Stillman winced and shook his head. They never should have tried it. The cabin no doubt belonged to Shambeau. The trapper had probably led them right to it, hoping they'd do just what they'd done.
"Well, he has them now," Stillman said to Jody, hunkered beside him. The shooting below made an angry din. Shambeau's Sharps sounded like field artillery, exploding about once every fifteen seconds, the heavy slugs plunking into the dead horses, jostling them slightly and making the two men—Falk and Milt Polly—cower like thieves.
Jody said, “Try to sneak around behind him?"
Stillman surveyed his surroundings, trying to find a way they could creep around and get on the river side of the trapper.
"Might have to wait till the sun goes down," he said. "It's pretty open down there. We could ride farther west, then circle back, but—"
He stopped when he spied movement in the corral. Falk and Polly had stood, firing their revolvers. They ran, shuffling sideways and shooting, to the cabin side of the corral. They ducked through the logs and, as Shambeau's heavy rifle kicked up dirt around them and blew widgets from the corral, they ran, returning fire, toward the cabin.
Falk paused outside the front door and raised his gun to fire. When the hammer clicked on an empty chamber, the kid cursed and pushed through the plank door. Polly was close on his heels. Shambeau's rifle exploded, and Polly gave a yell as his right leg buckled beneath him. Falk turned, pulled Polly through the door, and slammed the door behind them.
"Stupid devils," Jody breathed.
"Yeah, they're like rats in a cage now ... unless, like you said, we can work around behind him."
"By the time we did that, though," Jody said, glancing at the sun, "it might be dark."
Stillman nodded. "And he might have moved by then, too." He thought about it, sliding his eyes between the trapper's nest of rocks and the cabin. The shooting had stopped, and an eerie quiet had settled into the canyon. "We may be better wait right here for him to show himself. As long as he doesn't know we're here, he might do just that."
"After dark?"
"Probably closer to morning, when the two in the cabin have had ample chance to get good and squirrely."
Stillman tapped Jody's shoulder, and they both slid back behind the brow of the butte, hidden from view. Stillman removed his hat and ran his hands through his thick hair, adjusting the bandage.
"How's your noggin?" Jody asked.
"A mite tender."
"You really ought to see a doc about that."
"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, we're about a three-day ride from a sawbones. I'll live."
Jody studied him and smiled wanly. "Sometimes I'd swear you was Pa come to life again."
"Well, we were together a long time, me and Milk River Bill. He was the first friend I had when I came west after the war, and we stuck together through thick and thin. I reckon some of each of us rubbed off on the other." Stillman squinted his eyes at Jody and inclined his head. "I know a lot of him rubbed off on you. And that ain't necessarily a compliment."
Jody grinned, knowing it was.
"You think we'll take him alive?" he asked after a thoughtful silence.
"Shambeau?" Stillman rested his wrists on his upraised knees and thought it over, his thick hair ruffling in the breeze which cooled now as the sun sank. Toward the river Canada geese honked and quarreled. He turned to Jody. "If we can take him, I guess how we'll take him will be up to him."
"You ever run into anyone like him before?"
"Hell, I used to ride with 'em," Stillman said. He picked up a pebble and flung it side-armed down the butte. "Never had to hunt one, though. Feels funny, like I'm hunting one of my own."
They sat listening for sounds, then Stillman turned to where the horses were tied to the cottonwoods. "Maybe you better move the horses back a ways behind that next butte north there. I'll stay here and keep an eye on Shambeau."
"You got it," Jody said, stealing off down the slope while Stillman turned and peered through the notch in the butte top.
All was quiet. There was no sign of movement
When would the trapper make his move? Would he wait for good dark? Or maybe he'd wait until the Bar 7 men had rattled around in their cage for a few hours and jump them at first light tomorrow morning.
All Stillman knew for sure was that Shambeau had all the time in the world. The two men in the cabin were probably dangerously low on food and ammunition.
Several hours passed.
"Ben, I heard something."
Stillman opened his eyes, coming instantly awake. He'd dozed off after Jody had started his second watch. The sky was full of stars but faintly paling in the east
"What is it?"
