Lost Mountain Pass, page 9
“I’m tellin’ you, none of this is gonna end,” the portly man said to Markum Dawson as he looked at the wobbly wagon wheel, “until that Quanah Parker is put out of our misery. My wife’s kin had a run-up with his kind. Survived with their scalps they did, but only because they got lucky and a battalion of Texas Rangers wandered by at the time of the attack.”
Sam was bending eyes on handles like usual, listening to the man in between pulls and strikes. His father stood from a crouch and faced the talkative man with a worried look on his face. “Much as I hate to send you to Martin Fuller, the wheelwright, I have to admit that I can’t help you. The rim’s cracked and needs replaced.”
“Well, hell. One more expense I wasn’t countin’ on,” the man said. “I’ve already lost my cow and two goats. By the time I reach Texas I ain’t gonna have a silver left in my pocket.”
“You wouldn’t have to worry about that Quanah Parker fella,” Markum Dawson said.
“He ain’t no fella. He’s a scoundrel redskin is what he is. But you might be right. That’s not my fight. I’m hopin’ it’ll all be over with soon.”
“I can’t imagine the West without Indians,” Markum said. He glanced over to Sam, who had stopped working, was listening to every word spoken between the two men. “Get back to work,” he ordered Sam.
Sam hurried away from the anvil and stuffed a few rods into the forge. He could barely hear the two men over the roar of the flame and the screaming inside his head. But he knew better than to disobey his father in front of a customer. There’d be a price to pay later. At the end of the day when his father turned to the whiskey bottle to help him sleep. If Sam breathed wrong, he’d get a backhand to the face, or worse, depending on his father’s mood. Sam had learned to avoid conflict as much as he could—his only escape was dreaming at night of being a hero in an Indian fight. He’d be worthy then, and not have to worry about facing his father’s rage.
Lost Mountain, Indian Territory, May 1888
The air hung heavy with the smell of spent gunpowder and death; acrid, metallic, bloody. A thick wall of angry clouds had pushed in from the west, covering the moon and stars with the promise of a violent spring storm. A strong breeze made sure that nothing lingered, smells, clouds, or otherwise, over Lost Mountain too long. The only light that offered any help to Trusty was the dying flame of the campfire. A flickering of warm orange fell on the heels of Judge Hadesworth’s motionless boots. There was no sign of Amelia Darby; she was lost in the darkness to either death or fear.
There was nothing Trusty could do to help either one of them other than catch the attackers, stop them before all three of them were dead. An exhale restarted the push to slow Trusty’s ramping heartbeat. He knew he had to keep his head about him, knew that he had to rely on the skills and knowledge that had kept him alive so far. This wasn’t the first time he’d been ambushed—but it might be the last time if he didn’t walk away from a blindsided attack and if he allowed his emotions to run over his fighting sense. The sight of the judge shot, falling to the ground, had staggered Trusty, stopped him in a way he had never been stopped before. If he lost Judge Hadesworth, everything was over. He was finished.
Trusty swerved away from fear and hoped he held the advantage of knowing the lay of the land better than the shooters. He had an idea what they looked like, but didn’t know where they were from or why they had come after him and the judge. Any speculation that they were the hired men, the Darby sympathizers from earlier in the day in Kosoma, was just that, speculation. And there wasn’t time for that. Not now.
There was only one way up to the spot that the shooters had taken. Whether they knew it or not, they had pinned themselves. There could be thirty men for all Trusty knew, but he doubted it.
An arete, a sharp edge of the mountain, jutted up the opposite side of the camp with an accessible terrace through a narrow crease in the rocks. Trusty counted on the shooters holding their position, even though the gunfire had been quiet since the judge fell forward and Amelia had answered with a surprise shot from her Buntline Special. He hoped confidence had trapped the shooters, leaving them to face him, armed with his Colt, Winchester, and Bowie knife, if it came to that.
