Her back landed on firm soil but her head slammed into a mud hole. She spotted Cook and Gregg out of the corner of her eye. She quickly closed her eyes hoping to convince them that she was unconscious.
“I got the girl,” shouted Gregg. “You grab the boy.”
“Got him.” Cook jumped out and took hold of Bart's arm. The tracker had strength and Bart winced as his foot strained in the stirrup against the pressure.
Bart felt his only hope was to ride. “Go, Topper,” yelled Bart. His horse burst forward, dragging Paul Cook for thirty feet. The tough tracker held on tight and Bart sank lower and lower to his left to increase the pressure on Cook’s grip with his right arm. At thirty feet a root grabbed Cook's left foot. Cook winced in pain and released his grip on Sheridan.
Thoughts of helping Donna Kelly filled Bart Sheridan's mind. He touched his six-shooter, of little use against the rifles of the two Scrum men. His heart sank knowing he could do nothing. Had Donna been able to escape? How well did she know the area?
Bart pushed the horse to its limit despite the winding trail.
Al Gregg raised his Winchester and fired off two round. This caught the attention of Ron Ward and Once Dunn who were casually riding to the Cochran ranch.
“It's trouble,” Ward said, “and it's coming from where Bart and Donna were riding.”
Their strong horses quickly bought Ward and Dunn to the spot of the shooting. Donna Kelly's horse stood quietly in a small clearing nearby. A few small footprints, clearly those of Donna, showed on the wet ground near the outline of where she fell. Two sets of larger prints were in the same area. Three sets of horse tracks led away from the area. One set at high speed. The boot prints of the man walking back to the other were staggering but clear.
Ward wore a grave look. “I suspect the two Scrum hands took Donna. I'm guessing Bart got away.”
Once shook his head. “We should never have let them go on their own.”
“It's bad. I think Scrum is desperate, too desperate to think clearly. If he harms Donna it'll be the last thing he does.”
The two friends steered their mounts down the narrower path. They moved quickly despite the overhanging branches and stumps. Twice they jumped fallen logs without slowing down. The path of the two riders turned northeast and followed a growingly steep cliff alongside a river.
“Easy now,” whispered Ward. “Too fast around one of these bends and we could face a wall of flying lead.”
The path remained unoccupied for the next quarter mile. Around the next bend Ward's hand shot up signaling Once Dunn to stop. Ward and Dunn dismounted and tied their horses to some shrubs.
Keeping low, they peeked around the corner. They saw the two Scrum hands looking up the face of a cliff on the opposite side from the river. Donna Kelly hung from rocks jutting out of the cliff, her feet just out of the grasp of the men.
“Get down from there,” shouted Gregg. “Heck, why don't we just shoot her?”
“Don't want to draw more attention to ourselves,” replied the experienced tracker. “She likes this cliff so much, when we get our hands on her we'll take her to the top and make sure she has a fall.”
Gregg cackled like a witch. “I like that. I sure do.”
“She's trying to climb, Ron. What's the move?” Once Dunn's voice was barely a whisper.
“Their attention is on Donna. Let's move,” replied an equally quiet Ward.
With guns drawn, Ward and Dunn moved slowly along the trail, keeping close to the thin shadow at the bottom of the cliff.
“Your time on Earth is done, lady,” said Cook. “Just come on down before we shoot you where you’re at.”
Donna again looked at Cook and Gregg. Her eye moved down the trail and caught sight of Ward and Dunn moving closer. She returned her focus to Cook and Gregg so she didn't give away the position of Ward and Dunn. “All right. Don't shoot, I'm coming down.” Donna turned sideways, solidifying the position of her right foot on the thin rock jutting out of the cliff. She bent her right knee so the two men ten feet below her thought she was about to take a step down.
Without warning she pushed off with all the power she could with her right leg. Both Scrum hands gasped as Donna Kelly's body sailed towards them, her arms spreading at the last second. Her forearms crashed into the faces of the two men.
Paul Cook, a powerfully built man, staggered backwards a couple steps, but stayed on his feet. His friend Gregg lost his balance and fell backwards. He and Donna Kelly tumbled down the bank leading to the fast flowing, deep river below.
