by B. S. Dunn
‘And?’
‘And nothin’. You stay right there. Ain’t nothin’ you can do is goin’ to make up for what you did to the trail crew in ‘75.’
He was about to say more when there was a sound of knuckles rapping loudly on the outer hardwood door.
The door was locked. Crawley approached it and opened a small hinged flap that had replaced the original window. Outside it was dark. Kerosene lanterns placed at intervals along the street provided a dim glow. The night air was chilly and King was rugged up in a coat he’d stolen from an unsuspecting woman’s washing-line.
‘What do you want?’ Crawley asked the stranger who stood outside the door on the boardwalk.
‘The barkeep sent me over from the saloon. Said you needed to get over there now. He thinks one of them fellers who robbed your bank yesterday is in there.’
Crawley looked at the stranger skeptically.
‘You mean Walter sent you over here?’
‘No,’ King said. He’d made a point of finding out the barkeep’s name just in case the deputy called him on it. ‘The feller’s name was Smitty. I guess his last name is Smith.’
‘Damn it!’ Crawley cursed. He turned away from the door and crossed to the scarred wooden desk where he’d left the shotgun. He went back to the door, unlocked it and swung it open. ‘If Smitty has got me on some wild-goose--’
He stopped cold when the hard barrel of King’s Colt Lightning poked into his midriff.
‘Back up,’ King ordered through gritted teeth. ‘And don’t try anythin’ smart or I’ll blow your spine out your back.
The stunned deputy backed up slowly. Once they were clear King closed the door without taking his eyes off Crawley.
‘Now, drop the gun on the floor and turn around.’
‘You … you’ll never get out of town,’ the deputy stammered.
‘Shut up and do what I say,’ King hissed.
Crawley let the gun clatter to the wooden floor and turned around as he’d been told.
King stepped forward swiftly and chopped the barrel of his six-gun down on to the back of Crawley’s head. The man dropped like a stone. King bent and picked the keys from his belt.
‘I was wonderin’ where you’d got to,’ Brolin said. ‘I was beginnin’ to think you’d left town.’
‘I thought about it,’ King said truthfully. ‘But I decided I needed you if there was any hope of makin’ those bastards pay.’
King unlocked the door and they dragged the unconscious deputy into the cell. Brolin found his Remington in the gun cupboard and strapped it on.
‘The horses are outside,’ King told him.
‘Good, but before we leave town there is one more stop to make.’
A look of despair came over King’s face.
‘You’ve got to be joking. As soon as he wakes up he’ll start yellin’ loud enough to bring half the town runnin’.’
‘True.’ Brolin nodded thoughtfully. ‘Wait here.’
Brolin unlocked the cell, ripped the deputy’s bandanna from around his neck and used it as a gag. He then pulled the man’s belt free and tied his hands behind his back.
‘That’ll keep him busy for a while. Now, come on. We need to get them supplies before we go.’
~*~
A loud banging brought the storekeeper downstairs. When he opened the door he was not a happy man.
‘What the hell …?’ The man stopped abruptly and his face fell when he saw who was standing there. He felt the gun muzzle prod at his belly.
‘Hi Charlie.’ Brolin smiled mirthlessly. ‘I’ve come for my supplies.
~*~
Sheriff Ben Dawson was not a happy man either. He was cold, tired and hadn’t been asleep for long when suddenly he found himself awake once more.
He and the ten-man posse he was leading were camped out beside a small beaver pond, which was fed water from a clear narrow stream - clear enough to see the rounded rocks on the bottom.
He sat up and stretched out some the kinks caused by sleeping on the hard ground. It might be grassy but it certainly wasn’t soft. He looked around the camp. The dull light of the campfire’s low orange flame illuminated the men huddled under their blankets, fast asleep. Low snores drifted on the chilled night air and a posse member rolled over and mumbled something incoherent.
Dawson shook his head and swore softly. He frowned; why was he awake again? It was quiet enough, there had been no loud noise or anything to rouse him.
