Lost Mountain Pass, page 7
A breeze blew at their backs as Trusty eyed the familiar spot to make sure it was empty. They had been riding high on a bluff, facing a treeless clearing that was protected by arise of boulders and stone that looked like they had grown out of the ground thousands of years before. A soft bed of grasses sat in the middle of the rocks, making the place perfect to camp. There was one way in, and one way out. The closest ridge was two hundred yards away, making it nearly impossible for a night shot to be accurate. The edge of the camp overlooking the river was almost straight down, rolling into a tumble of boulders, rocks, and opportunistic trees. It would be difficult for a man to climb up unheard or unseen. The two sides were stacked with pointed rock formations, rising to a curtain made of ancient granite. A fire could be hidden if it was built right, low and managed, not allowed to cast a blaze of light upward. The last thing they needed was glowing rock announcing their presence to anyone who might have a reason to care about where they were. Trusty would still have to keep watch, but the campsite was as secure as any he could find with only one man to defend. The hanging in Kosoma, along with the funeral and Amelia’s presence, had left every ounce of Trusty’s concern for a threat turned on high. Even the wind worried him. He wondered if their smell would carry.
“You always seem to know the best camps,” Judge Hadesworth said, pulling his regal steed to a stop. Amelia followed suit, standing next to him. Both horses swished their tails as if they approved of the spot too. At least there would be something there for them to graze on.
Trusty’s boots had already hit the ground. He was looking for a place to tether the horses. Then he’d worry about finding kindling to build a fire. “Lucky is all, Judge. I came upon this place a few years ago heading to Fort Gibson, and figured it would be a good place to stay safe if the need ever came up,” he said as he pulled a long rope off the horn of his saddle. “Weather feels like it might kick up something undesirable though. Looks like you’ll need to put your bedrolls under a lean-to. We’ve got a lot to do in a short amount of time.”
Judge Hadesworth didn’t answer. He was helping Amelia down from her skinny horse. The mount looked to be relieved from the burden of carrying a rider, even one as thin and light as Amelia Darby. Trusty was laying odds on whether the rickety mare would make it to Muskogee.
There was no acknowledgment by Amelia of her satisfaction or dissatisfaction of the stop. It was a welcome silence as everyone set about pitching camp. Trusty and the judge had traveled together enough to go about their own chores without saying much. Amelia’s traveling skills were unknown. Trusty worried she would be inept, unable to find any comfort spending the night under the stars instead of under a roof. But like everything else he had assumed about Amelia Darby, it turned out that he was wrong. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing and didn’t offer one outward comment or complaint about the spot, or the accommodations she had found herself subjected to. If anything, the farther away from Kosoma they traveled the lighter in mood she had seemed to become. Not quite likable, but less angry, less resentful, at least to Judge Hadesworth. The old man had charmed the Darby girl with his constant attention and soft, understanding eyes. She seemed flattered and unaccustomed to the thoughtfulness he paid her. If anyone could tame her, it was Judge Hadesworth. He could make a whipped puppy feel like it was the most loved dog in the world. Of course, the other side of him—the defender of the law, of right and wrong—could condemn a man, or three men, to death without the blink of an eye or the consideration of a tear. Ice tinkled in the judge’s veins when he sat on the bench.
After helping Amelia finish building her lean-to, Trusty set about gathering kindling to build a fire. He also wanted to stake out the spot a little better, even though darkness had fallen completely. A puffy blanket of clouds had moved overhead and covered up the stars and moon, blocking out any helpful light. His eyes had adjusted so he could see well enough though. His ears were wide open, listening for anything unusual, out of place. So far, he hadn’t even heard an owl hoot.
“I’ll be close by if you need me,” Trusty said to the judge.
“You have nothing to worry about.”
“You know what to do if there’s any sign of trouble.”
“You’re starting to remind me of my wife, Trusty. Go on, do what you need to do. I’ve managed to live this long; I think I can survive until you return with an armful of firewood.”
