Showdown at Gun Hill (7 page)

“I still want to kill him,” Bard said seriously. He swung up atop the stallion and took the spare horse's lead rope from the saddle horn.

“There's plenty of
colonels
just like him waiting to take his place,” Cross said. “Siedell knows that.” The three of them turned their horses to the high trail, headed back into the cover of rock and scattered pine woodlands. “He runs out of retired
colonels
, there's always majors, captains and so on, down the line.” He gave a wry grin. “We can't kill them all.”

Bard looked back at Worley and Cross.

“Who says we can't?” he said over his shoulder.

In the evening sunlight, Sheriff Stone led the prisoners up a narrow path to the crest of a hill line. Sam brought up the rear and kept an eye on the prisoners and their back trail. The sheriff realized the Ranger still didn't trust him a hundred percent, but the more sober he became, the better he understood. He would not have come on this trip on his own, yet regardless, he had to admit that the longer his sobriety held out, the better he was starting to feel. Being back on the job, gun in hand, helped, he reminded himself. It helped a lot.

There were still twinges and shakes in his hands and chest. Dark, destructive thoughts still set upon him once in a while, like some ugly spirit that followed him until it found an opportune time to strike. At those times, he believed he would have traded his soul to the devil for just one long pull on a bottle of rye.

“We'll stay up here overnight, Sheriff,” the Ranger called out as the four of them topped the hill. As Stone reined his horse down and turned it to face the prisoners, he looked all around for a sheltered place to make a camp amid a sparse scattering of pine woods.

“Think you can uncuff us long enough to relieve ourselves, Ranger?” Rudy Bowlinger asked, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle, gesturing toward the sparse woods. “You can keep an eye on us from here. We won't go nowhere. You've got our word.”

“You're not talking about a one-hander?” Stone asked, studying the outlaw suspiciously.

“No, sir, Sheriff,” Rudy said. “This is a two-hander if I ever had one—unless you want to stay a good distance from me the rest of the trip.”

“Kind of you to give us your word, Rudy,” Sam said before Stone answered. “But we'll just cuff one hand to a pine sapling. You'll do okay.”

“I don't get a very good feeling for that, Ranger,” Rudy replied. He shifted uncomfortably again. “But I've got no time to jaw over it.” He looked serious. “I've got to go.”

“All right, Sheriff,” Sam said to Stone, “let's get over into the shade.”

Stone led the three forward, keeping his horse to the edge of a clearing so they wouldn't be exposed in the open sunlight. When they were inside the shelter of tall older-growth pines, they stopped the tired horses and stepped down from their saddles.

“I've got these two,” Stone said as Sam pulled out the key to the handcuffs. Sam only looked at him and laid the key in his outstretched hand. He could tell the sheriff was feeling better. He saw fewer tremors in his hands, less stress pain around his eyes.

“Let's go,” Stone said to the prisoners, stepping back, keeping his hand on his holstered Colt.

Sam took down his canteen and watched, rifle in hand, as the three walked away along the edge of the clearing toward a stand of rock and brush. As he raised the canteen to his lips, he saw a quick flash of sunlight among the taller hillsides to their right and instinctively called out Stone's name in warning. But his warning came too late. He saw the first rifle shot hit Rudy Bowlinger and send him staggering sidelong in a broken, twisted waltz. Blood flew before the sound of the distant shot resounded on the towering hillsides.

“Get down!” the Ranger shouted in reflex. He dropped the canteen and raised the Winchester to his shoulder. As he took cover behind a thick pine, he returned fire. With no target other than the direction of the flash of sunlight among the higher rocks, he knew he needed to offer some defense, anything to deflect the shooter while the sheriff and Parker Fish scrambled across the rocky ground for cover.

Another rifle shot reached down, then another. Sam didn't take time to see what damage the shots might have caused. He levered and fired round after round into the high stony hillside. Two more shots pounded down as the sheriff and Fish hurried out of sight behind a large boulder. Sam heard one of the shots ping and ricochet away. He leaned back against the pine, his smoking rifle levered and ready. He looked over at the horses, seeing their position was safe enough unless someone was deeply committed to killing them.

