Backed to the Wall

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “You would have, and then you would have had to kill those peckerwoods. I don’t have time to smooth things out after another one of your boners. Just stay here and sleep it off. We need to keep a low profile until we can get off this thing.”

  Aurand walked out the door and headed for the main deck. He took the stairs and nearly fell over when the shuddering boat hit a snag.

  “Fancy seeing you here, Marshal.” The man, appearing even broader from the back in his buckskins, turned and smiled. Simon Cady brushed long, gray hair out of his face as he stepped away from the railing. “What’s the odds of you and me being on the same boat together?”

  “None.” The bounty hunter caused hairs to ripple along Aurand’s neck, and he rested his hand on his pepperbox hidden inside his vest. “What are you doing here?”

  “Same’s you,” Cady said. His hand went inside his buckskins, and Aurand drew his gun.

  Cady came away with a lady’s paisley hairbrush and began to brush his hair. “Even you wouldn’t shoot a man for brushing his hair.”

  “Why are you here?” Aurand holstered his gun.

  “Like I said, same reason as you—hunting people. Except with me it’s that little lady who came up missing. You still after that Tucker Ashley feller?”

  Aurand nodded. “Why do you think Lorna Moore’s to be found on this boat?”

  “I don’t.” Cady pocketed his hairbrush and stepped closer to Aurand. “But the only way for a lady to leave that river town is on one of these contraptions. Surely you don’t object to me hitching a ride to the end of the line, maybe as far as Sioux City. I understand she’s from there.”

  “Thought you were convinced she was travelling with Tucker Ashley.”

  Cady winked. “I’ve had what’s called an epiphany. I figure she went back home. That Maynard feller at the mercantile said she probably had a belly full of her western adventure.”

  “Good. Then stay away from me and my deputies.”

  Cady put his hands up as if he were surrendering. “Don’t worry about me, Marshal. I make my living finding people wanted by the law.” He bent closer. “Unless there’s been a reward posted for your escapee.”

  “By the time I could get the poster printed, Tucker Ashley will be leaking blood all over his mule’s saddle.”

  Aurand turned on his heels, keeping Cady in his peripheral vision. He walked the row of cheaply built, thin cabins, their wicker doors flapping in time with the wind created by the paddle dipping into the water. He looked a final time down the narrow walkway. Simon Cady still leaned over the railing, and he looked upstream as he smoked his pipe.

  Aurand walked into his room and froze. Jess Hammond lay on his back on the bunk. His floppy, felt hat was pulled over his eyes, and his long duster—with the Wells Fargo logo on the front showing where Jess had stolen it—brushed the floor.

  “Jesus, Jess.” Aurand cracked the door and peeked out. Cady still admired the view from the railing.

  Aurand shut the door and propped a chair against it. “What the hell you doing here?”

  “Nice to see you, too.” Jess stood and stretched. He had Aurand by several inches and forty pounds. “I got your wire. What’s the problem?”

  “Ever hear of Simon Cady?”

  Jess’s face blanched. “Of course I have. Why?”

  “He’s on board. Not thirty yards down that walkway.”

  Jess slipped the thong from the hammer of his gun. “He here for me?”

  “Why? You done something you shouldn’t have?”

  Jess remained silent.

  “Wanted poster says a man fitting your description killed a couple folks and robbed a stage up Montana way.”

  “That your jurisdiction?”

  “You know it’s not.”

  “Then do like you always do and don’t worry about it.” He looked past Aurand as if expecting the door to burst open when Cady entered. “What’s he here for if not for me?”

  “Lorna Moore went missing.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Runs the mercantile with her father’s partner. There’s a reward out for her. And he smells blood in the water.”

  “How much blood?”

  “Thousand dollars.”

  Jess whistled. “Now that pisses me off.”

  “How so?”

  “Do you know how much the reward was for that . . . stage robber in Montana?”

  “Wells Fargo put it at five hundred dollars.”

  “Like I said, that’s embarrassing.”

  “Not as embarrassing as riding into town dead over the saddle of your horse. To be safe, stay in here while Cady’s on board.”

