Showdown at Gun Hill (23 page)

“It's more than a hunch,” he said, not about to tell Purser any more than he felt he should. “We'll get to that pass and see if we find tracks there.” He paused, then said, “You brought Anson some fine-looking riding stock. Is that what he asked for?”

Purser looked at him curiously.

“He never said,” Purser replied. “He must've figured they'd be good horses.”

“If he wanted them for a robbery he wouldn't have just
figured
they would be
good horses.
He would have made sure you knew they had to be the best,” Sam said, the two of them riding along the rocky trail.

Purser fell silent, considering it, leading the spare horse alongside him.

As they rode on, the Ranger checked the rocky ground beneath them at every minor turn or fork in the trail. After the better part of an hour, the tangle of hoofprints had fallen away gradually until a fresher set of tracks showed clearly above all the older ones. The fresh tracks led them to the mouth of the deep rocky pass that wound through the stone hillside.

They rode for the better part of an hour across rugged terrain and reached a standing pool fed by runoff water from the stone cliffs to their left. As they watered themselves and the animals, Sam looked to their right
at a low stone dam where water seeped over the top and snaked away along the hillside. Studying the fresh hoofprints along the pool's edge, he saw that the riders had taken that direction.

So far so good.

He took down his canteens from his saddle horn and filled them while the dun drank beside the other two horses. When the horses were watered, Sam adjusted the dun's cinch and swung into the saddle. He waited until Purser was in front of him with the spare horse in tow. Then he raised his rifle from its boot, laid it across his lap and nudged his dun along behind him.

Following the hoofprints along an ancient upward trail running along the hillside, Sam and Purser stopped at the sight of the single rider rounding in and out of view down the trail toward them.

“Recognize him?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, it's one of Anson's men—name of Gus Holt,” Purser replied.

Sidestepping their horses off behind a boulder, they sat and waited quietly as hooves clacked on the hard, stony surface. As the rider drew closer, Purser's mount made a slight chuffing sound, but Purser reached down and patted the horse's withers to keep the animal quiet. He saw the Ranger give him a look.

“I don't owe these jakes a thing, Ranger,” he whispered. “After the way they treated me, Anson and his men can go to hell.”

Sam only nodded and waited.

When the rider rounded the boulder and came into sight, the Ranger stepped his dun out, his Colt raised and cocked, ready to fire.

“Stop right there,
Gus Holt
. Don't try it,” he said,
seeing the man grab for a Remington revolver at the sound of his name.

The gunman didn't heed the warning. He reined his horse down hard and yanked the Remington up, cocking it on the upswing, moving fast. But not fast enough. The Ranger's big Colt bucked once in his hand and sent the gunman flying back off his saddle. The man's gun flew from his hand as he back-flipped off the horse's rump in a mist of blood and landed facedown on the trail. The startled horse reared a little, ran forward a few steps, then circled and stooped. Sam sat for a few seconds with his smoking Colt still out at arm's length, making sure the fight was over.

Purser stepped his horse out from the cover of the sunken boulder and looked down at Holt on the ground, blood running out of his chest in a puddle beneath him.

“That's what you get, you son of a bitch,” he said to the body on the ground. He swung down from his saddle and started to step closer.

“Stay back,” Sam said. He dropped the spent shell from his Colt, replaced it with a fresh round and closed the gate. Gun in hand, he swung down from his saddle and picked up the Remington, shoving it behind his gun belt. He stooped and rolled Holt onto his back and saw a letter sticking up from the pocket of his flared-open lapel. Purser eased in closer now that the Ranger had Holt's Remington in his belt.

Sam unfolded the letter and read it.

“Here it is, in Curtis Siedell's own handwriting,” he said. “Siedell's instructing that two hundred thousand
dollars be delivered out here by two of his rail detectives.”

“Two
hundred thousand dollars!”
Purser said, stunned at such a high figure.

“Let's drag him off the trail,” Sam said, grabbing Holt by the front of his riding duster. Purser stepped in and took the dead man by his wrists.

“Why'd you ask the quality of horses I brought Bo?” Purser said as they dragged Holt off the trail into some rocks and brush.

“He only has three men with him, counting Siedell,” Sam said, thinking of no reason not to tell him. “He's riding over here among the pueblo hill dwellers. He can't just ride into their lair without offering them something.”

