by Brett Waring
The horse whinnied, ran on a few yards and stopped, looking back with ears pricked curiously. The mules brayed and pulled to one side of the trail, stopping with drooping heads.
A little blood oozed from under Nash’s body, mixing with the dust.
Eight – Hijack
Shell Shannon hadn’t been idle in the cave since Nash had left.
He was bound solidly hand and foot and had to admit that Nash sure knew how to hogtie a man and truss him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. But one thing Shannon was grateful for, was that the Wells Fargo man hadn’t used the manacles on his hands.
The cave floor was rough rock and hardpacked earth. The walls were reasonably smooth, mainly sandstone—too soft for what Shannon had in mind. He managed to get himself to a sitting position and looked around. Outside was brilliant sunshine, and so was his getaway mount, tethered somewhere in a hidden draw.
Once he was free, he would soon shake the dust of wherever it was. But first he had to get free ...
That was the problem. Sunlight reflected to almost every corner of the cave but, before investigating more closely, Shannon rolled over to the blankets and bedrolls, worked at them awkwardly and pulled them apart. He spent a half hour on the tedious job, and cursed when he came up with nothing he could use to cut his bonds. Nash had been too smart for him: he had taken all cooking utensils and metal objects with him. There was nothing that Shannon could use.
The killer resigned himself to the fact then began rolling about the cave. He moved back into the deeper part of the cave, but the walls narrowed sharply and soon he had to turn on his back and very gradually work his way into the section.
But he was in luck. For almost all the way back, in the darkest corner, he found a deep vein of granite. And one of the blocks had a natural, sharp-angled corner, serrated in sections where chips had come away over the years.
It took him twenty minutes just to get into position and he had to stoop so that the bonds on his wrists were on a level with the jagged section of rock. The roof was only four or five feet high in the section which meant he had to keep himself hunched almost double. The strain was tremendous but he turned his mind to other things in the Indian way while he kept sawing away at the rawhide, knowing he was scraping the skin off his wrists but closing his mind to the pain and the blood.
He knew he could take hours before he was free. But he also knew that he would have no notion of the passage of time as long as he concentrated on thinking about something else—like Nash’s plan for rescuing that kidnapped gal. It would likely work, all right. He was a smart, ruthless hombre, that Nash. Too bad he had to be on the side of law and order.
Shannon figured he and Nash would make a mighty fine team otherwise ...
Meanwhile, the rock sawed relentlessly into the iron-hard, stretched rawhide.
Largo Brewster snatched the plate of food from the dirty hands of Oro the Indian squaw and grunted by way of thanks. The Indian woman kept her face impassive as always and shuffled back to squat by the cooking fire.
Coley, Brick Sawtell, Lafe and Waco were already seated eating the antelope stew the squaw had made for them. Huddled on her buffalo robe in the rear of the cave crouched Mary Lee—looking like a frightened animal.
Her hair was in tangles and matted with filth, including a little of her own blood. Her face and body were bruised and scratched and scraped raw in places. Her clothes were torn and barely adequate to cover her.
She had a wild, haunted look about her eyes, and only vaguely resembled the lithe, beautiful, immaculately dressed young woman who had been taken by Brewster’s bunch at the Diamond F—how long ago now? She couldn’t even remember. It seemed like years. She seemed to have been living in a sort of daze in that cave with the outlaws, and had no notion of the passage of time.
Life had become a sort of hell that she lived through from day to day, hour to hour—and sometimes minute to minute. Largo Brewster had given her to his men. She still shuddered when she recalled that terrible day. Although she couldn’t recollect just how long ago it was, she vividly recalled every terrifying detail as the men had advanced upon her then had shoved and jostled her about between them, laughing as they tore at her clothing and pulled at her hair. And then the laughs had stopped and their tight faces had taken on animal-like looks as they had reached for her again—for pleasure.
A short sob escaped from Mary Lee’s lips as she crouched on her buffalo robe, watching the others wolf their food. They would throw her the scraps, give her the plates to wash and, if she wanted to eat, she would have to lick the dregs. It seemed that Brewster wanted to humiliate her and degrade her as much as possible.