  “What—stay cooped in this stuffy room?”

  “Remember your corpse-over-the-horse thing?”

  “I’ll stay,” Jess said. “Just find me some food. I’m hungry.”

  “The purser says we’re to take on wood in an hour,” Aurand said. “Figure that’ll give us time to scare up a campfire. I packed some side pork and eggs from the mercantile. I’ll bring you something then.”

  “Good, ’cause I’m starved enough I could eat a horse.”

  Aurand snapped his fingers. “That’s what I need to check on.”

  By the time Aurand left the room, Simon Cady was gone from the railing. Aurand started aft of the boiler when the loud bell on the wheelhouse clanged. A deckhand ran to a long pole along the railing and thrust it into the water. When it hit bottom he yelled to the captain, “Three fathoms stern” and replaced the pole in its holder.

  “I’m looking for my deputy, Con Leigh.”

  The deckhand, a young man in his teens with a pockmarked face and one eye cocked to the side like he’d been slapped once too often, shook his head. “Don’t know him, Mister. Ask the first mate.”

  Aurand walked to the stout, balding man clutching a pair of hog chains. “Looking for a deputy of mine—Con Leigh. Twenty, I think. Brown hair. Wiry.”

  “He was tending those horses of yourn,” the first mate said. “But that was an hour ago.”

  Aurand walked down to the cargo hatch, where their horses were tied to rings in the ceiling. “You down there, Con?”

  “I’m over here.”

  Aurand descended the narrow stairs to the cargo hold, the odor of wet feed and fresh horse dung pungent. It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dark. When they did, he spotted Con lying atop bales of straw in a horse stall. His sweat-stained hat ringed the end of a pitchfork handle stuck in a bale beside him. Their horses had been loaded by a roustabout, and Aurand didn’t like the arrangement. Each stall contained two horses packed tighter than he liked. But at least he and his deputies weren’t alone, as the roustabout had stuffed a donkey in with a large chestnut gelding in a stall next to theirs. A horse hung its head over the stall to sniff Aurand, the white blaze looking like it winked at him. “Any sign of Red?”

  “Not yet.” Con reached inside his shirt and came away with a small pouch. He opened the drawstring and began building a smoke. “We won’t see him, either, unless he wants us to. But you can bet he has Tucker’s direction pretty well worked out by now.”

  “I don’t think I’d do that.”

  “Do what?” Con asked.

  “Light that smoke while you’re sitting on bales of straw.”

  “Good point,” Con said and stowed his tobacco pouch away. He stood and put his hat on. “You always been scared of him?”

  “Who?”

  “Tucker Ashley,” Con answered.

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Oh?” Con cocked his head as he looked at Aurand. “If I was a betting man, I’d say you’re frightened to death of the prospect of facing Tucker Ashley out here. In the open, where he’s got the advantage.”

  Aurand felt rage rise within him. Connie, or, as he demanded to be called, Con, worked on and off for Aurand as a deputy when Aurand needed an extra gun hand. The young man had made it his mission to get into as many gun fights as he coul
d in his short twenty years. And he’d always come out the winner. “I have half a notion—”

  “Make sure it’s just half a notion.” Con grinned.

  Aurand looked coldly at the smaller man and breathed deeply to still his anger. Aurand was a match for anyone in the territory, either with six-guns or rifles at long range. But even he was no match for Con Leigh. And the latter was the only man who derived more pleasure in killing than even Philo Brown or Jess Hammond. As eighteen men could attest to, if they weren’t dead and buried by Con’s gun.

  At last Con’s wide smile broke the tension. “Relax. I was just breaking the monotony. I got no beef with you, as long as I collect my pay. I just want you to know that I know—everyone gets scared now and again.” He walked to Aurand and laid his hand on his shoulder. “And when the time comes, I’ll go against Ashley for you.”

  Aurand slapped his hand away. “The hell you will! I’ve waited five years for a chance at Tucker Ashley, and I damned sure ain’t going to have anyone take that from me.”

  Con backed away. “All right, Boss. He’s yours. But”—a dreamy look came over his ruddy face—“it would look good for the man who killed someone like Tucker Ashley.”

