Chapter 5
It really should have worked.
The plan was simple, and Michael and Ethan followed their part of it to the letter, but outlaws couldn’t be trusted, and things swiftly fell apart. Now, Michael and Ethan were riding at breakneck speed through the trees, running for their lives.
“I thought we would have more time!” Ethan yelled as they bent low over their horses’ necks to avoid the branches that reached out to grab them as they dodged trees and leaped over bushes and boulders. “I didn’t think they would descend on the money purse so swiftly.”
“Was there money in it?” Michael asked, thinking of how full the leather pouch had seemed when Ethan placed it in the road after telling the bandits to back up an extra twenty feet.
“A little,” Ethan said. “Mostly I stuffed it with butterscotch sweets. That was the last of them.”
There was a loud bang behind them, and something hit the tree that Michael was just passing. It chipped, and a little splinter stung his cheek. Another bang a moment later, and another dull thunk sounded beside Michael.
“And now they’re shooting at us!” Michael yelled.
“It was only a matter of time,” Ethan said. “Can you fire back?”
Michael turned in his saddle and managed to fire the gun once, but it was a bad shot and missed the lead outlaw by about six inches. It hit the tree beside him and sent splinters flying. The next shot was also wide and far too high.
“Head for the bend,” Michael called. “We can hopefully push some of them into the creek.”
Ethan nodded, and they steered their horses in the right direction. Around the bend was a narrow patch of land where a creek had eaten away at the ground, carving steep sides that led to a little wooden bridge just barely large enough for a wagon to travel over.
That was a great place to deal with these outlaws, as they would have to go two abreast at most to follow them. And if Michael and Ethan could get far enough ahead, the outlaws would be like fish in a barrel.
They pushed their horses, going as fast as the beasts could manage through the trees. They were making headway, and then suddenly, there was a boom from behind them and Ethan let out a yell. He slumped forward on his horse, barely holding on as his horse began to veer off to the right.
“Ethan!” Michael called, firing back at their pursuers with his pistol. “Ethan, what are you doing?”
There was no reply. Then Michael saw how his friend was hunched over and the bloom of red on his shirt sleeve. His heart sank, and he sent up a frantic prayer. Please, God. Let him be all right!
Ethan was holding one rein, the other dangling uselessly. He was steering his horse around in a large circle, as though to face the outlaws head-on.
Michael had to do something. He had to fix this.
He galloped after Ethan. His horse was starting to tire and it wasn’t right, pushing the poor creature to keep going, but Michael had no choice. He urged his horse to run faster and reaching out, grabbed Ethan’s dangling rein.
Something stung his arm and he yelped, but he didn’t lose his grip on the rein.
Now they were galloping together. Ethan managed to shift so that he wasn’t dragging the horse off course. He managed to smile at Michael.
“Well, this is unexpected,” he said weakly.
“Just hold on,” Michael said. “And if you can fire every now and then, that would be great.”
Ethan pulled his pistol and, turning, shot at the outlaws, pulling the trigger with a finger slick with his blood.
Michael couldn’t worry about that now; he had to make sure they got to the bridge before the outlaws did. It was all about timing. After that, the land opened up, and there was no cover for miles.
If he could just get them across the bridge, shoot enough of the outlaws to make it too costly to pursue them, then they might have a chance. They might be able to get away with their lives.
With bullets still zipping around them, Michael did his best, urging both horses on. The trees were coming to an end just up ahead, and then it was a clear run around the boulders and on to the bridge.
“We’re almost there!” he yelled.
They charged around the boulders and galloped across the bridge to the other side, where there were several large boulders.
Michael stopped the horses and slid to the ground.
He grabbed both shotguns and took up station behind one of the boulders.
Ethan, holding his arm, slid off his horse and hobbled over.
“My arm doesn’t work,” he said. “But I’ll reload for you.”
As the first outlaw came around the corner, Michael took aim and fired. The man bent over and slid to the side, falling from his saddle. The horse came running across the bridge and down the road as though it still had a rider on its back.
