Riders From Long Pines (22 page)

Cannidy stood up and did the same thing. “Mr. Grissin,” he called out, “the trail's going to narrow up ahead and cut through some tight passes. I figure if Parks had a mind to slow us down some that would be—”

“Enough figuring, Cannidy,” said Grissin. “Let's get moving. If I get my hands around Parks' neck, you can
figure
I'll choke his eyes out their sockets.” He reached back and slapped his reins to his horse's rump.

Duvall chuckled and said, “It appears that Buckshot Parks is about to get himself between a rock and a mighty hard spot.”

 

Buckshot Parks sat hidden from sight by the overhanging bough of a thick pine clinging to a rocky overhang. He'd spotted the riders behind him over an hour earlier and watched them through the rifle scope until he'd recognized Davin Grissin. He knew he would have to deal with Grissin sooner or later. So be it, he thought. He wasn't about to let Grissin get ahead of him and get to the drovers before he did.

While he waited, he'd cleaned and checked the big rifle and gone through the saddlebags on the horse he'd stolen from Red Herbert. He came up with over thirty cartridges for the big fifty-caliber rifle—more than enough bullets to do what he needed done, he told himself, running a wadded bandanna along the brass rifle scope.

Five hundred yards away at a turning in the trail below, he watched Grady Black lead the riders into sight, riding beside Antan Fellows. “In the
name of the law
I hereby condemn all of you jakes to death . . . ,” Parks whispered to himself, raising the big rifle and looking down through the scope. Behind Fellows and Black rode Davin Grissin and Tillman Duvall, followed by a sullen Peyton Quinn. Cannidy and Longworth were somewhere ahead of the others, out of sight and scouting for the drovers' tracks off the main trail.

On the trail, Grady Black said to Antan Fellows, “I don't like being put out front this way. If this is what it takes to be Quinn's deputy, I'm ready to turn the job over to you.”

“I'm not so sure I'd take it,” Fellows replied. “Ever since that ranger backed us down and took our guns, Quinn has got every raw deal Grissin can throw at him.”

“Yeah, and he's passed it all along to us,” Black said bitterly. “The trouble with all this is th—”

His words stopped short as a puff of dust sprang from the center of his chest, followed by the sound of a distant rifle shot.

“Holy Joseph! Grady's shot!” shouted Fellows, seeing Black roll back and forth drunkenly in his saddle as a string of blood swung from his parted lips.

The commotion caused Black's horse to spook and bolt forward, sending Black falling backward to the ground. Behind Fellows and the riderless horse, Grissin and Duvall cut away quickly and took cover in the rocks along the trail. Grissin didn't realize that he'd just removed himself from the circle of the rifle scope in time to keep the next shot from clipping his head off.

“Grissin, you lucky son of a bitch . . . ,” Parks growled under his breath, lifting the rifle barrel and saving his next shot for a better target. With his naked eye he watched the men and horses scramble for cover.

From behind the cover of rock and brush, Grissin and Duvall wiped Grady Black's blood from their faces and tried to get a look up into the hill line where the shot had come from. “All right, Parks, if this is how you want to play it, you two-bit thieving bastard,” Grissin said to himself, levering a round into his rifle chamber, realizing he was too far away to do any good.

Seeing Grissin's move, Duvall looked surprised and said, “What are you doing? We're too far away.”

“We are, but Longworth and Cannidy's a whole lot closer,” said Grissin. He rose enough to get a shot up at the hill line. Then he ducked back down before Parks could get him sighted.

Farther up, off the trail, Cannidy and Longworth had both ducked down at the sound of the big fifty-caliber rifle. They'd been able to look down behind them and see Black's body lying on the trail and his horse racing away. Upon hearing Grissin return fire, Cannidy looked up along the hill line and said to Longworth, “There's our cue. Watch for the next shot. I'm moving up closer.”

“I've got you covered,” said Longworth. He crouched down behind the trunk of a thick pine tree and kept watch on the rocky hill line.

Above the trail, Parks levered another round into the rifle chamber and raised the scope to his eye. Slowly and carefully he scanned back and forth, seeing no one in the open. “Come on, you cowardly jakes,” he grumbled, “give me something to cut into.”

