by David Cross
He could see the dim light coming from the window as he rode to the corral near the house, and smell the odor of fresh baked biscuits, and fried steak. He was just in time. A half hour later and Sarah would be all over him about coming late for dinner. He quickly put his mare away, hung the saddle on the fence under the lean-to, and hung the bridle across the saddle horn, and stomped the dirt from his boots on the front steps, before entering the front door.
The sight of his wife and the smell of her good cooking brought warmth to his belly. He hung his gun belt over the peg beside the door, and crossed the room, placing his arms around Sarah. She was warm and smelled lightly of lemon. It was an odor Jake had gotten used to many years before, and he was happy to be back.
“You’d better get washed up for dinner,” Sarah said, turning in his arms. It was then that she saw the bandage on his cheek. “What happened to your face?”
“I had a run in with some of Murdock’s boys, down near the East Verde. They tried to ambush me. It didn’t take.”
“I sometimes wonder if all this trouble is worth the land. When will it ever stop? She asked, real concern tingeing her voice, a small quiver running through her now taught body.
“Soon honey,” he said. “Soon.”
She did not respond, but pushed herself from his arms, and gathering up plates and silver to set on the table. Jake went out back, poured water from the pitcher sitting on the washstand, and began washing up. The light was fading fast, and the soft breeze that blew across the mesa, carried the scent of the pines, giving the night a perfume of freshness. He toweled his face, on the cloth that hung from a nail beneath the covered wash area, then turned to watch the last of the light fade from the sky, and the stars appear one by one. There was a hunter’s moon in the sky, so tonight would be a night for the hunter to be abroad, he grinned mirthlessly.
That night, he saddled his horse, and rode west. Grimly he thought, it was time to take things into his hands, and end this war quickly. He had hoped Murdock would come to his senses, but it seemed he was bound to try and run Jake and his family from the mesa. When he reached the fence line, he cut the three strands of barbed wire, and rode purposefully onward. An hour later, he was sitting on a knoll, just above the circle M, looking through the telescope from his saddlebags.
Sarah had been apprised of his plans, and though she did not want him to go, she knew he would have to carry the battle to their antagonist, or he would possibly die in the next ambush. She took down the extra rifle, he had brought from the war, placing the loads for it on the kitchen table beside it, and stood the shotgun near the front door.
Jake had left a Colt Paterson on the table, still in its holster, one which he had taken from one of the dead men at the river. Along with the rifle and shotgun, she would have plenty of firepower, should Murdock’s men come calling again. He had smiled at her, giving her a strong hug, doffed his hat, and went out the door. She was a tough frontier woman, so he had no doubts that she would hold her own in the face of adversity. She was a fighter, but only for her own causes, the causes that meant home, and family, and holding them together.
He spotted men moving around in the bunkhouse, their silhouettes moving across the two windows with their checkered curtains. Shifting his gaze to the house, he saw no movement through the lighted widow in the front. Murdock was either sitting in a chair, or he might be in the bunkhouse talking to his men, but he definitely wasn’t moving about in the house.
Laying the telescope beside him, he picked up the spencer, opened the breach, placed one of the large cartridges in the bore and closed the breach, thumbing back the dogear hammer. Settling into the big rifle, he sighted on the window, took a deep breath, let out a bit and held the sight on the window until a shadow crossed in front of it. At that very instant, he squeezed the trigger, the recoil slamming back against his shoulder, and the bullet smashing the glass of the widow below him, as the figure seemed to wilt behind the glass.
He ejected the spent casing from the rifle quickly, and injected another into the open breach as he blew the smoke from the barrel, and drew another bead on the now open window. The top of a man’s head lifted briefly above the sill, silhouetted by the lamp someplace behind him. He fired again, and watched as the bullet took the top of the man’s head apart. He repeated the action, with the big bore rifle once more, keeping his eye on the window, but no one showed again.
