by Jack Martin
Blade shivered.
There was a chill in the night air and his damp clothing made him feel the cold with a vengeance. He ignored his discomfort though and held his horse steady. There was no mistaking the sweet scent of burning wood and he peered in the darkness, looking for a flicker amongst the thick night but there was nothing.
Cautiously he set his horse off at a slow pace, little more than a trot and he sat alert in the saddle, ready to draw his guns at any moment. At one point he imagined he could see smoke, milky white, drifting against the far horizon but there was too much cloud cover to be sure.
The scent of fire though was stronger than ever and Blade was ready to spring into action at the first signs of danger.
He smirked, thinking that if he finished Smith off now, took him and the sodbusters out while Brady slept then maybe he’d be able to take over leadership of the gang without having to put a bullet into Brady’s brain. Though, he’d do that anyway, but he would like to be in charge before he did, so that he could be sure the men would stand with him and not fight for their slain leader.
Brady was past his best and Blade knew that if he managed to get Smith and the sodbusters it would prove it. If he did this alone, did what Brady had failed to do even with all the men behind him, then those men would side with him. Surely they must for their leader had already lost many men, men who had rode with them for many years, fought, laughed and cried with them, men who had been their friends and comrades in arms.
It was then that Blade thought he heard something. He kept his horse perfectly still while he listened, holding his own breath as he strained his ears to pick up something. He couldn’t be sure but for a split second he’d thought he’d heard the whinny of a mule somewhere in the distance.
‘Come on,’ he whispered to his horse and kicked his heels, setting the animal off into a canter.
Visibility was still poor. The storm was now well past but the thick clouds remained, filtering the weak glow of the moon. There was not even a star visible in a rheumy charcoal grey sky.
Blade rode at the same steady pace for some time before he spotted the unmistakable glow of the campfire in the distance.
He pulled the horse to a dead stop and smiled.
‘We found them,’ he whispered, blowing his fetid breath into the horse’s face. He checked his six guns and then the Winchester rifle and satisfied, he set to horse off in a slow trot, wanting to get as close as he could to the camp before he was heard. With luck he could get close enough to take the men out before they even noticed him coming.
The Mexican grinned again as a wicked notion formed in his mind.
With the men dead he would be able to have some fun with the woman before killing her. The thought excited him and his eyes took on a steely glare as he rode on towards the ever-growing glow in the distance.
Eighteen
Kicking Horse was all but free.
He had worked his wrists free, though for the moment he kept them behind his back as if still bound while he watched the white man by the campfire. The man was dozing and Kicking Horse knew that all he had to do was wait a little longer and then he would be able to remove the rest of the rope that bound him with ease. He sat back against the tree to which he was secured, a thick rope around his waist and then wrapped around the tree, and smiled.
With luck he would be able to escape into the night before the white man even stirred. Kicking Horse saw no reason to kill the white man. After all he had treated him well enough. The Indian wished it had been the white man called Kane guarding him. It would have been a great pleasure to kill the one called Kane.
Dawn was no more than a few hours away and Kicking Horse knew that his best chance of escape was in spiriting himself away under the cover of darkness. He closed his own eyes but remained alert, listening to the white man’s breathing. It was becoming rhythmic, deep, as he drifted further into true sleep.
When Kicking Horse next opened his eyes the white man was fast asleep and snoring like thunder. The Indian pulled his hands free from behind his back and massaged each wrist in turn.
The struggle to break free of the rope had grazed his wrists and the red rawness stung, but the Indian ignored the minor pain while he untied first his feet and then the rope around his waist. He had been in this seated position, bound to the tree for many hours, and he had to stand up slowly and allow the feeling to return to his legs before moving.
Kicking Horse stood there for many minutes, first wriggling the toes within his moccasins and then bending his feet, pushing himself up onto his toes. Finally, cramped muscles loosened up as the blood started flowing again, and the Indian moved forward on silent feet.
He cautiously reached for the Winchester next to the sleeping man and managed to grab it without disturbing the man.
Kicking Horse smiled.
This was good.
Next the Indian went down onto bended knees and reached across and carefully slid the Colt from the sleeping man’s holster. At one point, with the gun only half way out of its sheath, the sleeping man stirred and for one awful moment the Indian thought the man would wake and that he would have to kill him, but the man merely smacked his lips and went back to his snoring.
The white man was now unarmed and satisfied that he no longer posed a danger; Kicking Horse went to the horses that were tethered to the stump of a dead tree. The Indian whispered to the horses and then untied them both. He climbed onto the back of his own horse and holding the reins of the second horse, he let out a blood chilling scream and sent his horse galloping away, pulling the second horse behind.
Tant came awake immediately, jumping up with a yelp, his hand going for his sidearm but finding only empty leather.
‘Damn,’ he said and looked for his rifle only to find that this too had gone. The Indian had gone and taken all his weapons with him, leaving the man helpless and with no way of pursuit.
Tant reached into his pocket and pulled out a plug of chewing tobacco. He bit of a chunk and threw his hat onto the ground in frustration. He sat himself down by the fire and buried his face in his hands.