A horse snorted, then they all began to shuffle about. Dawson peered into the darkness. Perhaps a wolf or mountain lion was on the prowl in the dark wilderness.
Suddenly the night split apart with the sound of gunfire. Orange and red stabs of flame erupted from the ends of rifle and six-gun barrels. The impact of each round caused the blanket-covered men’s bodies to go into violent spasm. Screams of pain filled the air. A couple of men managed to scramble to their feet after throwing their blankets aside. They got off a few shots before they were brought down amid the throaty roar of a cut-off shotgun.
Dawson overcame the initial shock of it all and lunged at his holstered .38-caliber Navy Colt, which was beside his saddle. He brought it up and began to fire at the gun flashes. After the first couple of shots he was rewarded with a yelp of pain from the darkness.
When the first bullet hit him in the side it felt as though a mule had kicked him. It knocked the breath from his lungs and caused him to gasp for air. The second one hit him just above the belt buckle and made him double over.
Dawson dropped the Colt from his weakening grasp and sank to his knees. His ears still rang with the cries of his men dying amid the sound of murderous gunfire. Then, mercifully, a wave of darkness swept over him and he slumped on to his side.
~*~
‘Who?’ Stall asked Kansas.
‘Blaine.’
‘Can he ride?’
‘I doubt it.’
Stall grunted and walked over to the fire where the others had carried Blaine. The outlaw shivered violently from pain and shock. Stall could see the beads of sweat on the wounded man’s brow glistening in the firelight.
‘Kansas says you can’t ride.’ It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact.
‘I’ll be f - fine,’ Blaine stammered.
‘Nope. You won’t.’ Stall’s voice was devoid of emotion. ‘We can’t hang around and wait for you.’
‘J - just give m - me a day, Mike,’ Blaine gasped.
Stall shook his head.
‘I’ll leave you your canteen and horse. If you start to feel better and manage to get mounted try and catch up.’
Fear flickered across the wounded man’s face.
‘N - no. What a - about bears or w - wolves? You c - can’t leave me.’
Stall shrugged his shoulders.
‘It is what it is. See you Blaine.’
Stall turned. He walked towards the horses but he was brought up short by Kansas and Jack Murphy.
‘You can’t leave him like that, Mike,’ Kansas protested. ‘He’s one of us.’
‘Yeah, Mike,’ Murphy put in. ‘The critters will eat him alive.’
Stall’s voice grew cold. ‘If he comes with us he’ll slow us down. On the other hand, if you don’t like leavin’ him here alive then draw straws.’
Kansas’s mouth drew into a thin line with the grim realization at what his boss had suggested.
‘What for?’ Murphy asked, slow on the uptake.
‘So you can find out which one of you shoots him in the head. Whatever you decide, make it fast. I’m leavin’.’
Stall turned away. He walked to his horse, leaving both men contemplating what they should do.
Eight
Brolin spat on the ground as he surveyed the scene before him. He’d seen a lot of death in his time but you never got used to it. Especially on a scale like this.
The bodies were scattered around the camp, left where they had fallen. Off to the side, King dry-heaved once more; all of his stomac
h contents were long gone. He straightened up and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
‘How can you just stand there and be unmoved by all of this?’
‘Men deal with death in different ways,’ Brolin told him as he looked down at the body of Blaine. He had a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead and another in his chest.
A low moan off to his left caught his attention and he turned swiftly, gun in hand. Carefully he edged forward and found the source of the noise. The sheriff was still alive. Somehow the outlaws had missed him when they left, Brolin thought.
‘Over here,’ he called to King; he knelt down beside the wounded man.
Brolin eased him over gently and looked at the man’s wounds. The one in his side showed a small entry wound; nearby was a larger exit wound. The second wound troubled Brolin more than the first.
The sheriff was gut shot and was dying a slow, painful death. Brolin moved the man’s shirt aside to take a better look; a hoarse whisper stopped him.
‘Don’t bother, stranger, I’m done for.’
