Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Caleb considered their situation, trying to decide on the best approach. If they drove these blackguards off to the south, they stood a good chance of running into them again since he and the Texans were going that way. That didn’t seem too wise.
So that left him with two choices. Either they could try to send the coyotes skedaddling over the river and west across the valley, or they could kill them all right here.
A year ago, he wouldn't have spent much time considering the first option.
Lately, he found himself trying harder to avoid leaving bodies behind when there was another way.
Caleb decided to try going the first way. If that didn’t work, they always had the second.
He turned to Duke and Bass and ran his plan by them.
A few minutes later, Bass took his Henry Yellow Boy and moved south along the top of the ridge for about a hundred yards. With his arm being what it was, climbing didn’t seem to make much sense. Caleb and Duke would do that.
Caleb watched until Bass was in position. He nudged Ortiz, and the two men moved north along the ridge.
Before they got far, a cry of pain reached them, and Caleb looked down to see one of the homesteaders, now hatless, clutching the side of his head.
He was sitting by one of the wagon wheels.
Another man went to check on him. This one was wearing a fringed leather coat and a hat with a feather sticking up from the band. The guide for the party, Caleb figured.
The homesteader pushed him away, picked up his rifle, and got back in position, firing furiously.
“Let’s go.” They hurried through the snow.
Ortiz was carrying a Winchester ’73 that appeared to be a twin of Caleb’s rifle.
“That rifle of yours looks brand new. You any good with this one?”
“I told you I killed two of them pendejos that took the herd. Why are you asking now?”
“Just don’t want you shooting me by accident.”
Duke snorted indignantly. “I can take needles off a cactus from five hundred feet, one needle at a time. Don’t you worry about me.”
“I ain’t worried, my friend.”
They stopped by a narrow cut in the ridge wall.
“And if I shoot you, Marlowe, it won’t be no accident.”
“You know how to make a fella feel all warm inside, Duke.”
It felt good to be able to joke with Ortiz again.
Caleb knew how capable he was with a rifle.
The last time they’d been in a situation like this, the two of them were facing a bunch of drunken greenhorns hunting on Duke’s land.
The trespassers were shooting buffalo reserved by treaty for the Comanches.
Ortiz took particular exception, however, to the fact that the hunters couldn’t tell the difference between buffalo and his longhorns.
It had been the two of them against a dozen, and they’d driven them off with their tails between their legs.
It had been hot as blazes down there beneath the Texas sun. The weather was a bit different today.
Snow and ice lay in the narrow gulley leading down to a jumble of large rocks about halfway down. Ortiz would have a partially obstructed view from there, but that was all they needed.
Caleb gestured for the cattleman to go. “I’ll wait till you’re in place down there.”
Ortiz nodded, his expression serious again. “Good luck, amigo.”
The rancher picked his way carefully down the cut. Caleb could see Duke slip on the larger icy rocks occasionally. Gravel and pebbles slid out from beneath his boots, tumbling downward.
One thing he and the two cattlemen had going for them was the advantage of surprise.
He didn’t want to give that up until they were ready to make their move.
But there was no need to worry about alerting the outlaws of their presence.
The bandits were continuing to shoot at the homesteaders and taunt them with shouts and calls to give up and throw out their weapons.
As soon as Duke waved to him, Caleb moved on and descended as quickly as he could.
When he reached the lower slope just above the valley floor, he kept down and ran to a boulder twenty yards from the face of the ridge.
The red rock, nearly flat on top, was about five feet high and eight feet across. It would do just fine, he decided.
Caleb peered over the top. In spite of the falling snow, he had a clear view of everything—the horses tied in the shelter of the trees, the five gunmen, the river, and the circled wagon train.
Once he started shooting, the bandits would be taking fire from across the river and from him. They’d have to move or get cut down.
As he watched, one of the bushwhackers left the cover of the woods and ran on an angle toward the river. He took some fire from the wagons, but the shots went astray. In a moment he’d made it to a brush-covered hillock stretched along the bank of the river.
That complicated Caleb’s plan.
From there, the gunman would have a clearer shot at the men firing from the wagons closest to the water.
Instead, Caleb saw him take aim at the women and children huddled by the mules.
Immediately, the sonovabitch fired and the shot struck a wheel a few inches from the head of a small boy, showering them with splinters and drawing cries from the youngsters.
“Damn me,” Caleb muttered as the shooter chambered another cartridge.
His hand brushed the breast pocket of his coat as he shifted position. The new handkerchief Sheila had given him before he left Elkhorn was tucked away there.
The memory flashed through his mind. She’d taken one look at the one he’d been carrying for some time, declared it unfit for decent society, and replaced it herself.
Bring this one back to me, Marlowe.
The rogue raised his rifle to his shoulder again, but Caleb wasn’t having it.
Not today.
Not while children sat trapped behind those wagons.
His Winchester spit fire, and the outlaw tipped forward into the snowy bank in front of him. The rifle dropped as the gunman slumped to his side.
The shooting on both sides stopped, and the loudest sound in the valley was the water burbling over the rocks and the snow-filled breeze.
Caleb swiveled the barrel of his ’73 toward the grove of spruce trees. Four men were staring wide-eyed at him, stunned by the entrance of another shooter.
