Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
As Caleb and Sheila started back toward his horse, a chill breeze began to pick up, and above them, across the vast expanse of star-studded blackness, ragged plumes of clouds moved quickly in a procession.
Shadows raced across far-off peaks, and the distant cry of a wolf was answered by another, even more distant.
Caleb steered wide around the corpse at the top of the hill, and he turned to see how Sheila was doing.
It was difficult to determine with the wide brim of the hat putting her face in shadow.
But her footsteps were quick and sure, and she didn’t lag behind.
They moved carefully down the rocky hillside, holding branches of scrub pine.
The skies had been so clear over the past week or so, but Caleb thought that any added shadow could be a help to them. They needed to use the darkness. Surprise would be their greatest advantage.
They reached the place where he’d tethered his mount. Taking his Winchester from its scabbard, he hesitated and then turned to Sheila.
“You ever shot a gun?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“Many times. I used to go target shooting all the time in New York.”
He reached into one of the saddlebags and pulled a pistol out the holster of a rolled gun belt. The short-barreled Colt Gunfighter had belonged to one of the bushwhackers who ambushed Zeke and Everett and the others. He held it up, and the barrel gleamed like silver fire in the moonlight.
“I’ll trade you this gun for the one in your duster. That toy would be lucky to hit a barn door ten feet away.”
He waited as she dug the derringer out of her pocket.
“I don’t want you shooting anything unless you have to,” he said as they exchanged weapons. “But I want you to have it for your protection.”
She slipped it into the duster.
Her hand was steady when she took it. Caleb noticed that. After everything she’d endured, she still had enough grit to listen, understand, and do what needed doing.
“Now, let’s go do what we planned.”
The two skirted the hill, following the trail leading into the camp. When they reached the clearing, Caleb led her into the deep shadows of an abandoned shack. Silently, they crept up until he could see the entire camp.
Before the Wells Fargo road agents took it for their own, the place had been a mining camp.
The layout resembled a large, elongated horseshoe, with the trail entering at the left side of the heel.
At the top-most point in the shoe, the abandoned gold mine gaped like the open maw of a long-dead giant.
Amid piles of gravel and dust in the center of the camp, derelict carts, barrels, rocker boxes, and cradles, long toms, and broken wheelbarrows had been dragged out and dumped and left to decay.
The winter snows and the rains and the summer suns had clearly done their work, and remains of former industry lay scattered and broken.
Caleb supposed they would have provided fuel for fires if the mine had continued to produce, but his thoughts now dwelled on how they could be used for cover in the upcoming fight.
A long sluicing trough, broken now in four or five places, stretched from the front of the mine to a wide creek that ran behind the buildings opposite where Caleb crouched with Sheila.
Halfway down the untidy row of buildings on their left, the makeshift corral held the small herd of horses.
That was where he would position Doc’s daughter. Hopefully, out of harm’s way.
Almost directly across from the corral, perhaps fifty yards or so, the sheriff’s men sat jawing around the fire.
Their rifles were visible, propped up and handy for use, should the need arise.
Beyond the men and the fire, he could see the open door of the shack where Sheila thought her father was being held.
Lamplight still glowed from inside, and wisps of smoke drifted from the stovepipe.
To the right of the occupied shack, two burned-out buildings stood together.
Charred corner posts and black roof joists, sitting askew where they’d fallen, were all that remained.
Next to them, another shack had fared slightly better.
Only the roof had collapsed, and the walls still stood, silvery in the moonlight.
From there, at the open heel of the horseshoe, the pine-covered hill led upward to the ledge where he found Sheila.
Caleb had his plan set in his mind.
Then, just as he started to draw back, a figure appeared in the door of the shack, silhouetted by the light behind him. It was Horner, talking to someone inside, standing and holding on to his lapels like the Lord Mayor and looking like the cock of the roost.
Caleb gestured for her to go to the left. They moved together behind the buildings, staying low and keeping to the shadows when they could. It took only a few moments to reach the building behind the corral.
He left her at a corner where she could see the mine entrance and the place where a pile of gravel partially hid the long trough. That was where she was to remain until she saw him move into position there and signal to her.
She gave one short nod, all resolve and no complaint. Caleb wanted to tell her to be careful. Wanted it with a force that surprised him. But there was no time, and too many words could get them both killed.
Caleb moved quickly from the back of one building to the next. When he reached the last one—a dilapidated storehouse for hay and grain—he peered across at the men around the fire. They were still lounging. The doorway of the shack was empty, and the sheriff was nowhere to be seen.
Keeping the discarded equipment and the gravel piles between him and Horner’s men, he reached his designated place. Quietly, he cocked his Winchester.
He had very little doubt that the sheriff was here for his own benefit. What Horner wanted had nothing to do his sworn duty. Still, he needed to be absolutely sure. Caleb hoped his plan would give him the answer and that Doc and his daughter would not suffer for it.
He took off his hat and waved it to the side where Sheila could see it. Just as he did, a cloud drifted in front of the moon, casting the camp in shadow. He glanced up at the sky, cursing under his breath.
The plan was for her to scream loud and clear and draw the sheriff out of the shack and his deputies into the open area.
Where Caleb was situated, he would have clear shooting straight down into the heel of the horseshoe, avoiding both the corral where Sheila was located and the shack where Doc was.
But all the planning in the world wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t signal her.
He frowned, waiting impatiently for the cloud to pass.
One of the men at the fire stood, stretched, and started for the corral. Caleb wasn’t about to risk him stumbling into Sheila.