She knew that he was really taking out his hate for her father on her, and she had determined to endure whatever he handed out.
But her resolve was weakening as day after day went by with no let-up, no sign of the ransom being delivered, only the attentions of the outlaws becoming more and more brutal ...
She knew she was holding on tightly to the remnants of her very sanity.
“Twenty-fifth tomorrow,” Brewster announced suddenly as he ate. “Delivery day.”
“Mebbe,” growled Brick Sawtell, his busted hand still wrapped in filthy, ragged bandages.
Brewster snapped his head up. “He’ll deliver.”
“Sure as hell hope so,” Sawtell said. “He’s had plenty of time to get the gold.”
“Ain’t so easy,” Brewster said. “Hundred thousand’s a lot of bullion. He had to turn that spread of his—or what we left of it—into gold.” He chuckled. “I bet he’s been sweatin’ blood.”
“Why’d you make it the twenty-fifth, Largo?” asked Coley Knight. “I mean, it seems a helluva while since we hit the Diamond F ...”
“One, to give him time to sweat.” Brewster’s face and voice hardened as he added. “Two, because it was the twenty-fifth of July when Farrell strung me up.”
No one said anything. They all knew Brewster was a little crazy when it came to remembering the agonizing time he had spent swinging at the end of a rope.
“Coley, you go watch the trail first thing tomorrow and you leave directions how to reach Tomahawk once you sight this hombre Nash bringin’ in the mules. Then you fall in behind him an’ make sure he ain’t got any back-up comin’ along. The rest of us’ll be waitin’ in the canyon.”
Coley nodded and swiveled his eyes towards the young girl.
“Well, if I gotta spend all day in that hot sun tomorrow, I guess I’m entitled to a little comfort tonight, huh?” he asked.
Brewster casually waved. “Help yourself. ’Fact, all of you better help yourselves tonight. ’Cause tomorrow she’s bein’ returned to her old man.”
Largo Brewster chuckled then began to laugh and finally he threw back his head and let it roar out uncontrollably.
It had an insane sound to it and Mary Lee covered her ears with her hands.
Shannon figured it had taken him too long to cut through the rawhide bonds. He was just pulling off the last of the ties around his ankles, when he heard a whinny. He snapped up his head.
Nash’s mount, he thought. The man had returned from Cheyenne.
He hurriedly shucked the last ties and grabbed a small, fist sized rock then crawled towards the entrance. His feet were throbbing with returning blood flow and he knew they wouldn’t support his weight. Still, if he could get in one solid blow at Nash’s skull with the rock ...
Shannon stopped as the bushes parted and Nash rode right into the cave. The outlaw stared as he saw the Wells Fargo man lying along the mount’s back. Then Nash slid from the saddle and crashed onto his side on the floor of the cave. He groaned and Shannon saw his shirt was soaked with blood.
Still holding the rock ready for action, Shannon moved quickly as he snatched the Colt from Nash’s holster. The Wells Fargo man looked at him with pain-filled eyes, and made no attempt to stop him. Shannon grinned as he sat back, holding the six-shooter.
“Well, well, well.”<
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“Bush-whacked,” Nash said, baring his teeth. “They—they took the mules.”
Shannon frowned. “Hijacked the gold?”
Nash nodded slowly.
“Guess that makes Coe a hundred grand richer.”
“Coe?”
“I figure he must’ve followed us back here and listened. He waited for me to collect the bullion—then bushwhacked me along the trail.”
“You said ‘they’ took it.”
“Yeah. I played possum after I got hit. Fact was I couldn’t move my right arm: I’d fallen on it and it was pinned under me. I knew if I blinked, I’d be dead, so I had to stay still. Coe and two others came down from the rim of the draw, grabbed the mules with the packs and rode out. After a spell, I was able to get onto my bronc and he brought me back ...” Nash set his agonized gaze on the convict. “Last I’ll see of you, I guess.”
