The other men quickly dismounted and sought cover behind nearby boulders.
Following a mile back, Breckenridge and Pate reined in their horses and sought cover themselves. “Ambush,” Jonesy whispered. As he spoke, there was an exchange of fire from rifles and handguns. “He’s got himself a bird’s-eye view and can keep them pinned down until their ammunition runs out. Whoever he is, he’s right smart about what he’s doing.”
“I’ve got a good idea who he is,” Clay said. Another volley of gunfire erupted.
As the day wore on, the shooting became less frequent. The sniper held the upper hand and was being careful not to waste bullets. Below, his targets were virtual hostages, crouched in hiding.
Finally, Wilson yelled out, “I got nothing but time for waiting, so let’s all get comfortable. If we’re still here when it gets dark, figure on me sneaking up and cutting your sorry throats one at a time.” Then he laughed.
When one of the men, running short of ammunition, attempted to run from one boulder to another, Wilson stood, aimed, and fired a shot that knocked the runner from his feet. He lay in the dust, clutching his chest, calling for help that didn’t come.
“Sounds like it’s now down to two against one,” Jonesy said.
The shooting silenced, lending an eerie quiet to things. “We’ve got us a standoff,” Clay said. “Ain’t likely the fellow up top will be leaving his spot, despite his threat to cut folks’ throats. The two left down below are most likely thinking of waiting for dark and trying to make a run for it, which ain’t gonna do them much good, seeing as how their horses have run away. Afoot, they’ll be easy targets, even with the cover of darkness.”
Occasionally, the quiet was broken by the chilling sound of Wilson’s laughter. “You boys think to bring any coffee?” he called out. “Maybe something stronger?” Then he would laugh again.
Wilson had known he was being followed for a day and a half, long before he’d settled into his hideaway atop the gorge. When the men finally came into sight, he was disappointed they were not being led by Ben Baggett. His hatred for his old boss had grown to a point where he’d concluded that everything that had gone wrong was Baggett’s fault. The disastrous raid on the Comanches, the stealing of the payday money, the killing of Will Darby, and now the deaths of those lying in the dirt below were all the cause of the cowardly, greedy, evil-as-Satan Mr. Baggett.
Top gritted his teeth, regretting that he’d not thought to kill Baggett long ago.
Lying on their stomachs beneath a clump of prickly mesquite bushes, Breckenridge and Pate considered what they should do. “We could just lie here and hope they kill each other off,” Jonesy said. “I have to say, for a man whose profession is stealing folks’ cows, the guy up top’s a pretty good shot.”
Clay agreed. “Ain’t much chance what’s left of the search party’s going to kill him. Since he doesn’t know we’re here, maybe we can use the dark to sneak up to where he’s shooting from.” He gave Jonesy a determined look. “Rest assured, I ain’t leaving here without him dead.”
* * *
* * *
A COOL BREEZE replaced the day’s heat when the sun went down. Leaving their horses behind, they slowly made their way up the ridge and began approaching the shooter from the back side. As they did so, the night had gone quiet, no more gunfire or gibberish chatter from above. After almost two hours, Breckenridge and Pate were close enough to see a lone shadowy figure leaning against a boulder, his attention fixed on the floor of the gorge.
“Want to shoot him from here or get close enough to have a chat with him ’fore we do?” said Jonesy.
“I want to see his face and know his name,” Clay answered.
They were just yards away when Jonesy’s foot slipped on a loose rock that rolled toward the edge, alerting Wilson. He turned abruptly, pointing his rifle in their direction. Before either could lift his weapon into position, he fired.
The bullet struck Pate in the shoulder, shattering bone as it entered. He went to his knees as the shooter turned and began to run. Breckenridge’s first instinct was to give chase, but he quickly chose to look after his friend instead.
Leaning close, he could see a good deal of blood but also realized the bullet had made a clear entry and exit. He removed Jonesy’s bandanna from his neck and placed it over the wound. “You’re going to be okay,” Clay said. “You’re going to be fine, just fine. . . .”
