by Brett Waring
Panting, he whirled as Clay Nash came swiftly through the tunnel, leading both horses, Peacemaker in hand. His face reflected pain and his gait was stiff but he came out fast, ready for action.
“What happened?” he panted.
“Guard spotted me and got off a shot before I could stop him. No use tryin’ to be cagey now. Might as well mount up and ride in over that rise. That’s where the cabin’s s’posed to be. You ready?”
“When you are,” Nash said, turning to his mount and clambering aboard awkwardly. He grunted in pain as he settled into leather and nodded to Haines as the big man swung aboard his black.
“Let’s go!” Dakota growled and put the spurs to his mount, setting it up the sloping trail. Nash lifted his reins and rode after him.
They figured there was little use in trying to get over that rise without sky-lining themselves for the rocks and timber grew in such a way that there was no way around it. Anyone approaching had to ride smack over the centre of the rise and Nash had no doubt that the rider would make a fine target silhouetted against the sky as he did so.
Dakota Haines whirled his mount around and came back to range alongside Nash.
“No way for it but to go straight over,” he said. “It’ll have to be fast and you can bet your britches the slope on the other side’ll be bare as a cue ball. So if you manage to get across the crest, keep that hoss goin’ lickety-split and zigzag as much as you can. You’ll have to keep an eye out for whatever cover might be around closer in to the cabin. Now let’s go!”
He spurred his mount fast up the last few yards of the slope, sawn-off shotgun banging against his thigh on its swivel. He whipped his rifle out of its scabbard just before Nash saw his shape against the sky and then he was on the top of the crest and going over. Nash’s mount was only yards behind but Haines was over and had dropped from sight before he topped the rise. Why wasn’t there any gunfire? he wondered. Maybe Christian hadn’t heard the guard’s shot after all. Maybe the cabin wasn’t down there.
He ducked instinctively as there came a single crashing rifle shot from somewhere beyond the rise. And then he was sky-lined himself and kicking his heels into the horse’s flanks, urging it across with one final effort. He lifted to the crest and in one sweeping glance took in the scene below.
The first thing he saw was Dakota Haines’ body rolling and crashing down the bare, short-grassed slope, bouncing and skidding. At first he figured the man was hit and then he saw that the roll was under control and Haines was merely using his momentum to get him off the shelterless slope. Beyond the flat was a clapboard and adobe cabin, with a stone fireplace and stables built onto the rear. There were tree stumps dotted about the flats where timber had been cut down so as to give a clearer view of the slope and Haines was obviously making for one of these as cover.
Dakota’s mount was down just below Nash, threshing in its death-throes, and he knew Christian in the cabin had downed the mount rather than the man. Bullets spattered about Haines’ moving body and then Nash heard one buzz past his head and he knew he was spotted and was now the prime target. Or his horse was.
Pain knifing through his side, he yanked the reins and leaned his body out of the saddle, pulling the animal to one side, almost instantly swaying back the other way and hauling on the reins again. He was sure the horse’s body must have twisted like a corkscrew and he heard the ‘whooshing’ air whip as lead zipped past his face. He crouched low over his mount’s neck, yelling into its ear, frightening it so that it lurched in the opposite direction. The downed mount was in front now and instead of pulling away to one side, he lifted the racing horse over the carcass in a wild leap. When it landed on the far side the jolt snapped his teeth together and he groaned as the pain clawed at his wounds. Haines was making a run for the nearest tree-stump now and Nash caught a glimpse of a dust spurt near his pounding boots. The man in the cabin had shifted aim again. But then lead buzzed past his face and he knew he was the prime target once more. He kept the horse running.
Dakota Haines was shooting at the cabin now, his rifle hammering as fast as he could work the lever and the bullets spouted white clouds of adobe from the window sills, tore scars in the heavy door and made Christian keep his head down.
Nash figured he would never have a better chance so, bracing himself, he hauled rein and, timing it to when the wild-eyed mount skidded to a stop, he leaned way down from the saddle and spilled off, taking his rifle with him, and rolled behind a tree stump.
