Dark Shadow

by Roy F. Chandler

  Perido? Perhaps it had been his turn to die. Punto did not really care. Perido had no gold anyway, and Punto would not need him again.

  A local peon driven savage by too many abuses was another possibility. That kind, his Juans would run like a rabbit before they finished him off. If it was a peon the man would die before the sun was high.

  The night barely dribbled by, and after some hours the less patient poked around in the brush scaring each other and those unwilling to risk moving. Eventually they rebuilt the fire and a few clustered nervously watching the dark while bragging about what they would do to the ambusher when the sun allowed tracking.

  Punto believed them, but he crept to his tent staying low and inconspicuous. Bravery was one thing. Foolhardiness was another, and in four years of Civil War, Punto had seen enough to know the difference.

  He had to wonder why the ambusher had not chosen him, the obvious leader, to kill. That was the military method, and usually the natural way. "Kill the head and the body would die." Soldiers had been saying that since war was discovered. Perhaps the ambusher really was a deranged peasant. If he were, they would kill him and scatter his carcass, which, Punto smirked to himself, would permanently solve the peon's mental problem.

  Punto found himself not overly concerned with the slaughter of his men. He was nearly done with them, anyway. The insult to his leadership rankled, but once they ground the ambusher underfoot he could put that behind him. When these and others spoke of Punto Negra it would be with respect and admiration for his accomplishments.

  Punto waited the dawn with growing impatience because what he would do to the ambusher would be remembered as long as his raids were recalled.

  Logan first saw a tracker appear at the edge of the thicket. With the sun still rising, he could not be sure that he saw the tracker turn to call to others, but more bandits appeared, and Punto was among them. Some returned to the camp, and moments later Logan saw them gathering horses.

  When the band mounted, Logan studied them carefully through his telescope. The leading tracker's hatband glittered, so Logan knew it was the other Juan that Jose Perido had described.

  Like a seasoned leader, Punto did not demand the forefront of his band. Leaders got killed forging ahead; the wise lay back with protecting bodies around them, but assuming that they came within range, Logan could kill Punto from above. But not yet, Logan wanted more of the bandits dead before Punto got his own Sharps bullet.

  Logan lay comfortably, his telescope resting across the buffalo hide beside the long barreled rifle. His ammunition was placed handy where he could reach each round with a minimum of movement. If his plan worked, he could get at least one decent shot, perhaps more if the raiders were stupid in their actions.

  The lead scout preferred to track his quarry on foot. The horsemen reined their animals, staying behind and avoiding trampling the trail. It was not impossible that a clever ambusher had laid a false trail that would secretly double back on itself luring followers into the empty mountains. Then they saw Jose PeridoTs horse, and Punto's nerves twanged like bow strings.

  There were shouts that reached Logan's perch. The horsemen surged ahead, and Logan felt a small glow of satisfaction as he shifted from telescope to his rifle's telescopic sight. He began adjusting himself for careful shooting.

  Punto recognized the horse and Perido's saddle beside the placid animal. He damned the deceased Perido to hell for failing and let his gaze climb the mountain path.

  It seemed clear enough to Punto. The ambusher had fled to the mountain, but in the dark of night he had been unable to take his horse up the treacherous path. So, he was up there perhaps on foot. Their climb in daylight would take time, but the ambusher would not get too far. Punto supposed that by noon they might have him.

  Punto watched his scout ranging wide around the horse making certain that the ambusher had not merely pretended to go up the trail. He felt a slight unease. It was not beyond reason to believe that the ambusher could also measure time and distance. Believing he could not escape, he might again be in ambush somewhere up the trail, and that would be a dangerous trap to encounter.

  While waiting, Punto pondered the best choice. He could send men around, but the way was long in either direction. Getting to the trail head by other paths would require two hours of hard riding, and there might not even be an ambush waiting. If that were the case, Punto would appear weak and fearful, and a leader should not suffer such embarrassment.

  It was just as possible that the ambusher had fled, and some of his hurrying men would encounter the devil attempting to come down another path as they went up, which was as bad as meeting him here.