He waited in a tense ringing silence for a few seconds, realizing the shooters had run out of targets now that the sheriff and Fish were out of sight. Then he ran to
the horses, grabbed his telescope from under his bedroll and hurried to a spot behind a rock where he could scan the upper hillside. As he stretched out the telescope and raised it, he called out toward where the sheriff and Fish had taken cover.

“Stone? Are you two all right?” He started scanning the lens among the rocks. He caught sight of three figures running through a stand of brush toward waiting horses. One carried a rifle with a long brass scope atop its barrel. All three wore long dusters and their heads were topped with black cavalry-style hats. Within the flapping lapels of the riding dusters he saw the black suits.

Hinler's rail detectives . . .

When Sheriff Stone didn't reply, Sam lowered the lens for a moment and called out again. Still no reply. He closed the lens and shoved it down in the back of his belt, looking all around warily. Without another word, he inched his way around the perimeter of the clearing and stopped when he got to the boulder he'd seen Fish and the sheriff crawl behind.

When he eased a look around the edge of the boulder, he saw Sheriff Stone lying facedown in the dirt, a wide circle of blood on his back, more blood in the dirt beside him and a bullet wound in Stone's back. As the wounded sheriff tried to push himself up, Sam looked around and hurried to him in a crouch. He saw no sign of Fish. When he stooped down to help the wounded lawman, he noted the discarded handcuffs lying in the dirt; he also noted Stone's empty holster.

“Watch yourself . . . Ranger,” Stone said in a strained voice, struggling up from the dirt.

“I'm watching for him,” Sam said in a lowered tone, looping his arm around the sheriff's shoulder. “Are you able to get up?” Blood ran down the sheriff's back.

“I'm doing it,” Stone said with pained determination. He hobbled along beside the Ranger, leaning against him. “Get us . . . to the horses . . . before he makes a run for it,” he warned in a weakening voice.

But even as they struggled forward, Sam and the wounded sheriff heard Fish shouting at the horses, trying to shoo them away. They heard the sound of a horse's hooves as the fleeing outlaw batted his boots to the horse's sides and sent it galloping away along the rocky hill trail.

“I—I lost a prisoner,” Stone said in a struggling voice.

“You've been ambushed and back-shot, Sheriff,” Sam said, helping him get to the place where they had left their horses. He helped Stone lie down onto his side. Looking around, he saw the sheriff's claybank barb and his own copper dun standing only a few feet away. Fish hadn't been able to spook the animals. The outlaw had raced away with Bowlinger's horse beside him, Stone's loaded Colt in his hand.

“Still . . . I lost one,” Stone said in a pained voice. “No need . . . softening it any.”

“Whatever you say, Sheriff,” said Sam. “Lie easy here.” He walked over to the horses, gathered their reins and led them back. Stone raised his head and looked at him almost in surprise.

“Aren't you going . . . after him?”

“He'll keep,” Sam replied; he took down his saddlebags and tossed them on the ground beside Stone. “First, we get your bleeding stopped, see what kind of shape you're in.” He pitched a canteen down beside him.

“I'm in good enough shape, Ranger,” Stone said, sounding strengthened by having a point of contention. “I'm still . . . kicking, ain't I?”

Sam only looked at him.

“I mean it, Ranger,” said Stone. “Get on after him. I'll tend to myself.” He gripped the canteen and pulled it to him.

“Soon enough, Sheriff,” Sam said. “Keep quiet for now, help me get the bleeding stopped.” He pulled out a clean cloth bandage and folded it to a size that would cover the bullet wound. He reached to place the bandage on the sheriff's back.

“Wait, what's that?” Stone said, stopping him.

The two froze and listened close until they heard a weakened voice call out from where the bullet had dropped Rudy Bowlinger to the dirt.

“It's Bowlinger. He's alive,” Sam said in surprise. “Here, hold this.” He pressed the bandage to the sheriff's back, drew Stone's hand around and pressed it firmly over the wound. Then he rushed out into the clearing to where Rudy Bowlinger had pushed himself up with his cuffed hands and sat swaying back and forth unsteadily. His bloody hands gripped a bullet hole high in his shoulder.