  Aurand became aware that his hands shook. Just thinking and talking of fighting Tucker, he had become scared. For the first time, he even admitted it to himself. But his hatred would overcome his fear when the time came, and the memories of Tucker beating him nearly to death at Ft. Laramie five years ago would make up for his fear. It didn’t even matter that, in killing Tucker, Aurand’s reputation would grow into legend. He just wanted Tucker in his sights.

  Aurand started out of the cargo hold for fresh air when he paused. That he wanted Tucker in front of him was a certainty. His death would make Aurand’s life complete. But what—just what—would happen if Tucker’s ride into Lakota country brought about his death at the hands of the Sioux? For Aurand that was the worst scenario, and he prayed the Indians would not find Tucker before he did.

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  “Kick me in the butt if I ever let my guard down like this again.” Tucker studied the hill just above where they stood beside their mounts. “You able to move real fast-like if you got a need?”

  “Just give the word,” Jack answered, “and I’ll move quick, shaking knees and all.”

  “You got your Henry ready?”

  “It’s on this side of the saddle. Your rifle?”

  Tucker looked at the Sharps in the scabbard hanging off the far side of the mule, thinking it might as well be in the next territory. “If I reach for it, the shooting will be over before I can get to it. We’ll have to make do.”

  “Making do is when you substitute an ingredient for another in your corn bread recipe.” Jack’s voice broke. “I hope your plan is more than just make do.”

  “Me, too.” Tucker gauged how far he thought the men were up the hill. “I can just make out some black hair blowing through that main clump of junipers. I figure at least one of them’s there.” Tucker eased his pistol out of the holster. “When I yell, you dive for cover and start slinging lead up there.”

  “When?”

  “Now!” Tucker slapped Ben’s rump and dove for the cover of a shallow impression in the ground. A split second later Jack slapped his pony as a bullet hit the saddle and glanced off. Tucker frantically searched the ground above them and saw the puff of smoke halfway up the hillside behind the junipers. “Sixty yards’d be my guess,” he shouted at Jack, who had fired four quick shots before ducking back behind a dead cottonwood. Another shot kicked up dirt in front of Tucker, sending grass and dirt into his eyes. “Behind that big juniper.”

  “I see it,” Jack yelled back. “But I can’t see the shooters.”

  “They’re there. Just shoot into the bushes as quick as you can.”

  Jack fired three rounds uphill, giving Tucker barely enough time to study the terrain. Thirty yards to one side of the attackers ran a shallow arroyo, dried hard in the hot season, making a trench deep enough to conceal a crawling man. “Give me some cover on three . . . two . . . one . . .” Tucker sprang for the arroyo as Jack fired three more quick shots. Tucker hit the ground and landed onto a cactus. He stifled a scream of pain as he lay on his back breathing hard. He expected shots to come his way, but none did.

  By Tucker’s calculation, Jack had four rounds left before he needed to reload, and he waited until Jack fired again before sticking his head up out of the gully. If he made it to the top undetected, he would be within thirty yards of the shooters. Thirty yards was on the long side for a horse pistol. But Tucker carried a Remington, with its stiff top strap, for the accuracy it provided. And he was different from the fast-draw artists he’d met, like Aurand, who seemed to beg to get their names etched on a boot-hill marker. He had taken running game farther than this. Still, he did not know how many men waited for him topside.

  The steady rhythm of firing from the shooters on the hill intensified. Slugs bore deep furrows in the ground in front of Jack, quick shots, from what sounded like a Henry, and a Spencer rifle.

  Tucker suddenly became aware that Jack’s rifle was silent: he was out of ammunition, and the only other rifle rounds Jack had were in his saddlebags on his pony somewhere over the next hill.

  Tucker chanced a quick peek over the depression. Two Indians, one on each side of the junipers, fired from the safety of the thick bushes. Jack was pinned down, with only his Colt to wing rounds their way. Soon they would realize Jack was under-gunned, and they would start moving laterally to get a bead on him. Jack moved some yards from the cottonwood trunk and fired wildly at the attackers. His bullets hit the dirt harmlessly ten yards in front of the Indians.