The pain was excruciating and he passed out for several, seconds. When he regained his full senses, there were spinning bright lights and a throbbing agony that had him panting for breath. His side and hip were wet beneath the bandages and he dared not look down to see how wide was the spread of the bloodstain. Sobbing in agony, but not knowing he made the sounds out loud, he crawled behind the tree stump, using elbows and knees, cradling his rifle in his arms. As he collapsed full length behind it, a bullet sent a whirl of splinters flying from the axe-cut above his head. He didn’t even flinch. He was in so much pain that death at that moment would have been a welcome release.
“At least you still got a horse!” Dakota Haines called and Nash stirred at the sound of his pard’s voice, opened his eyes and looked, blinking, across the flat to where his mount was still running, but slowing now, way out past the cabin. “You okay?” Dakota called.
Nash shook some life back into himself and waved a hand briefly. The rifle in the cabin roared and splinters jumped off his shelter. He withdrew his hand sharply and crouched closer to the stump.
“Keep an eye on those stables,” Haines called across quietly. “I reckon there’ll be a door from the house leadin’ into them. He could try to make a break-out, specially if there’s an opening on the side away from here.”
Sweating, the pain settling now into a throbbing ache, Nash nodded and forced himself to concentrate on the situation at hand. Behind the cabin, coming down to within a few yards of it, was brush and timber that rolled away across broken country into rugged canyons and draws farther back in the hills. Clint Christian had chosen his hideaway well: an open approach, a covered getaway. Nash had no doubt that once Christian reached those canyons it would take an army to flush him out.
He ducked as four bullets tore into the stump and plowed up ragged lines of dirt beside it. Three more shots thudded into Haines’ shelter and then there was a pause.
“Winchester .30.30,” Haines said quietly. “Seven shots. He’s reloading now. Seems like only the one gun, so guess Christian’s there alone, or just with the Chinese girl. The guard thought I was Laredo, so could be he’s off some place, in which case we’ll have to watch our backs, too.”
Clay Nash nodded, levering a shell into the breech of his own rifle and triggering at the window where gun smoke was dispersing slowly. Almost immediately his shot was answered from the next window along and the bullet smashed into the stump in front of him. He ducked low.
“That was another rifle!” he said. “Different sound!”
“Yeah. Mebbe the Chinese girl’s joinin’ him, or mebbe he just has two guns. While she’s loadin’ one, he’s using the other.”
Nash nodded. “Either way, we’re pinned, Dakota. We can’t move without him bein’ able to see us.”
Dakota Haines looked up at the sky and the sun’s high position. “Long time till dark, but that’ll be our only chance of movin’ in. Unless he makes a break for it before that.”
“Those damn stables bother me,” Nash said. “You’re likely right about there bein’ a door we can’t see, openin’ right out onto that brush. Gives him a covered run clear back into the canyon country.”
Haines nodded and glanced around him. There were a couple more tree stumps and some small rock piles over to his right. If he could get over that way, he might be able to have at least a part view of the stables. He said, “See if you can draw their fire.”
Nash threw up his rifle and began shooting at the front of the cabin, at the
windows and the door, working the lever and firing deliberately. Two shots hammered from the cabin, from the left-hand window, and he ducked as lead ricocheted from his stump. He began firing again and, behind him, Dakota made a run for the tree stump to his right. But he only got a couple of yards before bullets were spitting about his boots, so close that one leg flew out from under him as lead tore off a heel. He spilled to the ground and caught a face full of gravel from another shot and he knew he wasn’t going to make it. Gathering himself, he launched himself back to his original shelter with everything he had.
He landed hard and skidded.
“Like you said,” he panted to Nash. “We’re pinned!”
“Better try and stick it out till dark,” Nash advised, wishing he had thought to grab his saddle canteen when he had quit leather.
It was going to be a long, hot, thirsty day.