The next two outlaws were shot, one in the shoulder and one in the gut. They both shot back, their bullets pinging off the rock and shaving splinters of stone off, making them fly through the air. Some hit Michael, but he didn’t care.
One of the shotguns took care of the next outlaw, blowing several small holes in his torso. The next fell to the shotgun as well. By now, Michael would have thought the leader was ready to stop this madness, but he was the next one across the bridge and Michael decided it was time to end things.
He waited for the man to reach Michael and Ethan’s side of the bridge.
Timing was everything. If he was going to get this right, he had to wait for the perfect moment.
Perhaps the leader thought he was reloading or had run out of ammunition, which would be the reality soon enough, and so he came over the bridge as bold as brass.
Michael watched and waited. And when the man was right there in front of him, unaware of where Michael was crouching, he grabbed the outlaw’s foot and tugged hard.
It was easy to unseat him, and the unsuspecting man came tumbling down. He landed with a horrible crunch that said his arm was most likely broken. The outlaw leader yowled, and his gun flew from his grasp.
Michael roughly hauled the leader to his feet and held him against his body, his arm around the man’s neck, and his pistol, which only had one bullet left, at his ribs. Then he stepped out where the remaining outlaws, just barely starting across the bridge, could see him.
“Hold it right there!” he yelled.
The men stopped trying to urge their horses on and stared.
“Now, I’ll tell you how this is going to go,” Michael said. “You’re going to head back the way you came. You got some money and you’re all still alive. Take it as a win, okay?”
“You’ll pay for this,” the leader said through gritted teeth. “You’ll pay.”
“No,” Michael said. “I shot a whole lot of you, and it really didn’t take much effort. How hard do you think it will be for me and my friend to finish the rest of you off? Not much, so let’s go our separate ways, or you all die.” He nudged the leader in the ribs with his gun. “Tell them. Or else.”
The leader seemed to consider this. “Okay!” he called. “Okay. Back up! All of you! Back up!”
The outlaws began to reverse off the bridge.
Michael watched them go, his gun never moving from their leader’s ribs. When they were around the bend and out of sight, Michael turned the leader around, aiming the gun at his stomach.
“Let me give you some advice,” he said. “Next time, if people pay you, leave them alone. Don’t go shooting them.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the leader said. “So, what happens now? You shoot me?”
“Not unless you do something exceptionally stupid,” Michael said. “Get back on your horse and ride home. That arm is going to need to be set. If you turn around, I will shoot you. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the leader said.
He got back on his horse with difficulty and rode back across the bridge. He didn’t turn around once, and soon he and his friends were gone.
Michael picked up the man’s pistol and inspected it. It was a nice piece and would serve well to protect the camp.
Then he turned to Ethan. His friend was sitting with his back to the boulder. He was pale, and his sleeve was soaked red with blood.
“I think they might have got me good,” Ethan said with a weak smile.
“No,” Michael said, crouching beside his friend. “They didn’t. You’ll be fine.” He pulled his shirt tail out of his trousers and, using his knife, cut a strip off the bottom. Then he tied it tightly around Ethan’s arm.
His friend cried out in pain, but what else could he do? He had to try to stop the bleeding. There was so much blood already, and Ethan seemed to be getting paler and paler. Was he bleeding from another wound?
Michael hastily checked his friend and found nothing but small cuts. The arm seemed to be the biggest injury.
“Come on,” he said, helping Ethan to his feet. “We’re heading home.”
Somehow he managed to get Ethan back into the saddle. He reholstered the guns and they set off along the road.
Michael held Ethan’s reins and as they rode at an easy pace, he kept talking to his friend. At first the other man’s answers came slowly, but they came. After an hour or two, his answers were softer, fewer, and then they stopped altogether.
By then Ethan was completely slumped over, and Michael had to stop and tie his friend into the saddle. Then he pushed the horses, forcing them to run home.
The camp had never seemed so far away before.
To make matters worse, Ethan’s arm wouldn’t stop bleeding.
Blood kept dripping from Ethan’s fingers, leaving a trail of drops on the horse’s coat and the road.
How much blood did a body hold anyway? Did Ethan have any left in him?
