another hour or so, then head for that light. If it’s not our thieves, it’s in the right direction.”
“It’s them,” Mitch insisted. “I can feel it in my blood.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Nick Kelso’s throat was dust-dry as he waved the trail-weary mountain men into the mouth of the ravine. He’d ridden hard to get ahead of the fast-moving gang and their cavvy of stolen mules, but, as the grim-faced bunch rode up the gulch toward him, he began to wonder if he’d made the right decision.
Maybe I should have stayed in Utah, he thought briefly, then shoved his doubts aside. He’d come this far in life by not backing down from anyone; he’d be damned if he’d start now.
The sight of Arlen Fleck among the thieves was a surprise. Nick didn’t even recognize him at first, mistaking him for one of Carville’s and Reese’s men. It wasn’t until he checked his raw-boned mustang at the edge of the firelight that Nick realized the brown-skinned, slope-shouldered runt was his old partner.
Arlen was dirtier than Nick had ever seen him. His stubble had turned into a beard and his eyes looked red and painful from the sun and dust and wood smoke. Always a slim man, he’d lost even more weight in his travels with Carville and Reese, and his city duds hung from him like rags on a skeleton.
“Who the hell are you?” a towering mountain man in a blood-soaked buckskin shirt demanded. He glared at Nick like a demon eyeing a lost soul.
“He’s an acquaintance of ours,” Gabe said calmly, reining up beside the bloody scarecrow on the Appaloosa. “How’d ye find us, Kelso?”
“I’ve been shadowing the Box K for a few days, waiting for you boys to make your play. I was about ready to do something myself when I heard the ruckus last night. I could tell by the sound that you were heading west, so I came out here to get around you.” He motioned to the crackling fire behind him. “There’s coffee and biscuits and a gallon of Fort Hall whiskey for you boys to share.” He glanced at the remuda spreading out on the grass along the creek below camp.
“How many men have you got altogether … seven, eight?” He glanced at Fleck with a smirk. “Not counting this one.”
“Dumb-ass makes ten,” Henry stated flatly, “and he’s hung with us ever’ step of the way. That’s more’n you had the sand to do.”
Nick’s cocky grin disappeared, his only reaction to Reese’s insult. With the exception of Fleck, there wasn’t a soft man in the bunch, and he didn’t intend to buck the whole gang by himself. “I brought you boys some supplies to keep you riding,” he said. “Buck McCready’s going to hound you out of the territory to get his mules back.”
“We ain’t leavin’ the territory,” scarecrow stated flatly. “I don’t give a shit who’s followin’ us. We don’t need your supplies, either, although we’s gonna take ’em.”
Nick nodded woodenly. For the first time in years he was experiencing an emotion he’d almost forgotten—fear. Glancing at Fleck, Nick said: “Let’s go, Arlen. Your work here is done.”
“Dumb-ass’ll be stayin’ with us,” Henry intervened, grinning sardonically as he nudged his mount between Arlen’s shaggy mustang and Kelso. “Me ’n’ Gabe’s growed fond of the boy.”
“I reckon whether he stays or leaves is his choice,” Nick replied tautly.
“Then ye’ve reckoned wrong,” was Gabe’s curt response, the muzzle of his rifle swinging around to center on Nick’s chest.
Nick’s fingers twitche
d, but he didn’t dare make a play for his revolver. “All right,” he said after a moment’s calculation. “It’s no skin off my hide. I’ll leave you boys the food and whiskey and let you go about your business.” He walked stiffly to his horse, glad that he’d left it saddled, the cinch snug.
“Kelso!” Reese barked.
Nick flinched in spite of himself and felt an instant’s shame. Turning, he said: “What do you want?”
“If we hear our names mentioned in connection with this raid, we’s gonna come huntin’ ye, boy, and I swear I’ll wear ye scalp afore the year’s out. Savvy?”
“That’s a promise that cuts both ways,” Nick replied coolly. He stepped into the saddle and pulled his horse around, riding out of camp with his shoulders rigid, his eyes straight ahead. He was aware of the others coming in, advancing on the fire like scavengers approaching a fresh kill, but he acknowledged no one. He kept his horse to a walk until he was safely around the first bend in the trail, then kicked it into a lope.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I’ll be damned,” Mitch whispered, unable to hide his surprise. “I would’ve sworn they’d be gone by now.”
