by Cole Shelton
“Walk!” Blake said bleakly.
“What’s it to be, Blake?” the wagon master asked. “In the back—the way Jim Cutting got it!”
“Cutting was a nosy, interferin’ fool,” snarled Damien Blake.
In desperation, Huss Whittaker plunged between the two pinto ponies, and started running into the prairie. Blake’s urgent cry rang out as one of the ponies reared and Whittaker raced on. The wagon master waded through the waist-high grass, blazing a path with his frantic legs. There was a long, terrible silence, then Huss Whittaker felt a hot shaft sink into the center of his back. Glassy-eyed, the wagon master sank to his knees, and like hounds coming in for the kill, the men closed in. But Whittaker could not see their faces, because as they stood around him, his eyelids closed like doors and he fell into that bottomless pit called death.
Seven – The Parting of the Trail
Shane Preston headed out to where he knew Whittaker should be waiting for him. He strode past the preacher’s wagon, noting with a grin that Juanita was huddled beneath her saddle blanket right beside his wooden steps. As yet she hadn’t made it to the interior of Sorenson’s canvas-covered wagon, but Shane reminded himself that there were still a couple of nights left before they reached the fort.
The gunfighter strode out of the wagon circle and mounted the slope. He halted and frowned as he saw the place where Whittaker usually sat, but couldn’t make out the wagon master’s figure.
He stalked over and stood there, his keen eyes scanning the night. The wind mocked him.
“Huss!” Shane called softly, figuring that maybe the wagon master had taken a walk around the other side of the camp. “Huss—I’ve come to relieve you!”
His only answer was the moaning breeze.
“Huss!” Shane’s voice was urgent now.
The gunfighter’s eyes searched the slope, focusing on the beaten grass leading around the circumference of the hollow. Shane dropped a hand to his black six-shooter and drew it out. He began to follow the boot prints, heading around to the far side of the camp. Shane paused as he glimpsed the trail nosing up to the crest. Thumbing back his gun hammer, Shane climbed the slope and padded along the crest to where the trail plunged into the prairie.
Cautiously, the gunfighter headed into the grass.
An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness. Shane Preston knew at once that it was a human owl.
Moving like a panther, he came upon a big patch of trampled grass, and as the hooting sounded ghost-like in the night, he glimpsed the prints of unshod hooves.
His eyes followed another trail through the grass, leading away from the flattened patch, and swiftly he trod his way down it. The tracks ended abruptly where blood was spattered over broken stalks of grass.
Shane knelt down and ran his fingers over the dark smears of sticky wetness.
He stood up and retraced his footsteps to the flat patch.
It was then that he saw the wide trail made by more than one pair of boots cutting back to the crest. Clutching his gun, he headed along the trail. A shadowy rider moved to his left, seemingly gliding through the whispering grass. Shane leveled his six-shooter, but before he could take aim, the specter melted into the void. He heard distant hooting, followed by silence.
Shane ran back to the crest, stopping where the tracks veered along the rim before dropping sharply down the slope. He headed to the place where the trail moved away at a tangent, his eyes slitting as he saw how the tracks twisted towards Blake’s wagon. The gunfighter climbed down the slope, edging through the thick grass just beyond the long canvas-topped schooner where Blake’s crew slept. He crouched down and let his eyes wander over the length of the wagon and finally drop to the steps.
Shane studied the wagon for a long moment, then began to creep towards the front end. The lean gun hawk levered himself up into the driving seat. Something terrible and sinister had happened to Huss Whittaker, and Shane figured that the answer lay in this wagon.
Slowly, he started to unthread the rawhide that held the flap in place.
He pulled out the rope and inched the flap aside.
The interior of the wagon was enclosed in darkness.
“Preston!” The soft voice came from behind him. “Toss down your gun or I’ll blow a hole right through the back of your head!”
Shane stood up on the wagon seat, freezing as he heard a rustle in the grass.
“Now!” snarled the voice.
Shane Preston slowly opened his fingers, and his notched six-shooter slithered down, bounced on the wagon seat, and spun away to drop into the clay.
“Where’s Whittaker?” Shane demanded as the beefy teamster emerged from the grass.
