Buzzard Bait

by Jory Sherman

  Carl's hand dipped to his pistol butt.

  He was fast, very fast.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Matt's hand blurred like a striking snake. His palm slammed into his pistol butt and he jerked the .44 free of the holster. The barrel whipped up level with Carl's belt-buckle. Matt's finger jerked the trigger once, twice. The six-gun roared and smoke spewed out of the barrel in heavy clouds.

  Carl's barrel was just clearing the holster when Matt fired his first shot. The barrel was just starting to move when Matt triggered the second one.

  Matt was faster.

  Carl's reflexive shot went spanging into the wood of the bar, low. He was jerked sideways and backwards from the first shot, just above his belt-buckle. The second one caught him high, just under his ribcage, tossing him into the orchestra stand where he collapsed, bleeding mortally, in a heap of fiddles and banjos.

  "Cord! Look out!" Stamps screeched, his voice cracking with excitement and puberty.

  Matt wheeled, but he knew he was already too late.

  He stared into the twin barrels of the sawed-off scattergun. He brought his own pistol swinging around to face this new threat, but his movement seemed agonizingly slow to him. The range was so short he knew he would be torn in two by the blasts from the short-barreled weapon. Still, he kept bringing his own pistol to bear and he wondered when the blast from the scattergun would make it all seem futile.

  The roar of the six-gun blotted out Matt's thoughts. He saw the man with the scattergun twitch and then his head flew apart. Brains flew out of the side of his skull. A spray of blood fanned out in all directions. The scattergun didn't go off.

  "Thanks," Matt whispered, letting out his breath. He backed to the bar and swung his pistol in a semicircle. "Anyone else?"

  "The kid done it!" someone said. "I seen it. Took aim and shot him down. Right in the haid!"

  That's when Matt turned and saw the smoking pistol in Frank Stamps' hands. He was holding it straight out from his shoulders, the butt resting in one palm, his other hand wrapped around the butt, finger still on the trigger.

  "That there was Oren Garrity," said a grizzled old miner to Matt. "He rode in with that other feller."

  "These men were cattle thieves," Matt told the spectators. "They also kidnapped a young woman. Now, I'm needing five or six good men to get back the rest of my cattle. I'll pay ten dollars in gold for every day we're out."

  "Mister, you got a gun hand," said one man. "I'd be pleased to ride with a man who can shoot like you."

  "I'm Matt Cord. I own the C Bar M in Gallatin. Glad to have you with us, friend."

  "Joe Youngblood."

  "Any more with pistol and rifle?" Matt called out

  A young man with a broom came out of the hall way.

  "I'll go," he said.

  Several people laughed.

  "That's Ken Eakins, the swamper!"

  "You ride, shoot?"

  "Sure do, Mister Cord. This is just my nighttime job. My claim ain't doin' so good."

  "Meet us in front of Paris Pflouts' store in five minutes, saddled and ready to go. I need three more men. There'll be a dozen of us against as many of them."

  "Who're you ridin' after, Cord?" asked a stocky man dealing poker at one of the tables.

  "Bull Roumal."

  A current of whispering threaded through the crowd.

  The man threw down his eyeshade and shoved the table away from him.

  "Then, I'm with you, Cord. I'm Dennis Whitaker."

  "Ralph Whitaker's boy?"

  "The same."

  "Come along, Dennis, I know your pa."

  Another man stepped forward. He was slender and looked hungry. He had a two or three-day beard darkening his chin and cheeks.

  "I'm Clyde Musso," he said, "and I've guns and a horse. You look like a man to ride the river with. I was with the Vigilantes. Paris, Wil and the others can vouch for me."

  "You don't need it, Musso. I'll vouch for you myself, though you look lean as a wolf in winter."

  "I'm down a few pounds."

  "Let's ride, then, if you've a mind to, and chew on some jerky as we go."

  Musso grinned and followed Matt and the others out of the saloon. The crowd surged around the two dead men as they left.

  Matt checked the men he had hired and seemed satisfied. He reloaded his pistol in the street. He bought a few supplies in Pflouts' store and led the pack of men out of town after briefing them on the situation. They had to find the herd, which was likely bedded down, surround it and wait for his signal to attack.