Suddenly the door of the bunkhouse flew open and two men made a dash for the darkness outside, running for the tree line. He quickly drew a bead on one of the black shapes, and fired. The shadow stumbled, a scream reaching Jake’s ears from the valley floor, as he pitched forward to blend with the ground far below. He quickly reloaded, taking aim at the open door, waiting for another man to exit the door, but they were hesitant after one of their comrades had been shot in his attempted escape. Then, just as he was about to give up, another man dashed toward freedom, and he cut him down before he could make two steps. This time there was no scream.
The message he had sent would give the men working for Murdock a thought of how safe it was to work for him. Some of the real hard cases would stick it out, wanting to reap the harvest of the extra money they would demand from the him, but most of the weaker ones, the regular ranch hands would think twice about it. These would pack up their bedrolls, draw their time, and move on. They would figure—and rightly so—that their wasn’t much future in working on a ranch that could be their last day alive.
Nodding to himself with satisfaction, he ejected the last spent shell, placed the rifle in its saddle holster, carefully placed the telescope in the saddlebag, and swung into the saddle. He would pay them another visit tomorrow, when they were about their daily chores. He would teach them the folly of underestimating their enemy, and give them a taste of what it felt like to be on the receiving end of an ambush. He rode back the way he had come, turning off just before he reached the break in his fence, heading for the rim, near where Drago and Marvin had drygulched him.
He made a dry camp near the rim, rolling into his sugan, thinking over his next move. He knew they would find where he had been shooting from, and would track him to where he was now, but he had a couple of surprises for them. He smiled as he drifted into a light sleep, his ears tuned to the sounds around him.
First light found him up, brushing the tracks from the area to the edge of the cliff, where he had fallen earlier. Here the ledge was of rock, impossible to track across. This would be his final push to break the men working for Murdock. He would have to put the fear of God into the hard cases, make them nervous, and scared, so they would be off their guard.
He led his mount along the ledge, checking to be sure he left no telltale sign behind them. He had traveled for about a mile before he turned away from the rim, circling around to come within a quarter mile of his fence line. Here, he found a small cedar brake and set up a position behind one of the more bushy evergreen, placing six cartridges for the Spencer on his neckerchief, close at hand. He adjusted the sights of the big rifle to the distance he would be shooting and sat down to wait.
He didn’t think of hunger, only the adrenaline kept his hunger at bay, along with the anticipation of the ensuing battle that would either turn the tide or turn into a fiasco. He watched the fence line intently, taking care to listen to the birds, and watch the small animals nearby. They would give warning of the approach of riders, even before they were in sight. Two chipmunks scampered about in a small clearing near the fence, with two jays scolded one another from the pines above them, while a woodpecker worked on one of the fence posts, and a cardinal sought its morning meal nearby.
All was peaceful for about an hour, and then things quieted. The jays stopped squabbling, the chipmunks sat at attention, and the cardinal flitted to the tops of the pines. Only the woodpecker kept up his hammering for a few minutes, seemingly undisturbed by its surroundings. The suddenly it too stopped its drilling for a heartbeat, its head cocked to one side, as though listening fo
r some sound that was inaudible to the human ear, then suddenly flew away. The two chipmunks scampered away in haste, their tiny ears having detected the same disturbance along the rim, as had the woodpecker.
Jake raised himself on his elbows, listening with extreme concentration, and then he heard it. The click of horses hooves, and the jingle of spurs, combined shortly with the creaking of saddle leather. Riders were coming, and they were moving at a slow methodical pace. Then one was in view, followed by three other riders. The one in front was peering at the ground, as though searching for something. The something for which he searched was his tracks, and he was following them to the very spot where he had made his night camp.
Upon reaching the camp sight, the rider circled out from it in ever widening circles, trying to read the direction in which the camper had ridden. He finally drew rein, took off his hat, scratched his head in confusion. This was when Jake squeezed off his first shot, his sights lined up on the tracker. By the time the bullet knocked the man from the saddle, and the sound from the big rifle boomed across the mesa, he had reloaded. His second shot took another man from the saddle as he was still sitting there in confusion, trying to figure what was happening.
