Chapter 1 #3
Henry nodded, eased back the hammer on his Winchester, and swiveled the barrel of the rifle in that direction. Caleb saw he’d have a clear shot.
Below them, closer to the creek, a pair of cottonwoods cast their shade over the trunk of a fallen tree. Caleb decided that was as good a place as any to call out to these blackguards. He could use the fallen trunk for cover if he needed it.
Getting there unseen would take some doing, though. The steep grassy slope was mostly wide open, though it was dotted with boulders and clumps of scrub pine. In addition to the cottonwoods, several groves of aspen had established themselves on the hillside, though they were farther from the creek.
Leaving Henry, Caleb backtracked along the ridge. When he reached one of the aspen groves, he moved stealthily down the hill to the cottonwoods.
When he'd tossed that tin badge on the table in Greeley, Caleb had promised himself he was finished chasing outlaws. He wanted land beneath his boots, cattle in his pastures, and a future that didn't begin and end with the draw of a gun.
More recently, he'd started imagining other things too. A warm house through the winter. Laughter around a supper table. Sheila sitting across from him, arguing about something she'd decided he was wrong about.
It was a dangerous habit, imagining a future.
A man could lose it in a heartbeat.
Right now, Caleb was not looking to shed blood. He just wanted these villains off his land.
As he reached the fallen cottonwood, he scanned the scene below him. The butcher had gone back to his work, and the two working the shallows had come up by the shore to shovel more gravel into their pans.
The sun was slightly behind Caleb, and he took up his position in the shade beneath the spreading branches of the cottonwoods.
The outlaws were in full sun, a good forty yards from him.
Only the butcher had any chance of getting to the cover of the trees, but Henry would take care of him.
Considering they’d only have their pistols, these boys would need to get off a good shot even to wing him.
They’d never come close. Not with him and Henry raining lead down from the hill.
Caleb unhooked the thongs over the hammers of his Colts. Cocking his Winchester, he raised the rifle nearly to his shoulder.
“Listen up, you fellas,” he called out sharply. “And keep your paws clear of them irons.”
Four surprised sets of eyes swung toward him.
“No need to get riled. But you’re gonna pack your things and clear out. Got me?”
Mad Dog’s hand drifted toward a short-barreled Colt, and the movement was not lost on Caleb.
His Winchester barked and the slug buried itself in the gravel two feet in front of McCord, spraying stones and sand at the big man, who flinched and raised his hands.
The sound of the shot echoed off the woods and along the valley, louder and more authoritative than the pistol shots that had alerted Caleb and Henry earlier.
Caleb swiveled his rifle toward the butcher, who stood with his hands raised, a bloody knife in one of them. There appeared to be no interest in getting into it from that quarter. He swung the barrel back to the others.
“What do you want?” Mad Dog growled.
“A peaceful afternoon,” Caleb said dryly. “But looks like we're all fixing to be disappointed.”
“We ain’t making no trouble here.”
“That depends on what you call trouble. You’re prospecting on my land and fixing to eat one of my steers. That sounds like trouble to me.”
“That all?” The outlaw visibly relaxed, lowering his hands a little. “Well, hell, we’re sure sorry about that. Ain’t we, boys?”
“We sure are, mister,” John Rivers agreed, jerking his bearded chin toward the butcher, who was nodding adamantly. “We found that steer a-wandering. It’s an honest mistake, friend.”
Mistake. Caleb eyed them coolly. He knew these four would happily put a bullet or two in him, mistake or no.
“Well, then, you can just leave that critter where he lies, put your gear on them horses, and get moving. Now.”
“That ain’t too Christian, fella,” Mad Dog said, lowering his hands a little more. “We only reckoned we’d—”
“Don’t test me, pilgrim,” Caleb replied. “Or you’ll be explaining to your Maker how Christian a fella you been. Now get moving.”
The two outlaws behind him were edging closer to their gun belts. Caleb felt his hackles rising again. Some boys absolutely didn’t know when to fold their hand and walk away.
“How about if’n we pay you for that meat?” Mad Dog suggested with all the charm of a fat mealy worm. “And the use of your creek here for a few days? A week or so, at most. We ain’t fixing to be bad neighbors.”
He shook his head. “No deal. You got nothing I want. Now, get moving or the wolves will be dining on your mangy carcasses tonight.”
Mad Dog’s eyes narrowed and his face darkened. Caleb could see he was calculating whether he could muster enough accuracy with those short-barreled Colts to drop him at this distance.
Before the killer could decide whether to throw down or live to fight another day, the bark on the cottonwood trunk exploded next to Caleb’s head, showering him with splintered wood.