  Logan almost smiled as he watched Punto working at his obvious dilemma. Logan had considered an ambush along the trail, but he doubted Punto would commit many to the risk of such an entrapment. If allowed, Logan figured, Punto would get comfortable while some of his men rode each way to climb the paths and head in from opposite sides. If the path proved clear, then Punto would come up.

  Logan's hope had been to kill both scouts from his good shooting position, but luck was not favoring him. Juan of the one eye stayed close behind Punto's shoulder, as if guarding his back, and offered no target from the front. Logan expected he could reload with a plain tipped bullet that would penetrate best and shoot through both Punto and Juan, but tricky shooting often went wrong, and Logan was not yet ready for Punto's demise.

  So, it looked as if he might have to settle for the other scout. The man had finally halted his search and stood alongside Punto's horse appearing to be speaking to his leader.

  The range was exactly 800 yards. Logan knew it from a hundred similar shots. It was about the longest shot he could be sure of, but he had kept it long because he did not want Punto or any of his men to suspect a skilled shooter could hit them as they gathered near Perido's horse.

  Logan settled his position. His finger set the rear trigger before he transferred it to the front trigger. He rested his cross hair on his aiming point and let his air half out, then lost himself in concentration on the shot. He sighted finely but did not delay. His finger tightened, but his mind dwelt only on the rock-steady cross hairs. The Sharps bucked in recoil. The shot cracked sharp and clear in the dry mountain air, and for an instant powder smoke clouded his vision. But Logan held his position through the recoil, letting the rifle resettle, and regaining his view through the powerful telescopic sight. He exhaled and sensed his heartbeat rise in anticipation.

  At such a distance the bullet's flight was a great arc that ate up time. It was possible for a man who saw the smoke of such a shot to step out of the way before a bullet arrived, but the tracker was looking elsewhere, and he saw and heard nothing before the bullet struck.

  The huge bullet blasted a hole in Juan the tracker's side that could hide a fist. The impact was audible not only as lead striking meat and bone, but as an explosion as the .22 caliber cartridge fired within Juan's rib cage.

  Bullets do not fling bodies about, but the tracker buckled and seemed to collapse in on himself. His drop was as fluid as death could make it, and even from his distant hide, Logan knew he had aimed exactly right.

  Horses reared and riders shouted and cursed. Most looked around the flat land for the ambusher, but Punto knew where the bastard was. His eyes found the powder smoke cloud rising above the cliff top as he whirled his horse and jammed home his spurs. His back crawled until he had put hundreds of yards between himself and the deadly rifleman. What in hell kind of a man were they fighting? Punto had never seen a shot like the one that had just killed his tracker.

  Juan of the one eye had reached down from his saddle and gripped the body by the shirt, dragging it along until he was again beside his leader. The tracker was as dead as desert dirt, and the immense hole in his body had even the seasoned bandidos crossing themselves. Again Punto wondered who they were fighting. Clearly the ambusher was not some desert rat. This was a trained rifleman with a deadly weapon on a killing missio
n.

  It was hard to understand why the shooter had not picked him, the leader, for his target, but Punto was beyond caring. The man fairly spit upon them. He toyed with them, sucking them in like children and killing whomever he chose. Punto again weighed his options, but he knew he would not sit and take it. Now it was his turn.

  Logan knew how far out they were. They stood almost on his 1000 yard marker. The range was too great for certain shooting, but when the band dismounted he might get a chance at Juan of the one eye. The loss of Punto's last tracker and right hand man would be important, especially if the fight continued into the mountains.

  Then Punto's last tracker mounted his horse and galloped toward the distant camp. No one else was moving, so Logan held his fire. He could shoot another villain, but it was One Eye he wanted.

  The wait was short, and it was Logan's turn to curse as One Eye rode back leading a horse with the naked girl astride. He had vowed that the girl's life would not interfere, and he meant what he said, but the taste was bitter in his soul.

  Punto joined his tracker and the three rode a few yards forward of the rest of the band. The trio halted, and Juan of the one eye drew a pistol and held it to the head of the captive.