“You guess right, mister,” Shannon said, standing to test his ankles: he grinned when it was obvious they would support him. “Well, so long, Nash.”
“Hey! You can’t leave me like this.”
“Want to bet?” Shannon said and started for the entrance, reaching for the reins of Nash’s mount. Suddenly, he noticed the paper-wrapped parcel strapped to the cantle. He took it down and unwrapped it, revealing the big Remington-Hepworth Number Three Improved rifle. Shannon worked the lever. The action slid down and open without a sound and he squinted down the bore.
He closed the action and flipped up the peep-sight attached to the drop of the butt behind the breech. He hefted the rifle for balance and shook his head admiringly.
“Man, this is some weapon. With this, I could shoot the eye out of a brush turkey at half a mile.”
“That’s why I got it for you. Because of its accuracy. The cartridges are high velocity, all hand-loaded, the projectiles jacketed with copper. They’ll penetrate three inches of wood.”
Shannon grinned. “Reckon I’ll take it with me. I’ll leave you the Winchester. And your six-gun. You’ll find your bronc tethered somewheres outside in the canyon, or maybe beyond. I’ll take the mount you got for me last night.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t want to be had up for hoss-stealin’ as well as everythin’ else.”
“Shannon, you can’t do this,” Nash yelled, gritting his teeth against the pain of his side. “If that gold ain’t delivered to Tomahawk tomorrow, Mary Lee’s dead. You can’t ride out now.”
Shannon was very sober as he said, “Watch me,” and ripped open Nash’s saddlebags, taking out the man’s spare set of clothes. He dressed swiftly, then picked up the big Remington and the ammunition and, without glancing at the wounded man again, left the cave, taking Nash’s Winchester and six-gun.
Nash tried to crawl after him but the pain knifed through him and he bared his teeth, biting back a string of curses as his horse was led outside.
Then, weakened from loss of blood, he sprawled on the cave floor, his head spinning.
Shannon had not gone far before he started thinking about the gold. A hundred thousand dollars ...
Three men had hi-jacked it, Nash had said. Only three. The odds were reasonable. He glanced at the sky. The late afternoon sun was angling steeply towards the west.
It would be three hours yet to darkness. Time enough to look for tracks ...
What was it Nash had said? Coe and two others came down from the rim of the draw ….
Shannon knew which draw Nash must have meant. They had come in that way to the cave. He had only seen it in the half light just before dawn but he could find his way to it again, he reckoned.
Nodding, he turned the horse and put it up a slope, then rode down through a patch of brush, weaved through a field of rocks and came out on the rim of the draw. He rode slowly along the rim, seeing the blotch of blood in the dust where Nash had been shot out of the saddle.
He scouted around and found where the bushwhackers had lain in wait, seeing the numerous cigarette butts strewn about. Shannon searched a little more and discovered the place where they had tethered their mounts. He made particular note of the different shoe tracks, then found a way down into the draw itself.
Riding to where Nash had fallen, Shannon dismounted then spotted the marks in the grass verge left by the laden mules. Shannon smiled as he scratched at his beard.
The tracks would be easy to follow, especially as Coe and his pards hadn’t bothered to cover them in any way.
Shannon mounted up and started out of the draw, reading sign from the saddle. Three horses. Just as Nash had said. Three horses, and two mules—weighed down with a hundred-thousand dollars in gold bullion.
With a little luck, Shannon figured those mules would soon be jogging along behind his own mount. He was wondering if he should have killed Nash, instead of just leaving him. He knew the Wells Fargo man’s reputation and that Nash would never rest until he tracked down that gold—and the man who had taken it. Maybe he should have put a bullet through Nash’s head before riding out. But he figured he owed the man something: at least he had busted him out of prison. Anyway, it was too late to worry about that. Nash might or might not make it back to Cheyenne with that wound. It was no skin off Shannon’s nose either way.
A hundred grand in gold could buy a man the best hiding place in the world ...
Just on sundown, Shannon knew he was getting close to the bushwhackers. The tracks were fresher and he had overhauled them because they had been forced to travel much slower with the heavily-laden mules.
