The Savage Trail (22 page)

They were met at the edge of the settlement by two men carrying rifles.

“Halt,” one of them shouted.

John reined up. So did the others.

“Who be ye?” said the other man.

“Friends,” Herzog replied. “We came to talk to Luther. I'm Lieutenant Herzog from Fort Laramie.”

“Well, why didn't you say so, Lieutenant. Who you got with ye?” said the first man.

“Miners from the massacre in Colorado,” Herzog said, thinking fast.

Dust hung in the air from the blast deep in the mine. It had taken a long time to make its way from the shaft out into the air.

The first man waved them on and Herzog waved to both men as they passed.

Ben was taking it all in, gazing at the scaffolding that had been erected on the side of one tall ridge. Broken rocks lay everywhere, talus was strewn along the base of the mountain; shale and iron-streaked rocks lay in jumbled piles, as well. He saw wheelbarrows and pickaxes, coiled ropes, tents, cooking irons, pots and pans, kegs of nails, boxes of dynamiteunder small lean-tos. Men looked up from their dry rockers. Some stood with picks or shovels in their hands. A couple were smoking pipes, another a cigarette. A few of the men wore no shirts. Others wore grimy shirts, ragged, patched trousers, battered, crumpled hats. Horses and mules were in separate pole corrals. Smoke rose from a fire over which hung a blackened kettle.

“They got 'em some digs here, all right,” Ben said, his voice almost a whisper. “Kind of gets your blood workin', don't it, Johnny?”

“Brings back some memories, all right,” John said.

“Hello the camp,” Herzog called, cupping both hands around his mouth. “Luther, you here?”

“He's right over yonder,” one of the men said, pointing to a big, brawny man who was working a dry rocker next to the old streambed. He and another man set the rocker down and stood up.

“Rolf? That you?” Randolph yelled.

“Want to talk to you, Luther. Have you meet a couple of friends.”

“Well, light down, all of you,” Randolph said, walking over to them. “We done et our breakfast vittles, but we can scare up some coffee. Pot's always on.”

Rolf introduced Ben and John to Randolph, explained who they were and why they were there.

“We might not have much time,” John said. “Can you have your men grab rifles and pistols and listen to what I have to say?”

“There going to be a fight?” Luther said.

“I think a bunch of renegade Cheyenne and some of the men who killed my family and our friends are going to swarm all over here to try and steal your gold.”

“Hell, it's all pretty much ore. Assays out pretty good, though.”

“Can you and your men defend themselves? We might be going up against twenty or thirty rifles,” John said.

“Oh, we can give a good account of ourselves, I reckon.” Randolph whistled and all of the men stood up and some started walking their way. Some heads peeked out of the mines above them. Two men were walking down from the dam, carryingwooden pails full of water.

John sized Randolph up. He was a rugged-looking man with a florid face, a full beard, grime rings around his neck, arms that were all sinew, muscle, and hard bone.

“I'll strap on my Colt Walker and grab my rifle,” Randolph said. To the man next to him, he said, “Kelly, tell everybody to grab a rifle and strap on their pistols. We might be fightin' off Injuns.”

“Right, Luther,” Kelly said and started running toward the nearest men, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Be back in a minute,” Randolph said.

Men began to stream back down to where John, Ben, Herzog,Freeman, and Crisp were. Many of them started asking questions all at once.

“What's this about a fight?” asked one burly man with a belly dripping over his belt. He had about six teeth in his head and no neck.

“We got Injuns?” another asked, panting from running about an eighth of a mile to join the assemblage.

“Men, this is John Savage,” Herzog said. “He's in charge. He'll tell you what to do.”

“You the Savage from down Coloraddy way?” a man asked.

“He is,” Ben said, “and I'm Ben Russell. The same men who shot up our camp and kilt near about all of us are comin' down here to do the same to you, if they can.”

“Be damned if they will,” another man said, a belligerent look on his face.

Randolph rejoined them. He had his Walker holstered and hanging from his belt. He carried a Winchester and was stuffingcartridges in his pocket. He had put on a shirt, but had not tucked it in.

Just then, they all heard something that turned them all to stone. Around the bend, they heard hoofbeats and war cries. Then the sound of rifles cracking like bullwhips.

John thought of the two guards. He wondered if they'd had time to take cover, or if they had been surprised and shot dead.

Then there was no longer time to think. He saw dust rise in the air down canyon, and then saw the first horses round the bend. Indians brandished rifles and their screams shot needles of ice into the back of his neck.

“Take cover,” Herzog shouted and slapped his horse on the rump.

John jerked his Winchester from its scabbard and worked the lever, jacking a cartridge into the firing chamber. Ben pulled his rifle from its sheath and batted his and John's horses on the rumps.

There was no time to look for cover. John sank to one knee and put his rifle to his shoulder. He drew a bead on the nearest Cheyenne while rifles exploded all around him.

“Come on, Hobart,” John breathed as he squeezed the trigger.“Just show your damned face.”

And then, they were all enveloped in a cloud of dust as horses streamed up the canyon at full gallop. The Cheyenne fanned out, hugged the flanks of their horses so that they were poor targets.

A miner screamed and crashed to the ground, a hole in his throat gushing blood.

John took aim at a Cheyenne riding straight toward him and fired a shot. He saw the Cheyenne grab his chest as the bullet ripped into his breastbone. He raised his arms and his rifle sailed through the air. He tumbled from his horse and a Cheyenne behind him danced his horse around him with all the skill of a trick rider.

