by Chuck Tyrell
“I’ll do that, thank you. My stomach’s been asking who cut my throat for a couple of hours now. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
“Take your time. Our man may not stir afore dark.”
“May not,” Rockwell said. “Then again, may.”
“True.”
“How you gonna let us know if he moves?”
Stryker shrugged. “Can’t. A shot would just let him know I’m here. If I’m gone when you come back, that means he moved. I’ll leave sign you can follow easy enough.”
“Bring the horses when you come, but be careful not to let them tell that outlaw that you’re coming.”
“Will do.” Rockwell slipped back from the lookout and made his way silently through the woods.
As good as any … almost any … Indian. Stryker turned his attention to the outlaw’s hideout.
The Shadow Box outlaw didn’t wait for Gid Rockwell to get back. No sooner had he gotten out of sight than Stryker saw movement at the base of the rock wall. He settled back to watch. There was no further movement for some time, an hour or more by Stryker’s reckoning. He began to wonder if what he’d seen was some kind of animal.
Nothing moved.
The bay horse with a neckerchief tied around its onside foreleg grazed in the swale as if making up for lost time. Once in a while it would lift its head, stop chewing, and listen. Then go back to grazing.
Stryker took out his field glasses and began examining everything from the river to the rock wall, a span on the compass of at least a hundred degrees. He didn’t hurry it. A robber jay seemed to occupy a certain sycamore. A cottontail ventured out onto the grass of the swale, but ducked back when the horse raised its head and blew. Mourning doves rested among the boughs of some box elder trees.
Sparrows flitted about the rock wall. They probably knew of the man in the hole. Sparrows see people as food sources. To them, humans are not predators, but beings that often leave tidbits behind that serve sparrows as a full meal.
Even after two slow sweeps with the field glasses, nothing moved. That is, nothing that wasn’t part of the scenery moved. Stryker had settled himself behind the trunk of a fallen cottonwood. It hid him well, and offered a broad field of view so he could see from the banks of the Muddy to the rock wall where the outlaw had holed up. He watched, but didn’t make any sudden movements that could frighten birds into flight and alert the outlaw.
The day turned hot for March, with a dry wind from the southeast. The breeze kept tree branches swaying so human movement was not so noticeable.
Gid Rockwell returned just after the sun passed its meridian. One moment Stryker was peering at the base of the rock wall, the next Rockwell spoke, but only loud enough for the sound to carry to Stryker’s ears. “Brung some bacon and saleratus biscuits. You’re right. Comstock could turn into a fair hand, if’n you keep him out on the trail long enough.”
“Thought I saw some movement over there right after you left, but nothin’s moved since.”
“You want the grub?”
Stryker held out a hand. “Where’s the horses?”
Rockwell put two bacon and biscuit sandwiches in Stryker’s hand. “Straight back of us and down the hill. Not easy to see from the rock wall.”
Stryker took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I got a feeling that jehu ain’t gonna ride before sundown. Gonna be more’n a little hard to trail him. And if we don’t stay on his tail, he could get away from us.”
“He know we’re here?”
“We gotta figure he does. At least he knows there were three of us that never went down when he was shooting at us outside the Notch.”
“You want me to take his horse away?”
“We need to let him go get the gold. Comstock should take that back with him.”
“Yeah. And Mercy Taylor needs to know that son of Satan paid with his own blood for what them men did to her and that child and to her Harlan. He’s got to pay, blood for blood. And even that won’t atone for what he done.”
“Don’t you kill him before he shows us where the gold is.”
Rockwell shrugged.
“You hear what I said?”
“I heard.”
“You kill that man before Fletch Comstock gets his gold and you’ll have to answer to me.”
Rockwell gave Stryker a long look.
“Don’t you think I’m scared of you Matt Stryker.”
“I didn’t say that, Gid. I’d hate to have to come after you. Especially with half the people in this country being Mormons. I’d hate to, but I would. I surely would. You just keep that in mind.”
“I hear you,” Rockwell said, but he didn’t look happy.
Stryker ate the last of the two sandwiches Rockwell brought for him. “No coffee, then?”