"Something's moving down there, around the cabin."
Stillman scampered to peer through the notch. He scoured the valley for a full minute. Then he donned his hat and picked up his rifle. "Let's go," he whispered, moving westward along the butte, staying just below the ridgeline.
They descended the butte, stepping carefully around rocks and tree roots and came upon the corral from the east side, with the corral between them and the cabin. They hunkered down behind the knoll from which the stable had been dug, and Stillman scanned the terrain around them.
The dawn light had not yet penetrated the ravine, and all was dark. The ravine was still, as was the cabin. The men inside had had the good sense not to build a fire or light a lamp. Stiilman hadn't heard a peep from either of them all night long. Apparently, Jody hadn't, either.
All was quiet, but what was the sound Jody had heard? An animal of some kind? Or Shambeau making his move on the cabin?
The tightening of the hair on Stillman's neck told him the latter.
He heard something. It sounded like a low grumble. He heard it again, but it was louder this time—a man's voice raised in question.
Something thumped in the cabin and a man yelled, "Oh! Oh! Oh, no! Oh ... ah ... Jeee-sus!"
Stillman turned to Jody. "He must be in the cabin. You stay here."
Then he turned and ran. As he came around the front of the corral, a rifle barked. Stillman had seen the gun flash on the cabin roof. He ducked behind the corral and raised his rifle as the gunman fired again.
Stiilman heard a cry behind him. Turning to his right, he saw the silhouette of Jody on his knees, clutching his bowed head with both hands.
"I told you to stay put, damnit! You all right?"
"He just grazed my forehead," Jody said as he crawled behind a corral post.
Stillman raised his rifle again to the roof and fired, but he couldn't see what he was shooting at. The cabin door opened and the two Bar 7 men ran out, yelling and screaming as though witches were on their heels. The gun on the roof barked again, but this time the flash was directed at the men who'd run out of the cabin.
Stillman lifted the Henry and fired three quick rounds at the cabin roof, but again, he couldn't see what he was shooting at. He waited for more flashes from Shambeau's Sharps, but when none came, he called, "Falk! Polly!"
Several seconds passed before a thin, weak voice said, "It's ... Falk. Milt's dead." Stiilman looked around, trying to pick him out of the darkness. Then he saw a shadow move up close to the cabin, near the front door, where the kid must have moved to escape Shambeau's rifle.
"Where's the trapper?"
"On the roof." The kid's voice was strained, but it rose several octaves as he said, "He dropped snakes—diamondbacks—down the chimney pipe!"
A pistol barked three times. Pow! Pow! Pow!
"Falk?"
"What?"
"What're you shootin’ at?" Stillman asked.
"One of them damn sons o' devils slithered out the damn door!"
Stillman looked around, breathing shallowly so he could hear. The dawn was quiet, lightening gradually, with a breath of breeze ruffling the dew-damp grass. The stars faded. Far off, in the northern buttes, an owl called.
Stillman heard the kid whimpering almost inaudibly.<
br />
"Falk?"
"What?"
"What's the matter?"
"I'm gonna die."
Stillman licked his lips and fingered his Henry's trigger. "What makes you say that?"
" 'Cause that son of a duck's comin' for me. I can hear him. He's moving around the side of the cabin." He gave a cry and sniffed. "And... I'm all out of shells."
"Run, damnit!"
The kid's voice was shrill with fear and outrage. “I'm snakebit! My ankle's swollen up like a—"
To the kid's right, a rifle flashed and barked. Stillman brought the butt of the Henry to his cheek and fired, jacking quickly, until six empty cartridges lay around him in the grass. He lowered the rifle, seeing nothing but the vague outline of the cabin against the slowly blanching sky.
He called, "Kid?"
No answer.
Stillman turned to his right. "Jody?"
"I'm all right."
"Stay where you are, and stay alert, understand?"
Jody said he did, and Stillman fired another shot at the cabin, then ran to the cabin and pressed his back against the wall facing the corral. He shuffled sideways to the front, paused, then jerked around the corner and peered through the softening darkness before him, his finger on the Henry's trigger.