Gregg and Kelly rolled over rocks and low brush growing out of the bank. Two-thirds of the way down Donna grabbed some brush as she rolled over it. The strain on her arms was nearly unbearable but she held on.
Gregg rolled to the water's edge, his legs in the water. He stopped himself by digging his fingers into the muddy soil. “Why you no good troublemaker. You almost killed me. I can't swim.” Gregg gripped the handle of his six-shooter and pulled it out of the holster. He aimed the weapon towards Donna Kelly. “Only a low-down skunk shoots a defenceless woman.” Ron Ward's calm voice floated down from the trail.
Gregg snarled. “You're getting yours, mister.” Gregg's gun fired twice at Ward as he jumped onto the slope and slid down the bank sitting up. The bullets sailed well over Ward's head.
Ward held both his Colts as he slid down the hill. Halfway down the slope he dug the heels of his boots into the damp soil. This brought him to a halt.
Again Gregg fired. This time the lead sang as it shot past Ward's face. Ward waited no more and fired. Both bullets hit Gregg in the forehead sending him flopping backwards into the river, his body lifeless. The body's silent trip down the river ended at a dead tree jammed in the river bottom.
Ron slid the rest of the way down the slope and embraced Donna. “Are you all right?”
“I am now that you're here.” Donna kissed Ron.
Ron and Donna grabbed tree branches as they climbed up the embankment. Near the top Ron pointed to Once Dunn and Paul Cook. “Looks like Once has had enough of that big tracker.”
Dunn and Cook squared off on a wider part of the trail, circling each other with fist at the ready.
Cook wore his usual serious face. “You might be big, mister, but I make a habit of winning.” With lightning-like speed Cook stepped forward and slammed two quick lefts onto Dunn's face. Dunn absorbed the solid punches, his eyes never leaving his opponent. The bigger man stepped backwards.
“Seems you're not as stupid as you look,” Cook told Dunn. “You back away and I won't hurt you no more.”
Cook had just finished his sentence when Once Dunn struck. Dunn dashed forward like a striking cougar, his right hand a blur as it plowed into Cook's stomach. He followed it up with a short left to Cook's cheek. Dunn smoothly stepped back again. He kept his fists up and his concentration solid.
“I'll give you that one.” Blood trickled out of Cook's mouth. He spat on the ground. “Yes, I'll give you that one.”
The two exchanged short punches designed to measure distance more than cause damage. Cook's foot slipped off a rock and his body sank to the left. Once Dunn moved in but found a fist closing in on his jaw. He swept it aside with the palm of his right hand but a short right caught him in the left ear. Dunn absorbed the punch and slammed three lefts squarely on Cook's nose. Blood poured out and Cook staggered.
Once Dunn stepped backwards onto slightly higher ground. Cook had faked that he lost balance once. Dunn felt no urge to get fooled again. As Dunn had thought, Cook was faking and struck quickly.
The smaller man bolted forward and wrapped his powerful arms around Dunn's waist and tried to drag the bigger man to the ground.
Dunn kept his legs spread and the men remained upright. His vice-like hand gripped Cook's neck and pushed his head back as his other hand pounded punches onto Cook's face.
Cook absorbed over a dozen blows before his knees buckled and he fell to the ground, his face a bloody mess. Dunn grabbed Coo
k's gun from his holster and emptied it. He tossed it in the air and it landed in the river with a splash. “Can't have a skunk like you shoot us in the back as we leave.”
Ron and Donna joined Once Dunn standing over the beaten Paul Cook. The Scrum hand wiped some of the blood from his face and staggered to his feet.
Ward walked right up to Cook and pointed at the body in the river. “All right, here's what we’ll do. You carry the body of that coward back to Scrum and tell him that this isn't over.”
“I'll look after Al's body, he was a friend of mine,” Cook's words were barely discernible through his swollen lips. Still, the tough man managed a smile. “You're a fool, Ward. You've got the better of Scrum a couple times but he always wins in the long run.”
