Dalton's Vengeance, page 3
Every time he checked behind him the riders were closer: seventy yards, fifty, thirty. . . . At twenty yards they spread out seeking to round him up, and the top of the rise was still fifty yards away.
A gunshot tore out, heralding a volley of shots. All were thankfully high, but when he checked behind him several riders were firming their gun arms so clearly the shots hadn’t been warnings.
The next volley exploded and this time with a cry of almost human pain his horse whinnied. A bullet had ripped into her flank. The head dropped, legs crossed and folded. Then Dalton was tossed out of the saddle as his horse stumbled to its knees.
Dalton just had enough time to prepare himself. He tucked himself up, hit the ground on his side and rolled. Experience told him that although there was no foolproof way of avoiding serious injury, the best option was to relax and not throw out a hand to try to cushion his fall.
The rest was down to luck, and that luck held when he rolled to a standstill and found that he could flex his limbs without undue pain. His mount was twitching in its death-throws, but he didn’t have enough time to help her as the pursuers were closing in from three sides.
Neither did he have the time to fetch his rifle. So he did the only thing he could do. He got to his feet and ran to the cutting even though only the sheer drop down to the railroad tracks was ahead.
He didn’t know how far away the recesses that he’d found were. When he reached the edge and was confronted with the darkness of the cutting below, its bottom shrouded in the gathering gloom, he was sure he’d never be able to find them.
Coming from his right a whistle from an approaching train shrilled in the evening air. Along the cutting a long line of cars was struggling up the slight incline several hundred yards away.
He was sure if he attempted the leap, he would shatter every bone in his body. So he turned to his pursuers, finding that the riders had stopped and that they had fanned out in a semicircle to block his escape paths.
“Are you going to tell me what this about?” he said to give himself time to think of a plan rather than because he thought they might answer.
Frank nudged his horse on to be ahead of the others.
“Nope,” he said. “You get the same explanation as Sheriff Blake got.”
As one his men raised their guns to sight him.
“Wait!” Dalton shouted, backing away for another pace toward the edge.
In the cutting the engine was drawing level with him. It was ferrying several open loads, but he couldn’t tell what they were.
“Why?” Frank said in a clipped tone.
“Because. . . .” Dalton waved his hands as he struggled to find a response that would keep him safe for a few more moments. “Because I didn’t think clearly about Cliff Sinclair’s offer. Maybe I’ll take it, after all.”
The engine rattled as it passed below him, forcing Frank to raise his voice.
“The rest had more sense and took the money. You had your chance, but you chose death.”
Frank gestured at his men in a determined manner that said he’d finished talking so Dalton backed away, noting the long lengths the train was carrying. In the poor light they could be either railroad tracks or planks, and both were probably equally unlikely to cushion his fall, but he figured he didn’t have much of a choice.
“I’m obliged you heard me out,” Dalton said. He faced Frank, committing his anger about Loren’s murder to memory. Then he pointed at him and raised his voice. “Somehow I will make you pay.”
The taunt made Frank laugh, but that had been the result Dalton had hoped for. With the distraction buying him more time, he spun on his heels. He ran the three paces to the edge and launched himself into space.
Gunfire ripped out, blasting through the air above his head. All of it missed, but gunfire was the least of Dalton’s worries as he hurtled down toward his uncertain fate below. The wind whipped by as he plummeted through the darkness and he sought a clue as to what he’d land on, but quicker than he expected the dark mass of the train’s load loomed closer.
He crashed down on solid lengths, the reek of pine surrounding him and at least telling him he’d landed on wood. Then he kept going downward as his momentum made him snap through several planks and bury him between others.
When he came to a halt, he was buried up to the shoulders in wood. It trapped him on all sides, but apart from his legs feeling jarred, he reckoned the drop had been shorter than he’d feared and he’d avoided any broken limbs.
He ducked down and took stock of his situation. The wood was trapping him in place and he would probably struggle to free himself when he tried to get out. With the cutting carrying on for several miles it would be some time before Frank managed to get down to meet the train.
Then, if he remained hidden, Frank might assume that either he’d fallen to his death or he’d tried to escape in the dark. So for now, he decided he’d settle for going where the train was heading.
He rested in his wooden prison until he was sure that the immediate danger of being shot at from above had passed. Then he began the process of freeing his limbs. One arm was trapped at his side, but he could move the other.
So he walked his hand down his side to grip his right leg. Then he strained to raise it from the planks that were encasing it. At first he couldn’t move the leg, but when his wriggling dislodged other planks, he was able to raise it slightly.
Heartened by his success he tried to move his left leg. A heavy thud sounded and the planks shifted position. For one terrible moment Dalton couldn’t breathe and his legs were dragged in two directions at once, but then the wood settled giving him enough leeway to gasp in air.
The sudden movement added urgency to his need to free himself from the wood, but then he worked out the reason for the shift. Someone had jumped down and like him he was buried in the heaps of wood.
