Lone Star 05 (18 page)

“Save your breath, man,” Scott called down. “We ain't about to budge.”

“You'll budge, all right,” came the arrogant reply. “One word to my boys here and you'll be dodging bullets. But like I said, no need for that if you do the sensible thing.”

Tension was thick on the hillside. No one now doubted the outcome of this bickering. Jessie tried one more time to change the inevitable course of events.

“Carpenter can come to Provo and plead his case in court there. Mueller, too, for that matter. All we want is for the boy to have an open hearing.”

“The kid is a devil. He deserves to be strung up and that's what he's gonna be.” The leader turned to his men. “Any of you want to ride back, now's the time to do it. These folks ain't going to listen, so there's liable to be some shooting.”

None of the men blinked. They stood stock still, the ten of them, on their horses, their weapons drawn, waiting for word from the leader. Then he swung down from his horse. “One last chance!” he hollered up the hill.

A shot from one of the Mormon riders ended the talking. It chipped rock near the marshal's head. Then the other men opened fire.

Thad Hill was quick to respond. Levering his Winchester rapidly, he pumped off three rounds. The third bullet struck one of the riders in the shoulder, spinning him half around and slamming him to the ground. Thad kept firing, but the Mormons had by then secured themselves behind the cover of trees and rocks. They blasted away at those up the hill, raising a thick cloud of gunsmoke.

Ki had waited patiently for this moment. Now he nocked an arrow to his bowstring, drew it back, and let fly. The long shaft went up in a shallow arc and the sped downward toward its target. But before it hit, he had sent another after it in the same direction.

Above the gunfire there rose a high-pitched scream. Ki had hit at least one man, and was already reaching for more arrows. He sent two more arcing through the air toward another man, and through the haze of the battle he saw the man jump to his feet, reaching behind his head to tug at the arrow embedded in the back of his neck. A shot rang out from Ulysses Scott and cut the man down.

The posse men shouted back and forth, exchanging instructions and reassuring each other that they were still alive. For a short while there was a respite in the firing. Jessie, Thad, and Scott used this time to reload their guns.

“Fine work, Ki,” the marshal said.

Ki was busy counting his arrows, and did not reply. He had more than twenty shafts left in the quiver, enough to do his share of killing, especially if the others made good use of their bullets. When the Mormons opened fire again, Ki had an arrow nocked and released it.

Jessie, meanwhile, drew a bead on one of the men at the left flank of the posse. Taking careful aim with her rifle, she sent lead screaming in his direction. She missed. The man answered her fire. She felt the hot wind of a bullet as it snapped past her. Without flinching, she fired once more. Her shot whanged off a rock near the man's face. Another round hit the same spot. Then, pausing to hold her breath, she levered another cartridge into the chamber and moved her aim to the right. The man showed just enough of his head to make a target for her. Her bullet exploded into the man's forehead and took off a chunk of his skull on its way out. The man opened his mouth to holler, but no sound came out and he keeled over, dead.

She felt no satisfaction with her kill. She hated having to do it. But these Mormons had come after them to eliminate them and take the kid back. She could not let them do it.

The marshal watched the scene unfold, picking his own shots with care. He gunned for the leader of the posse, a man he had seen in Carpenter's company many times, though he did not know the man's name. The Mormon had the look of a killer and now, at the head of this dangerous band of riders, he was playing the role of Avenging Angel. Scott wondered why the hell the Mormons liked to kill so much. He guessed they were protecting what they thought was their right to live as they wished. Damn, but they were a funny crew. He wasn't laughing, though, for he had seen them when they were riled—like right now.

Scott fired several rounds until he felt the barrel of his rifle getting hot. One shot struck home, sending a posse man in a blue checked shirt slumping back. He had counted five hits, including that one. He and the others had reduced the odds mightily, and he felt a hell of a lot better about it. He had come to like Jessie Starbuck, her friend Ki, and the rangy bounty hunter Thad Hill. The kid—well, he was a different story. But he had thought about it and concluded that they were doing the right thing. Thomas Starbuck, like any man, deserved a fair trial, and then they could hang him.

Jessie looked over to Thad, whose features were squeezed together in concentration and dusted with powdersmoke. He fired three rapid shots, then, sensing something, turned his head toward her. He smiled, his teeth showing white through the grime. But a ricocheting bullet sent his head down—and Jessie's too. She turned her attention to the grim business at hand, reloading her weapon.

Hot lead seared the air in either direction. It was tough to breathe, the air was so laden with smoke and the stinging smell of cordite. The crashing of the gunfire echoed against the rocks, making the noise much louder, almost deafening.

All of them—Jessie, Ki, Thad, and Scott—kept up their intense fire. In return the Mormons blasted away at them with everything they had.

A big slug buzzed by Thad's ear, sending him flat to the ground. He cursed and spat the dirt from his mouth.
How the hell do I get myself into situations like this?
he wondered. But he knew the answer. Like the other men here, he was siding Jessie Starbuck; she was a great persuader, especially when she had right on her side. He got back into position, chambering a round into his Winchester. A flash of color—red—drew his attention. He swung his rifle sights in that direction and squeezed off a shot. The red was a sleeve, and Thad's bullet hit it square on.

The arm dropped out of sight and there was no answering fire from that quarter. Another rider was wounded, at least. Now the fight was even—four against four—and as yet, Jessie's side had not sustained a casualty.

Jessie pumped another shot into the gray cloud. More shots chattered up the slope. She wasn't hitting anything now. She could not see the men clearly.