“Time to go, boys,” he murmured. “One last chance.”
Aiming high, he fired.
His bullet ripped into the trunk of a tree three inches above the head of one of the outlaws.
That was all it took to set them in motion.
They jumped back, trying to take cover, but the homesteaders now had clearer shots at them. Rifles and pistols barked from across the river, and the blackguards immediately retreated in the direction of the horses, firing in Caleb’s direction as well as back across the river.
Just then, Duke began shooting from his vantage point, dropping one and drawing loud curses from the others. Caleb added a couple of shots, and the men really began to scramble. Getting pinned down from three sides had never been part of their plan in attacking the wagon train.
Leaping onto their horses, the three remaining gunmen wheeled and kicked their mounts into action.
As they started off, moving south away from Caleb and Duke, shots rang out from the top of the ridge, where Bass was firing and shouting.
The outlaws yanked the heads of their mounts to the southwest, and Caleb saw them splash across the water far downriver, out of range of both the homesteaders and Bass.
The bandits hadn’t even disappeared behind the curtain of falling snow when a cheer went up from the men inside the circled wagons.
Near the place where Bass had been shooting, a wide ravine opened to the valley floor. Caleb gathered the weapons from the dead bandits while Duke went through their saddlebags to see if there was anything useful. The young man above grabbed the horses and worked his way down.
Caleb was picking up an old Spencer carbine from the grove of trees when the leather-clad guide mounted up bareback and rode across the river. It appeared the homesteaders were content to wait where they were and lick their wounds.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” the man said as he drew near. He spat a stream of tobacco and jumped down from his sturdy dun. “If it ain’t Caleb Marlowe.”
“Bill Clark. Finally escaped from army duty?”
The feather stuck in the band of his wide-brimmed hat bobbed as the scout spat again. “Not a minute too soon, neither. They was ready to send me out to help that lunatic General Howard fight the Shoshone. It was time to get out.”
“So now you’re leading farmers to the promised land?”
“Yup.” Clark looked across the way. “I’ll be happy to be rid of this bunch, though.”
“That right?”
“Yup. Think they’re God’s chosen, sent to civilize the damn frontier.” He shook his head. “Got their prayer books wedged so tight up their asses, you couldn’t pull ’em out with a twenty-mule team and a barrel of axle grease.”
Bass rode up, leading Pirate, with Ortiz approaching on foot as the snow began to fall heavier. They shook hands all around, and Clark thanked them heartily for coming to their rescue. Then, at his invitation, the four men rode together across the river.
As they approached the circle of wagons, Caleb pulled on his bearskin coat, and Duke and Bass donned their leather dusters. They’d already lost valuable daylight, but he figured all of them could use a cup of coffee, a few minutes by a fire, or even a hot meal, if the grateful travelers offered.
Before they reached the wagons, a short, bull-necked farmer approached. The traveler stood in their path, fixing them with his pale blue stare. The farmer had a black beard that draped from his chin and jaw and left his wide, pale face as naked as a baby’s ass.
“Stay right there, you fellas. Don’t come no closer.” The man waved a rifle at them.
He was wearing a churchman’s black, flat-brimmed hat with a round crown, the likes of which Caleb hadn’t seen since he was a boy.
Right now, it was dusted with snow, as was the heavy mud-colored wool coat.
The coat was buttoned tight around the neck that appeared to be one piece with his block-shaped head.
Black wool trousers were tucked into stove top boots that came almost to the knees on the short, stocky legs.
“I want you to meet these men who saved our skins,” Bill said. “This is—”
The farmer stopped him with a motion of his pudgy, callused hand. Gesturing with a jerk of his head for the scout to follow, he turned and stomped back toward the other travelers.
Caleb leaned forward and laid a hand on Pirate’s warm neck as a sick feeling clutched at his gut.
He knew exactly what was happening. He’d seen it before. Different towns. Different faces. Same small-minded fear.
With a frown, Bill dismounted and walked across the encampment to where the entire group was gathered by the far wagons. The children peeked around the adults, staring with eyes like saucers at the strangers still on horseback.
The guide’s back was to Caleb, and he was talking with the same farmer, who appeared to be the leader of the group. From Bill Clark’s stiff-legged stance and the quick gestures he was making with his hands, it was clear he was losing the argument.
Duke put a hand on Caleb’s arm. “Seen this a hundred times, amigo. Bass and I ain’t staying, even if he changes their minds.”
“Some people don’t deserve saving,” Caleb said under his breath.
The words came easier than they once would have.
A few months ago, he'd likely have ridden away angry and carried that anger for days. Now he mostly felt tired.
Tired of folks judging others by the color of their skin, where they came from, or who their parents happened to be. Tired of watching decent people treated like outsiders.
His fingers brushed the pocket where Sheila's handkerchief rested.
Funny, if Sheila were here, she'd probably tell him that bitterness solved nothing. Then she’d proceed to march over there and give every last one of those farmers a piece of her mind.
The thought almost made him smile.
Shaking his head with obvious disgust, the frontiersman strode back to them.
“I’m sorry, Marlowe. These sons of bitches—”
“Don’t say no more.”
Without another word, Caleb, Duke, and Bass wheeled their horses and rode back across the river.