Trusty just shook his head, smiled, and edged away from the camp, scouring the ground for any sign of wood to burn, of which there was little. The closest trees were down the ridge, clustered along the river in a thin line. If worse came to worse, he would have to make his way down to the water’s edge, leaving the judge to truly fend for himself. Normally, straying from the judge by a hundred or two yards wouldn’t have concerned Trusty too much. Judge Hadesworth carried a Henry rifle on his horse and was never without the Remington Model 95, a derringer, stuffed inside his coat. The little gun was hardly a threat to the men like Trusty had seen in Kosoma, but it was better than nothing. The judge had been urged over the years to carry a sidearm with more power, but he had refused, saying his protection came from words not bullets. There was no use arguing with the man, and Trusty knew it.
Trusty was under the assumption that Amelia Darby was unarmed, but that was a dangerous and unproven assessment. The woman hadn’t been searched and he wasn’t about to suggest such a thing. Still, he was bothered by the unknowns that accompanied her. The Darby Gang had favored a lot of firepower, wore their guns with honor and pride. Amelia had lived in a house where firearms were commonplace. There was no way she could have been ignorant of their use, unless she had naturally shied away from guns of any kind. For all he knew, Amelia had her own derringer hidden inside the black weeds she wore.
But they needed a fire.
The judge knew to put a shot in the air to get Trusty’s attention if something was wrong. One crack of metal lightning and Trusty would have flown back to camp on invisible wings if he had to.
* * *
Every time the fire dared to rise up, Trusty tamped it down. The smell of coffee and beans drifted upward as both cooked, readying for a long overdue meal. A pouch of jerky had already been passed between the trio, and no one complained about the lack of flavor or toughness of the dried beef. There had been an acceptance of their accommodations, which made Trusty a little more comfortable. The weather had also cooperated. The earlier threat that had appeared overhead had passed on, blown away by the wind that had died on the tail of the turbulent clouds. Only a few dark gray puffs lingered behind, not in any hurry to catch up with what had abandoned them. A thumbnail moon hung crooked in the sky, and a dotting of silver stars pulsed beyond it.
“This reminds me of the time we were in Childer’s Station, Trusty,” the judge said, rising to pour a mug of coffee. He did so and offered it to Amelia. She declined. “Remember the contrariness of the weather then, clear one minute, then dumping a downpour the next?” He sat back down on a rock tall enough for him to stretch his legs toward the fire and warm the soles of his boots.
Amelia sat next to the judge, with Trusty on the other side of her. Judge Hadesworth always insisted that Amelia was in the middle of the two men, always protected, always looked after. That in itself had probably encouraged the change in the Darby girl’s attitude.
“I do remember,” Trusty said, helping himself to the coffee. “The Arkansas River was swollen out of its banks, and I wasn’t sure if I was going to get you to court on time.” He sat back down and tried to relax. “I heard they were changing the name of that town to Sallisaw.”
“But there’s a town fifteen miles north of there called Sallisaw,” the judge said.
Trusty shrugged his shoulders. “I heard tell Willie Wheeler has something to do with it. Got a new coffin shop there and all.”
“Funny how things work out. Well, Childer’s Station or Sallisaw, no matter what it’s called. You always find a way to get me where I belong.”
Amelia stared at the fire, oblivious to the conversation she was in between, and not part of.
“Got lucky is all,” Trusty said.
Judge Hadesworth smiled. “Maybe everybody should call you Lucky instead of Trusty.”
“Sam suits me just fine.”
“You don’t like your nickname?” Amelia said.
Trusty looked away from her and the judge, out past the fire, and into the empty grayness. Something had caught the attention of his ear, though he couldn’t be sure what it was. Not a twig snap, or a slide on a rock. It was like flesh or fur rubbing its way down the mountain. Maybe a squirrel making its way home late. “If I’m being honest, ma’am, the answer would be no. But that’s how folks know me. Strangers and friends alike. I can go into a town I’ve never been in before and the first person I meet calls me Trusty. I’m stuck with it, I suppose, for good or bad. There are things in this life that a person has no control over, so there’s no use fightin’ it.”
