Backed to the Wall

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Storm brewing,” Jack said. He tested the wind with his nose. “Powerful one if I know my storms.”

  “The last thing we need,” Tucker said as he limped about, “is a storm to mask Aurand and Philo riding into our trap.”

  Tucker stashed his canteen under a rock so a stray bullet wouldn’t hit it and made his final check around their ambush site. They had the high ground looking down onto prairie on three sides. Only their left flank—devoid of rocks or boulders—could not be observed well. That area dipped down into a long ravine they couldn’t see into.

  Below their position lay a meandering creek bed. Like so many other creek beds in the Badlands, this one had last seen water some years ago. But the approaching storm with its gong of thunder every few seconds and lightning that streaked across the sky and occasionally touched down would soon change that. Tucker prayed that the storm would come after Aurand and Philo made their move.

  Tucker closed his eyes and rubbed a headache away. He almost welcomed the pain that kept his thoughts from his leg. And from Lorna. This had been the longest ten days he could recollect. He’d been on trails longer scouting for the army. But the only thing at stake then was finding the enemy. Or not. He had spent the last ten days wondering if Blue Boy would come after Tucker or continue down the Great Wall with Lorna. Had he gambled wrong? He hoped not, and he hoped the Indians wouldn’t be all the way into the Badlands before he realized his folly.

  Jack drummed the tree trunk with his fingers, their long-ago signal that danger approached. Tucker froze and followed Jack’s gaze. A rider approaching fast kicked up a cloud of dust a hundred yards away heading between the boulders.

  Tucker eased himself beside Jack and both men shouldered their rifles. “Lone rider,” Jack breathed. “Riding that grulla a whole lot harder than he should in this heat.”

  Tucker squinted through the rising heat waves that distorted horse and rider. They were still indistinct shapes, but the grulla looked like Aurand’s horse. Tucker made out the shape of the Montana Peak Aurand always wore pulled down and shading his eyes. “He’s riding here like he knows just where we are,” Jack said, “And wants a fight.” He turned to Tucker. “You don’t have to fight Aurand, you know.”

  “I’m no fool.” Tucker knelt on his good leg. “But I’m no coward, either. If it was just him and me, I’d pass on it. But with Lorna out there . . . well, this gunfire will surely bring Blue Boy.”

  “If he’s within earshot,” Jack said, and rested his rifle over a rock.

  “Hold your fire until he’s close. We’ll only get one clean shot, and we’d better make it good.”

  “Only thing that worries me is, where’s Philo?” Jack said.

  Tucker lowered the rifle from his shoulder. Philo would never abandon Aurand—the man was as loyal as a stray hound, even if he was a scoundrel. As Tucker rubbed the mirage away from his eyes and concentrated on the rider coming in fast, he realized he was far larger than Aurand.

  As the horse neared, the rider looked up for a brief moment, and Tucker saw Philo spurring Aurand’s grulla. “That’s not Aurand!” Tucker yelled at Jack. He turned toward the deep ravine when a voice called out, “Hold it now.” Aurand stepped from the gully with a pistol in each hand. “You fellers put those rifles down on the ground. Real slow.”

  They laid their guns down, and Tucker turned to where he could watch Philo riding into their ambush site. He wore Aurand’s floppy hat, and he stripped it off as he reined his horse to a stop beside him. Philo clambered down from the grulla and ran to stand beside Aurand. “That worked just like you figured.”

  Aurand smiled and waved his pistol at Tucker and Jack. “Shuck those horse pistols. Careful like, so I don’t have to shoot you before I want to.”

  Jack dropped his gun first, while Tucker was slower in unhooking Jess’s gun belt. Aurand spoke to them, but a clap of thunder drowned him out. “I said kick those rifles over thisaway.”

  Jack nudged his rifle toward Aurand with his boot. He bent to pick up the rifle, when an arrow flew just over his shoulder and bounced off a boulder in front of him. Another twang of a bowstring, and Philo ran for cover as an arrow skidded off his holster. He dove for cover just as two Indians broke from the ravine. One notched and shot his arrows faster than the other Indian fired his rifle. Aurand hip-shot both guns at once, and the small warrior—almost effeminate in appearance—dropped his bow, his elbow shattered—and scurried for the safety of the ravine.