  "One thing," he said, "Roumal is mine, and so is a man named John Lathrop, father to the boy I killed back there, if he's with them."

  It was after midnight when they left the lights of Virginia City and rode out into the darkness of the Bozeman Trail. The sky was overcast, but it was not cold. Matt was grateful for the starless and moonless night. He also figured that Roumal would be too smart to take the cattle boldly down the Bozeman. Instead, he would head directly for Alder Gulch, bed down somewhere in between. Likely he would have the running irons out in the morning. That's why he had to stop him now. Any question of his own ownership could delay selling the cattle, could result in a wrong decision by hungry men in a land where the only law was made of hemp or lead.

  Much of the land in the Gallatin Valley had been cleared. Matt was counting on Roumal driving the cattle through the farms there, keeping to the fringes, using the uncleared edges for cover. Soon, he led his men off the Bozeman and across a farm, heading for the line he was sure Roumal would pass. There hadn't been much snow up that way, but the going was rough, still. The horses didn't make much noise, though, and he was grateful. His plan was to travel on the other side of the fringe, keep out of sight and look for sign in the open where the cattle must surely be driven. He stopped his men after they had crossed into the trees.

  "We'll go quiet from here on," he said. "No talking, single file, walk your horses. I'll be in the open on your left flank. When I spot the herd, I'll join up with you and give your instructions. Bobbitt, you take charge until I get back to you. Frank, you come with me in case I need to send a message to the others."

  Frank Stamps was glad he was going with Matt Cord. It was so dark and he felt lost among the men he did not know.

  "We'll look for light. A fire, a sulphur match. Keep your eyes open," Matt told Frank when they were alone.

  The two rode on, looking, listening. To Frank, it seemed like hours. The country seemed the same, the trees dark, the sky close but invisible. Once, his horse stumbled and he could almost feel Matt's sharp look in his direction. At times he wondered if the other men were still continuing on a parallel course. He couldn't hear them.

  Matt could, though. He knew where Bobbitt and the others were at all times. His ears were tuned to pick up the least sound. His hearing was acute, developed from the days and nights he spent living and hunting with the Sioux.

  He heard the cattle long before he saw them. The sound brought him up short. He stopped, Stamps beside him, and listened for a long time, pinpointing their location. As near as he could figure, the cattle were bedded down, or milling, on the W.W. Alderson farm. He and his brother John raised potatoes as a main crop. The James Kirkaldie place was east of the Gallatin, 160 acres adjoining the C Bar M. So, Roumal had not moved the cattle far, but he was in a good spot.

  "Frank, ride over to Bobbitt and have him hold the men up," Matt said. "I'm going ahead. Keep quiet as you can."

  "Yes sir," said Frank, who rode off into the trees.

  Matt moved his horse close to the edge of the trees and felt the land rising. He listened to the restless cattle. He would have to get close to see where the drovers were and there was danger in such a maneuver. The cattle might spook and give away his position. Yet, it had to be done.

  A small light gave him the location of Roumal's camp. Someone had lit a match. It flared for only an instant, but it was enough.

  Matt cursed silently to hims
elf.

  Roumal had picked a good defensive position. The camp was on a high knoll. The cattle made a sea of horns around it so that Roumal was in the center of a thousand head. Matt dismounted when he was close to the outer fringe of the herd and tied his horse to a tree. He took the scattergun off the saddle. He would have to go the rest of the way on foot, calming the cattle as he walked through them. He knew, too, that there would be outriders circling the herd, keeping them penned in. How many? Two? Four? More than that?

  He waited, listening.

  A rider came his way and Matt ducked low, moving into a bunch of standing cattle, hoping his silhouette would blend with theirs. Another rider joined the first and they rode by, not twenty feet from where he hunched over, gripping the scattergun. A short distance away, the two riders met up with two more. So, there were at least four men guarding this side of the circle. He heard them speak quietly for a few moments, then retrace their paths. There were probably eight men circling the herd, then. These would have to be cut down first. The cattle would probably stampede, but that could be to his advantage.

  Matt slipped through the herd, working out his plan as he came closer to the hillock where Roumal was camped.

