Lone Valley: A Fresh Start (Mountain Man Book 6)

by Nathan Jones

  “So what now, boss?” the big, ugly SOB who'd come out to confront Skyler at the parley yesterday growled. “You've already gotten three of us killed chasing after the one ranch in Lone Valley that's expecting us and is well defended. Not to mention losing us our camp to one little boy hiding in the trees. What've you got next for us?”

  “Shut your yap, Franco,” Randall snarled. “We weren't expecting them to be waiting for us tonight, and how was I supposed to know Graham was some sort of sneaky sniper?”

  “You should've expected it, when they came and confronted us and you basically told the kid you planned to rob them!” Franco shot back. “You've been an idiot ever since talking to that little pissant, and I'm starting to wonder if you should even be in charge.”

  “Hate to pile on, boss,” Tram said, “but why don't we forget that place? We could go hit one of the other ranches right now, take what we want with no trouble at all and be gone by morning.”

  The gang's leader spit into the newly built fire. “You think Hendrickson won't have gone around to all his neighbors warning them about us?”

  The old man was obviously no fool, since Uncle Bob had done exactly that.

  Randall continued firmly. “Besides, most of the places around here raise goats, with maybe a couple cows and a few horses at most. If we want a good score, we want to hit this ranch.” He paused dramatically. “Besides, you heard that girl screaming as we pulled back. That's the scream of someone who's seen a loved one shot, so this fight hasn't been completely one-sided.”

  “So why don't we go hit them again right now?” Franco demanded. “They'll be busy dealing with wounded. Wide open. And we've still got the numbers.”

  Skyler tensed, preparing to flee back to Junior to go warn his friends.

  But to his relief Randall laughed the suggestion down, voice thick with scorn. “That little pissant's probably set up somewhere waiting for us. Like you said, we've got the numbers . . . they can't all stay awake 24/7 defending against us, and we're secure in this gully if he thinks he can come after us again. He can't touch us here.”

  Really? Grimly amused, Skyler glanced down at his rifle; he could raise it and pick off Randall at a moment's notice if he wanted. Assuming he was interested in trying to escape this poor position with a bunch of furious bandits after him.

  Although it was something to consider, if the old man was the only one pushing for going after his friends. Skyler had escaped from worse situations when needed.

  “Besides,” Randall continued, “you were just whining about how bad things have been going tonight. You want to charge into another dicey situation, rather than sitting back and planning a proper attack so we get what we want without any more of us getting killed?”

  There was some grumbling, and Franco glowered like he wanted to keep arguing. Before he could say a word, Randall briskly stood. “Let's settle down for the night, get some rest if we can. We'll go back for our stuff at the camp in the morning, then put eyes on the ranch as we think of a plan. Until then . . .” He motioned, lip curling into a sneer in the tentative glow of the newly lit fire. “Tram, Nils, you've got first watch. There's open ground on all sides, and just two entrances to this gully. Try not to let one little kid sneak up on you.”

  The two men grumbled but moved to comply, which was Skyler's cue to leave. He eased back from the edge of the gully's wall, then slipped through the night back to where he'd left Junior.

  So, looked as if Randall was done for the night. It would be foolish to assume anything, though, so they shouldn't let down their guard in case the bandits changed their minds. Or if that Franco thug managed to boot Randall from his lofty perch and take over the gang.

  Wouldn't that be nice.

  Either way, Skyler and his friends should have some breathing room for at least the night. Breathing room they desperately needed to get Jared patched up, and get some rest if they could.

  Once he reached Junior, he paused to pan the narrow gully with his scope one last time.

  Well, now he knew where Randall's secondary hideout in the area was. Something told him he'd be back here before long, since the old man seemed determined to turn this ugly rather than licking his wounds and running off.

  For a moment he toyed with the idea of going after them again. He was sure he could turn this terrain to his advantage with a little work.