  Tucker took another calming breath before crawling up the arroyo. The cactus spines drove deep into his legs, and he forced himself to concentrate on stealth. He kept his head down, instead trusting his ears to tell him how far he’d crawled and where the Indians were in relation to his position.

  Silence.

  Tucker chanced another peek over the gully. They had stopped firing. So had Jack, and Tucker knew he was out of ammunition for his pistol as well.

  The Indians stood. They shouldered their rifles as they started down the hillside. Tucker imagined the thoughts going through Jack’s mind as he drew his knife. Somehow, Tucker didn’t believe the Indians would get close enough to let Jack use it.

  The two—one older warrior and another who could be his son—advanced down the hill with bad intentions and smiles on their faces. Jack gathered his legs beneath him as they approached. Tucker leaned out of the arroyo and braced his hand against the ground. At twenty yards from Jack, they stopped and talked amongst themselves. As if they’d forgotten about Tucker.

  He estimated they were thirty yards from where he lay, and he lined his Remington’s crude sights on the chest of the farther Indian. Tucker let out his breath and took up slack on the trigger as both attackers raised their rifles toward where Jack crouched.

  Tucker’s first shot caught the young brave high chest, the .44 slug drilling through him. He looked down at the bloody hole a moment before he dropped to his knees, dead before he hit the ground.

  The old Indian jerked his head around, trying to find his attacker, when his gaze locked onto Tucker. The Indian swung his rifle in a wide arc toward the gully.

  Tucker snapped a shot. His round grazed the warrior’s shoulder. The old man’s legs buckled, and, by the time he’d recovered, Tucker had ducked back into the safety of the arroyo.

  The old man shot four quick times, each shot kicking up dirt where Tucker had been a moment before. When he popped up ten yards farther along the gully, Tucker took just enough time to find his sights. He fired two quick shots, the bullets appearing as twin bloody holes in the old man’s chest. The Indian tried feebly to operate the lever of his Henry as he dropped onto his back. Tucker stood and hobbled toward the old man. He kicked the rifle away as Jack ran up the hill. When he saw the Ind
ian was helpless, he sheathed his Bowie.

  Tucker knelt beside the dying man. “Ta’ku en’icyapi he? What is your name?”

  The old man tried to focus on Tucker through eyes glazing over.

  “What is this warrior’s name so all will know he died a brave Lakota?” Jack asked again.

  “Paints His Horses,” the old man sputtered between gasps.

  “I know this name,” Tucker said.

  Frothy blood smeared the Indian’s lips.

  “The woman?” Tucker asked. “Has Blue Boy hurt her?”

  Paints His Horses began to speak when his death gurgles intensified. He coughed blood over Tucker’s hand and forearm before going limp. Tucker closed the old man’s eyes. For whatever reason he had attacked them, the man had died like a warrior. “The Sioux believe that, when a man dies, his sicun, his guardian spirit, escorts him along the Wanagi Takanku.”

  Jack nodded. “The Spirit Road. I hope I die as bravely as this man.”

  “I hope I don’t find out any time soon,” Tucker said. “Get the other one’s gun.”

  Tucker grabbed the old man’s Henry and rooted through his pockets. He found five more shells and stuffed them in his trousers.

  “You knew this Indian?” Jack asked. He smashed the young warrior’s rifle against a rock.

  “I know the name.” Tucker sat on a rock and grabbed his knife. “He scouted for General Welch up in Ft. McKeen years back ’fore he went renegade with Blue Boy.”

  “Good warrior?”

  Tucker winced as he pulled the first cactus spine from his leg. “Blue Boy picks only the best.”

  “Just not good enough today,” Jack said.

  Tucker walked uphill past the young warrior, whose blood soaked up the prairie, to the Indians’ ponies hobbled just on the other side of the rise. Tucker approached the first horse, a paint not thirteen hands high. He spoke softly as he approached the animal, running his hand along its lathered neck. He felt the horse’s stunted but powerful hind legs as he squatted beside it. He picked up a piece of dung from the ground and crushed it between his thumb and finger. He handed it to Jack.