Silver City

by Jeff Guinn

  “Come back,” Brautigan snarled. He glanced back at the Apache, remounted, and galloped his horse into the cut after McLendon.

  McLendon had no chance to escape him. Brautigan was riding, and McLendon had trouble stumbling straight ahead—having arms bound behind his back threw off his balance. So within moments Brautigan caught up; it seemed, to McLendon, in his panic, that he could feel hot breath whooshing from the horse’s nostrils onto the back of his neck. But the passage was so narrow that Brautigan couldn’t quite reach down from the saddle and grasp McLendon from behind. He’d have to wait a few more seconds until they either came out the other end of the cut or discovered it was a dead end. Either way, Brautigan knew, he had him. There were still whoops and shots to the rear, but the giant gave little thought to the three Apache behind him. He’d deal with McLendon first, then them.

  McLendon, staggering, saw the end of the cut, dark gray sky and charcoal-colored hills beyond, the storm clouds cast their pall over everything and eliminated color. If I can just get there, he thought, and then he was through and into the canyon with Brautigan right behind him. The big man leaned forward, reached out, and caught the trailing end of McLendon’s neck rope in his huge hand. McLendon was caught up short. Brautigan swept past on his horse. He held on to the rope and McLendon was pulled forward by the noose. It yanked tight, immediately causing him to choke. McLendon was dragged into the canyon, half off his feet and bouncing painfully against rocks. Those collisions hurt, but McLendon’s immediate concern was staying upright. If he fell and was dragged, he’d be strangled to death.

  At that moment, announced by a clap of thunder, rain began descending in thick, opaque sheets.

  33

  Major Mulkins ran toward the cut, intending to enter it and hurry to the other side. He was still ten yards away when Cash McLendon staggered out of it and past Mulkins, followed closely by Brautigan on horseback. There was something trailing after C.M., a rope, and Brautigan grabbed it. C.M. staggered off balance and Mulkins raised the Winchester to shoot at Brautigan, this was a real opportunity, the big man was almost too close to miss but moving away, shoot now! But as Mulkins raised the rifle it began pouring rain, it was like sledgehammers of water slamming into him, and at the same time a bullet ricocheted off a rock near him and whoops echoed in the cut. The Apache were coming through. Mulkins thought, Gabrielle and Joe are behind me. They’ll have to deal with Brautigan for now. I need to stop the Indians. He leaned into the mouth of the cut, using the rock wall for cover. The rain pounded down onto the passage but he could see figures moving in it. Mulkins fired a series of quick shots, one-two-three-four, and the Apache dropped to the ground or flattened against the sides of the cut. He couldn’t tell how many there were. They fired a few shots back, none coming close to him. Mulkins figured that as long as he stayed where he was, with sufficient ammunition and a good shooting angle, he could keep them stoppered up in the cut for a good while. But what was happening behind him? He didn’t dare take his eyes off the Apache to look.

  —

  BRAUTIGAN REINED in his horse about fifty yards past the cut. He thought regretfully that he had to kill McLendon quickly and then deal with the Apache. The boss would be pleased McLendon was dead and unhappy that he hadn’t witnessed the killing himself. It couldn’t be helped.

  Brautigan walked toward where McLendon stood stooped and choking, rain beating down on his bowed head. Then he looked past McLendon, back toward the cut they’d just come through, and saw someone standing there shooting. What was this? Visibility was too poor to see exactly where the man was aiming, but it didn’t seem to be at Brautigan. That meant McLendon could be attended to first. Several inches of rain were already pooled on the canyon floor. As he walked, Brautigan’s steel-toed boots threw off fans of water like the prow of boats cutting through a lake. One sweeping kick at the ankles to knock McLendon off his feet, then a direct strike to the temple. He’d be dead at last.