“Comstock had some, but I had nothing to carry it in. Sorry.”
“Water?”
Rockwell gave Stryker the canteen he carried slung over his shoulder.
“Thanks.” Stryker slowly ducked below the trunk line of the windfall and took a long drink. He picked up the field glasses.
“Stryker, not trying to tell you what to do or nothing, but be right careful using those glasses. The sun’s over to where those rounded lenses could just flash a warning to that badman, if he’s watching.”
Stryker nodded, and put the glasses back on the downed cottonwood.
Chapter Thirteen – Run for the Gold
Cahill Bowman slept. He’d seen none of that damn posse and he’d found a good hidey-hole. Even if someone noticed the bay, they’d not know where to look for whoever rode him to the Muddy.
Bowman didn’t think too much about yesterday, about things gone past, or what had happened years ago in Kansas and the Nations.
He’d rode with Bloody Bill Andersen during the war and teamed up with Long Joe Firth after that. They’d socked it to the carpetbaggers and the Yankee police in Kansas towns until they tried to take that dinky little bank at Wolf Creek. Turned out the men in that town had bark on both sides, and Sheriff Satterlee led a townsman posse out after Firth’s Raiders, as they called themselves.
Firth’s Raiders got caught just into the Nations, and the Wolf Creek posse cut them to ribbons. Cahill Bowman had caught led, but saved himself by finding a hidey-hole just like the one he was in now.
Bowman’s eyes flickered open. He’d had a bullet in him then, and he made it out. This time he’d made it across that gawdawful alkali flat twice … almost three times. He’d took down that gunslinger and he’d took down Junior Saxenhausen, and Geebee, too, when they needed taking down. And he’d found this hidey-hole. He’d wait till dark, go get the gold, then head off to where that posse would never think of going.
The easy way, Bowman figured, would be to go right down the Muddy to Calleville and catch a boat down the Colorado. That way, he could drop off at Ehrenburg or La Paz or Yuma, or just keep on going all the way into Mexico. Yeah. That would be the easy way. And that’s what that damn posse would figure on him doing. That’s what they’d figure, so he’d not do it. He’d take the Old Spanish Trail. He’d go to California. Yeah. Bowman’s head nodded, and he slept away the daylight hours without worry. There was no posse as smart as Cahill Bowman. Not by a long shot. A smile crept onto his cracked lips as he dreamed of gold and the good life in California.
He woke once and took a look outside, but the sun was too high. He went back to sleep, cushioned by the saddle blanket under him and the saddle where he put his head. He took another drink of good Muddy River water from his full canteen. He took time to check his guns, Colt and Winchester, and put them close to hand before he closed his eyes again.
Light was low when he woke. Nearly time to go for the gold. Over fifty pounds of gold. Pure gold. Bowman nearly drooled.
The sun was down when he emerged from the hole bridle and six-gun in hand. Bowman was no woodsman. To himself, he walked carefully. To the rest of the woods, he was a buffalo tromping to the river. Birds called warnings. Cottontails sca
mpered out of his way. The horse grazing in the swale raised his head and pricked his ears toward the sound of Bowman’s approach.
“Whoa now, bay,” Bowman said. He never named his horses. He held out a handful of clover and the horse stretched his neck for it. He’d holstered the Colt so he could pick the clover, but he saw no danger and the bay was docile enough to accept the clover and then the bridle bit and headstall. Bowman led him through the sycamores and cottonwoods and up close to the hidey-hole.
The bay stood still while Bowman got the saddle, blanket, and saddlebags from the hole. And he stood still while Bowman saddled him. When he’d tied the saddlebags in place, Bowman mounted. In the blue-gray of evening, Bowman rode out. It was time to get the gold.
“He’s moving,” Rockwell said.
Stryker sat up to peer over the cottonwood deadfall. “He is,” he said.
They watched as the outlaw retrieved his horse and saddled up.
“Six-gun and a long gun,” Stryker said. “And he can shoot that long gun. He knocked Kid Leslie from the saddle from more’n fifty yards.”
“I saw him do it,” Rockwell said.
“I’ll follow him on foot,” Stryker said. “You get the horses, if you would. That way we don’t lose sight of him.”
