Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Caleb spun and crouched down, peering up the hill into the deep shadows of the trees. He spotted the puff of smoke in the golden-leafed aspens he’d passed as another crack of a rifle shot came with a brush of air against his ear and the thup sound that told him it was another near miss.
“There you are,” he muttered. He chided himself for letting this knothead get the drop on him. Five of them rode together two years ago. He should have guessed there’d be one more in the area.
The sonovabitch was standing in the aspens about seventy yards up the hill, his rifle propped in the crook of a tree. From where the outlaw had positioned himself, Caleb figured he couldn’t see Henry.
Another shot whizzed past Caleb's head. This one from the creek behind him. The butcher managed one more before Henry's bullet dropped him across the carcass of the dead steer.
The other three were not standing idle either. Humboldt and Rivers had both reached their guns, and Mad Dog was running for the horses. The big man snatched up a saddlebag as he ran and continued to fire wildly up the hill.
A bullet cut a groove across the shoulder of Caleb’s leather vest, three inches from his throat. Humboldt. The gaunt-faced outlaw was moving straight at him, his Remingtons spitting fire.
Caleb knew if he swiveled his Winchester around, the gunman on the hill would plug him for sure. After all, he presented a sizeable target at a few inches over six feet.
Drawing his Colt from its holster, Caleb made a half turn of his body and fired over his shoulder.
Humboldt staggered as the bullet struck him in the chest. For a moment he seemed more surprised than hurt. Then he lifted his pistol again. Caleb had no choice. His second shot dropped the outlaw before he could fire. Humboldt crumpled into the grass and did not move again.
The sound of hoofbeats reached him. Glancing toward the south end of the clearing, Caleb caught a glimpse of Mad Dog McCord bareback on one of the horses and hightailing it, leaving his partners to fend for themselves. So much for ‘honor amongst thieves’.
“Guess that don’t apply to killers,” he muttered wryly.
The thought flashed through his mind that Sheila would probably have a few things say about this situation.
Provided he lived long enough to hear it.
That seemed like a worthwhile goal.
Two left. One in the aspens above him. Twenty yards to the left of Humboldt’s body, Rivers was going after Henry, weaving his way across the open ground, his short legs pumping hard as he cut sharply back and forth.
Bullets were being traded, but Henry had yet to hit the man. Rivers made it to the line of trees by the tarps and bedrolls, and another rifle blast from above ripped into the log beside Caleb.
Henry would have to deal with the little man down below. Caleb didn't like leaving problems for other people. It was one reason he and Henry worked so well together. The problem up the hill need tending to, though.
Solving other folks’ problems was also something Sheila seemed to take great pleasure lecturing him about. According to her, not every burden in Colorado belonged on Caleb Marlowe's shoulders. Right now, he was beginning to suspect she might have a point.
The bushwhacker banging away at him was a sorry shot, to be sure, but Caleb needed to take care of business before the varmint got lucky with one.
He peered back up the hill. The gunman was in a safe place and didn’t appear to be in any hurry to move. “You reckon you’re in the catbird seat. Time to push you out of there, I guess.”
Pouching his six-gun, he spotted a boulder about fifteen yards to his left and up the hill some. A spray of brush sprouted above it. He’d have better cover there.
Firing twice at the bushwhacker above, Caleb bolted toward the boulder. A bullet tore into a clump of tall grass by his legs, and he dove and rolled the last few feet.
As he put his back to the rock, a bullet pinged off the top, and a stone chip flew past. Caleb cast an eye around him and reloaded his weapons.
A few feet beyond the boulder, the spring thaws had long ago carved out a wash about eight feet wide and deep enough to hide a man.
At present, it was dry as a bathtub on a Wednesday and angled up the hill.
Brush and saplings grew in clumps along the top of either side, adding to the cover.
His plan was simple. Move up the wash until he was even with that grove of aspens or a little above. Try to circle around the bushwhacker and drop him.
Caleb leaned his rifle up against the rock where the muzzle would be visible to the shooter, tossed his wide-brimmed hat onto the ground next to the rock and edged off into the stony ditch.
The firefight was continuing to his right. Above him, the gunman had stopped, but Caleb still pictured him up there, reloading, scanning the hillside, looking for a clear shot.
Caleb was not about to give him one. Being shot in the back generally ruined a man's plans for the future.
And for once, Caleb found himself with a future worth protecting.