The others were having the same trouble. Ki was firing by instinct, conserving his arrows and hoping for a definite target. Thad held his fire, the marshal likewise. But the Mormons kept on, riddling the hillside with lead, scattering their shots into the opposing positions. The odds had been quickly narrowed, but now it looked to be a standoff.

“Hold up, Jessie,” Thad called. She pulled back behind the broad face of a rock and looked over to him. The Mormon fire died down, and then there was silence. Both sides paused to regroup. Thad signaled for Jessie to pull back with him. She did, and they scurried around away from their positions, toward Marshal Scott. Ki stayed put. He already knew what they were going to say.

“Marshal, we can't go on forever,” said Thad. “We've been lucky till now, but they aren't about to give up and go home.”

“No, they'll stick to the last man. I know these people. They never give up, son.”

“We can hold on,” Jessie maintained. “We're in good shape still.”

“Sure,” replied Thad. “As long as there aren't a dozen men behind these. And another dozen behind them. I think this group is just the first wave. We've got to finish them off and get moving. They're tying us down, robbing us of time. We can't let them do that.”

“Thad's right,” said Scott. “They have numbers on their side.”

A barrage of gunfire sent them ducking. One slug dug into the tree over Jessie's head. Ki unleashed another shaft that whistled through the air in a high arc. It swooped down to impale itself in a Mormon's gut. The man's cry rang out. Jessie and the others smiled. “Let's get back to work,” she suggested. “We can do it.”

“We can do it this time,” said Thad, “but after that—”

“Stop talking like a quitter,” she chided him. “We'll get out of this.”

At the next lull, Jessie and Thad resumed their places. They waited for the enemy to open up before they did.

As Scott edged up on his elbows to aim his rifle, a blast tore from the Mormon leader's big gun. The marshal took the slug in the chest. He muffled a cry of pain and looked down at his shirt, which was already soaked with blood. “God almighty!” he cursed. He looked up through the stinging tears of pain. His vision was hazy, but he aimed his rifle as best he could and squeezed the trigger once, then again.

The leader of the posse caught two bullets, one in his arm and one right through the neck. Blood gurgled out of his mouth and nose. His eyes rolled back in his head as he slumped, dead, to the ground.

Jessie called out to Scott, “You all right?”

Ki dropped his bow and, crouching low, went to see to the marshal's wound. As he got there, the lawman leaned back against the upthrust rock that had been his cover. His chest was heaving, and the bright red life-substance was spattered from his neck to his stomach. Ki saw the color drain from Scott's face.

“Lie quietly,” the samurai advised. He tore open the marshal's sodden shirt and felt sick when he saw the ragged wound in the man's chest. The bullet had entered inches from the heart, and Ki knew that it had pierced a lung. Around them, lead still whipped through the thick air. Ki tore off his own shirt and pressed it against the wound, hoping to staunch the flow of blood. But it was hopeless.

Thad and Jessie continued firing. Both of them glanced over at the wounded lawman. The bounty hunter, enraged, raised himself and lined a shot at one of the remaining posse men. The fellow peeked out from behind a tree trunk and received the slug—it crashed through his nose, shattering his face and bringing down a
of blackness over him.

Now there was only one Mormon left. The smoke of battle drifted up and away. Jessie and Ki tended to the wounded marshal as Thad Hill waited for the lone posse member to make a move or give up; and he heard the man groaning in despair. For a moment he almost felt sorry for the man, but that soon faded and he knew the bastard would die.

Suddenly the man jumped up from his cover and skittered to another rock. Then he zigzagged down the slope from tree to tree. Thad couldn't get a decent bead on him, but he was patient. The man was easily within range still, and couldn't get far. Like a rabbit, he was running for his life.

The bounty hunter came out from behind his own cover and, with measured steps, made his way down the hillside after the fleeing Mormon. He watched as the man made for the horses, which had scattered at the sound of gunfire. Even now the animals remained skittish, shying from the nervous, frightened man. Thad moved closer to him before the Mormon turned around and loosed a shot. The rifle bullet went wide and Thad kept coming, his own gun leveled and ready for the killing moment. The horses whickered, sensing the deadly confrontation.

Forty yards away, the Mormon caught up with one of the horses and tried to hoist himself into the saddle. As he got one leg up the animal bucked, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Frantic, he tried again, this time planting himself atop the confused animal. He might have gotten away then if he hadn't been foolish. But he reined the big bay around and blasted two shots at Thad.

Dodging lead, Thad went to his knees. He brought up his Winchester and calmly placed the man in his sights. The kick of the rifle butted his shoulder, but he knew the shot was good. He watched as the man absorbed the bullet in his lower spine. The big horse trumpeted and raised its forelegs high, dumping the man from the saddle. The Mormon fell to earth in a crumpled heap, the life draining out of him.

Thad rose, a bad taste building in his mouth. He turned and went back up the hill to the others.

Jessie was crying. She could not look at the marshal's gaping wound, which Ki washed and dressed with wads of clean cloth. He used longer strips to bind the dressing into place, wrapping it gingerly around the lawman's upper body. It was hopeless, but Scott deserved the best treatment they could give him.

“God—damn—it—” Scott moved his lips with painful effort, drawing in gulps of air between syllables. “I‘m—sorry—Jessie.”

“Don't say that, Marshal. I'm the one who's sorry for talking you into this mad business.” Her eyes were red-rimmed. She took the lawman's hand. It was white, cold. “Just lie still. Ki will take care of you. He knows all sorts of herbs and cures—like an Indian medicine man. You'll see.”

“No use.” Blood trickled out of his mouth with saliva. “I'm done—damn them. Go on—ride—to Provo.” His eyes fluttered open and shut. His haggard face already looked lifeless. “Don't let them—stop you—girl.”