  —

  GABRIELLE AND SAINT were momentarily blinded by the rain. It slashed at them so hard that the bandanna covering Gabrielle’s head was practically displaced. Much of her long, abundant hair was uncovered, and some fell in front of her eyes. She brushed it away. Saint shouted, “Look!” and there was Cash McLendon, swaying and looking very much like a sacrificial victim, and Brautigan stalking toward him. Only a few yards separated victim and murderer. They were much farther away, two dozen yards at least, and Gabrielle was so hobbled that they could never get there in time to prevent the killing. She’d been leaning on Saint, using him for support. Now she pushed him away, screamed, “Go ahead, Joe,” raised the pistol she’d taken from Ike Clanton and fired a shot that flew wildly in Brautigan’s general direction. The giant stopped in his tracks and stared. The thick curtain of rain prevented Gabrielle from seeing his face clearly, but she still recoiled as though some force blazed from Brautigan’s eyes to hers. At least he’d stopped going toward Cash. Now his attention seemed to be fixed on Joe, who was not running but at least walking toward Brautigan, shotgun in hand. But why, instead of aiming at the giant, did Joe let the shotgun dangle at his side like that?

  —

  DANGER OF ANY KIND had petrified Joe Saint all his life, and this was a moment of especially raw peril. He’d faced his fear so far, hurrying with Gabrielle toward Brautigan instead of following his instinct to flee in the opposite direction. But when Gabrielle shoved him forward to face the giant on his own, his resolution failed. The man was huge; in the years since Glorious, Saint had forgotten how tall Brautigan was, and how wide. Saint’s knees buckled from panic. He was ready to run. He’d turn, grab Gabrielle, and together they would get away somehow—no, her leg was hurt, she couldn’t move fast enough. Brautigan would overtake and kill them both. McLendon stood defenseless a few feet away from Brautigan, but Saint paid him no mind. His sole concern was protecting Gabrielle. The giant began walking toward Saint. This was a chance to blast him with the shotgun. But as much as Saint willed himself to, his body didn’t obey. His arms and hands trembled so much that he could not raise the shotgun to fire.

  —

  HALFWAY THROUGH THE CUT, crouched down and presenting the smallest targets possible, Datchshaw, Tawhatela, and John Tiapah wondered what was happening. Someone on the canyon end was shooting at them. It had to be the big white man. Where were Goyathlay and Nantee?

  The three Apache occasionally returned fire, but they had very few bullets left and whoever was opposing them had good cover. Rain poured into the cut—it was difficult to see.

  “We could charge,” John Tiapah called. “All three of us wouldn’t get shot.”

  “I can’t move fast enough because of my wound,” Datchshaw reminded him. “The big white man might get both of you.” He flinched as a bullet chipped splinters from the rock wall above his head. Where was the glory in this? If Goyathlay was such a great leader, why was his plan going so wrong?

  —

  FOOTING WAS TREACHEROUS on the canyon floor. The deluge soaked soft spots into mud, pooled in gullies, and covered flat rock areas with a slick film. Brautigan strode through mud toward Joe Saint. His heavy boots sank a few inches at each step. That gave Saint time to get the shotgun halfway up. Its twin barrels wavered at about knee height—still good enough to stop Brautigan if Saint fired now, but his trembling finger slipped off the double triggers. Just a few more steps and Brautigan would be on him. Saint was virtually paralyzed with fear.

  —

  GABRIELLE WATCHED, HORRIFIED. What was the matter with Joe? She limped a few paces forward and fired her pistol again, pulling the trigger until the hammer clicked on a used cartridge. So far as she could tell, none of the bullets hit Brautigan, but he paused just a little way from Joe to stare at her. He pointed: You’re next.

  —

  MCLENDON HAD ENOUGH of his breath back to understand some of what was happening. There was shooting. The Apache must have caught up to them
in the canyon. But at least for the moment, no one was assaulting McLendon. Only Brautigan seemed under attack, bullets fired in his direction but all apparently missing him. The giant was a few feet away from McLendon, and there was someone standing in front of him. Joe Saint? Brautigan paused and pointed at something behind Joe. Then he lowered his arm, and as he did McLendon threw himself forward, trying to knock the giant down from behind and failing completely. There was the sensation of his shoulder slamming into something hard and immovable. McLendon bounced off Brautigan, lost his footing, and splashed down on his face in the muck. Because his hands were still tied behind his back it was hard to roll over. Just before he did he inhaled a quantity of thick muddy water. Coughing, he looked up to see Brautigan standing above him. But the giant’s attention was elsewhere—he looked back toward the valley side of the canyon.