Jonesy felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. “Feels like I got hold of some real bad whiskey,” he said.
“I’ll need you to get on your feet soon as you feel up to it so we can get you back to your horse,” Clay said. In the distance, he could hear the sound of hooves clicking against the rocks as the shooter rode away.
“Did you get to see his face?”
“He’s who I expected,” Breckenridge said. “Calls himself Top Wilson.”
“Why don’t you leave me here to get some rest and go on after him?”
“I’d just as soon he have some time to worry about me coming,” Clay said.
“You think he knows who you are?”
“Not yet.”
* * *
* * *
THE SURVIVING MEMBERS of Baggett’s search party had escaped the gorge and found their horses before Clay and Jonesy could reach theirs. “We’ll get you some proper doctoring once we’re back to Tascosa,” he said. “Just bear with it and stay with me.”
Pate did the best he could, suffering the pain of the jostling ride in silence. After the first day, however, his head began to sway and his eyes rolled. Fearing he would fall from his horse, Clay climbed on behind him and led his own.
Riding two to a saddle slowed their progress even more.
Jonesy was unconscious and Clay’s eyes were blurred from lack of sleep when the dim lights of Tascosa finally appeared on the horizon.
The moment Madge saw Clay enter the saloon, Pate’s arm across his shoulder, she began ringing her bell furiously. “We’ll be closing early tonight,” she shouted out to the handful of customers. When those at one of the poker tables protested, she pulled her shotgun from behind the bar and pointed it in their direction. “Go,” she said. “Now.”
She helped Clay lift Pate onto the bar and began ripping away his shirt. Dried blood was all over his clothing. “Oh, my Lord,” she said as she brushed Jonesy’s hair from his face and gave him sips of water. “Is he gonna die?”
“I think it’s not as bad as it appears,” Clay said. “The bullet went through, and he’s got movement in his arm.”
“I’ve got very little in the way of medicine here in the bar,” she said. “Go over to the livery and tell Eli what’s happened and ask that he bring whatever he’s got.”
When Rayburn and Breckenridge returned, Madge was bathing Pate’s wound with a hot towel and had propped up his head on a pillow she’d brought from her bedroom. She looked as if she had been crying.
“How far has he been riding in this condition?” Rayburn asked.
“Too far,” Clay said.
“I suggest you get out a bottle of whiskey,” the livery owner told Madge. “I’ll be needing to sew a couple of stitches to close up the bullet hole so there’ll be less opportunity for infection. I’d just as soon he wasn’t sober while I’m doing so.”
He pulled a needle and a length of fishing line from his vest pocket and looked over at Breckenridge. “It works for horses and cows,” Eli said. “Besides, it’s all I got at the moment.”
An hour later, Jonesy was awake, sitting on the bar and offering to buy a round of drinks for everyone in the house. “Ain’t nobody but us here,” Clay chided.
Jonesy, feeling tipsy, laughed. “That’s my cause for being so generous.” His laughter was quickly replaced by a grimace as a jolt of pain shot through his shoulder.
The wound was patched and lathered in salve. A fresh bandage
wound from beneath one arm and over the opposite shoulder. Rayburn injected him with a small dose of the tranquilizer he’d earlier used to calm Bootsy’s horse before tending to its bad tooth.
“He’ll soon be sleeping,” Eli said. “I think he’s going to be okay. Seems to be a tough ol’ bird.”
They lifted Pate from the bar and took him upstairs to Madge’s bed. He was snoring loudly before they could even remove his bloody boots.
Clay gave Madge a weary smile. “I much appreciate you taking him in,” he said. “Any of that whiskey left?”
They moved a lantern to one of the tables and sat as Breckenridge described the events that had taken place in the gorge.
Madge was silent, a troubled look on her face. It was Rayburn who spoke up after Clay had finished telling his story. “This isn’t over, you know,” he said.