Men screamed and the Cheyenne yelled their bloodcurdlingwar cries. There was a cloud of dust and orange flames, the whistle and whine of bullets sizzling through the air and caroming off rocks.

But all John Savage could think of was Ollie Hobart.

Where in hell are you, Ollie,
he thought, as he levered anothercartridge into the chamber of his Winchester. He swung his rifle, looking for another target.

The smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils. His heart pumped fast. And he saw again, in a corner of his mind, Hobartand his men riding into camp, their guns blazing. Only here, in this dry canyon, he couldn't see a damned thing for all the reddish dust and cloud-white smoke.

28

Sunrise spread into the canyon, lighting the dust and smoke. As if part of the weather conspiracy, great white clouds billowed up from the other side of the lake and spilled over the canyon in a muscular show of strength. The snowy thunderheads awoke the sleeping wind. Gusts poured down in the canyon, blowing away the smoke, swirling out the dust, bringing the battlefield into stark relief.

John saw the man charging straight toward him. No mistakingthe clothing and the horse. A few feet away, Herzog saw the man, too, and looked over at John.

“That Hobart?” Herzog said.

John did not answer. He dropped the front blade sight onto the man's chest, lined it up with the rear slot. He waited until Hobart was thirty feet away. He didn't see a gun in his hands, but Hobart hunched over, gripping the saddle horn. Now there was only his hat and the small hump of his back for a target.

John held his breath, dropped the sight to the horse's chest, and squeezed the trigger. The horse stumbled, blood gushing from its blasted pectoral muscles. Its front legs folded and the man in the saddle straightened up. John levered another shell into the chamber, found the man's body in his sights, and squeezed the trigger.

Blood spurted from a hole in the man's belly. The horse collapsed and skidded to a stop less than ten yards away. The man hurtled over its head and landed near John and Herzog, flat on his back.

“Buckskins,” the man said.

“That's not Hobart,” Herzog told John.

John looked at the man's face. He had never seen him before.

But he knew it wasn't Hobart.

“Damn,” he said.

“That's Major Cresswell.”

Cresswell was dressed in Hobart's clothes and had been riding his horse.

“Buckskins,” Cresswell said again, gasping for air, sucking it into his blood-clotted throat.

John levered the Winchester. The empty hull ejected. The chamber was empty. John laid the rifle down, started patting his pockets for more cartridges.

“Look out,” Herzog shouted at John.

Out of the corner of his eye, Savage saw a man in buckskinsriding toward him, a rifle pointing. John drew his pistol and rolled to his side. Herzog fired at the man's horse, an army horse. His bullet struck the horse in the belly and the animalbuckled.

“That's Hobart,” John said and scrambled to his feet.

Hobart got off a shot, but it went wild. The next minute, he was afoot. His rifle butt struck the saddle horn and the energy wrested it from his hands. He landed on his feet and clawed for his pistol, drawing it from his holster, cocking on the rise.

“You sonofabitch,” Hobart spat, raising his arm to aim the pistol at John.

John went into a crouch and fired at Hobart. He hit the hammer with the butt of his left hand, bringing it to full cock, and fired again just as Hobart squeezed the trigger of his own pistol.

John's first bullet caught Hobart in the ribs just above the left side of his diaphragm. The second slammed into his chest just above the first hole, smashing ribs and lungs into pulp with the force of a hurricane. Hobart's legs went out from underhim and he crumpled to the ground in a heap, blood gushingfrom two holes in his torso with every beat of his heart.

The miners gave a cheer as the few remaining Cheyenne turned tail and raced their horses back down the canyon.

“Don't shoot,” someone cried, and Rosa emerged from the dust cloud on foot, her face and clothes covered with dust.

“It's a damned woman,” yelled Luther. “A Mex.”

Rosa saw Hobart lying there. John stood over him, smoke curling from the barrel of his pistol.

“Did you kill him?” she said to John.

“He's dying, Rosa.”

“You bastard,” she said, and a pistol appeared in her right hand as if by magic.

John heard the snick of the hammer as she cocked it.

Ben, out of rifle ammunition, started to reach for his pistol. The battleground turned suddenly quiet.

Everyone stared at Rosa as she kept walking toward John, aiming her pistol at him.

“You're just as bad as Hobart,” John said. “Cut from the same bolt of cloth.”

Then he fired, aiming straight at Rosa's head. The bullet smashed her right between the eyes. Her eyes went cloudy, glazed over, and she crumpled into a heap, her mouth gaping, her eyes closed.

John heard a loud gasp from several of the miners.

“He done shot a woman,” a man muttered.

“Aw, it was a Mex,” said another.

Herzog put a hand on John's back.

“Good shooting,” he said. “You got your revenge.”

“It wasn't for revenge,” John said. “It was for my father and mother, my kid sister, and all of my friends Hobart murdered.”

“Looky, John,” Ben said, running up to Herzog and John. “I got that bastard Mandrake, and Luther here, he put old Dick Tanner's lights out. Damn, we got 'em all, ever' damned one of them.”

John felt his knees go weak. Inside, he was shaking like the yellow leaves of an aspen. He drew in a breath, lifted his pistolso that the sun glistened off the silver filigree, the legend scrolled on its blued barrel.

The clouds enveloped the canyon where the dead lay. Hobartgave out a last gasp and his eyes glazed over with the frost of death. A shadow fell over the quick and the dead.

“It's over, John,” Ben said, putting an arm on John's shoulder.“Finally. We got 'em all. You done good.”

Was it over? John wondered. Were there other men like Hobart wandering the earth, robbing and killing, with no regardfor human life? He did not know.

And he hoped he never would.