  —

  MAJOR MULKINS RISKED a glance over his shoulder. There was Brautigan, and Joe Saint near him, and C.M. on the ground at Brautigan’s feet. Joe was standing stock-still, and Mulkins remembered that during every Civil War battle he’d fought in, there were always a handful of soldiers who froze in place, overcome by fear. Joe was out of this fight. Mulkins calculated rain, wind, and distance between himself and Brautigan. Maybe he could shoot the giant from here? Then there was movement back in the cut and Mulkins fired in that direction instead, the last two shots in the Winchester’s magazine. He snatched bullets from his pocket and began frantically attempting to reload.

  —

  GOYATHLAY AND NANTEE finally rounded the eastern slope of the small mountain and rode hard into the canyon. The sloppy surface made it difficult for their horses to maintain full speed. The animals tried to slow down, but the Apache riders viciously kicked their ribs and kept them on the run. The rain made it hard to see. But now there were clear sounds of shots ahead, there was surely fighting in progress. Then, just barely through the sheets of rain, they saw a hulking figure, the big white man, and there were others around him, not Apache, who were these? Goyathlay and Nantee made for them, but suddenly the ground had splits in it, they had to slow down, it was like this sometimes near mountains, long wide cracks in the ground that could swallow a man. They maneuvered around the worst ones. Then there seemed to be an unbroken path between them and the big white man. They whipped their horses back into a gallop and charged him.

  —

  TAWHATELA WAS FURIOUS. Being pinned down was no way to earn battle glory. Datchshaw could whine about his wound, and John Tiapah couldn’t make up his mind whether to stay, fight, or run. It was time to act in a way that ensured honor. He threw down his rifle—he had only two or three bullets left, anyway—pulled a knife from its hide sheath, and, screaming defiantly, charged down the cut. There was a white man at the end of it, not one of the ones they’d been following, fumbling with his rifle. Tawhatela pounced at him, knife raised to strike.

  —

  MAJOR MULKINS DIDN’T have time to reload the Winchester because the Apache was on him so fast. The Indian swung a knife and Mulkins blocked the blade with the rifle. The Apache snarled like an animal and stabbed at Mulkins again. Mulkins swung the rifle like a club. The Indian caught hold of the stock and wrenched it from Mulkins’s grip. He howled triumphantly and brandished the knife. Mulkins drew the Colt given to him by McLendon, and, as the Apache lunged for him, aimed instinctively and fired. The bullet went through the Indian’s eye. He dropped; Mulkins thought he was dead but couldn’t take the time to make certain. He fired several pistol shots back down the cut, just in case the other Apache there had ideas about following their tribesman, then reloaded the Winchester as quickly as he could.

  —

  JOHN TIAPAH AND DATCHSHAW flinched back from the shots. Tawhatela had run to the end of the path and leaped up. After that they couldn’t see what happened to him, but since they were again being fired on, his attack must have failed.

  “Do we go?” Datchshaw asked. “We might be shot next.”

  “Not yet,” John Tiapah said. “Goyathlay may still do something.”

  —

  BRAUTIGAN WAS aware of everything going on around him, but not distracted by it. The primary credo of seasoned street fighters still prevailed: deal with the most immediate threat first. There was shooting from the mouth of the cut, but for the moment none of it was directed at him. McLendon, still tied up, thrashed in the mud. No threat there. Someone—it was the girl!—had fired at him with a pistol, but she now watched helplessly, apparently out of bullets. Just in front of Brautigan was a scrawny, bespectacled man holding a shotgun down along his side, familiar from somewhere. The giant decided to eliminate this one first, easy enough, he’d never get the shotgun up in time, but as Brautigan began to step toward the man he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, something coming up into the canyon directly at him. He swiveled his head and saw Indians, two of them, up on horseback and riding at him. But they weren’t coming as fast as might be expected; their mounts seemed to dance around, and this gave Brautigan time to set his feet in the thick mud.

  —

  GOYATHLAY RODE ahead of Nantee. If the rain hadn’t been so blinding he would have pulled an arrow from his quiver and skewered the big white man. Experienced Apache warriors could do this accurately from the saddle, even when their horses were at a gallop. But the rain and wind were too wild. Even at close range an arrow would be blown off course. So Goyathlay simply used his horse as a battering ram instead, intending to crash the mount full tilt into the big man and knock him sprawling. After that, down and dazed, he’d be easy prey.