  Tucker dove for his six-gun, snatched it, and rolled away as an arrow dug a deep furrow in the dirt inches from where he’d stood. He fired two quick shots at a figure that melted behind some rocks.

  Thunder clapped as loudly as their gunshots, and Tucker looked around for Jack. He lay behind a boulder with an arrow sticking out of his foot. A painful grimace creased his face, but he held his gun ready to shoot anything that moved.

  A sharp crack of thunder disoriented Tucker for the briefest moment, then a bullet grazed his neck. Sticky blood oozed down his chest, mixed with rain that began as the shooter ran out of the ravine. Tucker looked up at the largest Indian he’d ever seen.

  He’d finally met Blue Boy.

  Instantly, the legend heard over campfires and the fears of men telling tales welled up inside Tucker, and he froze, immobile, as the Lakota raised his rifle. Things turned slowly for Tucker; Blue Boy took aim. His knuckles whitened on the trigger. At the last minute, Blue Boy swung his rifle Jack’s way. He ducked behind a boulder as Blue Boy’s round kicked up dust beside him.

  Another crack of thunder brought Tucker around. He fired as he rolled behind Jack’s boulder, the pain in Tucker’s leg returning in spades. He leaned his back against the rock and opened the loading gate. He peeked around and watched for Indians as he shucked the spent cartridges and thumbed fresh ones in. “How’s the foot?”

  “How the hell would you feel if you had an arrow stuck out of your boot?”

  Tucker quick-peeked around cover then pulled back. “I saw only three Indians.”

  “But they’re in a better position than us.” Aurand skidded in the dirt beside Tucker and waved his hand at Philo, who ran hunched over and nosedived behind the boulder. A bullet hit the dirt and drove rock fragments into Tucker’s cheek. He looked over at Aurand, and for a moment their differences were forgotten in their mutual desire for survival.

  “That young one took a good hit,” Jack said. “The one with the bow.”

  Aurand peeked around the rocks. “I shot him yesterday. I figured he’d be worm food by now.”

  “Apparently not,” Tucker said. “Still leaves three, and it’s just a matter of time before they work their way to the top of that ledge”—Tucker pointed across the clearing with his pistol to high rocks overlooking their position—“and get a clear view of us. Then all they gotta’ do is start firing. If they don’t hit us directly, they might get lucky, and a ricochet might get any one of us.”

  Silence. Except for the rain that started in earnest and the thunder that threatened to break eardrums, there was silence. “Think they left?” Aurand asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “You’re the Indian expert here,” Aurand said. “You tell me.”

  “If he won’t, I will,” Philo said. “They’re out there, all right. Just waiting for us to make a mistake. Then—” He drew his finger across his throat.

  “Somebody’s got to draw their fire long enough for us to move to better cover over there.” Aurand pointed to a large boulder with a higher vantage point. “Someone quick.”

  Tucker grabbed his leg. “I would if I could, but I’m not up to running. And Jack,” Tucker said, nodding to him, “still has an arrow stuck in his foot. You can damn well bet he’ll be no sprinter.”

  “Leaves only the two of us,” Aurand said.

  “Us?” Philo said. “Hell, if you don’t notice I can barely walk fast let alone run.” He jiggled his sizeable belly. “If I go out there I’ll get—” Philo stopped, and the colo
r drained from his face as if the torrent of rain were washing the blood right out of his florid jowls. “I’ll get killed.”

  Aurand held his gun on Philo. “Well, I’m sure not going. And Tucker’s right—all Jack can do is hobble. I’ll be damned if some Indian’s going to kill Tucker for me.” He grinned. “That leaves you, Philo. Besides, you got those new fancy boots from the store in Cowtown that’ll help you run. Now get ready.”

  “I’m not going—”

  Aurand cocked his pistol and jammed it into Philo’s side. “You’ll have a better chance with them than with me.” He bent to Tucker and yelled over the sound of the storm. “When Philo runs out there guns-a-blazing, you’d better help Jack to that bunch of boulders ’cause he don’t look like he’s doing so good.”

  “I’ll do all right,” Jack said.

  Tucker straightened and helped Jack stand. He draped an arm around Tucker’s shoulders. “And just where the hell will you be?”

  “I’m going to lay down as much firepower as I can,” Aurand answered. “And hope to keep their heads down. With their concentration on Philo, it just might work.” He tapped Philo on the side of the head with the barrel of his gun. “When I say so, hobble like the wind, old man.”