Did he have enough, or would he die now, regardless of all Michael’s efforts to save him?
After hours of gritting his teeth and steeling his nerves until he was so wound up he was practically thrumming, Michael finally rode into the camp.
By then, both horses were spent. He was afraid he might have pushed them too hard.
They were frothing at the mouth and seemed ready to drop, but Michael wasn’t going to lose Ethan on his watch.
“What the heck?” Kyle asked as he hurried over to help with the horses. He was the camp’s unofficial animal doctor, and Michael could feel the rage wafting off him at the state of the creatures.
Michael jumped down from his saddle and went to untie Ethan. “Help me! Ethan’s been shot.”
Kyle stared from him to the horses to Ethan and then nodded. He took Ethan’s feet, and together they carried their friend to the medical tent. Emily was in there, pouring a tincture into a brown glass bottle.
“Michael, I’m so glad you’re back,” she said brightly. And then she stopped. “Oh my goodness! What happened?”
“We were ambushed by some ruffians. Ethan was shot in the arm,” he explained.
“But you’re bleeding from your cheek and your hand. Were you shot too?” Emily asked, checking him over.
“Emily, stop fussing. I’m fine. Ethan’s the one who needs seeing to.”
Julie came running over and directed them to put Ethan on one of the cots.
“Emily, we will need the rubbing alcohol and clean cloths.”
As the women took care of Ethan, Kyle and Michael walked back to the horses.
“Where is the wagon?” Michael asked.
“Oh, they’re not back yet,” Kyle said. “I thought you rode ahead of them.”
“No,” Michael said. “We sent them on ahead to get the supplies here as fast as possible.”
“Should we—” Kyle began, but he stopped as there was a rumble of wheels and the wagon in question came riding into camp.
Adams and Stevens were still holding their guns, looking as though they were ready for anything.
“Where on earth were you?” Michael demanded, not even bothering with a greeting.
Adams swallowed. “We thought it best to take another route back,” he said. “In case those men followed you.”
“We thought it the safest way to get everything here,” Stevens said. “Sorry if we worried you. Gee, Mike, are you okay?”
Michael took a breath. “We ran into some real trouble. I … could use some coffee.”
“Sure, go and get some,” Kyle said kindly. “Between us we can take care of the horses, and then we’ll get some help offloading the wagon. Don’t worry about anything.”
“What happened?” Adams asked Kyle as Michael walked away. He was glad he wouldn’t have to answer that question. He was simply too raw and tired.
On the way to find coffee, Michael stopped at the well. He pulled up a bucket of water. While he was splashing the cold water on his face and scrubbing his hands, which were tacky with blood, he heard voices.
“… isn’t that a straight flush?” a young male voice asked. It sounded like Tim, Lizzy’s little brother.
“A royal flush,” an older male voice said. “Yes. And it beats your two pair, Carl. In fact, it beats just about everything.”
Royal flush? Michael wasn’t much of a gambler, but he knew what he was listening to. He finished washing up, dried his hands and face on his shirt, and followed the voices around the side of one of the storage sheds.
They were sitting in a circle around a large board they had lifted onto a stump to make a table.
They hadn’t noticed him approaching, and for a couple of minutes, Michael stood and watched.
It was exactly as he feared from the moment he’d heard the voices.
Emily’s uncle was teaching the young boys of the camp to play poker.
If he hadn’t had such a hard day, Michael might have seen the lighter side of things.
However, after finding out that their ore was subpar, being shot at, and having his friend shot, then having to drive him as fast as he could back to camp, Michael was not in the mood.
“Hey!” he called, stepping into view. “What are you doing, Felix? They’re children!”
Felix let out a yelp and fell head over heels backward off a stump. Tim and the other boys scattered like insects the moment a lantern was lit. Only Michael and a groaning Felix were left.
Michael strode over to the older man and yanked him upright.
Felix smiled at him sheepishly. “I suppose I’m in trouble, right?”
“Yes. You are,” Michael said.
“Is that blood on your shirt?” Felix asked, looking horrified.
Michael sighed and, dragging Emily’s uncle by the scruff of his neck, set off for Andrew’s tent.