‘Damn,’ was all he said.
Nineteen
Blade was close enough to take a shot.
He didn’t want to risk it, though.
Not quite yet.
He had the advantage of his presence here being unknown, and it would be a shamed to waste it.
He wouldn’t take a shot until he was sure of his target, which meant getting a little closer still. He could clearly see the man they called Arkansas Smith sitting by the campfire, the wagon a few feet behind him. However he was at an awkward angle and it was too tricky a shot from here. No one else was visible and Blade guessed that the others were inside the wagon. That was good for as soon as he had taken care of Smith the occupants of the wagon would provide a turkey shoot.
‘Bang,’ he whispered, his finger tensing on the trigger of his rifle but he didn’t fire.
He needed to get closer.
He got up and silently walked back to his horse, which he had ground, tied a few yards away. He took up the reins and silently led the horse back the way they had come. He didn’t mount the horse but led the creature for a good quarter of a mile before tethering it to a spindly looking tree. The horse was now far enough away from the camp so that any sound it made would not be heard.
Then he made his way back towards the camp.
He reached his previous position in good time and was pleased to see that Smith was still sat in the same position, head bowed towards the fire. Blade crouched down behind a large rock and then, after checking Arkansas’s position and seeing the man hadn’t moved, he lay forward on his belly and slid along the ground, moving closer to the camp.
He was aware of the sound of his own breathing. It sounded impossibly loud to Blade, loud enough even to be heard by the man down by the campfire, but the man heard nothing and Blade soon reached a position where he felt he couldn’t miss, there being less than thirty feet b
etween him and his target and from his elevated position, the Mexican knew that he himself made a far too difficult target for any retaliation.
Only there wouldn’t be no retaliation and Blade felt that he’d be able to pick them all off without a single shot being sent his way.
That was just the way he liked it.
He checked the workings on his Winchester, sending a slug into the chamber and slowly, very carefully took aim. He watched the man in his sights and he guessed he must have been sleeping. The man hadn’t moved for some time, his hat pulled down over his face and his coat all bunched up around him.
Blade smiled and aimed dead centre of the sleeping figure’s hat. He increased the pressure on the trigger and fired.
‘Stand up slowly and drop your guns,’ the voice came from behind Blade.
Two things happened at once, confusing Blade. First the hat responded from his shot by flying up into the air, revealing nothing beneath it, the coat sliding to the ground, and then that voice spoken from behind him and coming from where previously there had been no-one.
It was all too much for the outlaw and his brain rebelled at the possibility of the man vanishing from the campfire and suddenly materialising behind him. No it was all too fanciful for Blade to consider and he guessed that the damn Indian suspicions around Arkansas Smith had shaken him up some. It was Kicking Horse and Flightless Eagle with their stories that had rattled him. Men couldn’t just vanish and reappear somewhere else. Smith must have been behind him for some time and somehow managed to place his hat and coat in that position. Maybe he’d done it when I led my horse away, Blade reasoned.
Weren’t anything supernatural about Arkansas Smith.
He was just very slippery is all.
Blade turned his head over his shoulder and looked directly into the ice cold and fearless eyes of Arkansas Smith. The outlaw shivered and had to bite his lip to bring himself under control.
‘Stand up slowly,’ Arkansas repeated.
Blade left the rifle on the ground and cursed as he climbed to his feet. He stood there, hands raised.
‘Unbuckle your gun belt,’ Smith ordered, the eye of a single Colt pointed at Blade’s belly.
‘You hoodwinked me,’ Blade said.
Arkansas smiled and repeated: ‘Unbuckle your gun belt,’ this time he prodded his own gun forward as if the emphasise the command and added, ‘You don’t want to be gut shot.’
Blade agreed, indeed being gut shot had never been on his list of priorities, it was actually something to be avoided. Slowly he reached down and unbuckled his belt. He allowed it to fall free of his body and then put his hands back up. He heard movement behind him as the sodbusters investigated the commotion.
‘Now turn around,’ Arkansas said. ‘Walk slowly towards the camp. I’ll tell you when to stop and you’d better not be hard of hearing.’
‘I had you,’ Blade said, still stunned by the sudden reversal of the situation. ‘I could have killed you.’
‘You killed my hat,’ Arkansas said. ‘And that’s all you’re going to kill.’
Blade still had a gun, though. A small Derringer that he’d taken from the body of a suddenly deceased city gent several years back. The gun didn’t have much stopping power but at close range, which was the only way to use the thing, it was devastating. The outlaw clung to the hope that with the gun he would be able to turns things his way.
‘Just don’t shoot,’ Blade said.
‘Walk.’
‘Sure. Don’t shoot.’
Blade waked on cautious feet towards the camp. He saw the other man, the one who led the sodbusters being supported by the woman. The man had his left foot all bandaged up and he had a makeshift crutch beneath his arm. The woman cradled an oversized rifle, a Sharps, beneath her own arm and the three children, two girls and a boy stood behind their parents.
As he drew closer Blade noticed what it was that had supported Smith’s hat and coat.