The other man wasn’t visible, so he craned his neck, but then a grunt sounded behind him. Someone wrapped an arm around his neck and tugged. The force slammed his shoulders against the wood behind him and made his head pivot backward until it rested on the wood.
His posture was so taut it closed his windpipe. He gulped, only a thin stream of air reaching his lungs. In desperation he waved his arms, but trapped within the planks he couldn’t stretch his arms back far enough to reach his assailant.
Grunting sounded as the man bore down on him, but with him straining more, he dragged Dalton backward. The different angle closed off the thin stream of air, but it also drew Dalton’s body out of the vise-like grip of the planks.
With him able to move, Dalton thrust his arms backward and this time he brushed the man’s head. He wasn’t able to coordinate his hands, but after three frantic lunges that his assailant jerked away from, he grabbed the man’s ear with one hand and tugged, making him bleat.
A poke with the other hand jabbed a finger into something wet and which from the cry of pain that went up, must have been an eye. The pressure around his throat fell away. Dalton gasped in air, but he forced himself to continue to fight back and press home his advantage.
He twisted and then levered himself out of the chasm of wood into which he’d fallen to roll out on to the top. Below him the man was standing trapped between planks in the same way that Dalton had been earlier, but even if his legs were buried, he was armed.
With one eyed closed the man aimed his six-shooter at him. On his knees Dalton lunged and grabbed the man’s wrist, but he still loosed off a wild skyward shot. Then he concentrated on bringing the arm down toward Dalton’s head, while Dalton strained to turn it toward the man’s chest.
The gun wavered back and forth as both men strained for supremacy. Then slowly his assailant got the upper hand. Being trapped within the planks gave him traction while Dalton couldn’t find purchase on the top of the wood.
Inexorably he was shoved backward. He could do nothing to stop the gun closing in on him while the gunman grinned as he anticipated firing the moment he had Dalton in his sights. Dalton twisted away to avoid the advancing gun, but that only encouraged his assailant to redouble his efforts.
The gun sped its approach. It edged past his shoulder and nuzzled beside his neck. Dalton strained to move himself away and bought himself a few more inches. Eager to plant a bullet in him, his assailant fired.
The deafening explosion was close to Dalton’s ear making him flinch. Momentarily he lost his grip on the gun. The release of pressure made the gun swing wildly past Dalton’s body and slam down on the plank.
Before the man could raise the weapon Dalton thrust his knee forward and trapped his wrist against the wood. Then he followed through with a round-armed punch to the man’s face that knocked his head back.
With the gun-toter being trapped, Dalton aimed another flailing punch at him, but the man ducked beneath it before coming up with a straight-armed shove that toppled Dalton and sent him sprawling. Loose planks skidded beneath his feet as he fell backward.
He back-pedaled seeking purchase, but he only succeeded in dislodging more planks from underfoot. Worse, the man was raising himself from his wooden prison with his gun held high. Dalton couldn’t work out why the previously immobile planks now had the solidity of sand, although he consoled himself with the observation that the gunman was having as much trouble as he was in righting himself.
Then it became clear what had happened. When his assailant had fired he’d missed his target and instead he’d winged one of the ropes that were holding the load in place. That rope was fluttering free and the planks were redistributing themselves, so the man gave up trying to get out and instead he centered his gun in on Dalton.
With a scrambling kick Dalton tried to get away, but then with a grinding of planks the outermost two columns of wood peeled away from the bulk and crashed down to the ground below. The noise made the man turn his head just as another column gave way.
He fired a speculative wild shot. Then planks cascaded to the ground and an undulating tide of wooden chaos carried him away. When he’d disappeared from view, planks continued to slide, but now with around a third of the bulk having slipped away the remainder found a natural level on the speeding train.
Dalton stayed still until he was sure he wouldn’t slip away after the man. Then he edged along the planks and made his way on to the top of the load on the next car where he lay on his chest.
The fallen wood was now disappearing into the darkness as the train emerged from the cutting. The darkened plains were on either side. Ahead there were small faint lights. On his belly he wondered if they were after-images brought on by the strain of the fight, but then in a change of perspective he accepted that the lights were bright but far away.
To add a further hint of what they were, the train brakes screeched as the engine slowed. It was the end of the line and campfires were burning amid the sprawling gang of workers who were building the tracks on toward the bridge at Spinner’s Gulch.
Dalton settled down, judging that for now being among people was his safest option and he let himself enjoy getting closer to the sprawl of tents in this effectively mobile town. By the time he was able to identify individuals the train had slowed to a crawl as it aimed to stop a hundred yards away from the end of the tracks.
Accordingly, several people walked on to meet the train. Dalton moved to climb down and meet them, but then he stopped. Frank was in the leading group, and the other men who had chased him were following on behind.
Chapter Five
Dalton slid backward along the top of the planks like a snake, seeking to distance himself from the advancing Frank while he thought out a plan to escape. He figured that as the train hadn’t been moving quickly, Frank would have had enough time to get ahead of it, but he had a spot of luck when the railroad men among the approaching group hurried past Frank to inspect the chaotic jumble of planks.