Growing impatient, Grissin called out to Peyton Quinn, who along with Fellows had taken cover behind a large boulder on the opposite side of the trail, “Quinn, get over here, pronto. Bring Duvall and me some ammunition. We've got none in our saddlebags.”

Quinn and Fellows looked at each other. “Jesus,” said Quinn. He looked up at their two horses, knowing there was spare ammunition in their saddlebags. After a pause he swallowed a lump in his throat and said to Fellows, “Antan, get on over there. Take some of our ammunition to them.”

“Are you loco?
”
said Fellows, keeping his voice down just between the two of them. “He doesn't want ammunition, he wants us to draw some fire, so Cannidy and Longworth will see who to shoot at!”

“It makes no difference why he wants it done,” said Quinn. “He's the boss. Now do it.”

“Huh-uh, you do it,” said Fellows. “You're his sheriff. I'm just a hired gun.”

“That's right, half-breed,” said Quinn, “a hired gun is all your are.” He cocked his Colt quickly and aimed it at Fellows' belly. “You can do as you're told, or you stay right here beside Grady Black until the buzzards come looking for you.”

“Don't shoot, I'm going,” said Fellows. He stood up in a crouch, stepped over and rummaged through his saddlebags until he pulled out a cartridge belt full of bullets. Gazing out toward Black's body with a grimace, he said, “I hope he's not out to get all three of us killed.”

“Stop carping about it and get the ammunition over to them,” said Quinn.

“Here goes,” said Fellows, ammunition belt in one hand, his rifle in the other.

From across the trail, Grissin and Duvall watched the gunman race from behind the rock. “Watch the hills, here he comes,” Grissin said to Duvall. He gave a slight grin at the sight of Fellows racing along, zigzagging back and forth. “That is one
fast
injun,” he said with a dark chuckle.

High up the rocky hill line, Parks caught sight of Fellows running across the open width of the trail. But by the time he got the big rifle raised and readied, Fellows had dropped out of sight. “Damn it!” Parks growled to himself. “I dare yas to try that again. . . .”

Behind the cover of rock, Fellows lay panting on the ground, more out of breath from fear than from the run itself. He slung the loaded ammunition belt to Duvall. “There,” he said. “That ought to be enough to take care of you.”

Grissin ignored him, gazing intently up at the hill line. Disappointed that Parks had not fired a shot and revealed his location, he called out to Quinn, “Okay, Sheriff, now your turn.”

“My turn?” said Quinn in an unsteady voice.

“You heard him, damn it,” said Duvall. “Get yourself over here where you're most needed.” He chuckled under his breath and watched the upper hill line. “Don't worry, we've got you covered.”

“You can't have me covered,” said Quinn, “he's too far out of range.”

“How about showing a little faith?” Duvall said in a scoffing tone.

“Sons a' bitches,” Quinn growled to himself. He stood, crouched and raced out across the open trail.

This time Parks was ready, the scope already up to his eye as he'd sat scanning and waiting.

“Run, Peyton, run!” Fellows shouted, catching a harsh flash of sunlight off the brass scope high up in rocky terrain. Instead of hastening Quinn, the sound of Fellows' voice caused him to turn and look up as he raced along. Quinn's quick glance cost him a split second, but in that split second a silent bullet zipped by and took his right ear off in a spray of meat and blood. He bellowed and ran harder, his voice drowned out by the following rifle explosion.

Quinn hit the ground at Fellows' feet, rolling and cursing and crying out in pain. “My ear! It's gone. He shot my ear off!” Quinn bellowed in pain, his hand cupping the small mangled remains of his earlobe.

“There he is!” said Grissin, staring up at the hill line, paying no attention to Quinn. He raised his rifle and began firing toward the sound of the rifle shot, giving Cannidy and Longworth direction.

From their spot in the trees and brush higher up, Cannidy and Longworth both homed their fire in on Parks' position, forcing Parks to pull back and abandon his spot and hurry up to where he'd left his horse.

