the Quick and the Dead (1983) (15 page)

"Now, see here!" McKaskel objected. "I'm in no shape--"

"I'll help you. We're going to sleep yonder tonight."

A half hour later, a tarpaulin rigged to keep out the rain, they were bedded down in the aspen. From inside there was more room than it appeared, for the back had a considerable overhang.

From their hiding place they had an excellent view of the cabin and all the area around it.

"Good!" McKaskel said. "Excellent!"

"This here's for you. They'll try slippin' in close, so you've got to be quiet. When you see one of them ... shoot."

"Without warning?"

"Why not? They'd do it to you, and this here isn't any war for prisoners. You're thinkin' about stayin' alive, ma'am, and what if you got the drop on one of them and told him to put his hands up and he did? What would you do with him? There's no law to turn him over to, no jail to hold him."

"Where will you be?"

Con Vallian hitched his gunbelt. "I'm goin' huntin', ma'am. I figure to whittle 'em down a mite."

"Be careful."

He moved off quickly into the aspens. He would be careful, all right. With that Huron around he'd have to be.

Con Vallian had no idea of taking prisoners himself, but if he could put one or more of them out of action, it would shorten the odds.

When he was well away he glanced back. Certainly, no better place could have been chosen, for it was the least likely spot. It seemed to offer nothing, to be merely a narrow wall of brush at the foot of the bank that marked the river-bottom.

He moved quickly to the denser woods. This was no time for a horse. He wished again for moccasins, but had none, and moved almost as quietly in boots, putting each foot down carefully, avoiding broken branches and stiff brush that could scratch against clothes.

He squatted near some rocks in view of the cabin. It was dusk and the stark outlines of things were beginning to blend into one common darkness. He could see the grassy bottom where the old corral stood, but nothing moved. Once something brushed leaves near him and a deer passed within a few yards, unaware of his presence.

Red Hyle held a cup in his hands and sipped coffee. His powerful legs were spread wide, his boots planted solidly. He looked massive, immovable. "Vallian, is it? I've heard of him."

"So have we all," Purdy commented dryly. "He's good. Damned good."

"Maybe she lied," Johnny Dobbs suggested. "Maybe she was tryin' to scare us off."

"Who's scared?" Ike scoffed. "Vallian's only one man."

"He's a good one," Purdy said. "Maybe he's the best."

Red Hyle looked up sharply, staring at Purdy, and Purdy grinned at him. "Exceptin' Hyle, here. Red could take him."

Red stared at him. "Or maybe you could?" he sneered.

Purdy shrugged. "I'm not looking to ... unless he crosses me. I think we'd better set back an' take a long look at this here situation. What we got to decide is, is it worth it?"

"We could ride on to Cherry Creek. Miners come down from the diggin's, loaded for bear. It should be easy, real easy."

"I owe that woman," Booster objected. "It was her hit me. I'd bet on it."

Doc Shabbitt was silent. One way to remain a leader was to let the wind blow, then get ahead of it. Johnny was ready to pull out, and Purdy would vote that way, he was sure. Doc wanted Vallian dead for killing Lenny, but that could wait, and if he waited maybe Red would do it.

"Look at it," Purdy said quietly. "We've lost two men. Lenny dead, and Pangman surely is, even if we never seen his body. Two dead and nothing to show, an' now we know Vallian is in it I say we study this matter."

Hyle turned his head. "Where'd you see them, Huron?"

"There ... " the Huron gestured vaguely. "I do not think they will be there now."

"Gone to Cherry Creek, maybe?" Booster suggested.

"An' leave their wagon?" Ike asked. "They'll come back. Anyway, I figure they want to settle down, claim that land."

Hyle got up. "We'll ride down to the cabin." He glanced around, his eyes cold. "We'll all go."

"Of course," Doc agreed easily, "wasn't that what we planned?"

One by one they went to their horses. Ike quickly, Purdy, smiling. Booster lagged a little, but tightened his cinch. "How far is it?" he asked.

"Three, four miles. Take us an hour, I figure, in the dark and all."

"You figure to tackle Vallian in the dark?" Booster asked.

Purdy shrugged. "I wouldn't take him away from Red," he said, "Red Hyle can take him, and I know he wants him."

Red Hyle said nothing. Purdy smiled to himself.He'll turn his back on me, but he never would on Ike ... not if they'd had words.

"We'll wait until daybreak," Shabbitt said. "We'll move just before it gets light."

Nobody argued the point. They swung to the saddle and walked their horses south to be within easy striking range of the cabin.

"Noticed a place," Shabbitt said, "about a mile this side."

They rode without talking, a surly silence of men without allegiance or loyalty, no one sure of he who rode beside him.

The place Doc led them to was just a hollow in the trees near the creek. It was shaped well for concealment and nobody would be apt to come up on them unexpectedly, even if anyone had been traveling this way, and no one was.

They tied their horses close and built a small fire. Red Hyle dealt a game of solitaire and Purdy napped against a tree. Doc Shabbitt stared into the flames, chewing on the stub of a cigar, while Ike Mantle slept and Booster stirred the fire, smoked innumerable cigarettes. The Huron sat cross-legged at one side, staring into the fire.

Johnny Dobbs stretched and yawned. Why did he ever get hooked up with this Shabbitt outfit? Damn it! What he really wanted to do was sleep. He'd like to go back to the fire and stretch out for a good night's sleep.

The voice behind him was low, confidential. "Don't turn around, my friend, because if you do I'll have to kill you."

"I ain't movin'."

"I'm Con Vallian, Dobbs. I knew you from away back. I am givin' you a chance to show some judgment. I'm givin' you a chance to fade out."

"And if I don't?"

"You'll be the first man I'll kill. I think you know me, Dobbs, and even if you get away I'll follow you down and shoot you on sight."