With the milling people giving him some cover Dalton continued to slide away. Keeping his profile low, he slipped down to stand on the edge of the car. Having checked that everyone was approaching along one side of the train, he jumped down to the ground on the other.
“When I find out who didn’t tie these planks down properly,” a loud, official sounding voice said, “I’ll be heading back down the line to bang some heads together.”
“I’ll get a wagon and find them,” a softer voice said.
Dalton peered beneath the cars. Beyond the jumble of planks hanging off the side of the car five men were examining the mess. Frank and his group stood farther back. Frank was gesturing. Then three men moved to go around the engine to investigate the other side, so Dalton slipped between the two cars to keep out of sight.
“The wood could be a hundred miles away.”
Several planks moved as the softer speaker raised himself.
“There’s still plenty of wood on here. If the rest had come loose a hundred miles back they’d have all shaken loose by now.”
A non-committed grunt sounded that confirmed this was a good point while not slackening his authority by being supportive.
“Then stop standing around and find it.”
Dalton leaned down. Frank’s group was one car away, so he sought a place to hide, but his only option was to crawl beneath the train. Worse, one of the men leaned down to check underneath and despite the shadows Dalton felt sure he would be visible. Still bent over Dalton edged into the middle of the tracks, torn between which escape route would give him the best chance of success.
“I judge that around a third slipped off,” the subordinate continued. “That’s not—”
“I don’t care how much slipped off. I want it back, and I don’t want you wasting half the night searching for it.”
“Then we’ll work out how much we’re looking for and leave.”
Two men walked around the side of the car to appraise the displaced wood. The man who hadn’t spoken was turned to the wood, but the talkative man faced Dalton. Behind him other men came into view, but they were all sloping along with the air of workers who’d had a tiring day and weren’t relishing this extension to their duties.
As Frank’s men advanced on either side Dalton picked his moment to run. A rustling sounded behind him and something encased him. He tried to throw it off, but then he found that a thick and long coat had been wrapped around his shoulders.
He turned to find its former owner winking at him. Then he placed a hand on Dalton’s back and ushered him away from the cars and into full view.
“This is sure to be a long journey, but I say that the sooner we get there, the sooner we get back,” he announced in a chatty manner, as if they were old friends.
Dalton drew down the brim of his hat and ignored Frank and the approaching men, judging that his new friend might be correct that the best place to hide could be in full view.
“Yeah, we get all the roughest jobs, but do we ever complain?” he grunted, attempting a disguised tone of voice.
“We sure don’t. You never hear a word of complaint from our lips. They give us a task. We do it without saying nothing.”
The worker continued to prattle, but they’d now drawn level with Frank. Dalton paid him only scant attention, and luckily Frank ignored the railroad workers while his men searched for him.
Dalton moved past. Then he resisted the urge to turn around and so ruin his disguise, but when the rest of the wood detail hurried on to catch up with them, he couldn’t resist asking the obvious question.
“Why?” he said from the corner of his mouth.
“Any enemy of Frank Kelley is a friend of mine.” His new friend gave an encouraging nod. “But once you’re out of sight, I want that coat back.”
Dalton nodded and headed on while hoping Frank didn’t notice the deception. He learned that the man who had helped him was Booth Hughes. He’d been discussing the fallen wood with Victor McCoy, who oversaw the bridge building.
The wood was to be used there and its lateness had worsened his temperament, which was brusque at the best of times. When they reached the end of the tracks, Dalton mingled in with the other workers who had gathered to await instructions.
Only then did he turn around. He was pleased that Frank and his men were still working their way around the train searching for him. Victor was heading back toward them. When he arrived, he wasted no time in haranguing Booth.
“Why are you still here?” he demanded. “I need that wood.”
“We’re leaving,” Booth said. He gestured to the men who would go with him, including Dalton, and then moved toward the nearest wagon.
Dalton adopted the workers’ sloping posture and followed, but his route took him past Victor. The men went by him in a line, but when Dalton passed by, Victor slapped a hand on his shoulder, halting him. Then, without saying a word, he dragged the coat off and threw it to Booth.
“You’re not going with them,” he said.
“I’m a good worker,” Dalton said, still trying to maintain his disguise. “I’m sure we can find the missing wood.”
Victor smiled. “I’m sure you can, but I have a more important task for you.”
Dalton’s first sight of the bridge impressed him. He had traveled upriver with Loren when the work had first started, but in the intervening months the structure had grown faster than he’d expected.
Sitting with him on the front of the wood-laden wagon were two other workers, neither of whom had spoken to him and neither of whom had shown any sign of knowing that he didn’t work for the railroad. Victor hadn’t told him why he’d let him go to the bridge, but Dalton was glad he had, as Frank had sent one of his men with Booth’s detail and his disguise would probably have been uncovered quickly.
The driver drew up the wagon close to the edge of the gulch and workers emerged from the gloom to begin unloading the planks. Dalton helped out, losing himself in the physical work, but it also gave him time to think.