  Punto's hand gestures were clear. They said, "Come down or we will shoot the girl." Punto examined a pocket watch and held aloft five fingers. Logan assumed the bandit leader meant that he had five minutes to appear or throw his rifle over the cliff or something. Logan's sigh was audible. Punto had picked the wrong man.

  Logan had opened his rifle's breech, allowing the barrel to cool, and ready for a second shot. He had run an oiled patch through his rifle's bore and followed it with a clean and dry patch. It was folly to attempt maximum range shooting with a fouled bore, and Josh Logan intended to shoot.

  Logan examined his chosen cartridge as if it were a special messenger. A successful one thousand yard shot required exacting detail and more than a modicum of good luck. Logan prepared to do his part of that equation.

  He snuggled into his shooting position, nestling the stock firmly and making his grip on the stock's wrist exactly right. Only the tip of his trigger finger caressed the set trigger, and he breathed easily in and out before again partly emptying his lungs and steadying his cross hair.

  His target was Juan of the one eye who stood beside the dismounted captive, his pistol against Julie Smith's head.

  The shot was so long that it would strain most riflemen's imagination. Few would believe it possible, but Logan knew he had made other shots just as difficult Then, there had been meat riding on the shot, but never before had he attempted anything so distant on a human target,

  When he had used his Spencer on the rogue Apaches in these mountains he had believed two hundred yards to be his limit. Now, two decades older, he risked a woman's life on a single shot at five times that range.

  Perhaps the shot was too difficult, too far and too angled, but eliminating Punto's most dangerous man was also deadly important Logan allowed a mental shrug. The shot was possible, and he would try it. If he missed, Julie Smith would undoubtedly die, but... Josh Logan steeled his heart and allowed no buts.

  Logan squeezed with utmost care. He held solidly in follow through as the heavy rifle hammer fell and fired the cartridge. The rifle's if recoil sledged his shoulder with the solid jolt grown familiar through hundreds of repetitions, He held longer lest his movement destroy the bullet's flight down the barrel. Not until the rifle fell from recoil onto the buffalo robe did Logan allow himself to look for his results. The shot had felt good. His mind saw the cross hairs exactly right, and his trigger squeeze had been smooth. Maybe ... ?

  He regained his sight barely in time. The bullet’s flight terminated, and Logan saw an explosive hit through his telescopic sight. He swore inwardly. He had aimed for the tracker's body, just as he had on the first shot, but this bullet had flown wide. Logan sighed and shifted to his telescope for better viewing. The tracker was bent down as though reaching, then roiling dust and racing horses obscured Logan's view.

  Not a killing shot, but he had hit something hard and had seen bits flying, Logan was sure of it. He had done his best, but now horses reared, whirled and plunged away. Juan the tracker was among them. Logan would get no more shooting from this position.

  Unlike the rest, Punto had kept his eyes on the distant ridge line. He saw the bloom of powder smoke with a certain disbelief, and as he cursed and whirled his horse out of line his mind screamed to know who the killer was that cared not a lick for the life of an innocent woman.

  Juan was slower. His mind was directed toward the pistol he pointed at the woman's head. He had lowered the hammer lest his finger tire and fire the gun, but he could thumb to full cock and blow the Yankee woman into death in an instant.

  He registered Punto's curse and frantic spurring. He turned slightly to see what had caused the alarm. Should he shoot or hold his fire? Before an answer came the world of Juan of the one eye exploded in monumental flame and agony. He felt and saw his pistol hand blown into fragments that disappeared from the rest of his body. The captive flinched wildly, but Juan the tracker cared nothing for that. He fell to his knees in agony, then expectant of another bullet following the first he lurched erect and used his remaining hand to beat the stunned woman into motion and away from the distant rifle that found its target so unerringly.

  Punto lead the flight of his broken and bewildered band away from the terrible rifle on the mountain. Someone loaded the wounded Juan behind his saddle, and the captive was taken by another. As if pursued, the outlaws fled nearly to the thicket.