When the deputy got halfway across, Caleb stood and got him in his sights. The man was only about eighty yards away, and Caleb could have taken him down with a rock.
“Well,” he muttered. “The best damn schemes of mice and men…”
Before he could squeeze the trigger, the moon reappeared. Sheila must have been able to see him clearly, standing with his rifle at his shoulder, because the shriek she let out could have curdled milk. And she kept it up, riling the horses something fierce.
The deputy in the center of the camp stopped dead in his tracks, but the other two were on their feet in an instant. They grabbed their rifles and started for the corral. The man in the lead drew his pistol and ran toward the horses.
That was when the sheriff himself finally came out of the shack, his pistols drawn.
Caleb waited until Horner got out beyond the campfire before shouting, “Stop right there, boys!”
They all froze, their heads swiveling as one toward him.
“It’s me, Sheriff,” he called out. “Caleb Marlowe. The judge sent me out here, so that puts us on the same—”
Horner’s Remingtons were spitting fire before Caleb could finish. And Horner was moving his fat carcass back toward the shack as quick as he could go.
“Kill that sumbitch!” he was shouting at his deputies as he ran.
That was all Caleb needed to hear.
He swung his Winchester toward the man closest to the corral. He was running hard and firing on the run. Caleb’s rifle barked, and the deputy stumbled once before pitching forward into the dirt.
Dropping down behind the gravel pile, he levered in another cartridge and looked back at the sheriff. Horner had nearly made it to the doorway of the shack. Damn. Caleb couldn’t afford to shoot and miss. Not with Doc inside.
As the sheriff was about to reach the building, though, the door slammed shut, and Horner—still firing in Caleb’s direction—didn’t see it until it was too late. He bounced off the door and landed on his ass.
Doc Burnett, Caleb thought with a flash of grim admiration. That stubborn old sawbones had just earned himself a drink, if any of them lived long enough to pour it.
The sound of crackling gunfire filled the camp.
Bullets thunked into the gravel dust and the trough and whizzed past him.
He sidestepped, swinging the rifle toward the two men raining down bullets on him.
They’d quickly taken cover, one behind a rubble pile and the other behind a stack of barrels.
Caleb fired a volley at each of them and glanced over at the shack.
The door was still shut, but there was no sign of the sheriff. He’d disappeared.
Caleb moved quickly along the trough toward an upended cart. He wanted to get to a better angle on the gunman behind the barrels. Before he could reach the cart, one of the shooters’ bullets struck Caleb’s Winchester square above the trigger, behind the loading gate.
At first, Caleb thought he’d taken the bullet in his hand. The rifle was knocked from his hand, and he dropped to one knee, clutching his wrist as the pain flashed up his arm and into his head.
The deputies were not letting up, and the shots continued to thud into the trough and the ground around him. If he stayed there, he was a dead man.
He dove for cover, drawing his left side Colt. Holding his numbed right hand up, he saw there was no blood, no hole, and all the fingers were accounted for. But the pain in his arm was bad.
As he lay there, trying to breathe and clear his head, he knew it was futile to think that the feeling in his hand might come back. It didn’t change the fact that he had to take these two. If he didn’t, Doc’s and Sheila’s lives were over.
That was the only thought that mattered. Not the pain. Not the odds. Not even the sudden useless weight of his right hand. Sheila was by the corral, trusting him to hold the line.
The deputies were calling to each other, planning their move. Caleb glanced around the edge of the cart and saw the deputies running on an angle away from each other. They planned to catch him in the crossfire.
Caleb stood and took aim at one of them. At seventy yards in the dark, hitting a moving target would be a tough shot. One thing he was sure of, though: his left hand was as good as his right. The bullet struck the man in the chest, putting him down.
He swung the Colt toward the other deputy. Seeing his partner fall, the man veered off, heading instead for the corral. He spun and ran, firing shot after shot.
Caleb was not about to let him reach either Sheila or those horses. He squeezed the trigger twice, hitting him with the second shot. The bullet knocked the man off his feet and sent him hatless into the dust.
Caleb swept his gaze toward the left, searching out the sheriff. This was not over.
After hitting the door, Horner had disappeared.
The only place he could have gone, however, was into the shadows behind the row of buildings.
Back there, the wide creek washed along the base of the hills.
Caleb could see the thick, dark evergreens covering the hillside with a thousand places to hide.
His right arm was completely numb now, and it hung loose at his side.
If he was going to go after Horner—and he was going to do exactly that—Caleb couldn’t have the damn thing flopping around.
After putting his pistol down, he reached across, drew his other Colt, and pouched the iron on his left hip.
Carefully, he slid his injured hand into the right holster.
He heard the crunch of gravel on his left, and turned to see Horner step out of the shadows. His Remington was leveled on Caleb.
“Ain’t this something?” the sheriff sneered. “It’ll be a fine thing, crowing about how I outdrew Caleb Marlowe.”
“Did you, snake?”
Horner raised his pistol just a whisker before firing. That was all Caleb needed. Lightning never struck with the speed that his left hand moved.
Both pistols fired almost simultaneously, but only one bullet found its mark. Horner’s head snapped back then righted itself.
The sheriff’s body sagged, his hands dropped, and he collapsed backward onto the ground.
Caleb walked over and looked down at him. A little tobacco juice dribbled from the corner of Horner’s mouth into his drooping mustache. And as Caleb watched, the life faded from the man’s eyes.
He felt no triumph. Only the cold certainty that one danger might be finished, but the night was not done with them yet.