Cook staggered down the trail to the gentler slope above Al Gregg's body. He dragged his friend out of the water and dropped him on the bank. He stared in the direction of the deep area of the river that held his six-shooter. He shook his head and picked up Gregg. He walked around the bend of the river towards their horses.
Chapter Eleven
Once took a drink from his canteen. “That Scrum is a might stubborn.”
“He’s that. I reckon we have to go after his strength in a big way,” said Ward.
“His bankroll.”
“His bankroll. And I think that big poker game at Willow Crossing is the place.”
The smaller ranchers banded together to keep an eye on their stock and property. Scum could strike at any time. Strategically placed lookouts manned by the ranchers watched the herd that had been temporarily combined on the Sheridan spread. The ranch had the greenest grass and the best positions to watch the cattle.
Meanwhile, Ron and Once mapped out their plan. They knew Scrum would be wary and have plenty of men with him. Ron Ward, skilled at cards, expected trouble when Scrum sees him sit down at the table.
The following Friday gamblers from nearby towns gathered in the town of Willow Crossing. The poker game was a good size for the area but not big enough to draw players from the bigger centres. Barry Scrum had won the tournament three of the last four years. The year he lost, the young cowhand who walked away with the two thousand dollar winnings disappeared on his way back to the ranch where he worked.
Ward and Dunn’s horses clomped across the sturdy wooden bridge leading to Willow Crossing. Their fine horses drew attention from the growing crowd on Main Street.
Ron glanced straight up at the sun. “Midday. Time for a little shuteye before the game starts.”
At the livery stable an energetic teenage boy ran out to greet them. He smiled when he saw the horses. “Those are nice animals. Can I look after them for you?”
Ward and Dunn eased themselves onto the ground and handed the reigns to the boy.
“I'll give them a nice rubdown and a good feed of oats,” said the boy.
Ward tossed him a silver dollar.
The young boy beamed. “Obliged, but that's too much.”
“Keep it. Just keep the saddles on the railing of the stall of the horse.” Ward knew they might need a fast getaway if trouble showed up in big numbers.
“Will do, and thanks.”
Dunn checked them into the hotel and Ward slipped across the street for a few minutes. The two friends treated themselves to a shave and bath at the barbershop. They then went into their rooms and slept for an hour. Both men checked their weapons. Ward wore his usual pair of six-shooters. Dunn cleaned his two Colts. One he wore in a holster, the other in his belt. The big man pulled a sawed off shotgun and a belt of shells out of a canvas bag. The weapon looked spotless but he still cleaned it thoroughly.
Ward and Dunn went to the hotel dining room and ate rare steaks and potatoes.
Ron looked out the window facing the street. “The crowd is building. We best get over to the saloon and get into the game.”
They paid for the meal and walked out onto the bustling boardwalk. With plenty of strangers in town the two men didn't stand out. As they neared the saloon Once Dunn double-checked that his weapons were in place, including the shotgun resting in the leather scabbard on his back.
Ron Ward grabbed the swinging saloon doors. His famous smile grew as he swung open the doors and walked in.
The two friends squeezed into the crowded bar where music from the upright piano battled with the din of voices. The beer-stained bar stretched most of the way across the back of the room. Above the bar half a dozen hotel room doors sat behind the railing of a balcony.
The bartender poured whiskey into lines of glasses as the scantily clad waitresses serving the drinks tried to keep the thirsty patrons happy.
To Ward’s left a red velvet rope encircled a large poker table surrounded by eight chairs. A handmade but neatly printed sign promoted the high-stakes game starting in thirty minutes. Behind the bar a sign listed six players who had signed up and left the two thousand dollars stake. Ward picked up his whiskey and circled the poker table. Small pieces of paper on some of the chairs had the names of the registered participants. A sheet of paper on one of the worn wooden chairs carried Scrum’s name. Ward circled twice, slowly the second time, bending over a couple times.
Four men without a drink in their hand but twin guns in their holsters encircled a table in the corner beside the door. Ward stood unnoticed in the crowd of people edging towards the bar. Between the heads of the shuffling crowd he caught a glimpse of Barry Scrum sitting with a drink in his hand.