Nothing moved.
He moved forward, ducking under a window, then stumbled on something and stopped. Keeping his eyes riveted on whatever might lie before him, he crouched down, reaching out and down with his left hand, which came to rest on a man's shoulder.
He lowered his gaze, crouching. It was the kid sitting on his butt with his back against the wall, his head tilted to his shoulder. There was a bloody puddle on his chest. Stillman felt for a pulse, found none.
"Stupid damn ..." he groused, moving on.
He stopped when he heard something. It sounded like a foot lightly crunching grass. His skin rippled with goosebumps as he dropped to his knees. A dark figure jerked around the cabin's far corner. There was a flash and a roar and the instant, rotten-egg smell of burnt powder as the .56-caliber slug whistled over Stillman's head.
The lawman raised the Henry barrel with one hand and fired. He heard a grunt and the clatter of a rifle hitting the ground. Shambeau jerked back behind the cabin, and Stillman heard footfalls.
Jumping to his feet, he ran to the corner and stopped, looking back along the cabin. Something moved to his left. Swinging his gaze that way, he saw the trapper running toward the buttes silhouetted against the sky. Standing the Henry along the cabin wall, Stillman took off, running hard through a clearing and then through a Cottonwood copse, hurdling a deadfall and several branches.
He came to a cut in the buttes and, drawing his revolver, walked slowly through to a deep-cut bank. Stillman crept to the edge of the bank and looked down.
Thirty feet below lay a bend of the wide, flat Missouri, milky brown in the dawn light. On the far, rocky shore, a flock of Canada geese lifted, honking and flapping their wings. The water smelled clean and cold with mountain snowmelt
Stillman heard a rock tumbling behind him. He whipped around, his breath catching in his throat. Before him, the trapper stood on a ledge in the butte face. He crouched, hands on his knees, breathing hard. He looked exhausted. His face was pale and hollow, and he appeared at least ten years older than the last time Stillman had seen him.
There was a bloody hole in his wolf coat, to the right of his heart. In his right hand a knife blade flashed.
Stillman clicked back his Colt's hammer. “It's all over, Louis. Give it up."
The trapper glared at him, his broad chest rising and falling as he breathed. He looked like an old grizzly run to ground by a pack of hungry wolves—utterly spent but defiant to the end.
Stillman reached into his coat pocket with his free hand and brought out a pair of manacles. Underhanded, he tossed them onto the ledge. "Put those on, Louis, and we'll get the hell out of here."
Shambeau looked at the manacles at his feet then lifted his eyes again to Stillman. He shook his head.
"Lawman," he said, wrinkling his nose distastefully.
Suddenly he flicked the knife in the air and caught it with his right hand, making a savage fist. Then, drawing his lips back from his teeth and howling like a warlock, he sprang off the ledge toward Stillman.
Stillman fired two quick shots and hurled himself sideways, out of the trapper's path. Hitting the ground on his right shoulder, Stillman turned sharply to see Shambeau's moccasined feet disappear over the cutbank. A half second later, a thunderous splash lifted from the river.
Stillman pushed himself to his feet and peered into the frothing, rippling water. Shambeau's head and shoulders appeared at the center of a boiling circle, the trapper's hair plastered to his scalp, his beard flat against his cheeks. His eyes were gently closed, and the expression on his face appeared strangely serene.
He turned slowly in the gray water bubbling blood, and then his face inclined. His arms rose as if surrendering to the current, which tugged him resolutely downstream and out of sight around a bend.
Stillman stood for a long time on the high bank, unable to believe the chase was finally over, incredulous that he'd brought the mountain man down with mere bullets.
The man was only human, after all.
Stillman sighed, sleeved sweat from his forehead, and holstered his revolver.
Feeling old—as old as the dying stars and the river muttering behind him—he started back toward the cabin.
High above, in a sky lanced with the first yellow spears of the rising sun, the geese barked and honked, heading for the mountain parks for breakfast.
Chapter Twenty-Two
IT WAS PULLING on toward late in the afternoon, and the traffic on First Street was dwindling.