“Ranger . . . who shot me?” Bowlinger asked, his voice sounding stunned, half-conscious.

“It looked like the colonel's men,” Sam said. “Let's get you on your feet, get you behind cover.”

“Is—is Parker . . . shot?” he asked, making no attempt to rise even with the Ranger trying to help him.

“No, he's not shot,” Sam said.

“Where . . . is he?” Bowlinger asked, looking around aimlessly.

“He's gone,” Sam said. “He lit out of here.”

“Left . . . me?” said Bowlinger. “That lousy bastard . . .”

Sam looked at him, seeing from the look in his eyes, the amount of blood all around him, that it wasn't going to help trying to get him onto his feet. He would likely pass out from the loss of so much blood.

“Stay down,” Sam said. He stepped behind him, hooked his hands under his arms and dragged him over to where Stone lay watching.

“How bad a shape . . . is he in, Ranger?” he asked, his voice still weak and halting.

“You're both alive, Sheriff. Let's see if we can keep you that way,” Sam said, reaching out for the canteen Sheriff Stone held in his hand.

*   *   *

In the late afternoon the Ranger was sitting sipping a cup of coffee when he heard the sheriff moan and begin to stir from his deep sleep. As Stone raised his head, Sam lifted a small pot of jerked elk he'd heated into a broth over the small fire. He poured the simmered broth into a tin cup and stooped down beside the waking lawman.

“Seems I'm spending a lot of time waking up lately,
Ranger,” he said, his voice sounding a little stronger. He noted the cup in Sam's hand.

“Waking up is good for you,” Sam said wryly. He held the cup out to Stone's mouth. “Drink this. It'll help you get some of your blood back.”

Stone propped himself up on an elbow and sipped the broth. He looked over at Bowlinger.

“Is he alive?” he asked.

“He is,” Sam said. “I don't know for how long if the colonel's men keep dogging us.”

Both lawmen turned when they heard Bowlinger's raspy voice.

“I can . . . still fight, Ranger,” he said weakly. “Get me on . . . my horse.”

Sam looked at the cup of broth and at the sheriff. Stone nodded him toward the wounded outlaw.

“Go on, give him some,” he said. “He needs it lots worse than I do.”

“You both need it,” Sam said. He handed Stone the cup; he stood and walked back to the low-burning fire. He emptied his remaining coffee from his cup, filled it with broth and carried it to where Bowlinger lay with his eyes half-closed. He stooped down and raised Bowlinger's head.

When the outlaw had taken two sips of the broth, Sam eased his damp head down onto the blanket. Bowlinger coughed and stirred and kept his eyes open.

“I'm . . . going to die here, ain't I, Ranger?” Bowlinger asked as if having already resolved himself to his fate.

“You've got a chance, Bowlinger,” the Ranger
replied. “The bullet nicked a vein, but it went through your shoulder clean. You've lost a lot of blood.”

“More than that one?” Bowlinger asked, gesturing his head toward the sheriff.

“Yes, more than him,” Sam said.

“Just my damn luck,” Bowlinger said, his strength seeming to surge a little. “A lawman lives . . . a man like me dies. What's the use? If I don't die now, I'll dance on a hangman's rope.”

“A man
like you
?” Stone called out from his blanket ten feet away. “You mean a
thief
and a low-handed
poltroon
?”

Bowlinger ignored the sheriff, batted his eyes and raised himself onto his elbows. He looked all around at the waiting animals and asked, “Where's my cayuse?”

“Fish took him,” Sam said.

“That rotten . . . no-good bastard,” said Bowlinger. “He cut out on me . . . took my horse?”

“He did at that,” the Ranger said.

Bowlinger fell silent, but only for a moment.

“You want to know where . . . they hide out? All right, Ranger, I'll show you where—those dirty sons a' bitches. I don't owe none of them nothing.”

Sam didn't reply. He heard the outlaw talking himself into betraying his gang; he wasn't going to say anything and take a chance on stopping him.

Bowlinger seemed to consider the matter a moment longer as if trying to figure how he might gain something for himself in exchange for the information.