"I ain't scared. I ain't a bit scared ... same time, I'd as soon get shut of this deal. It ain't my kind of a show."

"My feeling exactly, Dobbs. Well, you ridin'?"

Dobbs' mind scurried like a cornered rat, hunting any way out. "Look, I can't get my horse. They'd kill me. Give me a break an' I'll fall back and light out like a scared rabbit."

"All right, Dobbs. Either way you choose, this here is goodbye."

Dobbs hesitated. "Goodbye," he said quickly, and he meant it.

Chapter
XVII

Con Vallian was laboring under no delusions. Dobbs might and might not do as he had said, but knowing the man Con believed he would if he could. Dobbs would rustle a few head here and there but Con had heard nothing about Dobbs that indicated he was vicious or brutal.

Con returned to his horse and waited there, thinking out the situation. If the Shabbitt outfit rode right in as expected, and if Duncan McKaskel would shoot from ambush there was every chance the odds might be cut drastically. Of the two Susanna was more apt to shoot than Duncan.

Nobody needed to draw any pictures for Susanna. She had seen those men when she came through town, they had tried then to kill her husband, and attack their camp. Susanna had discarded lady-like restraint when she bashed Booster McCutcheon across the nose with a club.

Con chuckled. Well, one thing about her. When she detided to swing she really laid it in there with both hands.

What now?

They had moved up to be within striking distance, and this time they would be coming for blood. They had had a long trek across country, had run into trouble, had their numbers trimmed down somewhat, and were in no mood for trifling.

Then there was the Huron.

Con debated approaching their camp, but the Huron had ears like a cat, and a sixth sense that might warn him of any movement he did not otherwise detect. It was foolish to ask for trouble.

He mounted, then walked his horse away along the stream, making almost no sound on the soft earth. From time to time he paused to listen. Finally, he rode to the hidden corral among the aspen where McKaskel kept his mules.

All was still. He left his horse in the deepest shadow, and taking his rifle moved out to a point on the bank where he could cover the open ground near the cabin, and then he waited.

The night was still. He could hear the rustling of the water from the creek, a faint stirring among the leaves, and once he glimpsed a night-hawk diving and swirling in the air above him. He wiped his palms on his shut front and took up his rifle again.

Something moved! The faintest shadow of movement, near the cabin! He eased his position a little, lying stretched out on the ground, and slowly put the rifle on target, digging his left elbow into the soft loam. He was glad he had a cartridge in the chamber for the sound of loading would be sharp and clear on such a night, in such a place.

There was a faint light from the cabin, a flickering of fire from the hearth. Somebody or something was checking the cabin.

He shifted his gaze, letting his eyes roam over the open ground before the cabin, down to the trees along the stream, and then he saw them.

They were not coming as he had expected, riding in a tight group down the trail, but were coming from the trees in a skirmish line, and they were walking their horses. Only a faint stirring in the dark warned him, only a suggestion of movement.

He shot a quick glance toward the cabin. The Huron? Perhaps ... but gone now.

He looked back, praying that McKaskel was alert, for the renegades were scattered and moving with almost no sound. Nor were they clearly visible.

Turning slightly he brought his rifle to bear, tried to estimate the height and distance, then aimed where he believed a rider's body would be. He let his finger tighten slowly on the trigger, and then the rifle leaped and the sharp report split the night. From below there was a sudden wild yell, and the horsemen charged.

On the instant another rifle bellowed from the McKaskel position, and a man cried out, then swore. Another shot ... Con had rolled over three times, now he held his fire, waiting for a shot from the attackers. They had vanished.

A sudden rush on discovery, a scattering, and a few return shots, fired at random. One bullet had struck the earth near him, another ricocheted off a branch above his head.

He pulled back quickly, moved down slope on the steep bank, and crouched among the young trees, waiting. A man lay sprawled on the grass down there. His riderless horse had run off across the stream.

They had charged the house, circled swiftly as they realized their mistake, and were now scattered, undoubtedly stalking him and McKaskel as well.

How many were out of it? Only the one? And was he done for, or merely lying quiet until he could make a dash for shelter?

Con eased back a little under the trees. They had offered no shelter and only a slight concealment, but the field of fire had been excellent.

Who was down? So much could depend on that. If it was Red Hyle ... or Purdy. Small chance!

He worked his way down the steep slope among the trees until he reached the level of the cabin. At least two of the attackers had gone over the edge into the area around the beaver ponds. There was soft ground there, with scattered logs, as well as much standing timber, gray and ghost-like in the pale light of the moon.

Suddenly, McKaskel or someone from the ambush, fired.

Instantly four or five rifles replied, riddling the trees and brush with lead. Con swore at the action, but took the opportunity. He fired quickly at the nearest flash. Shifting his rifle, he shot again at a point where another shot had come from.

A bullet clipped leaves above his head. He fired again, at the flash, then slid swiftly through the brush, working his way to the edge of the beaver ponds.

There, except for the standing trees which were scattered, there was little cover. The fallen trees were old and bare. He hesitated, then moved out among them, working his way toward the other side. Twice he had to crouch behind an old dead stump when he heard movement. He also heard someone swear, and the muttering of a man in pain.

He could distinguish nothing, nor could he hear a voice clearly enough to place it.

His foot slipped as he crossed a narrow stretch of sand and his boot came down on stone. He slipped, and the boot went into the water.

A bullet clipped a chip from a log almost at his feet, and he took a long step, merging with a narrow-leafed cottonwood on the bank. He had crossed the ponds, and now--

Nothing happened.

Near the bases of the trees there were long dark piles of dead branches, logs, slabs of bark--refuse left by the last high water or, perhaps by the floods over the years. He crouched near them, watching for some movement.