Beside him sat Paul Cook. The four gunmen at the table next to Scrum never looked at their boss. Their job was to watch for trouble and deal with it.
“Last chance to sign up for the big game,” shouted the bartender.
A short man wearing a flat-topped hat waved his hand. “I’m in.”
The horde cleared a narrow path and the man moved up to the bar with a handful of bills.
“Let’s get me one of those open seats,” Ward told Dunn.
Ward followed the other man and waited behind him at the bar. The bartender counted the short man's stakes and wrote Terrance Gallagher on the board. “Terrance Gallagher is in the game.”
Ward dropped a leather pouch on the bar. “I’ll take that last seat.”
The bartender opened the pouch and leafed through the bundle of one hundred dollar bills. “You got the last seat mister. What’s your name?”
“I’m called Ward, Ron Ward.”
The bartender, facing the board, hesitated when he heard the name. He wrote the name. He turned directly towards Barry Scrum and shouted in a loud voice. “Ron Ward has the final seat. The game is on.”
“Here we go,” whispered Dunn.
Ward nodded and grinned. “Let’s get a drink first.”
A murmur swept through the crowd. Paul Cook stood up and looked around. He scowled and pointed at Ward and Dunn.
Barry Scrum waved Cook back to his chair. “I’ll look after Ron Ward in the way I do best, at a poker table.”
“Boss,” replied Cook. “That hombre has been getting his way and has a reputation as a good card player. Are you sure you can beat him?”
Scrum pulled a knife out of his boot and held it against Cook’s side, the table blocking the view of the action from the people in the bar. “Never question me. You got that?”
“Sure, Boss. Sure.”
Scrum smoothly returned the knife to the boot. “I want you and the others to keep that big friend of his away from the table.”
“Will do.” Cook stood up and walked with the group of men from the next table and took up positions around part of the velvet rope.
Ward leaned close to his friend. “Once, this should be fun.”
“I'll get to my place,” replied Dunn. The big man moved closer to the cordoned off poker table. He set himself down at a small table at the far end of the bar. He had a good view of all of the Scrum gunmen and noted the rifle leaning against the wall near a slim man with a scowl on his face and a pistol on the table in front of him.
Ward watched se
veral men take seats at the poker table. He calmly walked over and took the seat assigned to him, a seat directly across from Scrum’s empty chair. Ward shook hands with everyone at the table. Scrum stood a half way across the room studying the situation.
A couple of the players seemed calm and collected; professional players.
Three others had nervous demeanours and tired clothes. He had seen cowhands trying for the big score before and these three fit the mould. The players waited for Scrum to take his seat.
Ron looked up as the crowd of people separated and Barry Scrum slowly walked towards the table. The clock had passed the official start time of three o'clock. The bartender let it slide. It was the most powerful man in the area that held things up.
Several men shook Scrum's hand as he moved past. A few of the players grew irritated as the heavy rancher stopped several times and carried on conversations. Ward smiled knowing Scrum simply wanted to distract the players from their game.
Finally Scrum squeezed into his chair. “Well, come on now. Let's deal.” The bullying irritated the same two players that were annoyed by Scrum's delaying the game. He greeted nobody. Ron Ward continued talking to the player next to him, a man that he had happened to have played against in the past. “I hear that's a tough game up in Casper, Nick. Well done.” Ron shook hands with the player. “Good luck to you, sir.”
“And to you, Ron.”
“Are we here to talk or play.”
Scrum snarled. “Dealer, what are you waiting for?”
Ron slowly looked up at Scrum and smiled. Scrum grunted. Still, Ron saw a confidence in Scrum's eyes. He decided to watch the game extra closely.
The dealer unwrapped fresh cards and smoothly shuffled them. Everyone threw in a red chip as an ante. The cards flew and the players gathered and sorted them. Ward kept his on the table and watched the others as they studied their hands.
A dark-haired cowhand with a cigar in his mouth slightly raised an eyebrow. To Ward's right another cowhand, this one sporting a long beard, set his cards on the table a little too fast and formed a neat pile.
Raining Trouble Page 11