  But the horse’s last few strides were over rain-slicked rock and its unshod hooves slipped just enough to throw the animal off balance. It still ran into its target, but the contact was glancing rather than solid. The big white man staggered slightly but kept his feet. The horse, with Goyathlay astride, careened within a few yards of one of the crevices that crossed the canyon; this one was wide and deep to the measure of one tall man standing on another’s shoulders. The bottom was unforgiving rock. Goyathlay hauled back on the hackamore in his horse’s mouth. The animal slid, struggling to keep its balance, and skidded along the ground, forelegs crumpling underneath its body. Goyathlay had the brief sensation of tumbling in space, and then he was down hard, though the horse took the brunt of the tumble. Badly injured, both forelegs snapped, it whinnied piteously. Goyathlay’s breath was knocked from him. He struggled to drag air back in his lungs; he could sense more than hear nearby struggling. Nantee must be fighting the big man, and Goyathlay needed to help him.

  —

  NANTEE SAW GOYATHLAY and his horse slam into the big man. With the rain it was hard to see what happened after that. Nantee blinked a little rain out of his eyes and after he blinked Goyathlay and the horse were gone, just disappeared. How was that possible? Then he saw horse and rider not far away, both down but moving. Nantee now had to choose between aiding Goyathlay and fighting the big white man, and that was an easy decision. He’d come on this raiding trip for glory, and killing the white man in single combat would earn it. Nantee yanked his horse to a stop, leaped down, drew his knife, and attacked.

  —

  THE COLLISION with the horse staggered Brautigan but didn’t really hurt him. A bruise or two, perhaps. Nothing to hinder effective movement. The first Indian and his mount were down somewhere to the right. That Apache might be back, but for now there was another who dismounted and charged Brautigan with a knife. The footing beneath Brautigan’s boots was gummy but that was no critical impediment. Hands would do nicely for this one. The Indian tried to close, he probably was used to being the quickest one in a tussle, but Patrick Brautigan had never met the man who could move faster than he did in a fight and that remained true now. He caught the Apache’s knife arm and twisted. The savage yelped with pain. Up close, his dirt-smeared face registered shock.

  —

  AS SOON AS the second Indi
an dismounted and ran at Brautigan, Gabrielle saw her chance. She stuffed the empty Colt into her waistband and moved forward. She couldn’t run, her leg was too painful for that, but she ignored the agony as best she could and stumbled ahead. As she passed Joe Saint she cried, “Move, Joe,” and thought he blinked but it was hard to tell, so much rain dripped from the lenses of his spectacles. Then Gabrielle stumbled a few more steps and knelt at McLendon’s side where he lay in the mud. She opened the Major’s clasp knife and said, “Turn so I can free your arms.” McLendon stared at her, hardly able to believe she was there, and Gabrielle snapped, “Roll over and let me cut the ropes.” He did, and she saw the rope burns on his neck from being dragged by the noose; they were open and a mixture of blood and rain dripped from them. She hacked away at the ropes, they wouldn’t cut, was the knife blade too dull? And then a body flew past.

  —

  BRAUTIGAN DISPOSED of Nantee quickly. He got one hand on the Apache’s head, another on his neck, and twisted. There was a snap as loud as a gunshot, and Nantee went limp. To preserve as much fighting space as possible, Brautigan threw the dead man away, flinging him almost directly over Gabrielle where she crouched by McLendon. All right, now the girl, Brautigan thought, because the skinny one in glasses still stood frozen with fear. Then from the corner of his eye Brautigan detected more motion, the first Indian, the one who ran his horse into him, was up again. He turned to kill this one.

  —

  GOYATHLAY CHARGED Brautigan with the intent of attacking, but changed his mind in mid-stride after he saw Nantee die and be tossed aside. Up close, this big white man exuded evil, he was surely possessed by some bad spirit—faced with such supernatural power, even Cochise would have retreated. Goyathlay’s horse was too crippled to ride, but Nantee’s stood nearby and Goyathlay spun, nearly slipping, and leaped on its back. He dug his heels into the animal’s ribs and it ran hard toward the cut, the horse had its own instinct for the best getaway.