Buck’s eyes probed the distant camp suspiciously. There was no denying that it was the Box K remuda scattered along the creek below them. Nor could he ignore the slumbering camp tucked neatly into a fold in the opposite hillside, the oblong shapes of the raiders’ bedrolls circling the dying embers of last night’s fire like spokes. But something wasn’t right here. Buck could feel it in his bones.
“Let’s go get ’em,” Mitch growled, pushing away from the low boulder where he and Buck were crouched.
“Hold on,” Buck said, lifting his hand. “This is too easy.”
“Easy happens sometimes,” Mitch replied. “Hell, you ought to know better’n to look a gift horse in the mouth, McCready?”
“I know better than to get within kicking distance of one, too.”
Ray crawled over on his hands and knees, dragging his carbine with him. “What’re you two jabberin’ about? Damnation, we got to move, Buck. They’re gonna be stirrin’ pretty quick.”
“They should be stirring now,” Buck reminded them. He and his men were hunkered down among some rocks across from the raiders’ camp, maybe two hundred yards away. From here, it was an easy drop to the cañon floor, where all but a handful of mules were bedded down and sleeping. The raiders’ horses were picketed in a little side draw close to their camp.
Glancing at Chris Hobson, Buck said: “Take Charlie, Lou, and Little Ed and circle around until you’re above the herd, then ease down on it. The mules’ll hear you before you get close, but if they don’t spook and run, maybe they won’t wake those sleeping bastards across the way. With a little luck, you’ll have the herd out of here before they even know it’s gone.”
“What are you going to do?” Chris asked.
“Me, Ray, Joe, and Mitch are going to wiggle down to where we can give you some decent cover, in case it comes to a fight. If it doesn’t, we’ll wait until you’re out of range before we lay into them, but, no matter what, I want that remuda moving. I want those mules back at the wagons before nightfall.”
“They’ll be there,” Chris promised, motioning for Charlie, Lou, and Little Ed to follow him.
Buck turned back to the camp. He could come up with half a dozen reasons why the mule thieves were still in their blankets, but not one that made any sense. The only thing that did soothe his worries was that an ambush didn’t seem logical, either. Not if they were just thieves.
Buck took a quick inventory of their weapons. Mitch and Ray were armed with Spencer repeaters and Joe had a single-shot Sharps, not all that different from Buck’s Remington. All four firearms packed a hefty wallop, and would do some serious damage in a fight. “Let’s crawl a little closer,” Buck said, nodding toward a broken shelf of rocks about halfway down the side of the hill where they were crouched. “We can settle in there and still have good cover.”
“We gonna fight ’em?” Ray asked.
“They jumped a Box K train, stole Box K stock, killed a Box K man.” Buck’s face was grim in the pearly light. “Hell, yes, we’re gonna fight ’em.”
The footing was tricky in the poor light, but not dangerous, and they were soon in place among the shattered boulders. Buck found a low, V-shaped notch above a short, vertical drop and stretched out prone behind it. Fingering half a dozen stubby .50-70 cartridges from his belt, he laid them out within easy reach. The others quickly settled in on either side of hint seeing to their own weapons. It was another ten minutes before Joe spoke quietly. “Here they come.”
Buck craned his neck past the edge of the notch. Chris and his men were spread out across the upper end of the cañon, already advancing on the remuda. Several of the stolen mules had pushed to their feet and were staring upcañon, their long ears canted sharply forward. As the riders drew close, Chris raised his hand to signal a trot. As he did, a shot rang out from the opposite wall and Chris was flung from the back of his mount as if swept away by a giant hand.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Buck grated, throwing the Remington to his shoulder and pulling the trigger. Joe’s Sharps roared at nearly the same time. Across the cañon, the broken hillside seemed to come alive with zigzagging men seeking better positions. Buck estimated at least eight of them, each one armed with a rifle carried with practiced ease. Buck’s gaze flitted briefly to the outlaw camp, where the bedrolls lay undisturbed and knew with a sickening bitterness that he’d led his men into a trap.