King crouched beside Brolin. ‘What can we do?’
The gunfighter looked at him and gave a gentle shake of his head.
‘Surely there must be somethin’,’ King insisted.
‘Don’t worry yourself none,’ the lawman said quietly. ‘He knows there ain’t nothin’ can be done. Not for a wound like this.’
‘When did they hit you?’ asked Brolin.
‘Sometime after midnight,’ the dying lawman said. ‘I don’t know how they crept up on us. We had nighthawks out.’
‘How many?’
‘Two.’
Brolin nodded. ‘I found ’em. Both men had their throats cut.’
Dawson showed no surprise.
‘This trail we’re on,’ Brolin said, ‘where does it go?’
‘About forty miles north of here is a small town,’ Dawson explained. ‘It’s called Miller’s Crossing. It’s on the Standish River.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ Brolin allowed.
A wave of pain swept through the lawman; he shuddered violently, then settled once more.
‘I know the sheriff there,’ Dawson said. ‘He’s a good man, but he’s no match for these guys on his own.’
‘Is there another trail Stall and his men could take?’
Dawson looked surprised. ‘No. Is that who it was?’
‘Yeah.’
Brolin went on to tell him briefly about the train.
‘Son of a bitch,’ the lawman cursed weakly.
Another, stronger wave of pain coursed through Dawson.
‘Mother of God!’ he cried out. ‘It hurts.’
When the spasm had passed he lay there gasping. Then he gathered himself and looked Brolin in the eye.
‘I need you to make the pain stop.’
The gunfighter nodded. ‘OK.’
‘How are you goin’ to do that?’ asked King.
Brolin looked at him.
‘Go and find some branches so we can light a fire,’ he said.
‘But--’
‘Go!’ Brolin snapped.
King turned and walked off into the trees to find what he needed.
‘Greenhorn?’ asked Dawson with a faint smile.
‘Yeah, and then some. His little boy was killed by the outlaws.’
‘Bad business.’
Brolin nodded. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Nope, can’t say as I am. Mind tellin’ me your name?’
‘Brolin.’
Recognition sparked in the lawman’s eyes.
‘You’re supposed to be dead.’
‘Tell me about it. I will promise you this, though, Sheriff. I’ll kill every last one of them damn murderers before I’m through.’
‘One more thing: there’s Blackfeet about. A band of ’em jumped the reservation over at Fort Shaw. We got word in town a couple of days ago.’
Brolin nodded. ‘Thanks. You got anyone?’
‘Nope, just me. But if you could get word to Lazy River I’d appreciate it.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Brolin assured him.
When King heard the gunshot he came running out from the trees, his Colt Lightning drawn and ready to shoot. He stopped short when he saw Brolin standing over the sheriff’s body, gun in hand and a small wisp of blue-grey gunsmoke drifting from the barrel.
‘What did you do?’ he shouted.
Brolin didn’t look up.
‘I did what he asked me to do.’
‘Why?’ the store owner gasped out. ‘What they said about you is true. You’re nothin’ but a killer.’
The gunfighter whirled about to face King, his eyes blazing.
‘If you ever call me that again I’ll leave you out here on your own. The man was dyin’ and he was hurtin’ more than he could stand. So he asked me to end it for him. Nothin’ could be done for him. He could die slow or quick. He chose quick.’
King’s face had paled under the verbal barrage. His eyes dropped to the shaking Remington, which was pointed in his direction.
Brolin followed his gaze and realized what he was looking at.
He holstered the six-gun, turned away and walked off a distance, stopping when he reached the Beaver pond. He reached inside a pocket and took out a small picture. He stood in silence for a few minutes, looking at it.
King swallowed, then asked:
‘What are you lookin’ at?’
The gunfighter stuffed the picture back into his pocket and looked up at a ridgeline on the far side of the valley.
‘Nothin’,’ he said in dismissal of the question.