He edged along the cool, wet rock deliberately, hugging the mountain as if he wanted to melt into it, taking advantage of the shadows, with his ears open for any sound that was out of place. A spit of rain hit him on the cheek, and thunder rumbled in the distance. But he was focused on small sounds, like the one he had heard before the first shot rang out. Fur rubbing on rock, or fabric, as he knew now—a man shimmying up the rock slow and easy. There was nothing to be heard, not even the drawing of his own breath. The breeze had ramped up to a wind. The storm was determined to arrive sooner rather than later. Nature shouted at him from the heavens, overriding the simple movement of the men below.
Trusty held the Winchester in his right hand, while the pistol and knife remained holstered. His finger hugged the trigger, ready to pull for the slightest reason. He raised the barrel as he crept slowly around a soft curve in the rock. There was no worry about anything being above him. The rock face was rugged, sharp, almost straight down. A man would have to tie himself up in ropes to be able to stand on the top and shoot down at him.
A shot fired off as soon as Trusty eased around the curve. He drew back right away, committing to memory the location of the flash from the gun. The shooter was thirty feet away from him. The Winchester could hold fourteen rounds and the pistol six. He had twenty shots at the ready to defend himself.
Trusty rounded the corner, firing the Winchester, one round after the other, his eyes scanning the darkness for anything that moved. One more shot came his way, pinging off the rock above his head. Gravel rained down on him, but Trusty didn’t do anything to avoid the harmless avalanche. He fired seven more rounds toward the shooter. Most of the bullets ricocheted off of granite, but a few hit soft tissue, bringing with it another thud. A body hitting the ground; flesh hitting rock. There was no cry for help. Just a final gasp and nothing more.
Trusty fired off two more shots to make sure he’d hit his target, then made his way forward cautiously, eyes and ears on alert for the other shooter. He reached the body right away and could see clear enough in the darkness that it was a face that he recognized: It was the boxer from Kosoma just like he had speculated. The bulldog was still out there somewhere. He had been right to go in shooting. The judge had fallen, been hit with a shot. This was no time to ask questions.
Rain began to fall, and the wind whipped through the crevices and escarpments of the mountaintop. The darkness grew deeper, was as black as Amelia’s mourning cloak, making it harder to see anything move. An occasional streak of lightning, sharp and pointed, flashed overhead, allowing Trusty a moment of clear vision.
“Drop it,” said a man’s voice from behind Trusty. “Then put your hands up where I can see ’em.”
Trusty froze, then moved slowly, doing what he was told. He eased the Winchester down to the ground, then stood back up, fingers reaching for the clouds as a steady rain began to pat the top of his Stetson. The last thing he wanted to do was die from getting shot in the back. He wanted to see his attacker. Wanted to know for sure it was the bulldog. He hadn’t given up, knew one way or the other that there had to be a way out of the jam he’d gotten himself into. He breathed deep, calmed himself, and opened his mind, searching for an escape route even though he knew there wasn’t one. He was trapped in the tightest reach of Lost Mountain.
“Now what?” Trusty said.
“Now you die,” the man answered.
“You’re not gonna shoot a man in the back, are you?”
“Don’t matter, does it? The reward is the same as long as you’re dead. Head, back, belly, it don’t matter where I shoot you. All that matters is that I put an end to you and serve you up dead for the world to see.”
That I’m dead? Trusty thought but didn’t say. He would have bet steaks and beer that their target was Judge Hadesworth, not him. “You know there’s gonna be more law on your tail after today if you’re the only one to walk away from here alive, don’t you? If the judge is dead, that’s a federal crime. Army’ll be on you like flies on shit.”
“Ain’t so Trusty now, are you Dawson?” There was a tremble in the man’s voice that wasn’t there before.
“What are you waitin’ on? You never kill a man before?” Trusty said. His voice was even, his mind back on that perfect summer, keeping his blood flowing as calm as possible. He had given up being afraid to die a long time ago. There are undeniable risks a man assumes when he puts on a badge, and dying for the cause of good over bad is one of them.
Lightning fingered across the sky, allowing Trusty to see the dead man before him. The boxer, eyes wide open with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.
He wouldn’t get so lucky again, shooting in the dark. He’d have to take the bulldog out some other way.
“Drop the gun belt too,” the bulldog said.