There was nothing supernatural about it, merely a curiously shaped branch protruded from the ground, a single sleeve of Smith’s coat still attached to it. It was the oldest trick in the book and Blade, like a greenhorn fool, had fallen for it.
‘I’ll be dammed,’ Blade said.
‘Mind your stinking mouth,’ the cold metal of a six-gun prodded him in the back.
Blade continue to walk forward and by the time Arkansas ordered him to stop, he was close enough to the fire to feel its heat against his pants leg.
‘Now sit down,’ Arkansas ordered. ‘Bend your knees and go down slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.’
It was a difficult manoeuvre but Blade managed to get down onto his rump while mostly keeping his hands raised. He did drop them at one point when he fell backwards but he quickly reached for the sky again just as soon as he had righted himself.
‘Keep them up,’ Smith said and purposely walked around Blade until he was standing directly in front of him, positioned between the outlaw and the sodbusters.
‘You’re the one called Blade?’ Arkansas asked.
‘Yeah,’ Blade nodded, seemingly pleased that Arkansas had recognised him. All the newspapers ever seemed to write about was Brady, Brady and more Brady, while the men of his gang remained largely anonymous.
‘There’s a good likeness on your papers,’ Smith said. ‘Only in the flesh you look a bit more like a weasel.’
‘You came around behind me,’ Blade said. ‘I had you dead in my sights. Damn dirty trick.’
‘You made enough noise,’ Arkansas said. ‘And I won’t tell you again about your language.’
Blade frowned. He momentarily considered going for his concealed gun, taking Smith by surprise and sending a Derringer slug into that mocking face, but he decided against it. He needed to wait, bide his time and catch the other man off guard. Just as he had been caught off guard when Smith had sneaked up behind him.
‘I do apologise,’ Blade said and turned his head to give the man, woman and children a smile full of teeth like tombstones.
Dawn had now broken and weak light was filtering through the angry looking sky.
Ellie-May quickly ushered the children over to the wagon and Jake, using his crutch made his way over to stand by Arkansas. Blade noticed that the man was unharmed and now that the women and children had climbed up into the wagon, taking the rifle with them it left only the one gun on the outlaw. The problem was, Blade reasoned. That gun was in the hands of Arkansas Smith and he had another in the tied down holster.
‘Where’s Brady?’ Arkansas asked.
Blade looked at him but said nothing.
Arkansas glanced around as if to ensure himself that the women and children were out of sight, and then lifted a foot and brought it down into Blade’s groin, causing the outlaw to squeal as he was sent flailing backwards.
‘I won’t ask again,’ Arkansas said and approached on the now cowering outlaw.
Blade tasted blood on his tongue and the back of his hand came up red when he wiped it across his nose.
‘I’m bleeding,’ he pleaded.
‘You’ll bleed a lot more if you don’t tell me what I want to know,’ Arkansas said. He bent at his knees and crouching, pointed the Colt into Blade’s terrified face. ‘Where’s Brady?’
It was then that all hell broke loose.
Twenty
The posses were still someways back but they had all heard the gunshots. It sounded to them as if there was a full-scale battle going on a few miles ahead.
Arkansas Smith, though knew none of this, indeed he had all but forgotten the long errant posse, and although it would have been good news to him, it is doubtful that he would have had time to consider the fact that help was on the way.
Dust blew up at Arkansas’s feet and he dove for the ground, seeing the flash of rifle fire from the banking where Blade had concealed himself. That answered his question as to Brady’s whereabouts, and as he hit the ground he saw one of Blade’s hands vanish into a boot and then return toting a
small Derringer.
Arkansas swung his Colt and fired before the outlaw had a chance to use the small gun and Blade’s expression of agony was obscured by a thick spray of crimson as his head swung back in reaction to his throat suddenly being torn apart by hot lead.
Arkansas rolled and positioned himself behind Blade. The outlaw was still alive but only just as blood gurgled from his open mouth as he spluttered his last few breaths. Arkansas cast a glance over his shoulder and saw both Jake and Little Jakie lying in the doorway of the wagon. They both held rifles but given the amount of natural cover the outlaws had they could find nothing to shoot at.
‘Get everyone out of the wagon,’ Arkansas shouted. ‘It’ll be safer to get them down behind it.’
A rapid volley of fire was sent down from the banking and Arkansas buried his face in the ground as bullets tore up the earth around him. Blade’s body jittered as several wide shots punched into his dead flesh.
For a moment there was silence save for the echo of gunfire, which seemed to hang tangible in the air.
Arkansas guessed there were at least five guns concealed upon the banking. It didn’t seem that things could get any worse since the outlaws were in an elevated position and only had to pull back from the edge of the banking to render themselves invisible.
‘Everyone okay?’ Arkansas yelled back over his shoulder.
‘We’re fine,’ Jake shouted back. ‘They won’t be able to hit us here.’
Arkansas heard Lucy cry that she had left Miss Sally in the wagon but her mother quickly comforted the young girl, and her sobs died away. The wind suddenly picked up some and Arkansas gave a silent prayer to whatever deities it is that gunmen hold dear, pleading that the rains would hold off. The situation was bad enough without the rain returning and making it worse.