  But again, outside this hilly area was open grasslands in all directions, even a stretch of it before the foothills leading up to the mountains looming to the west. If they were closer to those he might've tried it, assuming he wanted to flee in the opposite direction of the ranch and leave his friends undefended.

  But as it stood, at this location Skyler wasn't confident he could fight ten men head on. And if not, if he had to run, he'd have a tough time of it, and a nearly impossible time hiding. Junior could outrun any of those nags back to the ranch, but that might spark another attack his friends weren't in a position to fend off.

  At least without more warning than he'd be giving them.

  Besides, Bob's desire to let this go if the bandits were willing remained in the back of his mind. It might be that even if Randall wanted to keep on fighting, his men didn't. A night of huddling miserably among the rocks without the gear they'd abandoned at their camp, nursing wounds and mulling on the loss of their buddies, might make them decide to call it quits by morning.

  If so, then going after them now might actually make them feel like they had no choice but to keep fighting.

  He abruptly frowned, another thought hitting him: that big cuss, Franco, had said three of their people were dead. Skyler could be fairly confident about two of those kills, but the bandit he'd snapped a hasty shot at as they were fleeing the thicket probably wasn't. He'd been aiming for a flash of leg among the undergrowth, and although the man's scream suggested he'd been hit it was doubtful it was fatal.

  Well, that was something he'd need to do something about, and sooner rather than later.

  His last sight of Randall's bandits had showed them huddled in their hastily sought out hiding places, seeming more occupied with getting warm and comfortable than with any further violence. It was a judgment call to leave them unwatched when they might go for the ranch while he was busy with the wounded man, but what he'd overheard left him fairly confident they'd stay put until morning like Randall had ordered.

  And at that point their first priority would be creeping back to camp to retrieve their gear, which if Skyler had anything to say about it would no longer be there.

  He led Junior away, staying low until he was out of sight of the gully. Then he mounted and rode hard to the southeast, although still doing his best to move unseen across the plains; he didn't have nearly as much skill with that as he did creeping on mountain slopes, but years of moving through the Northwest had given him opportunity and incentive to learn what he could.

  His path took him on a straight line to the bandits' camp, eyes searching the gently rolling land around him for any sign of the wounded bandit trying to drag himself towards the gully where his buddies had regrouped. He saw no traces of him, although if the man was passed out on his stomach in the grass somewhere there was no guarantee he'd be able to see him.

  In that case, he'd have to return to the camp and follow the man's tracks to wherever he was. Hopefully before the bandit, wounded or not, had time to reach the gully.

  On the way, Skyler tried to remember what had been left in the camp, how much of it he could take with him, especially if he needed Junior to carry a wounded prisoner, and what to leave behind if he couldn't bring it all. It was possible he'd have to come back for the rest.

  At the edge of the thicket, he dismounted and eased forward on foot. Some of the most dangerous enemies he'd ever faced had been wounded, desperate and willing to take any risk to survive and win. No matter how many fights you'd been in, it was never truly real until you felt that pain and desperation. That blunt reality that death was closer than you'd realized.
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br />   He'd never forget cowering in that cut during the Mountain War with a gunshot wound to the arm, waiting for the better part of two squads of bloodies to catch up to him and finish him off. Determined to take as many of them with him as possible.

  He wouldn't have wanted to face himself in that situation.

  Skyler's caution bore fruit here as well, when he caught the smallest flash of motion in the trees on the other side of the camp clearing. That split second was the only warning he got, but since he was ready for trouble he was already dropping to the ground.

  As he rolled for the nearest source of cover the roar of gunfire shattered the silence.

  Chapter Nine

  Wolf

  “I get you, cabron?” a hoarse voice called out of the darkness after the gunfire died down.

  Skyler ignored the question and cautiously eased through the trees, making for a spot where he could aim behind the cover the bandit was using. Judging by the sound of the shots and his rough count of the bullets fired before the man ran out, he guessed his enemy was shooting a .45 with an 8-round magazine.