King could tell enough from the man’s tone not to press the matter. Instead, he asked:
‘What are we goin’ to do with all these bodies? Are we goin’ to put them over the horses and take ’em with us, or what?’
‘Leave ’em there,’ Brolin ordered.
‘We can’t just leave ’em for the wolves and bears or God knows what else,’ King protested.
‘I said leave ’em.’
‘Why?’
Brolin sighed angrily; he didn’t turn his eyes away from the far ridge.
‘All right, listen up,’ he snapped, impatience evident in his tone. ‘You see the ridge yonder?’
King moved to stand beside him. ‘Yes. What about it?’
‘Atop the ridge there’s a big spruce tree, standin’ all on its own. Do you see it?’
‘Yes.’
‘To the right of it there is a large rock formation and just below that you’ll see ’em.’
‘See wha … yes, I see ’em.’
Brolin guessed there were fifteen Indians or perhaps a few more. They were sitting, watching. He surmised that they were the Blackfeet warriors who’d jumped the reservation, about whom the sheriff had told him. If that was who they were it would mean trouble.
Brolin glanced up at the sun and judged there would be a few more hours before sunset.
‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
The two men turned and walked at a brisk pace towards where the horses were quietly cropping grass. Brolin guessed that the Indians would be coming down off the ridge about now, and making a beeline for the camp.
‘Leave the posse horses,’ the gunfighter ordered. ‘With any luck they’ll be satisfied with them.’
‘And if not?’
‘Then pray we can stay ahead of them until the sun goes down and we can give ’em the slip.’
~*~
As fate would have it, everything changed an hour later.
‘We’ll have to make a stand!’ Brolin yelled amid the thunder of horses’ hoofs. ‘If we keep drivin’ the horses like this we’ll kill ’em.’
When they’d hit the incline up to the ridge their mounts had begun to labor noticeably. The trail climbed steeply ahead, switching back on itself many times as it cut a path through the pines.
Off to his right Brolin saw a steep rock face with a large deadfall at its base. A little to the left was a massive boulder, which w
ould provide adequate cover for the tired mounts.
‘This way,’ the gunfighter shouted. He guided the buckskin off the trail.
King followed and they ducked beneath low-hung branches of trees until they reached their destination. Brolin tethered the horses behind the boulder, then dug out the spare ammunition from the saddlebags. He removed the Sharps from the saddle boot.
‘Grab your Winchester and canteen,’ he ordered King, ‘and follow me.’
King did as he was told without question and followed Brolin to where he crouched behind a tree. At least with the cliff at their back they would be safe from that direction.
Brolin watched as the Blackfeet warriors came along the trail through the meadow’s open expanse. He’d been right, there were fifteen of them. He set out five .45-caliber cartridges for the rifle within easy reach and left the open box next to them. He took a box of .44s for the Winchester and tossed them to King.
‘You’ll be needin’ them.’
‘Do we have a chance?’ the store owner asked nervously.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Brolin assured him. ‘Take your time and try to hit what you aim at.’
As the Indians came on the two men had a reasonably clear field of fire from their vantage point.
Brolin looked at the sun. There was still around an hour before it sank behind the highest snow-clad peaks. If they could hold out until dark they might be able to slip away.
He turned his attention back to the Blackfeet, who urged their horses on. His brow furrowed and he looked down at the Sharps, which was lying across the fallen tree in front of him.
‘King, start shootin’.’
‘Aren’t they still a bit far away?’ King questioned. ‘I don’t think I could hit anythin’ at this distance.’
‘I don’t want you to,’ Brolin explained. ‘I just want you to make ’em stop and think. Two shots are all you need to fire.’
While King lined up for his first shot Brolin fed a .45-caliber cartridge into the single-shot Sharps. He too lined up on the fast-approaching group.
‘Do it.’ Brolin spoke calmly.
The Winchester barked and the shot fell short but the rifle’s roar had the desired effect and the Indians stopped.
All of them were armed. Some had Spencers, some Winchesters and a couple had newer-model Springfields.