  He crawled on his belly the last several feet, taking his time, making no noise. Men turned over in sleep, others fidgeted. He heard no voices. Pulling himself up the hillock, slowly, Matt tried to picture where a guard might be. He looked up, but saw nothing. When he came to the crest, he looked out over the top and saw men in blankets, horses hobbled. Two men slept apart from the others. Two men sat on guard, rifles across their knees, on opposite sides of the sleepers.

  Matt slithered back down the slope. He had seen what he wanted to see. He made his way back through the herd, waited until the outriders had met and passed by, then slipped back to his horse. His plan was now firm in his mind.

  Bobbitt waited with the other men and Frank Stamps. Matt spoke to them in low tones, making sure they understood their roles.

  "Frank Stamps and I will slip through the herd on foot from this direction," he said, pointing through an imaginary circle. "Whitaker, you and Butterworth will go through on foot from this direction. Bobbitt, you and Musso will take the four men on this side of the herd. Youngblood and Eakins will take the four men on the other side. We'll give you time enough to ride that way. Those on horses, stay on them. The rest of you will wait until you hear me fire at the top of the knoll, then ride fast through the herd. Make sure of your targets before you shoot. Remember, I want Roumal and Lathrop. I'll have them, with luck, before any of you start for the knoll. No shots, from anyone, until you hear ours. Ready, Frank?"

  "Ready, Mister Cord."

  "Let's get to it, then."

  The men split up into pairs and Matt was satisfied that they understood. He and Frank tied their horses to trees and began the slow stalk through the herd of cattle. Everything depended on timing now. Timing and secrecy. Matt could feel Frank's nervousness, but he put his hand on the boy's shoulder to reassure him. The two came to the knoll. Matt gestured to Frank, indicating that he should crawl a few feet to the right and wait for Matt's signal. Frank nodded and moved away on his course.

  Matt crested the knoll and checked his pistols. He had the .44 in his holster, a .36 in his waistband. The scattergun was ready to fire, buckshot in both barrels. The guards would have to go first. After that, it would be confusion and he would have to keep his wits about him. He noted the place where he thought Roumal and Lathrop were sleeping.

  They were gone!

  Swiftly, his eyes searched the campsite. There were two men missing! Damn! Where had they gone?

  He could wait no longer. His own men would be in position by now. They would be waiting for his signal.

  Matt brought the scattergun up slowly. He leveled it at the closest guard.

  "Drop your rifle!" he said. The guard rose slightly and brought his rifle swinging in at Matt.

  Matt squeezed off one barrel and the night exploded with sound. The guard took the load of buck full in the belly and his knees collapsed. Matt swung on the other guard and ticked off the second barrel.

  Then, all hell broke loose. Men cursed and rose from their bedding. Guns roared and shots whistled through the night. Matt carefully kept low, squeezing off shots with the .36 Navy. At close range it was a deadly weapon. Men fell around him. Frank's .36 spoke in the night with bursts of orange flame. The acrid smoke of burnt powder filled the air with its stench. He heard faraway shots and heard the cattle rise up as one great beast and roar with thunder as they raced around in panic.

  Matt grabbed one wounded man by the throat.

  "Where's Roumal? Tell me now or I'll blow your head off!" He rammed the .44 into the man's mouth. The .36 was emptied and tucked back in his belt.

  The man's eyes widened in fear.

  "Him and Lathrop walked off a while ago. Back toward the river."

  Matt kicked the man away from him and stood up. Others of his band were there, mopping up. He searched the darkness for a sign of Roumal.

  "Frank, stay here and see that none of these men get away. Bobbitt, start getting the cattle herded up as soon as you can. I'm going after Roumal."

  "Take me!" said Frank, flushed with success, reloading his pistol.

  "No!" said Matt sternly.

  He turned to go and a man stood up down the slope.

  "You lookin' for me, Matt Cord?"

  It was Big John Lathrop, and he was alone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I'm going to kill you, Lathrop. For killing my brother."

  "My pistol's unloaded, Cord. All I've got is my knife. Or, are you going to just shoot me down?"