“I’m gonna move slow-like,” Trusty answered as thunder boomed overhead, following up on the brief explosion of lightning. The sky looked like a broken puzzle of angry, swirling clouds, the kind that could spawn a twister. There wasn’t nothing worse than a twister on the ground at night—other than being held at gunpoint with nowhere to run.
“That’s a good idea.”
Trusty unbuckled the belt and let the weight of it sag in his hands. “If there’s a price on my head, a man’s got a right to know how much his life is worth.”
“A thousand dollars, all in silver.”
“That’s a fair amount.” Trusty still held on to the belt. “I got to wonder who can pay such an amount, and why they want me dead so bad.”
“Seems like you made an enemy of a rich man, don’t it? Now, go on, drop the belt before I shoot you and put an end to this conversation.”
“You could have pulled that trigger long before now. I’m a dead man talking is all. Wouldn’t you be long on making a conversation last?”
The bulldog took a deep breath. He was afraid. Didn’t want to shoot a lawman and face the wrath, but would anyway. Trusty figured he must have got the man’s attention by pointing out that the army would get involved if Judge Hadesworth was dead. This wasn’t a simple bounty kill. Murdering a federal judge and a Deputy U.S. Marshal would provoke a manhunt like no other. The bulldog must have known it, must have put two and two together, equated his own fate with the Darby brothers in Kosoma, toes dangling, drenched in piss, with a rope tight around their necks.
Trusty couldn’t wait any longer. A thousand dollars in silver was a lot of money to provoke a man to do something he didn’t really want to do. Instead of dropping the gun belt, he spun and threw it as hard as he could in the direction of the bulldog.
The man wasn’t expecting the move, or for Trusty to finish the spin, rush in low, and tackle him at the waist.
Both men crashed to the ground. The rock underneath their feet was wet and slippery, easy to lose their balance on. Thunder boomed overhead again. Lightning flashed and Trusty was left with no weapons but his fists. He pummeled the man in the face with all he had before the bulldog worked up enough rage and energy to raise a knee and push it into his stomach with the force of a fence post knocking down a door. Trusty rolled to the side and the bulldog jumped to his feet, almost falling, until he gained his footing on the wet rock. His rifle had been knocked from his hands when he had been rushed.
Trusty jumped to his feet, stepped in, and threw a hard-right punch. He had the favorable reach of a tall man, but the bulldog had the low advantage of a short, scrappy man and swayed right, avoiding the hit. Then he ran up on the inside of Trusty and delivered a punch of his own, landing it squarely under his right eye. Fist against the face, the taste of blood exploded inside his mouth.
Trusty staggered backward and the bulldog followed, staying up close to him, throwing one punch to the face after another. Stunned, doing his best to keep his footing, Trusty took more hits than he had in a long time, but he was able to gather himself, seeing the bulldog’s bloody face in the flashes of lightning that continued to stretch out in the sky. With all of the might he could muster, Trusty retaliated, punched the man in the nose as hard as he could, then followed that hit with an uppercut, sending the bulldog reeling backward. A couple of teeth flew to the ground; tobacco-stained ivory pebbles chinking against granite as they disappeared into the darkness.
The short man stumbled far enough backward for Trusty to reach a rifle on the ground—the bulldog’s—grab it up and aim it straight at his attacker’s head. “You move another inch and I’ll finish you. I’ll blow your goddamned head clean off your neck.”
The bulldog was on his back, propped up, wiping his mouth of blood. “You ain’t half bad, Dawson.”
“Spare me the niceties,” Trusty said. “I want to know who sent you after me and the judge.”
“The judge don’t have nothin’ to do with this.”
“He does now. If he’s hurt or dead. He took a shot, so either way you got more of a storm comin’ toward you than what’s over your head right now.” Rain washed down Trusty’s face, mixing with sweat and blood. All he could taste was salt, anger, and gunpowder. His tongue felt double its original size in his mouth.