Stryker waited for the outlaw to pick a trail before he cat footed after him, keeping to the woods until the hills rose higher and water got too scarce to support more than junipers and creosote bushes. But soon it was too dark for anyone to see a man trailing him a hundred yards back, but Stryker could take his directions from the sound of the bay horse walking.
Like it said in the instructions to the gold stash that Stryker found with the single ingot in the saddlebag of the lame horse that limped in from the desert, the outlaw rode due east from the Muddy.
Stryker followed. He remembered what was written on the torn-out tally book page. Ride into the sunrise until you’ve crossed two arroyos. Stryker began to jog, his moccasined feet silent in comparison to the clicks made by the outlaw’s horse on the stony ground. He closed to about fifty yards.
The outlaw didn’t seem to worry about anyone on his back trail. Maybe he thought the dark of night and the dark color of his bay was cover enough. The horse humped out of the second arroyo and the rider adjusted his course to a little north of east.
After leaving five stones in descending sizes, large to the back and small to the front, making a crude arrowhead pointing out the course for Rockwell, Stryker followed.
Out on the flat, past the second arroyo, the outlaw lifted his horse to a trot. The land lay flat all the way to a low mesa that seemed to burst from the desert floor. The mesa dropped off less than a mile north of the course the outlaw had taken. And at the northern edge of the mesa stood a red rock tower, like a lighthouse on a rocky shore. As soon as the tower became visible, dark black with a hint of red against the blue black of the desert sky, the outlaw reined his horse toward it.
Back to the tower, the paper said. Back to the tower, then five hundred steps to a cleft in the wall.
The outlaw’s horse trotted on, this time in a beeline away from the red rock tower.
Stryker jogged. He’d taken his Remington Army from its holster so it wouldn’t bang against his leg.
The horse trotted. In the dark of the night, the clop of its hooves on the hard rocky ground was Stryker’s only guide.
Stryker didn’t bother to count steps, as a jog is different from pacing off a distance.
One minute Stryker was following the sound of a trotting horse, the next the night was silent. He stopped, standing head down, ears straining. No sound.
Then the horse blew.
Relieved, Stryker headed for the horse. He walked carefully, making almost no sound.
“Good evening, lawman.”
Stryker had only time enough to ratchet back the hammer of his Remington Army before the stock of Cahill Bowman’s Winchester caught him in the side of the head, just beneath the brim of his hat. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
“Couldn’t risk a shot,” Bowman said as if having a conversation with Stryker. “Ought just to slit your lawman throat and drink your lawman blood, but this ain’t the desert and I want you to look me in the eyes when I pull the trigger.” He chuckled. Then laughed out loud.
Stryker came to while it was still dark. His head clanged with bolts of pain. He took stock of his situation. Head hurting like it had been split open. Ear throbbing. Hands tied behind his back. Gunbelt gone. Shirt gone. Trousers gone. Feet bare. Head bare. He decided it was not a good idea to let the outlaw know he was awake.
Nothing stirred until the sky began to gray with the coming dawn. He lay limp, letting his body fit the hard ground as best it could. His head pounded where the outlaw had struck him with his rifle stock. His shoulder and hip joints hurt from lying on the ground almost all night without moving. The outlaw had tied his thumbs together behind his back, and the rawhide thong bit into this flesh. Where was Gid Rockwell? He should be close by. Stryker decided Rockwell was somewhere close, and he tried to relax.
A boot crashed into Stryker’s ribs. “Hey, lawman. You awake yet?”
Stryker said nothing, but his steel-blue eyes bored into the outlaw’s muddy brown ones.
“Hoity-toity, are we?” the outlaw said, and kicked Stryker again.
“Good morning to you, too,” Stryker managed to say through clenched teeth.
“Ho, ho. The badge talks, does it.” The outlaw leaned over Stryker. “I got rid of your young gunslinger, lawman. Me. Cahill Bowman. Got rid of that black Injun, too. Now I’ll get my gold and do fer you. Just you wait.” Bowman kicked Stryker again.