There was still enough light for him to see the tracks which led into a small canyon in the foothills of the Cougars. Shannon dismounted, took down the Remington-Hepworth rifle and slipped ten cartridges into his shirt pockets. He ground-hitched his mount and started up a slope, figuring from the direction of the tracks just where they were headed.
He moved like a cat, lithely and silently, even on the slope that was covered in loose scree, placing his feet carefully and working his toes in between the rocks then finding solid ground before putting any weight on his foot.
He came out on a ledge that had a line of egg-shaped boulders along its rim. Barely panting from his exertions, Shannon crouched behind a rock and saw the distant flames of a small campfire below and maybe six hundred yards down the canyon.
Smoke rose in a column as a man knelt beside the fire, slicing sowbelly. Two other men were squatting beside oblong boxes that had obviously been off-loaded from the two mules grazing nearby. The horses were tethered a little way off on a lusher patch.
The men at the boxes were levering up the lids and, even as Shannon watched, one man let out a yell that reached his ears—a wild, high-pitched whoop of excitement.
There was a flash of yellow from the open box and Shannon bared his teeth, quickly sucking in his breath.
He unlimbered the Remington, worked the lever to open the action and slid in the first cartridge, the copper jacket gleaming as the dying sun was reflected from its polished surface.
He laid out two spare cartridges on a bandanna on top of the rock. Three men, three bullets. He made no allowances for a miss.
Shannon settled himself comfortably on the edge, hearing the yells and wild laughter of the men below as they examined the gold bars then stacked some of them on the ground beside the boxes. He flipped up the peep sight, centered the blade foresight then laid it over one of the men as he stood up, cradling a gold bar.
The Remington had very little recoil as Shannon stroked the trigger—and sent the first bullet screaming towards its target with a distinctive crack.
The man holding the bar seemed to leap into the air and, feet clear of the ground, travel halfway across the campsite before falling in an awkward heap against the stacked saddles.
The other two were on their feet and reaching for their guns before the echoes of the rifle shot had died away. The second man suddenly jerked back as if he had leapt in that direction to avoid the lunge of a snake. He did a complete somersault and sprawled, unmoving, on his face.
The
third man, Coe, started to run, gun in hand. He turned and triggered wildly up at the ledge, four shots, the echoes slapping back from the canyon walls. The lead ricocheted from some boulders fifty yards from Shannon’s position.
Unhurriedly, he slid the third cartridge home and closed the Remington’s action. He set the peep and foresight on the running Coe as the man leapt for his horse and squeezed off the shot.
The horse reared, whickering wildly, and Coe clung to its plunging body for a few seconds before his hold weakened and he crashed to the ground. The horse continued to rear and plunge then it crashed onto its side, with legs thrashing wildy. Shannon knew what had happened. The copper-jacketed slug had gone clear through Coe and had taken the horse somewhere in the neck.
The killer clambered back down the slope, taking his time. He knew Coe and his pards weren’t going anywhere.
And the gold was waiting for him, reflecting the light of the campfire as it burned away, sowbelly sizzling to a crisp in the skillet.
Clay Nash had a small fire going in the cave.
He had crawled outside before the sun had gone down and collected twigs and branches from dead bushes. He didn’t try to look for his horse. It would be out there someplace: Shannon would leave it as he had said. But he knew he would never make the ride to Cheyenne.
So he figured he’d treat his wound himself.
But the lead was still somewhere inside his body. He could feel the ridge that roughly followed the track of a rib and the tender, throbbing lump halfway towards his spine where he figured the bullet had come to rest. Until he got that out, he wasn’t going to be able to do much. It was pressing on a nerve—and every movement was agony.
He would have to be almost a contortionist to reach it with his knife. He had no choice but to try. So he built up the fire and set the coffee pot at the edge of the flames, without any grinds. At least Shannon had left him the saddle canteen of water, to which was attached a heavy leather strap. Nash removed the strap, folded it twice, and clamped it between his teeth. It would be something solid to bite on, he figured.