Forcing himself to remain calm, Buck found a raider in his sights and fired a second time. The man spun and fell, rolling part way down the side of the hill before stopping himself and scampering for cover. Within seconds, two more outlaws had pitched to the ground—one of them falling to Joe’s big Sharps, the other to Ray’s Spencer—and the remaining outlaws dropped from sight.
There was a shout from upcañon. Looking in that direction, Buck saw his men, Chris with them, racing their mounts toward the stolen herd. As the men of the Box K swept forward, the loose mules wheeled and bolted downcañon.
“Lay into ’em!” Buck yelled as the remuda thundered past.
The firing from the far side of the cañon intensified, but Buck and his men were pounding the outlaws’ position, laying down an unwavering fusillade. As the cavvy pulled out of range, the raiders turned their guns on the remaining Box K men. Lead splatter and tiny stone chips stung Buck’s cheeks twice, and a spent round—a ricochet—struck his boot just above his ankle, although it lacked enough energy to do any harm.
Mitch and Ray were slamming round after round into the mule thieves’ hiding places, and Joe’s Sharps bellowed steadily as he fed it fresh rounds. A third man fell across the way, the fringe on his buckskins flapping like wings as he was knocked off his perch above the cañon floor. There was a shout from the opposite wall, then a lull in the firing. Buck called for his own men to stop shooting, and the four of them waited to see what would happen next.
Without any apparent command, the raiders began backing away, retreating through rocks to the side draw where their horses were tethered. Soon, most of them were scrambling for their mounts, abandoning the fight.
Most, but not all.
Buck’s eyes dropped to the cañon floor where a man in buckskins was sprinting toward the trees along the creek. Buck fired at the same time as Ray and the outlaw stumbled, then fell to his knees. He stayed that way for only a moment, before tipping over sideways.
Higher up on the far side of the cañon, the fleeing raiders were making their way toward a low saddle in the ridge above them. When the last man had crossed over, Buck slowly stood. As he did, a man stepped out from behind a boulder across the cañon, his rifle shouldered. Buck knew he’d made a terrible mistake. He wanted to cry out in protest, but there wasn’t even time for that. He tensed for the bullet’s strike, but, before the raider could pull the trigger, another figure appeared out of the rocks, charging forward like a bul
l to tackle the first man and drive him to his knees. The rifle roared, its bullet plowing harmlessly into the dirt some twenty yards below where Buck stood.
Rolling onto his back, the first man swung the butt of his rifle around to catch the second man on the jaw. As the second man fell, the first man clambered to his feet, raising his rifle high above his head to cave in the second man’s skull. Before he could bring it down, four Box K rifles blazed as one and the first raider was slammed back against the rocks, then crumbled limply to the ground.
Buck approached the scrawny man with the swollen jaw warily, his rifle at the ready. Mitch and Joe were working their way up the far side of the cañon, looking for more survivors, while Ray circled around behind the man in the dirty green coat.
It was the coat that had caught Buck’s attention, even from his rocky niche across the cañon. As grimy as the man wearing it, frayed, ripped—but a green plaid, just as Tom Ashley described. A battered brown porkpie was tipped back on the stranger’s head, and Buck remembered the International’s barkeep’s words: A brown hat with a little bitty brim.
Earring the Remington’s hammer back to full cock, Buck said: “On your feet, and, if you’re still carrying a pistol when you get there, I’ll blow your god-damn’ head off.”
The man nodded to a spot several yards away, where a rusty Manhattan revolver lay in the dirt. “It ain’t even been fired,” he said in a low, mousey voice. “I wasn’t a part of that bunch, but they’d ’a’ killed me if I tried to slip away.”
“You ain’t in no better position now,” Ray told him, coming up from behind.
The stranger continued to look at Buck and didn’t turn around.
“Stand up,” Buck ordered. “Ray, search him.”
“Be my pleasure,” Ray said, switching his rifle to his left hand. “You got a hide-out gun on you somewheres, sonny?”
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