“Don’t you try getting away, lawman. Wouldn’t do you no good. Sun’s comin’ up soon, and you’re gonna bake. Yeah. Just like one a my ma’s bread loaves. You’re gonna bake. An’ just so you’ll know, you’re dealing with the Shadow Box Gang. Ain’t nobody ever beat the Shadow Box Gang.”
Bowman pulled out his jackknife and opened the spear-point blade. Casually, he grabbed a handful of Stryker’s hair and forced his head back to bare his throat. “I drunk one man’s blood to stay alive in the desert out there.” He said. He put the blade to Stryker’s throat. “Maybe I’ll drink yours afore We’re through with this balle.” He moved the blade to Stryker’s face and sliced a cut from just above the ear to the corner of his mouth.
Blood flowed, but Stryker said nothing. He just stared at Bowman.
“Tough lawman, eh?” Bowman sliced crosses in Stryker’s pectoral muscles. “There. That’ll teach you somethin’.”
Bowman folded his jackknife and put it away. “You just stay put, lawman. I’m going to get the gold. The way you are, it don’t hurt to say it. I. Am. Going. To get. The gold!” Bowman laughed, but his eyes searched the surrounding country. He was concerned about the rest of Stryker’s posse.
“You just stay put, lawman. I’ll be back in less’n three shakes of a dead lamb’s tail.” Bowman tittered at his own joke.
Stryker said nothing. The cuts on his face and chest had stopped bleeding. He closed his eyes as Bowman moved away. The sun rose and sounds came to Stryker’s ears. Warbles of wrens. A screech of a red-tailed hawk. The ki-ki-ki of prairie dogs. For a moment, Stryker wondered what made them sound their warning. Maybe Bowman.
Then came the clomp of boots, and Bowman returned, saddlebags weighing his shoulders down. “Fifty pounds and more, lawman. Fifty pounds of gold the Yankees’ll never be able to use. No sir, no sirree.” Bowman went to his bay horse, placed the heavy saddlebags over the ones already tied behind the cantle, and tied them in place.
“There.” Bowman walked over to Stryker. “So. What to do with you, lawman.” Again, Bowman stopped to check the back trail and surrounds for sign of danger. “Looks like your possemen kinda give up,” he said. He chuckled and dug in his pocket for his jackknife. “Reckon I should carve on you a little more, lawman. Reckon I should.
“I never carved on Geebee, but he tri
ed drinking from the bay horse, tried to pull a quick one, but I caught him. He drunk from the bay, so I cold-conked him. Then me and the bay, we drunk all of Geebee. Made across that alkali flat, no problem. Ought to drink you, lawman, but we ain’t goin’ across no desert from here. No sirree.” He opened that sharp spear-point blade and reached for a hold on Stryker’s arm.
A man in black hat, black boots, and a black duster stepped from behind a boulder. “You will not cut Matthew Stryker,” he said in a voice that sounded like the prophet of doom.
Bowman backpedaled until he came up against the bay. “Give a man a break, stranger. You got that greener poking at me and all I got’s a little jackknife.”
The man in black cocked his sawed-off 10-gauge. “Pull the hogleg,” he said. “Thumb and forefinger only.”
Bowman shifted his jackknife to his left hand and did as directed.
“Toss the six-gun away.”
Bowman did as told.
“Cut me loose,” Stryker said.
Rockwell ignored Stryker. “I see you have a Bowie, badman. You’re welcome to use it to defend yourself.”
“Gid. Cut me loose.” Stryker’s voice carried authority.
Gid Rockwell paused. “This is the vengeance of the Lord, Matthew Stryker. It is not something you should get involved in.” He let the Greener’s hammers down and leaned the shotgun against the boulder. Then he drew a strange-looking knife from a sheath at the small of his back. The heavy blade curved out and down from the quillion. The under edge looked razor-sharp, and a sharpened edge ran halfway up the back of the knife as well. “Use your Bowie if you will, killer. Or stand and let your blood soak into the earth in atonement for those you killed.”
Bowman pulled his Bowie and crouched. He held the knife with the cutting edge up. A look of confidence came into his eyes. “Ain’t never been no one beat me in a knife fight, black man. No one.”