  Matt considered this. It could be a trick. His own men waited around him. There was no more gunfire.

  "Where's Roumal?"

  "Got away, Cord. Got clean away. I came back."

  "Why?"

  "I have a score to settle, too. Ross, my boy. You killed him."

  "I did. And Carl, too. Back in Virginia City."

  "Two for one, eh? Your brother's life comes high."

  "It does, Lathrop. Drop your gun belt and draw your knife."

  Dawn was just pinking the far hills when Big John let his gun belt fall to the ground. He drew his large Bowie-style knife, sharpened top and bottom. Matt unbuckled his own belt and handed it to Frank Stamps along with his spare pistol. He drew his own genuine Bowie and started down the hillock.

  "Hold your fire, men," Matt said. "We'll let chance pick the winner of this one."

  He came face to face with Big John. The two men began circling each other, warily, knives held outward to strike. Big John lunged and Matt stepped aside, deftly, cutting inward with his own blade. He missed, and Lathrop recovered quickly, moved back in, lunging upward. Matt brought his own knife in, parrying the blow. For a moment, the two men stared at each other at close range. Matt stepped back and stood on the balls of his feet. He began to weave in, stalking the other man. He thrust and thrust again, testing Big John's ability to withstand his assault.

  Men from both sides watched the curious dawn battle. They were silent. Even those Roumal men who were wounded watched the circling combatants with interest, pistols at their heads. Frank Stamps licked his lips and shifted his weight from foot to foot. The sun rose higher but had not yet appeared over the horizon. The scene lit up like a stage set as more and more light poured into the valley.

  To men like Cord and Lathrop, knives were natural weapons. Both were as familiar with the blade as with the pistol or rifle. This would be no easy fight for either of them. Matt knew that chance would play a part, as well as skill. Both men were careful not to give the other an advantage. Yet, both men were determined to kill. Their faces were taut in the morning light as they circled each other, their jawlines etched hard by granite determination.

  Big John saw an opening and rushed in, slashing with his knife. The tip of the blade nicked Matt's arm, ripping through the sheepskin jacket, drawing blood. He w
hirled away before Lathrop could catch him with the backslash. It was close, though, and Matt knew it. Again, Big John dashed close, slashing wildly. This time, Matt was ready for him. He twisted agilely out of the way and brought his own knife blade upwards. It sank into the soft underflesh of Big John's arm.

  Lathrop cried out in pain.

  Blood dripped from the sleeves of both men. Then, Lathrop kicked out, gambling on surprise. His boot caught Matt in the shin. Lathrop whipped his knife in towards Matt's belly. Matt ignored the pain in his leg and shot his knife hand forward. The two men locked blades and glared at each other. Matt stepped backwards, Lathrop following him, off-balance. Matt's blade smashed into Lathrop's left hand, cutting through tendons, flesh, spurting blood. He side-stepped and slashed backwards ripping into Lathrop's side. But, the blade had not gone deep.

  Big John, his face grimacing in pain, turned to face his adversary again, his left hand dripping blood. He was like a wounded bull who knew the end was near, but would not give up. Matt felt a rising respect for the man, even though he was responsible, in part, for his brother's death, for the anguish of Addie Malone, the burning of his home. Big John was a man who picked the wrong side, that was all. He was still a man, and as much a part of this land as the grizzled trapper who had preceded him, the shaggy miner who dug in the hillsides and along the graveled streams. Whatever else he was, Matt thought, Big John was a man and he would hate to kill him.

  Both men were panting, waiting. They no longer circled, but stood their ground as if for one last savage lunge. Matt watched Big John carefully, but made no move. It was Lathrop's turn. He was offering it to him, win or lose. Big John feinted, then raced to Matt's unarmed side. His blade glanced off Matt's wrist and scraped his ribs, drawing blood. Matt was knocked off his feet and he scrambled to keep from falling. Big John drove in relentlessly, slashing, tearing, his knife like some darting, diving bird of death. His knife ripped great tears in Matt's jacket, drew blood from his thigh and once, Lathrop's hand grazed his chin, the knife just missing his eye. The men on the knoll were no longer silent. They cheered and yelled at both men, their words lost in the scramble of voices.