Getting a leg up on their closing preparations, several shopkeepers were sweeping the boardwalks in front of their establishments. A few others stood outside reading the paper and smoking, soaking up the warm sunlight, still a novelty after the long northern winter, before it was gone for the day.
Dogs had awakened from afternoon naps to prowl, and hired boys split cordwood in paper-littered alleys choked with barrels and shipping crates. Sam Wa, returning from a bath at Albright's bathhouse, hailed the new blacksmith, Gunner Dugan, and turned into his café to prepare for the Thursday night supper crowd.
Feeling even more refreshed than Sam Wa, Blade Carstairs stepped out of Serena's First Avenue Pleasure Palace, a crisp, new Bugle under his arm. He straightened his string tie, jerked at the lapels of his Prince Albert coat, and adjusted the black, flat-brimmed hat upon his head, his wavy hair still damp from the bath he'd taken with one of Serena's pleasure girls, and gave it a slightly rakish tip over his right eye. Then he turned right and headed south toward First Street—every inch the proud, determined businessman with little but good, honest commerce on his mind.
When he came to First Street, he turned left and strolled along the boardwalk, greeting shoppers and shopkeepers as he passed. At the corner of First Street and Second Avenue, he paused at an awning post, removed his watch from his pocket, and flipped the lid.
Just about time.
He waited, scanning the front page of the freshly printed paper and hearing the proprietor of the tinware shop whistling as he swept dust and cigarette butts from the boardwalk before his window. Shortly, Carstairs heard boots thump, and turned to see Calvin Whitehead strolling up the boardwalk along Second Avenue, wearing a long, cream duster which only partially concealed the shotgun hanging from a leather lanyard around his neck.
When Whitehead stopped beside him, Carstairs turned to Sam Wa's Cafe as the front door opened. Evelyn Vincent appeared in the open door, looking as scrumptious as ever in a low-cut blue dress, a blue ribbon in her curly blond hair. She paused in the open door and glanced at Carstairs and Whitehead.
Blade flashed a reassuring smile and touched the brim of his hat. He couldn't wait to get into that girl's drawers. Shouldn't be long now ...
Evelyn nodded in greeting, stepped onto the boardwalk, and, lifting her skirts above the dust and horse dung, headed across the street toward the jailhouse.
When she made the awning outside the jail, Carstairs turned his gaze back to the other side of the street. Big Newt Jarvis stepped out from the gap between the harness shop and the dentist's office. He, too, wore a long, cream duster. He puffed a thick stogie and looked as ridiculous as ever in his broadcloth trousers and bowler hat. He did a good imitation of an ape, Blade thought, all gussied up for a Sunday church meeting.
Carstairs elbowed Whitehead, and the two men started across Second Avenue, past the feed store and an open lot. As they passed before the jail, they slowed slightly, hearing Evelyn giggling and the deputy chuckling behind the dusty window. When they'd passed the jail, Carstairs turned to Whitehead with a grin and a wink.
"Didn't I tell you that girl would earn her keep?"
Whitehead chuckled dryly and gave a reluctant nod. "I still say she's gonna be trouble down the line."
"You think all women are trouble down the line, Cal."
"That's 'cause they are!" Whitehead insisted.
"Easy, easy. I don't intend on lettin' her follow us." A devilish grin played across his face. "Not for more than a few nights, anyway."
Whitehead chuckling dryly and, shaking his head, they continued past Harrison's Grocery and Drug Store then paused on the corner of Third Avenue. Carstairs glanced at Newt Jarvis standing directly across the street, his back to the dentist's office, waiting.
Blade gave him the signal that everything was a go— a wide yawn behind his open hand. Then he and Whitehead started walking catty-corner across First Street and Third Avenue, toward the Stockmen's Bank and Trust. They met Jarvis along the building's east wall and stood as if in friendly conversation as they glanced around to see if they were being watched.
When he was certain none of the few people on the street suspected their intentions, Carstairs took one more gander at the jail, where Evelyn was entertaining the deputy. Then he turned, walked around the corner of the building, and strolled casually through the bank's front door, Jarvis and Whitehead following.
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