The third shot hit the third man as he turned his horse in the direction of the firing, riding hard for the ambusher, his companion hot on his heels. He had unleathered his rifle and was firing blindly in the general direction from which the puffs of smoke from Jake’s rifle rose, but he was too far away for the bullets from the Winchester to carry. Jake saw the bullet tear a hole into the man’s chest that was as big as his fist, throwing the body over the cantle of his saddle. The fourth man turned to his left, trying to get some distance between him and the shooter, whipping his horse unmercifully in his haste.
Jake did not fire again. He sat watching the man ride off, hell bent for leather in the direction from which the riders had come. He wanted the man to report the killings to his boss. He wanted the man escape to tell the story to his compatriots, and in the telling, the story would grow in his mind. He would relate it in larger than reality words, thereby putting a scare into the rest of the hard cases, that would make them nervous enough to take the fight out of them, and just possibly make them pull stakes, and leave. Or in a lesser scenario, make them nervous enough to cause mistakes.
He stayed behind his blind for a time, just to be sure the rider he had let escape had not doubled back. When he was sure the coast was clear, he rose to his feet, gathered the spent brass, and dusted over the spot where he had laid his ambush. He did the same on his way back to his horse, which was tethered some fifty feet away.
He then mounted and rode away toward the rim again, making his way further to the north west, then turning back toward the south along a strip of rocky ground, walking his horse, and conserving his strength for a time when he might need it. By mid morning, he had traversed an area the brought him to the western most boundary of the Circle M, and turned his horse back to the east. When he was near Murdock’s place, he dismounted, took out his telescope, and scanned the house and grounds around it. The only thing he saw was the smithy, working away at the forge. None of the other hands seemed to be in evidence, but there was a horse tied to the hitch rail.
He recognized the Appaloosa the man had ridden away from the ambush on, smiling with a grim countenance. He had been right in his assessment. The gun hand had reported directly to his boss. He watched as the rider came out of the house, and could tell that he was having some harsh words with his boss. He finally stomped across the ranch compound to the bunkhouse, and went inside.
Jake lined the sights of his Spencer on Murdock, and squeezed off a shot. The report boomed across the mesa, and the bullet hit the gun hanging from his waist, tearing a big hole in the holster, and sending the pistol flying across the porch. His second shot caught Murdock in a shocked stance, raking across his cheek with a fiery brand. He had spun around with the first shot, now his hand flew to the crease on his cheek, coming away with blood.
Jake could see the fear that crossed his face, smiling as Murdock spun and ran through the door of the house. He jacked the shell from the breach, catching it before it could hit the ground, picked up the other spent cartridge, and dropped them in his pocket. With the telescope, he looked toward the bunkhouse, but the rider had not made an appearance. The blacksmith had dropped his hammer, and was trying to find refuge behind the hot forge, and not having too much luck. He was too big to fit behind the small forge, but he was making a good effort.
Killman replaced the rifle in its scabbard, gathered the reins and swung his big frame into the saddle. He had left a few calling cards that would give the men on the Circle M something to worry about, and he had enjoyed the fright on Murdock’s face. He was good at sending others to do his dirty work, staying behind in relative safety, but now he would realize that he was vulnerable to attack, just as his riders were. It was Jake’s first lunge at his enemy, and he had successfully scared the wits out of some of his gunslingers, and cut down the odds some. They would know he was out for blood now.
Riding around the fence line of the Circle M, he thought about what his next move should be, and what Murdock’s next move would be. He was riding south toward Strawberry without thinking. He would go in for some supplies for the ranch, and stop off at for a drink with Mike. He was feeling proud of himself; proud of the day’s work he had done, when he rode into Strawberry, just before noon.