The interior of the wagon seemed to spring to life. A long rifle protruded between two huge crates, and Shane glimpsed the stubbled chin of Reb Morton. A shadow moved from behind another crate, and McKay cocked his six-shooter as he scrambled forward over the wagon floor.
“As you see, Preston,” Blake smiled softly. “Me and the boys have been waitin’ for you. When we saw you moseying off out there, we figured you’d find our trail back here and come and start nosin’ around.”
“Whittaker!” Shane repeated.
McKay grinned mockingly. “Well now, Whittaker happened to find out a few things just a mite before time, so we—ah—had to kill him. Ended up like Jim Cutting, you might say.”
“You bastards!” Shane Preston whispered, as he pictured his friend with a knife in his back.
“You see, Preston,” Damien Blake said casually, “Whittaker overheard Eli here arranging with a couple of our Cheyenne friends how we’re going to hand over our wagon load of rifles in exchange for their gold.”
Shane’s burning eyes stared incredulously at the gunrunner. A terrible, boiling anger began to simmer inside of him as the full impact of Blake’s cool, calculated statement struck him.
“Might as well tell you everythin’ now,” Blake shrugged. “After all, it won’t matter since you’ll all be buzzard-bait in just a real short time.”
“What sort of men are you?” Shane Preston accused, his cold eyes moving from one to the other.
“Businessmen, Preston,” Blake said simply. “All three of us are businessmen selling our goods to the highest bidder, which in this case happens to be the Cheyennes. Chief Vittorio’s paying us with gold, real yellow nuggets.”
“And after these customers of yours get their rifles?” the gunfighter pressed him. “What if they go on a rampage, killing white folks?”
“I don’t give a damn,” Blake replied bluntly. The beefy gunrunner motioned to his two companions. “Okay—you both know what you have to do.”
Morton and McKay clambered past the gunfighter and jumped down to the ground.
“Don’t worry, Preston,” Damien Blake said, “they’re only going to wake the folks up. You see, we’re aimin’ to disarm ’em and herd ’em all together so no damn fool starts shootin’ at us when we pull our wagon out.”
“And when’s that to be?” Shane demanded.
“In just a coupla minutes,” Blake told him. “The Cheyennes are out there waiting for us. Everything’s worked pretty well for us up till now, Preston. In fact, it was a damn good notion—taking a wagonful of rifles on an emigrant train! The army have been on the look-out for gunrunners, but who’d suspect three gold-seekers travelin’ west on a wagon train?”
Shane glanced inside the wagon. With all in readiness for the trade with the Indians, the attempts at concealment had been cast aside. Long crates were exposed where canvas covers had been pulled away, and Shane calculated that the wagon carried enough rifles to supply a full-scale Indian uprising.
The gunfighter looked back at the camp.
Reb Morton’s rifle had just been jabbed into Juanita’s ribs, and the ’breed girl awoke with a start. Bewildered, she obeyed the gunrunner’s command to get up and walk over to the charred remains of the campfire.
Next, Abel Sorenson walked sleepily across the ground, an inc
ongruous figure in his long nightshirt. The preacher’s white hands were held high. Old Jonah stirred and Shane had to watch helplessly as McKay’s rifle muzzle jabbed into his partner’s head. The pudgy gun hawk mouthed a curse and groped his way out of his blankets. Rubbing his red eyes, Jonah stood beside Juanita and the preacher as Reb Morton herded the Craig family out of their wagon. Carrying their crying kids, Brett and Janie Craig were shoved towards the others. Last of all, Gloria Whittaker was awakened, and the woman burst into tears as McKay coldly informed her that she was a widow. Soon all the emigrants stood in a frightened huddle, the children sobbing at this rude awakening from their night’s rest.
“Join them, Preston,” Damien Blake commanded.
The tall gunfighter climbed down, and with Blake’s gun in his back, he headed towards the others.
“Well now, folks,” Damien Blake addressed them, “Preston will probably fill you in on the details, but I’ll just say this. In a few minutes, we’re gonna do a trade with the Cheyennes. We’ve got a wagon stacked with rifles, and those renegades have enough gold to make the three of us rich. It’s as simple as that!”