“The horses?” Purser said, putting that much of it together. He paused and said, “But the hill dwellers don't have much use for horses. They mostly travel on foot.”

“They'll ride horses all summer long if they've got them,” Sam said. “Come winter they butcher them and dry the meat.”

“So the horses were food gifts for the hill dwellers,” Purser reasoned.

“That's what I figure,” Sam said. “These people have no use for money. But for something as useful as horses, they'd give Anson the run of the hillside. Like as not they've already spotted us and told him we're here.”

Purser looked higher up along the rocky hillside, at a flat cliff hewed level by hand, and black openings like dark eyes looking out across the lower earth.

“Don't look for them,” said Sam. “You won't see them unless they want you to.”

“I don't want to think about getting killed and scalped in my sleep,” Purser said, but he stopped scanning along the hillside.

“They're peaceful enough,” Sam said, straightening and dusting his hands. “Anyway, here I come,
peaceful
or not.”

“If you don't mind my asking, Ranger,” Purser said as they walked back to their horses, “what do you care about freeing King Curtis Siedell? He's a no-good son of a bitch.” He swung up atop his saddle and gathered the lead rope to the spare horse.

“I care nothing for Siedell,” Sam said. “But he has a right to all protection provided by law. Like it or not, I'm part of that protection—I swore an oath to it.” He swung up atop the dun and turned it to the trail. “Anyway, I didn't come looking for Curtis Siedell, or Max Bard or Bo Anson. I was on my way to Yuma on some other business. All this just fell in my lap. Now I've got to finish it.”

*   *   *

Atop a terraced cliff higher up and farther along the row of black abandoned mine entrances, Bo Anson looked down through his telescope. He watched the Ranger and Jim Purser in the circle of the lens as they rode into sight around a turn on the lower trail. Beside him a hill dweller stood with his slim, weathered arm extended, pointing out the two riders.

“Take your arm down before I break it over my knee,” Ape Boyd said to the old Indian with a hard stare.

“Leave him alone, Ape,” said a gunman named Bird Harkins, one of the men Bo Anson had sent ahead a week earlier to secure them a place among the hill dwellers. “Cole and me won these filthy savages over. We don't need you coming in undoing everything.”

George Cole, sitting beside him, nodded in agreement.

“Bird's right,” he put in. “That ragged old bummer is held high among these
hole livers.
Leave him alone.”

“It's
hill dwellers
,” Harkins corrected him quietly.

“What's the difference?” said Cole. “This old turd don't know what I'm calling him anyway.” He gave the old Indian a wide smile and nodded. “Ain't that right,
old turd
?”

The old Indian only stared with a blank expression. He hadn't told any of them he understood their language. He watched and listened, and kept his arm up a few seconds longer before dropping it to his side.

Ape glared at Harkins.

“That's twice you've butted in, tried to tell me what to do. Do it again, I'll kill you,” he growled.

“Save all your threats, Ape,” said Harkins. “I ain't easily impressed. Besides, somebody had to say something, you pissing off the cliff like that. What about the poor Indians walking on the next level down?”

“What about them?” Ape said. “Let them think all their rain-dancing paid off—”

“That's enough, all of you!” Bo Anson roared, jerking the telescope from his eye. “We've got that damn Ranger riding up on us. Jim Purser is with him.”

“How'd they find us?” Harkins asked, surprised.

Anson just stared at him without reply.

“They followed your tracks, you raving idiot,” Siedell cut in, getting his fill of the outlaws—finding them a far different breed than the guerrillas he'd ridden with back when he and Max Bard's gang rode side by side.

The men appeared to not even hear Siedell amid what he considered their mindless banter.

“Jim Purser . . .
damn
,” Cole said to Anson. “Has the Ranger got him cuffed?”

“Doesn't look like it to me,” Anson replied. “You and Bird get down the switchback somewhere and kill them before they get up here.”

“Bo!” said Ape, as if stricken by a great idea. “What about I just go get the big gun, carry it down and chop them to pieces?”

Listening, Siedell just bowed his head and shook it slowly in disgust.

“Jesus,” he whispered under his breath.

“No, Ape, the big gun stays up there, to cover me,” Anson said, lifting his eyes upward toward the top of the cliff line above them. “I want it in your hands, in case these two bite the dirt.”