“You’re the one with the storm comin’ after you, Dawson. If I don’t kill you, somebody else will be comin’ behind me to do the deed. That much silver will get a lot of desperate men’s attention. You got to know that. You had it right a little while ago. You’re a dead man talkin’, even if you ride away from here. If I die, you’re not done lookin’ over your shoulder. You’re a marked man.”
What the hell did I do? Trusty thought but didn’t say. “Who put the bounty on my head?” He wanted to ask why, too, but he didn’t.
“A man like you, with your reputation, along with the number of men who have seen the rope on your behalf shouldn’t be surprised to find himself with a price on his head. You think that badge protects you? Makes you invincible? It don’t. That storm is here for you. Don’t matter who set the bounty. You stirred up a twister of hate for one reason or another.”
“Then take me, and not that old man,” Trusty yelled, his voice rising up to meet the thunder and a downpour of rain. “Get Judge Hadesworth help if he needs it.”
Lightning flashed again. Darkness surprised by hot, white light. Trusty stood rigid with his finger on the trigger, rain running off his hat like it was a rotted eave, his eyes focused on the bulldog’s head—a target he didn’t dare miss if he took the shot. The bulldog stared back, unafraid as he reached for the gun in his holster. He struggled to defend himself to the very end, not giving up the fight. It was his final attempt to kill Trusty Dawson.
Trusty pulled the trigger and hit his target dead on. The boxer and the bulldog were a matched pair. Two head shots and a lot of questions left in their wake. Lady Luck had left the bulldog high and dry. He should have given up when he had the chance.
* * *
Hoping that the boxer and the bulldog were the only two men on his tail, Trusty grabbed up his gun belt and rifle, then hurried back to the campsite as fast as he could. The rain blew sideways as he went, doing his best to stay upright, not to slide down the path he’d come up on. He slipped and fell a couple of times.
There was no fire, no light to help guide Trusty back to the campsite. He let his instinct and memory lead him to the judge—who, to his surprise, wasn’t lying face-down dead, like Trusty had expected to find him. Judge Hadesworth was sitting under a lean-to, nursing a wound to his side. It had looked like he had been shot in the back to Trusty. “I thought you were dead,” he said.
The judge smiled as he put more pressure on a blood-soaked rag. “It’ll take more than a shot out of the blue to end me.”
Trusty was standing in front of the lean-to, doing his best to consider the judge’s condition as well as the fortitude of the shelter he was taking refuge under. “Where’s the Darby girl?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I saw her pull a Buntline Special out of that garb she was a wearin’ and fire toward the shooters. To be honest her shot barely missed me. That’s way too much gun for such a little lady.”
“Toppled her over is what it did,” the judge said, pulling the rag off his shoulder and looking at it. “I think the bullet’s still in there. You any good at surgery, Trusty?”
“Can’t say that I am. You don’t think you can make it back to Kosoma?”
“What, through this storm? Do you have nighttime traveling skills that I’m not aware of? Even on a good day, I think I’d be in trouble. I think that bullet sliced through something important. I can’t get the bleeding to stop. A slow death is worse than a quick one as far as I’m concerned.”
“Let me take a look,” Trusty said as he moved into the lean-to.
“I’ve got some matches in the satchel there.”
Trusty nodded and found his way into the judge’s satchel of papers and dug out a box of matches. He struck one, bringing a flash of consistent light to the tiny shelter. Judge Hadesworth’s gaunt, pale white face stared back at him. Blood had soaked his white shirt, and his right hand looked like it had been dipped in red paint. If desperation had a smell, then the mix of blood, confinement, and fear would have filled out the recipe.
The tip of Trusty’s tongue tasted coppery, and he tried to ignore the implications, but he couldn’t. He knew them too well. Death had stalked him as a scout in the cavalry, and even before, at a young age. But this was no illness. This was a gunshot wound. One that Trusty only had the basic knowledge to attend to.
“You’re right, that doesn’t look good,” Trusty said. “We need to get that shirt off you and tie off the blood flow if I can. All I’ve got is my carryin’ knife, so it’ll have to do. If I can get the bullet out, I’ll cauterize the wound, then we’ll head back to Kosoma and get you to the doc as quick as we can.”