  “You son-of-a—”

  “Now!” Aurand shoved Philo hard. He stumbled, lost his balance, and caught himself. He zigzagged as well as he could across the clearing while he fired wildly in the Indians’ direction. Tucker half-ran, half-dragged Jack to the safety of the large boulder when thunder mixed with gun shots echoed off the rocks and spires. Lightning struck the ground close enough that the hairs on Tucker’s neck stood at attention. And just before he and Jack dropped behind the boulder, he saw Philo jerk spasmodically as bullets impacted his chest, his back.

  “Where the hell’s Aurand?” Jack blurted, his teeth clenched against pain.

  Tucker caught his breath and peeked around the boulder. The top of Aurand’s hat just stuck up from the rock they had just left. “He didn’t run with us. Guess he figured we’d get lucky and take out those Indians.”

  Rifle rounds hit the ground in front of them, and Tucker searched where they came from. The young Indian’s bloody arm dangled helplessly, yet he still rested a rifle across a clump of sagebrush. “I make that forty yards.”

  Jack chanced a look. “More like fifty.”

  Tucker looked at Jess’s rifle being rained upon in the clearing, and he cursed Aurand.

  The Indian shot two more slow, deliberate shots. The rounds kicked up dirt as he walked his rounds in on them. Tucker lay on the ground and rested his gun hand on a large rock. Fifty yards. He’d shot that distance at small game. But that was with his own gun. This was Jess Hammond’s. Still, it was the same make. Same caliber.

  Tucker cocked the hammer and picked up the sights. He brushed rain water out of his eyes and ran his finger through his hair to get it off his face.

  Another shot. Rock splinters drove into Tucker’s cheek.

  He took out the trigger slack.

  Exhaled.

  Tickled the trigger. Twice. Three times, thumbing the hammer back until the gun was empty.

  A .44 round hit the warrior high chest. He slumped over the bush, still clutching his rifle.

  Blue Boy ran toward their boulder, and Jack shot at him. The bullets kicked up mud behind Blue Boy as he disappeared behind some rocks.

  “Give me some .44s,” Tucker yelled at Jack. “I’m empty.”

  Jack rolled onto his side and fished into his pocket. He fumbled and dropped the cartridges in the mud. As Tucker clawed at them, an Indian rushed him. Tucker realized he’d never load his gun in time, and he dropped the rounds in the mud. He faced the Indian as a knife blade sliced across Tucker’s shoulder. The Indian moved in, but Tucker lashed out with a right cross that caught the Indian on the jaw and drove him back.

  Tucker drew Jess’s Bowie and crouched to meet his attacker. It was the one who’d ambushed him, the one he’d shot two days ago. He circled Tucker when he noticed his bad leg. He grinned wide, even though one arm hung in a sling of . . . a woman’s petticoat?

  He flicked out his blade. Tucker stumbled back. But not before the Indian’s blade cut a shallow furrow through his shirt and across his stomach.

  The Indian circled. Tucker stumbled to keep up while thunder drowned out the sounds of battle behind him, and lightning lit up the storm-dark sky.

  Tucker feinted to his right. The Indian—short and stocky, with far less reach than Tucker—thrust his knife at Tucker’s gut. He threw a hard right that caught the Indian on the nose. He stood blinking for a moment, trying to focus on Tucker, when Tucker took a step closer and plunged the blade to the hilt in the Lakota’s stomach. He shuddered and grabbed onto Tucker’s hand. Tucker ripped the blade upward and pushed the dead Indian off his knife. He fell face up as rain water washed the blood from his dying eyes.

  Tucker stood for a moment looking at his enemy. He had died an honorable death, but one that Tucker had no time to pay respect to as he became aware that Jack’s firing had stopped. Tucker turned to the sound of hoofbeats fading fast as Blue Boy rode away. His horse kicked up huge clumps of mud, and Jack raised his Henry. Tucker knocked the rifle away, and the shot went wild. “Why the hell you do that?” Jack said. “It was my last round.”

  “He can’t lead me to Lorna if he’s dead.” Tucker staggered to his horse when a bullet kicked up mud between his legs.

  “I said stop right there,” Aurand yelled above the sound of the storm.