“Like the family you were born into,” Amelia said. “I’d trade my name for yours any given day.”
“Trusty’s name stuck because it’s well-deserved.” Judge Hadesworth smiled, then added a satisfied nod.
The sound again. Fur against rock. Movement. Something odd. Out of place over the crackle of the fire. Trusty set his coffee down and stood up. Both the judge and Amelia watched him with uncertainty. The beans boiled in their pot.
“How is that?” Amelia said.
Before the judge could answer, Trusty put his index finger to his lip, signaling the two of them to be quiet.
Trusty dropped his right hand down to the ivory grip of his Colt and tugged the gun up a little bit out of the holster; far enough for him to be able to slip his finger onto the trigger. Then he backed away from the fire, eyeing the spot where he thought he’d heard the noise.
Judge Hadesworth let the uncertainty fall from his face and leaned over to Amelia. “This is why everyone calls him Trusty,” he whispered.
Trusty ignored the comment but packed it deep in his pocket of accolades he’d been given by the judge. He kept backing away from the fire until he was five feet directly behind Judge Hadesworth.
Sure that he was cloaked in the shadows of the coliseum-style rock formations, Trusty stood opposite the fire, with his vision focused on a slight climb of rocks that looked much like the cairns he’d seen piled up on Poor Man’s Hill in Kosoma. There was nothing there at first glance. No movement. Nothing to alarm him but the sound. Until he heard a click behind him—he was halfway in a spin to face whatever it was when the first gunshot rang out.
An orange flash, one that Trusty had seen more times than he cared to admit, came from the side of a rise in the rocks twenty yards away. A rifle crack, instead of short barrel, six-shooter explosions that were louder, more identifiable. Followed by the smack of lead against flesh, then a gasp and a surprised squeal, like a pig hit behind the head with a heavy, killing club.
The sound had come from Trusty’s mouth as the bullet scraped alongside his arm, cutting through the cloth of his shirt and burning the top layer of flesh off as the bullet sped by.
Amelia screamed.
Trusty ignored the wound and returned fire. One shot followed by another. He stopped at three, then sucked in a slow breath full of gun smoke to calm himself. Something inside of him fell in place. That thing that had saved his life and those he had protected over and over again. He didn’t panic. He never panicked. Not even when he was being attacked. The bullet graze didn’t raise his heartbeat or push his adrenaline to its heights. A gunfight in the dark was a Sunday walk in the park as far as Trusty’s body was concerned. His mind was another thing. It was scanning and calculating, doing its best to sum up the odds he was facing, trying to figure out the best way to save everyone’s life. Somehow, someone had snuck up into his impenetrable spot while he wasn’t looking.
“Get down and shut up,” Trusty said. He might as well have asked someone to pass the salt at a proper dinner table. There was no need for an exclamation.
Judge Hadesworth understood completely what was going on. He pulled Amelia back from the fire, and they both scurried behind a stand of waist-high rocks. He pulled his derringer from inside his coat, while covering the girl’s mouth with his other hand.
Another lightning crack shattered the night silence. A distant shot, a pulse of orange, but not from the same spot. Ten yards to the right. There were two of them. Trusty had assumed there were, that they were the hired men from Kosoma, the boxer and the bulldog. He wasn’t sure of that, or that they were alone. There could be ten men for all he knew. He expected more shots from behind him, over the ledge that looked down onto the river, even though that would have been almost impossible.
Trusty dove farther into the shadows as the shot thumped into the ground next to his boot. He was close to the tethered horses; all three had started to stir at the sound of the gunshots. Horse was situated in the middle of the other two mounts, allowing Trusty to slide in and grab his Winchester out of the scabbard.