Harkins and Cole looked at each other as they stood up and picked up their rifles.

“We're not going down, Bo,” Harkins said with confidence. He glared at Ape and added, “And we don't need no
Gatling gun
to send one Ranger on the road to hell.”

“Yeah, Ape,” Cole taunted as they headed for the open front of the ancient chiseled-out Spanish mine,
“maybe you'll have us a pot of coffee boiled when we get back—we'll tell you all about it.”

“Son of a bitch . . . ,” Ape snarled as the two walked out and down along the footpath. The Indian looked at Anson, got a nod from him and turned and walked away behind them.

Against the stone wall Curtis Siedell sat handcuffed, his boots and hat missing. He slumped even more now that he knew the Ranger was coming up the path. Any hope of him convincing Anson to take him somewhere to a bank and get the ransom money was gone now. With the Ranger here, a gun battle was coming. He'd seen his share of battles years ago. His only hope now was to stay down and stay alive.

“Get up on top, Ape,” Anson said. “Make sure the tripod will let you aim that Gatling down along this path before the Ranger gets here. Stay up there and be ready for him.”

When Ape left at a trot toward the Gatling gun set up atop the cliff line, Anson turned, picked up a rifle and looked over at Siedell.

“And now here we are, just a couple of ol' long-rider outlaws turned
businessmen
.” He gave a thin smile behind his thick mustache and a week's worth of beard stubble. “Would you call this an
emergence
of sorts or an out-and-out
takeover
?”

“I call it me struggling all my life to make my fortune, and having a thieving, murdering scoundrel come take it from me,” said Siedell.

“Ain't that how big business and outlawing both work?” Anson grinned. “You spend part of your life
stealing what you can, and the rest keeping the next thief from stealing it from you?”

“Wise thinking, Bo,” Siedell said, keeping the contempt and sarcasm from seeping into his words. “If I had my hat on I'd tip it to you.”

“You're taking it awfully well, King Curtis,” Anson said, “me gutting you for two hundred thousand dollars.” He eyed Siedell with suspicion.

“What choice do I have?” said Siedell. “If you kill the Ranger, I'll have to suck up my loss and take it like a gentleman. As long as I'm alive, I'll figure a way to make back my losses.”

“Should I have asked for more?” Anson said.

“No, two hundred about clears my table,” Siedell replied. “My people would refuse to send any more than that amount.”

He wasn't about to tell Anson that giving up two hundred thousand wouldn't hurt him. He'd cut the pay of his employees and up the price of shipping on his rails, and get that money back in no time—a lot less work than what Anson had gone through to take him prisoner and set all this up. What low-class thieves like Anson didn't realize, Siedell reminded himself, was that the only thievery worth committing was the kind where the laws of commerce protected its own.

Damn fool . . .

“You do realize that my detectives will not hand over the money unless they see I'm alive, and they're able to secure my release, don't you?”

“That is understandable,” said Anson, liking this kind of talk, businessman to businessman. He pointed at
Siedell for emphasis and said, “You realize that if it comes down to me and that Ranger and holding a gun to your head to get myself out of here, you're a dead man.”

“Yes, of course,” said Siedell. “Let's hope that doesn't happen.”

“Yeah, I thought you'd feel that way,” Anson said. He stooped, picked up a pair of boots and pitched them both over at Siedell's bare feet. “Pull them on. Where we're headed I want you to be able to keep up.” As he spoke he picked up a torch leaning against a rock. He pulled a long wooden match from his shirt pocket.

Siedell nodded, picked up the boots one at a time and pulled them up over his bare feet. No sooner had he gotten the boots on than he flinched at the sound of a rifle shooting from down on the lower hillside.

“Hurry yourself up, King Curtis,” said Anson. He wagged his rifle barrel toward a black mine shaft entrance that led through the stone wall off to their right. “It sounds like the fight has commenced. This will take us down onto the trail. I'll catch the Ranger by surprise.”

“Down there?” Siedell said, looking at the shaft opening with apprehension. “We'll be lucky if we don't get ate up by rattlesnakes.”

“Snakes, huh?” Bo Anson gave a flat, mirthless grin as he struck the match and lit the head of the torch. “Just think of it as a family reunion,” he said. “Now get moving.” Outside on the lower trail, another shot resounded.