The emigrants stared open-eyed at the trio of gunrunners holding six-shooters on them.
“You—you filthy buzzards!” Janie Craig whimpered, drawing her children to her.
“I reckon that was exactly what Cutting said after he found out what those crates in our wagon were holding,” Damien Blake mocked her.
“And you knifed him!” Abel Sorenson supplied.
“That’s right, Preacher,” Eli McKay complimented him sarcastically. “But don’t worry—we ain’t gonna do the same to you!”
Jonah’s eyes blazed his fury. “What’s it to be, then? Bullets for the lot of us, men, women and kids?”
“I’m not exactly sure, old goat,” McKay said insultingly. “That’ll be up to the Cheyennes.”
Janie clutched her little girl closer to her body. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s like this, ma’am,” Damien Blake smiled. “In just a few minutes we’ll be pulling our gun-wagon out to do the trade with our Indian friends, and I understand that this wagon train is first on their list for raiding. You see, no one’s gonna be alive to tell the tale once those Cheyennes lay hands on those rifles! Hang on, there’s a slight correction to that statement. Three prospectors will be riding west with a real sad story to tell. We’ll be the sole survivors of a wagon train massacre.”
“With saddlebags bulging with gold?” Shane remarked savagely.
“So once we got close to Gun Creek we did a little panning!” Blake smirked. “What’s wrong with prospectors followin’ their trade?”
“We’re wastin’ time,” Reb Morton growled.
“Listen—please,” Janie Craig implored desperately. “There are children on this wagon train!”
Blake ignored her. “Eli … the horses.”
McKay stamped away, and Damien Blake grinned at Juanita. The ’breed girl gave him an icy stare.
“Mind you, there’s just one person here I might be willing to take along with us, that’s if she’ll cooperate. Know what I mean, Juanita?”
“I’ll take my chances with the others!” she blazed hotly.
“Suit yourself,” Blake shrugged.
The settlers watched as McKay backed their team into harness. When this chore was completed, the gun-runner paced out to the corral. Standing together, the emigrants heard the thunder of McKay’s guns, followed by his wild whooping. Dust billowed into the night sky from the corral, and as McKay emptied another gun, the terrified horses plunged up the slope. The spooked animals surged to the head of the crest, raced along the rim in panic-stricken flight and disappeared.
“You’re making sure we’re sitting ducks for the Cheyennes, aren’t you?” Shane cracked.
McKay came ambling back into the camp and climbed up on the box of the gun-wagon.
“So long, folks,” Blake smirked. “Been real nice having your company on the trail.”
Still holding guns on the settlers, Blake and Morton backed to their wagon. Within seconds they had clambered aboard, and as McKay cracked the whip, the bulky prairie schooner swayed away from the camp carrying its evil cargo.
Shane cautioned the settlers about moving as Blake’s gun muzzle was still pointed their way, but in a few moments, the team had pulled the wagon to the crest.
“Oh, God!” Janie Craig whispered frantically. “We’re all going to die!”
The others raised their voices in lament.
“If we stay here like rats in a trap, we might as well start digging our graves now.” Shane Preston held up his hand to silence them. “But we ain’t sticking around. In fact, by the time those Indians come whooping down here, they’ll find an empty camp.”
Craig gaped. “But they’ve run off our horses! We can’t just walk across the prairie!”
“Sure they ran off our horses,” Shane said. “But the lead horse was my cayuse, and he won’t be taking that herd too far.”
The gunfighter stalked back to where his gun had fallen. He stooped down and picked up the cold comfort of his black six-shooter, shoving it into his holster. He could still hear the distant creak of the gun-wagon as he ran back to the frightened huddle of people in the center of the camp.
“Jonah,” he drew the oldster aside, “while I’m rounding-up Snowfire, you get these folks ready for a long ride. All they’ll be carrying is food, water, guns and ammunition. In five minutes I want them all dressed and ready.”
“Five minutes!” the old-timer gulped.
“The Cheyennes mightn’t give us much longer,” Shane snapped.