Another shot erupted into the air. Trusty wasn’t the target this time. He didn’t see where the shot had come from, didn’t see any burst of light to accompany the sound. The two shooters hadn’t fired. Amelia had popped up over the boulder that was covering her and the judge and fired off a shot from a six-shooter, an older Buntline Special with an eight-inch barrel that looked almost as big as Amelia herself. Trusty had no idea where the girl had been hiding the firearm, but its existence didn’t surprise him in the least. He was glad to have some help from something a little more powerful than the judge’s puny derringer.
The recoil of the shot was too much for Amelia, and she fell over backward, firing another shot off, straight into the air, as she crashed to the ground.
Judge Hadesworth reacted without thinking.
He stood straight up, turning to Amelia’s aid.
It was obvious that he hadn’t considered himself a target, in real danger, even though he should have.
“Get down!” Trusty yelled, then fired a series of shots from the Winchester.
But he was too late.
One of the two shooters answered back to Amelia’s attempt to join in the fight. She had shown herself.
The shot from the darkness landed exactly where it had been aimed: Judge Gordon Hadesworth’s back.
Chapter 7
Paris, Texas, May 1888
Vance Calhoun met Haden and Gladdy halfway to the horse barn. He was wearing his riding boots and was loaded down with a full complement of gun belts and pistols. His eyes were clear and focused, battle ready, and his stride was stocked with purpose. “I changed my mind, Haden. I’m going with you,” he said.
Haden was about to slide his boot into the stirrup and pull himself up into the saddle. He stopped mid-pull on the horn and settled his foot back to the ground. “I thought you wanted this to be a two-man job. In and out, quick and easy.”
Gladdy was already settled on his ride, a black mare with uninterested eyes and long runner’s legs. The younger O’Connor was weighted down with enough ammunition to fight a small battle: two guns, two gun belts, and a taste for killing plastered across his face. Gladdy never backed down at the chance to take a life. He was good at it.
“I started to think about my plan, staying here and letting you two ride alone,” Calhoun said to Haden. “Marberry is a smart man. Maybe smarter than I give him credit for. He might have protection riding with him, two or more men that hung back so we wouldn’t see them when he came to pick up Jessica’s body and the baby. I’m kickin’ myself for not spying on them coming up the road, but I’m not myself right now. This whole thing with Jessica dyin’ has knocked me out of my socks. I think you’ll need an extra gun or two just in case I’m right about the feelin’ in my gut about the old man. Miguel is joinin’ us too.”
Haden pulled himself into the saddle of his horse, a chestnut filly with a white diamond on her nose. The horse objected mildly to Haden’s presence with a snort and slap of its lengthy tail. It was clear to Calhoun that Haden objected to his plan as much as the horse objected to be ridden, but that didn’t matter to him. Both of them were beasts of burden.
“That Mexican can’t hit the broadside of a barn with a scattergun, even less with a pistol when he’s under duress,” Haden said. His blue Irish eyes narrowed and looked beyond Calhoun for a sign of the Mexican. He hadn’t arrived yet.
“Miguel’s all we got. The rest of the men are out with the cattle,” Calhoun said. “You know how spring is. Busy time. If there wasn’t so much at stake, you two’d be out there chasin’ down calves that got separated from their mommas too.”
“You sayin’ that funeral man ain’t alone, boss?” Gladdy said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. It was hard for Calhoun to tell if the boy was hungry for more men to go after. Tryin’ to read Gladdy was something he’d given up on a long time ago.
“I’m not going to bet against it. Marberry’s a sly character. I’d have more guns on me than two coach drivers, especially with nothing but womenfolk inside, if I was him.” Calhoun moved toward the stable where the grullo was waiting in its stall. The noise outside the barn had gotten the horse’s attention. It looked more curious about food than anticipating a ride. “We need to get movin’. Those coaches won’t travel fast at night, if they’re travelin’ at all. They got a long ride back to Missouri. We can cut across the north draw to intercept them as dark comes on if they ain’t set up camp somewheres or taken rooms to let for the night in Paris.”