He spotted the two horses tied at the rail in front of the Strawberry saloon, but paid little attention to them, his mind on the purchases he wanted to buy. He was inside the mercantile before the import of the hoses hit him that the horses were carrying the Circle M brand. He said a hello to Ely, and told him he would be back later, then turned and walked back outside and across the street to the saloon.
Easing onto the board sidewalk, he looked over the batwing doors, to see the two Circle M riders bellied up to the bar, and Mike Stoler looking directly at him. He made a motion for Stoler to move out of the line of fire, and then walked through the doors, stopping just inside, to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. One of the riders turned to see who had entered and suddenly went stiff.
“Howdy boys,” Jake said in a low tone. “I thought you would be riding out of this country by now.”
The second man stiffened and turned slowly to face Killman. His face had lost some of its color, as had his companion. Mike was at the far end of the bar, polishing on a whiskey glass, a small grin creasing his face.
“Reckon we stayed for the funeral,” the first man said.
“Oh. Did someone die?” Jake responded, his right eyebrow rising a bit..
“Not yet. But we expect it to happen soon. I guess you’ll be coming to the funeral too,” he said, as his hand moved closer to his six-gun.
“If your hand drops any further toward that hog leg, it might be even sooner than you expect,” Jake replied.
The slender man who had been talking froze, but his partner made a grab for his gun. Jake’s hand moved like lightning, as the Cold dragoon leaped into his huge hand, spitting flame, and lead. The second gunman reached for his gun at the same, and two bullets from Jake’s gun struck him just below the bridge of the nose. The one, who had been doing the talking, caught the next slug in the forehead, slamming him back against the bar, his hand loosening on the grip of the still holstered weapon.
It was over in less than two seconds, both the Circle M riders dead on the floor of the saloon, Jake standing over them with his dragoon still smoking. He quietly loaded the weapon, before dropping it back in his holster, and then walked over to the bar. Without asking, Mike poured him a glass of whiskey, and shoved it in front of Jake. He looked across at the dead men lying on the floor of his saloon, shook his head and set the bottle of whiskey on the bar.
“You sure know how to keep an honest bartender busy cleaning up,” he joked.
“It’s been a long day Mike. Sorry I had to gun these two in here, but it was that
, or take a chance on them back shooting me along the trail. I figured this was easier.”
“That was some fast gun handling. Not many men would have braced two gunnies like these at the same time.”
“I want to send a clear message to Murdock. One that he can’t help but understand.”
He downed his drink and had Mike pour him another. After downing that one, he touched the brim of his hat, and dropped five dollar gold piece on the bar.
“Thanks for the drinks. Do you think you can get these two planted for the five?” he asked, dropping another half on the bar for the drink. “Sorry about the mess.”
Waving off Jake’s apology, Stoler watched the big rancher push through the batwings, and disappear into the street. He thought about the gunfight, and shivered, glad he didn’t have to stand against him. He almost felt sorry for Murdock and the men he had hired, should they be foolish enough to stick around. Jake Killman wasn’t a man to cross horns with.
Jake rode into the corral next to his house in the early evening, and proceeded to make a few changes to the perimeter, stringing wire with tins tied to them in such a way, that the least touch of the wire would set them jangling. He had no doubts Murdock and his men would pay him a visit. Unless he missed his guess, most of the men who had stayed on his payroll, were not the kind to scare easy. But, he was a man who believed in giving a man an even break. He had sent his message, and the warning it entailed, but he had no misconceived ideas that it would cause Murdock’s riders to pull stakes, and run. They were killers, pure and simple, and they had been hired for their prowess with a gun. At least he had taken down a goodly number of them.
He was just finishing up his alarm system, when Sarah called him for dinner. He washed up and went inside, sitting at the table with his Colt still strapped to his leg. He noticed the look Sarah gave him, and ignored the venom it carried. She was a woman of set ways, but this was an extenuating circumstance. He wanted to have his gun handy, in case there was trouble coming their way.