And it was, with desultory fire from both the Wells Fargo agents and the outlaw in the cabin. Christian knew they couldn't shift without him covering their movements with deadly fire, and he was the one who had the shade and plenty of water and grub. Likely he had the Chinese girl for company, too, while the agents sweltered and burned in the blazing sun.
They watched their backs from time to time but there was no sign of Laredo.
Nash’s wounds had stiffened but his inactivity had allowed the bleeding to stop so he figured that was something. His throat was parched and his tongue was swollen in his mouth. His eyes watered from the glare and his flesh burned beneath his shirt. He drifted off into little dozes and fantasies of being back in bed at the Moran house. Usually a gunshot from the cabin jerked him back to reality.
Then, finally, the sun began to slide towards the western hills and the shadows lengthened and Nash and Haines hugged the meager shade cast by the tree stumps. As the shadows of the hills crawled down into the hollow and moved out beyond the cabin, Nash felt the first chill of low-country evening and he began to shiver.
There came a burst of rapid fire from the cabin and as soon as it had ended, Haines leapt up and made a run for the stump on his right again. This time he made it before the gunfire opened up from the cabin again and he hit hard, rolled, bullets spitting all about him as he scrambled behind the stump’s shelter.
“I can see part of the stables and beyond to the brush and timber,” he called to Nash.
“You’re lucky you’ve still got your head,” Nash replied. “That was one hell of a chance, Dakota!”
“I got here, didn’t I? And I figure he’ll make a break as soon as it gets dark enough. We’ll try to move in closer then and come in from the stable side.”
It grew rapidly darker as it usually did in that part of Arizona and there was a period between the time the sun’s afterglow faded and the stars began to appear that was ideal for stealthy movement.
It was the time that Clint Christian chose to make his move. But he fooled both the Wells Fargo agents. While they were watching the stables, convinced that there was a rear way out there, he came riding around the far side of the cabin and made a fast run for the side of the slope that led back to the cougar rock and the tunnel.
Nash swore and strained to get his gun around and face the opposite direction. Haines was caught flat-footed, too, his rifle aimed at the stables, but he was more mobile than Nash and leapt to his feet, dropping his Winchester and unslinging the sawn-off shotgun as he pounded towards the racing horse. He cut across and up the slope, trying to close the distance between himself and Christian. The outlaw saw him and triggered two fast shots but Haines kept running and saw that he wasn’t going to make it. The horseman would cover more ground faster than he could. He dropped to one knee and the outlaw fired again. Dakota spun as lead hit him and fell full-length but managed to keep hold of his shotgun.
Nash’s rifle hammered at the dark shape streaking across the slope, making for the only way over the crest. Christian was riding towards Haines where he lay on the ground and he fired again at the downed agent. Dakota rolled onto his back as the horse passed close by above him and blasted with the sawn-off.
Nash saw Christian’s neat little body hurled from the saddle as if jerked off by a lariat and the horse squealed, broke stride, but kept running for several yards before slowing. Christian’s body lay huddled farther up the slope and Haines was crawling towards it, his sawn-off held ready in front of him, hammer cocked back on the remaining barrel.
Nash got to his feet and started across, limping badly with his left leg and holding to the hip, grimacing at the pain. By the time he got to Haines, the man was already at the outlaw’s body and had turned it onto its back. Nash heard the hammer ease off cock and knew Clint Christian must be dead. Then Haines spat a single epithet.
“Bastard!”
Frowning, Nash limped up and looked down at Haines, who snapped a vesta into flame and held it close to the dead outlaw’s face.
Nash felt shock rock through him. It wasn’t Clint Christian: it was the Chinese girl, Maxine Chan.
“He’s likely been gone for hours while she’s been keepin’ us busy from the cabin!” Haines growled.
“We’ve lost him, then,” Nash said. “Once he gets into that canyon country. Hey, you hit?”
“Yeah, but not bad. Crease across the ribs is all. Goddamn that yeller-skinned tigress. If she hadn’t ... ”
“Hold up!” Nash snapped, lifting a hand and cocking his head to one side.