  “I got you, didn't I?” the bandit shouted, triumphant through the obvious pain in his voice. “You dropped like a rock.” He muttered something in obvious relief, and soon the noise of him crashing through the undergrowth could be heard. In the dark, with most other night noises muted, the sound seemed almost as loud as the gunshots had been.

  Keep coming, idiot, Skyler thought. The dark silhouette of his enemy appeared, clutching at trees with one hand and dragging one useless leg as he hopped painfully forward, clutching a pistol in the other hand pointed roughly where Skyler had dropped.

  With his rifle centered on the bandit's chest, he could take him out at any time. But one wounded man wasn't a threat, and he would have useful information about Randall and his gang. Also, Skyler would feel better about bringing the outlaw to justice, even if he ended up having to string him up himself anyway, as opposed to just shooting him in the back in the dark.

  So he eased around to where he was a bit behind and to the side of the cursing, clumsily crashing bandit, on the man's wounded side so if he tried to turn quickly he'd have to use his bad leg. Then, rifle aimed squarely at his enemy's heart, Skyler raised his voice in a sharp bark.

  “Freeze, I've got you in my sights!”

  Either the bandit was stupid or desperate, because he barely paused in whirling, yelping as he put weight on his bad leg and nearly falling on his face. Long before the man could bring his pistol to bear, Skyler coolly squeezed the trigger to put him down.

  Nothing happened.

  It was his turn to curse as he once again dropped flat and rolled behind the cover he'd picked out beforehand, in case something went wrong. And once again gunfire rang out as the bandit emptied his magazine into the trees around him. One near miss tugged at his coat, so close he kept expecting to feel the delayed pain of a hit.

  The pistol clicked on an empty chamber, and without hesitation Skyler scrambled farther into the trees, hoping the bandit was slow with reloading. As he moved he methodically went through the standard steps to clear his AK-47's malfunction, pushing down panic and reminding himself that slow was smooth, smooth was fast.

  His rifle had reliably kept him alive through dangerous times ever since he was a kid. It had helped him save his mom the first time he'd ever faced an enemy, and since then had allowed him to protect his family and friends, and bring Sangue and criminals to justice. He kept it cleaned and maintained as diligently as he knew how, replaced worn or broken parts when necessary, and always checked it before going into combat.

  But stuff happened, as Trapper was fond of saying. Sometimes all the skill and preparation in the world could be trumped by pure dumb luck. And this SOB shooting at him was luckier than anyone had a right to be.

  As Skyler confirmed after he finished all the malfunction clears that didn't require more than emptying the chamber, making sure the magazine was firmly seated, and racking the action to chamber a new round. Because when he ducked into a firing position to take down his obnoxious enemy, his rifle once again refuse to fire.

  He inwardly cursed a blue streak at this second betrayal by his trusty AK. Years of reliable use, and it picked now to fail him? He was going to have to field strip the stupid thing in the middle of a gunfight, which was his worst nightmare.

  Literally: he'd had more than a few dreams of just this sort of thing happening, most of which ended with him either getting shot or running in that endless way of nightmares until he finally started awake, heart pounding.

  Although now that he thought about it, running wasn't the worst idea at the moment. At least until he'd cleared this malfunction.

  Distance, that's what he needed. He was carrying a blasted rifle against a pistol, he shouldn't be closer than fifty yards to this dirtbag, even in woods. Especially since his enemy was wounded and couldn't move quickly in pursuit. So he stopped trying to circle the bandit and began darting from cover to cover moving directly away from him.

  Behind him the pistol rang out again, although not in the wild, magazine-emptying rush the man had employed before. Maybe he was running low on ammo. Fingers crossed. Skyler kept to cover as he continued putting distance between him and his enemy, braced for that awful wrong sensation of getting hit by a bullet, or the punching feel of one stopped by his body armor.

  It didn't come. He reached the spot where he'd originally ambushed the bandits, ducked behind the sturdy cover, and got to work field stripping his rifle to figure out what the blazes was up with it.