“I’m going to see to it,” Clay replied.
Madge got to her feet, leaving her whiskey glass untouched. “I’d best go clean up the bar and check on Mr. Pate,” she said.
* * *
* * *
TOP WILSON COULDN’T remember the last time he’d slept. He’d ridden until daylight, making sure no one was following, and had finally stopped near a small tree-sheltered spring. After he and his horse drank their fill, he removed his boots and socks and bathed his tired feet in the cool, clear water.
Though his empty stomach and sun-blistered face were distractions, he tried to focus. He was pleased with the way he’d held off Baggett’s men in the gorge, disappointed only that he’d not killed them all. And who were the other two who arrived later, sneaking up on his back side? What purpose did they have being there? With any luck one of them was now dead.
He tried to think what he’d do next, but his mind wandered. One thing he did know: He badly needed a new horse. His was more exhausted than he was. Since he had plenty of money and no reason to steal—unless absolutely necessary—his best bet was to find a trail-driving crew headed north. They always had extra horses, most of them young and fit. He was prepared to offer a handsome price if they tried to strike a hard bargain.
He stretched out on the grass, watching as his horse grazed. His eyelids fluttered, and soon he was asleep, dreaming.
In the dream, he was back in the canyon, the barrel of his Peacemaker pressed against the temple of Ben Baggett, who was begging for his life.
CHAPTER TWENTY
AFTER TWO DAYS in the saloon, Jonesy felt good enough to return to his tent. His arm was in a sling, and he still moved slowly, but was in good spirits. “I’m right glad to be out of there,” he told Clay. “That’s the longest I ever spent in the bed of a woman wasn’t my wife.”
He was fast tiring of the constant attention. Clay was never far away, always wanting to know if there was anything he could do. He arrived several times daily with coffee and tended the bandages. Madge brought soup and muffins. A bottle of whiskey sat near his bed.
“Time I get up and about,” he said when he finally emerged. Clay argued but to no avail. “I ain’t figuring on riding broncos or chopping no wood,” Jonesy said, “but I feel a need for fresh air, sunshine, and making myself somehow useful.”
With Breckenridge at his side, Pate slowly walked up to the corral, then down toward the laundry. It was good to be moving around, feeling the blood pumping through his weakened body.
“We need to do some talking,” he said as they made their way back toward the livery. “You and me both know I’m pretty worthless in this state. And I’m aware of you wanting to get on with the business you come to tend. What worries me is you trying to do it by yourself.”
Clay gently placed a hand on his friend’s injured shoulder. “I didn’t bring you out to this godforsaken country to get you all shot up. I’m being truthful when I say I’m feeling real bad about that. The important thing for now is that you mend proper. Once that’s done, we’ll make us a new plan. We’ll go one day at a time.”
As they talked, a clatter sounded near the entrance to the stable. They walked around the corner of the building to see a buckboard pulling to a stop. Holding the reins was the one-eyed man named Bootsy. Sitting next to him, a scowl on his reddened face, was Ben Baggett.
“My man here has told me of making your acquaintance,” Baggett said, not bothering to introduce himself or inquire about Pate’s injured shoulder. “If what he’s saying is true, we’re both in search of the same man. I’m of a mind we might be of use to one another.”
“And how’s that?” Clay’s question was directed at Baggett, but he was looking at Bootsy, wondering if their earlier visit had been part of a ploy to involve them in the failed attempt to chase down Top Wilson.
“I’m wondering if you’ve already attempted to make use of us to tend to your bidding,” Breckenridge continued. “If so, it got my friend here shot, something I deeply resent.”
Baggett removed his hat and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “I heard about what happened,” he said, “and had no idea you boys were involved until my folks come limping home. They didn’t even know who it was who allowed them to escape with their lives until Bootsy fessed up and guessed it was you. Part of my reason for being here is to thank you for saving my men.” He made no mention of the two who had died.