Branches and accumulated debris, stones and sand caused his boots to slip as he moved upward, and yet he glided with the soundless stealth of a big cat.
Caleb paused where the ditch made a bend to the left. He knew he hadn’t climbed far enough to get above the gunman. Drawing one of the twin Colts from its holster, he peered over the top.
To his left—up the hill toward the ridge—small stands of pine were scattered among aspen and cottonwood. Fifty yards away, he spotted the grove where the rifleman had positioned himself.
He left the ditch and ran on an angle toward the aspens, staying low. The leaves gleamed like gold in the sunlight. A moment later, he was certain the shooter had moved. His foe had either retreated and made his escape—as Mad Dog McCord had done—or he was trying to get the drop on Henry.
Caleb reached the trees the outlaw had been using for cover.
The bark in a crook of one was scraped raw and showed white wood where the bushwhacker had rested his rifle.
Brushing aside the disturbed leaves at the base of the trunk, Caleb found boot prints in the soft earth and spent shells.
He cocked his head, listening for any sound beyond the gunshots being exchanged between Henry and Rivers, but heard nothing.
Quickly, he turned his trained eye to the ground. A few feet away, he found more boot prints. They were leading away from the camp, up the incline into the pine forest and the ridge. He was making a run for it.
Caleb lit out after him. The pine needles were made for silent running, but it was not difficult trailing his prey.
Topping a rise, he heard the snort of a horse, and a moment later he spotted a mule, thirty yards away, tethered to a pine bough and loaded with a half dozen planks, a shallow wooden trough, and other supplies.
Just beyond him, the outlaw was mounting a lively dun mare.
His rifle was already in its saddle holster.
The gunman saw him at the same time. He was fast. Like lightning, he cleared leather. Ducking behind his horse’s head, he fired. Not quite quick enough, though.
Caleb’s Colt barked, catching the snake in the shoulder and sending him spinning to the ground behind the two animals. Caleb quickly closed in.
The bushwhacker had rolled toward the wide trunk of a tall pine, his upper body propped against the tree. The outlaw’s shooting iron flashed in the dappled sunlight as Caleb came around the mule and horse, and his Colt Frontier blazed again, burying a slug in the center of the man’s chest.
The mule was braying like the Apocalypse had come, and the dun pranced off a ways. Caleb strode to the man, kicked away the fallen pistol, and yanked a twin ivory-handled Remington from its holster.
The outlaw was still alive, staring up at him in disbelief.
Caleb had seen the look before. Men spent years believing they were faster, tougher, luckier than everyone else. Then, in a single terrible moment, they discovered otherwise.
Caleb picked up a new green stovepipe hat that lay on its side in the pine needles. He dropped it in the dying man’s lap.
“Damn,” the outlaw gasped. “I reckon I ain’t going to get as much wear outta this new suit as I thought.”
“I reckon you’re right.”
Long sandy-colored curls, newly barbered, hung down to his collar.
He wore a mustache with upturned points and the trim patch of beard like Custer or Buffalo Bill.
A dark-colored duster lay open like bats’ wings around him, displaying a green coat and pants that matched the hat.
A silver brocade vest and fancy, hand-tooled boots completed the outfit.
Quite the dandy, Caleb thought.
“Cold here in the shade, ain’t it?”
“The next place will be warmer.”
The outlaw barked out a laugh that quickly faded.
Caleb found himself thinking of Sheila. She hated hearing men talk this way, as though life were something cheap and easily thrown away.
Maybe that was one reason he liked being around her. She reminded him that every death left an empty place behind.
A spasm of pain crossed the man’s face.
“You Slim Basher?” Caleb asked.
The man’s eyes brightened slightly. “You know me?”
“Only by reputation. And your friends down there.” He gestured with his head toward the creek.
He nodded slightly. “Why’d you ask?”
“The folks in town’ll want to know what to put on your death certificate.”
“That’s mighty considerate.” His words were getting weaker. “Never thought I’d…I’d…”
He never finished his thought. Not in this world, anyway.
Leaving him, Caleb moved back toward the creek.
A year ago, Caleb might have spent the rest of the afternoon tracking Mad Dog across three counties. Now he had a barn to finish, cattle to tend, and a woman in Elkhorn who'd likely want an explanation for every fresh hole somebody had tried to put in him.
The prospect of that conversation was strangely appealing.