  “Yeah that's right, run!” the bandit shouted triumphantly. “Not so tough, eh?”

  In the middle of field stripping a rifle seemed like the perfect time to strike up a conversation and keep his enemy distracted. He raised his voice. “Not tough enough to try to turn and shoot someone with a rifle trained on me!”

  He heard the man spit in disgust. “I'll be happy to take it off your corpse. Although I prefer my pistol.”

  “That's your first mistake.” Skyler felt along the components of his rifle in the darkness, searching for obvious problems as he pulled out a cloth to wipe them clean and searched a pocket for his gun oil. “You know my dad, that'd be my adoptive dad Trapper, was the sort who thought a lot on history. You think much on history, uh . . .”

  “Lobo!” the bandit shouted back. “You going to come out, cabron, or you just going to hide all night jawing?”

  “I'll take that as a no, seeing as how those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it.” Skyler finished cleaning the components and reassembled his weapon in quick, familiar motions. “Trapper, though, he fell in love with the subject as the years went by. Hunted books, swapped stories, anything to further his knowledge.

  “One of his favorite things to talk about was the Old West. See, he used to tell me that the revolver was the sword of that period. Back before guns, men who wanted to defend themselves carried a sword, because it was convenient and effective. You could walk around with a sword on your hip, not so easy with something like, say, a poleaxe. And a sword put you on almost even footing with most other weapons.”

  “Seriously, hija de puta, I'm going to get tired of waiting eventually.”

  “Take your time, Lobo, you're the one bleeding out. Esta bien.” Skyler continued his spiel, undeterred. “In the West, revolvers were the go-to weapon. You could carry one around on your hip, hard to do that with a shotgun or, hah, a Gatling gun. But with a revolver, in most situations you could go toe to toe with most other weapons.”

  He heard a wry laugh from somewhere out in the trees. “Okay, Graham, I'll bite. Listened to you long enough that I'm actually kind of curious where you're going with this.”

  Skyler did a last check of his AK, then quietly chambered a round. “Thing is, while the sword was the preferred weapon of its time, it wasn't necessarily the best in a fight. Just the most convenient. Put a swordsman up against someone with one of the first weapons ever made, the spear, and
most of the time he'd probably lose. The spear just has too much reach.”

  He paused, ears straining, and heard the softest crackle of old dry leaves dozens of yards away. In an explosion of motion he rolled out from beneath cover, taking aim prone through his AK's scope. He caught Lobo halfway out from behind his cover, pistol half-raised, and centered his rifle's crosshairs on Lobo's chest. Then he shifted his aim a foot or so to the right and pulled the trigger.

  His rifle roared, a welcome sound after two failed attempts, and a bullet grazed Lobo's arm. The man froze, and Skyler smiled grimly. “How good are you at hitting a target in the dark at forty yards with a pistol? Because with a rifle we might as well be standing right next to each other.”

  With a soft curse, the bandit's silhouette made exaggerated motions to make it clear he was letting the .45 fall from his fingers. It hit the ground with a solid thump.

  “Kick it away!” Skyler shouted.

  “With a wounded leg?” Lobo demanded incredulously.

  “You rather get shot?” he shouted back, voice hard.

  A second later he heard a heavy sounding crash as something flew through the undergrowth, although there was no way to be sure that had been the pistol. He cautiously stood, keeping his aim steady. “Face down on the ground, hands behind your head.”

  The bandit grudgingly complied.

  Only then did he cautiously approach, speaking as he did. “I've got nothing but respect for the pistol. Easy to carry, easy to conceal, deadly in most fights. The weapon you really want to have for a lot of trouble you might run into in towns. But Trapper always told me if I was out in the open I wanted a rifle, since even the sharpest shot with a pistol will have trouble hitting anything at a distance. This fight was spear against sword, and I had the reach.”

  “Which was why I had you running like a little perra the entire time,” Lobo taunted.

  Skyler shook his head dourly. “This fight would've been over at the start if not for a freak weapon malfunction. And not in your favor.”