Shane Preston loped away, heading through the wagons to the slope. He reached the crest, halting as he saw the white smudge of Blake’s wagon still rolling into the night. Obviously the rendezvous was clear away from the camp, and he cursed as he imagined the scene which would take place somewhere out there on the prairie. Those renegade Cheyennes had been relatively harmless, carrying lances and ancient guns. But once in possession of modern rifles, they could set the whole frontier alight. And from what Blake had said, this wagon train of settlers was to be the first conflagration.
The gunfighter stood stock-still, his eyes searching the darkness.
He whistled long and low, giving the signal he knew Snowfire responded to. For years, the noble animal had been his constant companion, and Shane was confident that the palomino wouldn’t let him down now. He whistled again, walking farther into the waving grass. At first, only the wind answered him, but then, as Shane listened, he heard a distant whicker. The gunfighter waited tensely as the thudding of hoofs sounded from the darkness. Moments later, the white horse came trotting towards him, its magnificent mane streaming out in the wind. Behind Snowfire came another, darker shape, and Shane recognized Jonah’s aged mare lumbering out of the night. Seeing his master, Snowfire quickened its pace, snorting as it swept through the grass to the crest.
Shane remained still as Snowfire came right up to him, waiting as Tessie blundered awkwardly up to the crest.
He glanced out at the prairie and saw the shapes of other horses. These weren’t exactly thundering up to the crest, but they’d followed Snowfire back, and now they milled tentatively around in the grass.
The gunfighter looked swiftly down at the camp. Barking orders like a general, Jonah Jones was organizing the settlers at the double. Even the Craig kids were running around, filling canteens with water, and Abel Sorenson jumped like a green trooper as the old-timer rasped out a command.
“Brett!” Shane yelled out to Craig as he emerged from his wagon. “You and the preacher grab some ropes and halters. There’s horses to round up!”
The fugitive outlaw grabbed Sorenson, and together the two men loped up the slope of the hollow. Shane led Snowfire and Tessie into the camp, saddling them ready for the long trek ahead. Right in the center of the wagon square was a growing heap of guns and food, and when she’d dumped a saddle on the pile, Janie c
ame over to him.
“Our wagons,” she said. “What’s going to happen to them?”
“They’d slow us down, so they stay here,” Shane Preston told her. “Besides, a line of wagons can be seen from a helluva long way, and we have to be as inconspicuous as possible.”
“All our possessions are in the wagon,” Janie protested.
“No, ma’am,” Shane countered, “your most important possessions are your kids, and they’ll have a better chance of staying alive if we do things my way.”
“Yes, of course,” Janie conceded.
“Shane …” It was Juanita, who’d come to join them. “Tell me the truth! What sort of chance do we really have?”
Shane looked at her levelly.
“If we can make the high country before the Cheyennes hit us, a good chance. We’ll be riding over hard rock in those ranges and our trail won’t be easy for them to follow. But we’ll have to move fast.”
Even as he said this, Preacher Sorenson appeared on the rim of the hollow, struggling with two horses. Shane left the women, running up the slope to assist him. One of the horses, a big sorrel, was obviously still spooked, and the animal plunged violently. Shane seized the bridle and led the horse back down the slope.
“Can you still see the gun-wagon?” the gunfighter asked him.
Sorenson shook his head. “Nope, but we sure heard some whooping out there.”
“Those renegades probably opening up the gun-cases,” Shane muttered.
Craig topped the rise leading two more wagon-horses.
“We haven’t got time to catch any more,” Shane stated flatly as he waited for Brett Craig. “The kids and Juanita will have to ride double.”
Busy hands saddled up, tied canteens to saddle horns and filled pouches with food. The settlers worked feverishly, and suddenly they heard the sharp crackle of gunfire out on the prairie. Then guns were blazing haphazardly and Shane knew that the gun-hungry Cheyennes were trying out the cargo Blake had brought for them.
“Mount up,” Shane snapped. He stooped down by the weapon pile and handed a gun to Gloria Whittaker. She stuffed the .45 in the belt of her long riding dress. “All of you! Once those damn Indians get the smell of gunpowder, they’ll get kill-crazy.”