  Finally safe, Punto halted the bandits to examine his faithful vaquero’s injury.

  The wound was horrid to look at. The hand was gone, and Punto had seen wounds like it before.

  When a limb was blown away by cannon fire it looked like Juan's. Jagged bone thrust through the wreckage of shattered flesh, and the only remedy was to cauterize any bleeders and hope for the best. Usually the best was a quick death from shock rather than the slower and agonized dying of deadly infection. What kind of rifle could inflict such massive wounds? Something new from the north? Punto's soul shuddered at the thought of his own body feeling such a horrific blast.

  Still, some who seemed impossibly wounded survived. Limb short veterans were everywhere. Juan was as tough as anyone could be, and his Yaqui tribe was noted for their courage and stoic acceptance of pain. Perhaps Juan was one of those who could live.

  Punto hoped that would happen because without Juan of the one eye, he was nearly alone and far from the safety of his Guaymas hacienda. He now had four dead, no there were five. He had forgotten Jose Perido and there were three wounded. Did the killer on the mountain never miss?

  The distant gunman had spit at their threat to kill the woman. The man had again toyed with them, and Punto’s pride soured. From more than half a mile the devil had casually shot Juan of the one eye’s hand and pistol into fragments.

  What arrogance the Yankee pig possessed. Punto knew it was a Yankee because no Mexican could shoot as this rifleman did.

  But his men too could shoot, and they could set traps. The trick would be to complicate the game as if it were a chess match. There, the players planned many moves ahead. Punto excelled at the game, as he had at cards and dice, and his enemy was about to experience a leader's true cleverness.

  8

  Logan lay beside his rifle using only his normal vision. Staring too long through telescopic instruments tired the eyes, and after a while a hunter would not see much of what was out there.

  The raiders had gathered further away than their thicket camp, and even with his telescope, Logan could not make out details, but the blob of men and horses was easy to watch. They were in the open, and only the thicket surrounding the Zapata Water offered concealment. If anyone separated, Josh would know it.

  Inner discontent rankled Logan. He had done what had to be done, but despite his strong words it went against the grain to ignore th
e probability that the bandits would kill the girl.

  It would have been comfortable to have given up, tossed his rifle over the edge and ridden off, but that would not have saved Julie Smith, and it would have allowed Punto and the rest to escape. He would not permit that, no matter how his spirit wept at the cruelty of his action.

  When his shot had exploded seemingly against the Smith girl’s head, Logan feared he had killed her. Instead, he had somehow wounded the tracker. How badly, he could not see, but the man’s shooting hand was now heavily bandaged, and the arm had been placed in a bandanna sling around the bandit’s neck.

  A hundred variables could have thrown his bullet wide, but Logan swore at the fates that had caused a miss on this shot. Juan the one eye was on his feet and moving around, so Logan’s shot had not done much damage. Sooner or later, Punto would come for him with all he had, and Logan wanted the skilled trackers finished off.

  Perhaps he played a dangerous game that would finish him before he got around to the evil leader, but Logan could not let it go. He had hurt them badly. His best count showed about sixteen raiders left sitting straight in their saddles. At least two others appeared slumped as if nursing wounds.

  The outlaws had been too sure and had not realized what they were facing. They would be more careful now. Perhaps they would come at night, or they might ride fast and far making him stretch to keep up, and increase the chances that he would become reckless in his pursuit and perhaps close within their own ambushing range.

  For now, Logan could only wait and watch. He hoped Punto would try to fight him in these mountains that he knew so well. Deeper in, the humpbacks ran in a thousand directions. Most ridges and their adjoining hollows looked like one another, and unless one knew the ways or had a track to follow, a hunter’s chance of finding a quarry was minuscule. Logan knew that from his own hunt for the Apaches.

  Logan ate again, and took time to water the horse and mule. He would have to be thinking about water now. He did not believe that Punto would recamp at the Zapata Water, but he might leave someone in ambush. Logan would avoid being lured into that kind of a fight and would have to look elsewhere.