Once atop his horse, Parks batted his boot heels hard to the animal's sides, sending it racing away along the trail, leaving nothing for Grissin and his men to shoot at but a rise of brown dust. That was good enough, Parks told himself. He'd killed one of them, maybe wounded another, he thought. He'd slowed them down; he'd kept them from getting around him and closer to
his
money.

Three miles back along the trail, on the other side of the steep hill line, Sam and Maria had heard the gunfire as they rode on, having buried the Taylors and their dog. Slowing for a moment, the two looked at each other. “It sounds as if Grissin and his men have learned that Parks has a long-range rifle,” Maria said.

“Yep, I'd say so,” Sam replied. “As bad as I want Parks, I hope him and Grissin will keep each other busy while we circle around and get between them and the drovers.” He nudged his horse on along a stretch of grassy meadow land, just off the trail.

“
Sí
,” said Maria with a trace of a smile, “that would be most obliging of them.” She nudged her horse along beside the ranger as the gunfire fell silent in the rugged hills above them.

Jet Mackenzie, Jock Brewer and Tad Harper stopped and looked at the sun-bleached wooden sign standing at the fork in a trail. Harper read aloud, “Welcome to Paí—Paí—Duro.”

“Welcome to País Duro,” Brewer said, finishing his struggling words for him.

Harper stared studiously at the sign, then asked the other two, “What does
País Duro
mean?”

“It means
hard country
, Tadpole,” Brewer said, crossing his wrists on his saddle horn and looking around at the jagged rocky hills surrounding them.

“Welcome to
hard country
,” Harper repeated with a crooked grin. “How are we supposed to tell the difference?”

The three shared a short laugh and nudged their horses on toward the small ghost of a town lying in a rocky valley southeast of Marble Canyon. Mackenzie rode a bit low in his saddle, his shoulder wound healing slowly beneath a bandage made of strips of an old linsey-woolsey shirt he'd rummaged from the bottom of his saddlebags. Earlier in the day they had heard the sound of distant rifle fire in the hills and canyons behind them. The gunfire had served them as a reminder to keep moving.

“There's Holly's cayouse,” said Harper before they'd gone fifty yards along the town's dusty street. He nodded ahead at the salt-and-pepper barb standing at a pitted iron hitch rail. As they rode onto the dusty street of País Duro, they saw Holly Thorpe step out of a low-roofed adobe cantina. He gave a short wave and limped over beside his horse and awaited them.

“It's about time you all got here,” Thorpe said. “I was starting to get concerned.”

“You needn't,” said Brewer. “We had an easy ride, except for boss here taking a bullet and me and Tadpole dodging every rider we come upon along the trail.”

“Mac's
shot
?” Thorpe gave Mackenzie a troubled look up and down as the three stopped their horses at the iron rail.

“Not so's you'd notice,” Mackenzie said. “Anyway, I learned enough watching the young woman treat you that I knew what to do.”

“Who shot you?” Thorpe asked.

“Some riders I ran into while I was taking that sheriff away from Creasy,” said Mackenzie. He stepped down from his saddle and let Thorpe have his reins instead of using his weakened right hand.

“Dang, I feel bad about this,” Thorpe said.

“Well, don't,” Mackenzie said sternly. “You had nothing to do with it.”

“But dang it, you got shot trying to get the law away from me,” said Thorpe.

“I got shot trying to do what was needed for all of us,” said Mackenzie, “the same as you would had it been the other way around. So make nothing of it.” He looked at Thorpe closely and said, “Anyway, I'm fine as can be now. How're you making out?” He gestured toward Thorpe's wounded side, noting the way he had limped out to the iron hitch rail.

“I'm good,” said Thorpe. “I had to back-door out of Creasy when Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack and his woman rode into town.”

“Sam Burrack?” said Brewer. “Is he after us now?” The four gave one another a troubled look.

Mackenzie said, “I expect he was after us all along if he thinks we stole that money.” He glanced around and said under his breath, “We ought not be talking about this out here, in the open.”

“How much farther is it to Clel Davis' cabin?” Harper asked, gazing off along the distant rugged hills between the town and the Marble Canyon area.

“Not much farther,” said Mackenzie, “less than half a day's ride. Let's water our horses, take on some supplies and get going. The quicker we're out of sight, the better I'm going to like it.”