Haines heard it, too: the distant strike of shod hoofs on stone, coming across the natural amphitheatre of the hollow. Nash smiled slowly as he looked back at Haines.
“He didn’t cut out hours ago, Dakota! He’s only going now! While the gal distracted us, he saddled up and is clearin’ out behind the cabin now, headin’ into the canyon country!”
“Well, what in hell are we doin’ here?” Haines demanded. "Grab me that gal’s hoss and get your own. Then let’s get after him, Clay! Hunt him down like the skunk he is!”
Nine – Canyon Country
They knew there was no hope of catching up with Clint Christian in the dark, but they mounted up and Haines stuffed a kerchief over his wound as they rode around the rear of the cabin. As they had thought, there was an exit from the stables on that side.
There was no trail, but there was a natural break in the brush behind the cabin where any rider would go. This didn’t mean that Christian had gone that way as he was a man noted for doing the unexpected. So they scouted around, up and down the edge of the brush and it was Clay Nash who found where some bushes had been pressed back by recent passage of a horse and rider. Beyond the clump of brush was a stretch of flat stone and this was most likely where the outlaw’s mount’s hoofs had clattered.
They rode warily, figuring it wouldn’t be above Christian to set up an ambush even now, but there were no gunshots and they pushed on through the brush that was starting to get thicker. When Haines’ horse almost stepped on a rattler and then, in its efforts to dodge the reptile, fell off a low broken ledge, throwing Dakota, they figured it was time to call a halt and wait until daylight.
Stars were coming out now and the moon was rising. There was enough light to show them a clearing on a flat slab of lava and they figured this would have to do for a camp. It was a cold camp, but Nash was glad to stretch out on his blanket, even on the unaccommodating lava, and he tended his wounds as well as he could. He figured the one on his hip was infected. It felt hot to the touch, and sent lances of searing pain through him. He washed it with tepid water from the canteen and bound it up with a fresh piece of cloth taken from his saddlebags. The wound in his side didn’t seem so bad, though it had opened again. It was stiff and sore but didn’t appear to be infected.
Haines’ crease had stopped bleeding and Nash helped him bind it tightly for support. Then, while Nash slept for the first three hours, Haines stood guard, figuring Christian was the type who might double back on his tracks and try to finish them off while they were asleep. But nothing happened during his stint of guard dut
y and Nash took over for the other three hours.
The whole night passed without incident and they broke camp in the first gray light of dawn, eating jerky and soda dodgers given to them by Mrs. Moran, and washing the hardtack down with water from the canteens. It was getting low now and they knew they would have to find a stream and refill the canteens before venturing too deep into the canyon country. A fully-equipped man could have a hard time surviving in there, but to go in without water would be plain suicide.
Clint Christian’s tracks were hard to find, but both men were expert at manhunting and Nash had spent some time with Indians many years ago. They had not only taught him how to ‘track a shoo-fly across a desert,’ but they had also shown him how to survive in country where most white men would die. That knowledge had saved his life on more than one occasion and now there were times when Haines couldn’t find a trace of Christian’s passing but Nash would point and say:
“He went up there.”
After the first few times, Dakota stopped doubting Nash’s ability.
“We better fill the canteens,” Nash said when they led their mounts up a steep incline to a broken ridge. He pointed and Haines stared down at the twisting, writhing mass of canyons and draws beyond.
“Great Caesar!” Haines breathed. “How are we gonna find him in there?”
“Won’t be easy,” Nash replied. “But it looks like there could be a spring down yonder. See that patch of bright green with the tree growin’ out of the middle of it? Notice how the leaves glisten like they’ve been waxed? That tree’s drawin’ up plenty of nourishment, so I figure there must be water nearby.”
Haines nodded, mounting up again and he ranged his horse alongside Nash’s and they set out down the rough slope together.
About halfway down, Nash suddenly hauled rein and put out his left arm to stop Haines. Dakota dropped a hand instinctively to his shotgun swivel, frowning.