  Tucker favored his bad leg as he turned and faced Aurand, who leveled one of his guns at Tucker’s belly, the other still holstered.

  “You going to shoot me now, in cold blood? Is that how it’s going to be, Aurand?”

  Aurand wiped water from his face. “Kick Jack’s rifle out of the way.”

  “I’m empty anyway,” Jack said between clenched teeth. He looked up at Tucker. “I’m all right. Just do what you gotta’ do.”

  “Step over here in the clearing, Tuck.”

  Tucker walked to where Aurand stood, feet apart, prepared for a fight.

  “Now you holster that gun slow,” Aurand said. “I don’t want it be said that Aurand Forester murdered Tucker Ashley in cold blood.”

  Tucker holstered the gun and eyed the .44 cartridges Jack gave him still buried in the mud twenty yards away. “Lorna’s out there,” he shouted over the storm. “And Blue Boy’s the only one who knows where she is. If I don’t follow him now . . . in this rain there’ll be no tracks for me to follow.”

  “I couldn’t care less about her,” Aurand said. “Turn around and face me, or I’ll shoot you where you stand. We’ve jawed enough.”

  “I’m empty.” Tucker pointed to the other side of the clearing. “My cartridges are in the mud over there.”

  “Then get them. And be mighty careful when you turn around. I want to see that pistol holstered when you do.”

  Tucker stumbled to where he’d dropped the cartridges and kept Aurand in his peripheral vision. “Who was that roustabout Philo robbed and murdered?” Tucker shouted over his shoulder.

  “Just some slob unlucky enough to be passed out where Philo could spot him. I’d say I was sorry we pinned it on you, but I’m not.”

  Tucker gambled that Aurand wanted to brag to those who might listen after this day that he had faced Tucker Ashley in a fair fight. He gambled that Aurand wouldn’t back-shoot him, and he kept him talking.

  He bent to the muddy rounds. He wiped them on his wet shirt as he stumbled farther away from Aurand. Another stumble, another few feet. Tucker estimated he was now twenty-five yards from Aurand. An unheard of distance for the marshal. A normal distance for Tucker.

  He wiped the mud off the shells and blew water off them before slowly feeding them into the cylinders. He holstered, feeling how Jess’s gun rode in the leather. Jess had been no gunnie—the Remington sat too far into the holster for Tucker’s liking. It would slow his draw even more. The only advantage h
e had was Aurand himself. Tucker knew how Aurand concealed a .36 pepperbox in an inside pocket, one that his opponents never expected. It was quick but suited to gut-shoot a man at arm’s length instead of halfway across this clearing.

  Tucker looked skyward. The rain pelted his face, and he opened his mouth. He let the water run down his parched throat, and he drank deeply of the rain-fresh air. A Shoshoni shaman had once told him that a man feels life the fullest right before death. Tucker thought of that as he raised his hands and faced Aurand.

  Aurand smiled and holstered his Smith and Wesson. “I’ll even keep my hands off my guns.” Aurand’s hand snaked inside his vest.

  Twenty-five yards, Tucker thought, maybe more. Too far for Aurand’s pocket pistol. He realized it, too, and started walking toward Tucker. “This is going to pleasure me, ol’ pard, seeing you gut-shot—”

  Tucker grabbed for his gun.

  Aurand did, too, and beat Tucker’s draw by a heartbeat. Aurand’s hand came away clutching his little four-barreled gun, and he fired. His bullets cut furrows into the mud ten feet in front of Tucker. Aurand threw his hide-out gun in the mud and drew his Smith and Wesson.

  Tucker bladed himself to make a smaller target when Aurand’s next round plowed into the mud at Tucker’s feet.

  Tucker brought both hands up and picked up his sights.

  He took up trigger slack.

  Aurand fired.

  Tucker’s gun jumped in his hand.

  Aurand’s bullet creased Tucker’s shirt.

  Tucker’s.44 hit Aurand center chest with a dull thud heard even over the noise of the storm.

  Aurand stood motionless, dead although he didn’t know it yet. His pistol drooped as he clutched his chest. He sank to his knees and cursed Tucker as he walked towards him. Aurand’s gurgling death throes sickened Tucker, as they always did when he killed a man. Aurand sucked in his last breath and fell face up, the rail forever pelting his lifeless eyes.

  “Some shot,” Jack called to him. “But I would have gotten it off quicker.”