“Exactly what’s your interest in this fellow Wilson?” Clay asked.
“He’s got something that belongs to me, and I aim to get it back. I have no idea why it is you boys have need of him, but clearly you do. I’ll not poke my nose in your business, but I’ve got men who’ll ride with you and help catch him. After I get what I want, he’s yours to do with as you please.”
He replaced his hat and looked toward Bootsy. “I do have one other question. You have any cause to believe that Wilson’s accompanied by anybody else? Another of my hands has gone missing, causing me concern.”
Clay realized that Baggett was unaware his brother was dead. “Nope,” he said. “We’re looking only for Wilson.”
“Then I’ve said what I come to say. Think on my offer, and Bootsy here will be back in the morning to learn your answer.”
As they rode away, Eli Rayburn appeared from behind the livery door, where he’d been listening. “That man’s mighty desperate,” he said. “I’ve never known Ben Baggett to ask help from nobody.”
“What’s your thinking?” Clay asked Jonesy.
“Sounds to me we’ve just been offered a deal with the devil.”
Breckenridge shook his head. “Not ‘we,’” he said. “Me.”
* * *
* * *
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Bootsy was waiting outside the tent when they woke. “So we’re clear,” he said, “I made no mention to Mr. Baggett about alerting you boys to his plan the other day. Nor did I share with him that we talked about Will Darby and how you might even be his kin.
“Only reason I said anything at all was the fact he was mad enough to kill those two who returned empty-handed and told him of being ambushed. And when I say ‘kill,’ I ain’t choosing the word lightly. Wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d shot them both right where they stood.
“Here of late, things have been falling apart on him. He lost his boy, you know, then had three men die at the hands of Comanches. Then the two who Wilson bushwhacked, and Darby’s gone God knows where. My boss is a mighty distressed man.”
“So what will restore a smile to his face?”
“Take four or five men, more if you want, and go looking for Wilson. He’ll provide his best, but, truthfully, he knows his men ain’t near as smart as he’d wish once they get past stealing cows. So he’ll agree on you being in charge. I’ve volunteered to come along. We can be ready whenever you say.”
Breckenridge accepted the cup of coffee Pate handed him. “Tell your boss I need five men with some muscle and good sense. It would be good if they still had hair and their own teeth. And I’ll allow only one w
ho ain’t got both his eyes. We’ll leave out from here at daylight tomorrow.”
Clay avoided the saloon that evening, hoping not to have to try to justify his actions to Madge. Pate’s sullen response to the idea was enough to deal with. “Teaming up with a crowd of no-’count outlaws is liable to get you killed,” he argued. “Wait until I’m better, and we’ll go take care of this ourselves.” Clay had never heard his friend curse so much.
The fact that Madge didn’t stop by the tent spoke loudly about her feelings on the matter.
* * *
* * *
AT DAWN BAGGETT’S men were waiting, each wearing a sidearm. Rifles, in their scabbards, hung from their saddles. They looked like a hurriedly-thrown-together sheriff’s posse. Bootsy called off the names of the men—Davey, Tip-Toe, Bear, and Geno—which Breckenridge showed no interest in remembering. Pate, attempting to lighten the previous evening’s mood, leaned close to his friend and whispered, “I’ll say a prayer you don’t get your throat cut in your sleep.”
As they rode from town, Clay and Bootsy agreed they would travel directly to the site of the ambush and begin the search there. They would be looking for a needle in a haystack.
When they reached the gorge, they found two saddled horses running free, foraging on wild berries and the low-hanging beans on mesquite trees. One had an open wound on its flank where it had been attacked by coyotes or wolves. Lying side by side near one of the nearby boulders were the mangled remains of the two men Wilson had killed. Animals and blowflies had made the bodies unrecognizable.
“We’ll stop and see what’s left of them gets a proper burying and the horses tended to,” Clay said. “Collect their weapons as well.”
The Breckenridge Boys Page 12
