Golden Riders

Sam heard Teddy Bonsell shriek behind the roar of the rifle shot, throwing both hands up as if hit by a sudden attack of hornets. Sam levered a fresh round into the Winchester even as Bonsell's holster, Colt and all, fell to the ground at his feet. The startled outlaw's rifle flew from his hands as Sam's rifle sights swung to Jake Cleary and he fired again. Cleary jerked back against the rock behind him, then staggered forward bowed at the waist.

The Ranger quickly levered another round as he saw Bonsell sidestep and reach down for his rifle in the dirt. Aiming for the rifle stock, Sam fired again. But this time instead of hitting the rifle stock, his shot sliced two of Bonsell's fingertips off at the top knuckles and sent the bloody inch-long nubs flying up into the outlaw's face. Cutthroat Teddy let out another shriek, this one louder, longer.

“Don't shoot . . . !” Bonsell shouted.

“[Cotton's] works incorporate . . . pace and plot in a language that ranges from lyric beauty to macabre descriptions of bestial savagery.”

—Wade Hall,
The Louisville Courier-Journal

“Gun-smoked believability . . . a hard hand to beat.”

—Terry Johnston

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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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First Printing, October 2014

Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2014

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ISBN 978-1-101-63618-3

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Mary Lynn, of course . . .

The Badlands, Arizona Territory

Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack rode a thin, steep game trail up through a maze of large squat boulders and tall standing chimney rock. At the top of the trail there would be four gunmen waiting for him. He was certain of it. There had been five gunmen starting out last week, but yesterday he had reduced their numbers by one when he put a well-placed bullet squarely in the back of Cordell Kane—right between the shoulder blades. It was the best shot he could get, so he'd taken it, knowing that one fewer gun to face in the end could make the difference between dying or staying alive.

Now for the other four . . .

Two of the gunmen waiting up ahead for him were bank robbers Cutthroat Teddy Bonsell and an old ex-lawman turned outlaw, Jake Cleary. The other two were brothers by the name of Cundiff, Willie and Joe Cundiff. They would all be waiting with guns in hand, and this part of his hunt would be over—here atop a rocky hillside in the blazing sun. This was where their
trail had brought him, Sam told himself, looking all around. Here was where their lawlessness would stop.

Beneath him, the barb, a coppery black-point dun took the trail at an easy walk, raising its muzzle now and then and sniffing the air up ahead. Sam thought it reasonable to believe that as long as he and the dun had been trailing these two miscreants, the horse had come to know their scent as well as it knew the scent of a bear, a coyote. It was just a notion he'd come to consider, knowing that horses were not always given credit for being as smart or as crafty as, say, a dog, a wolf or a mountain cat. Yet, he reminded himself, it had to be noted that the equine species had managed to survive among its many hungry predators for long ages past. That had to speak well for these fine fleet animals.
Doesn't it?
he asked himself.

Of course it does. . . .

He patted a hand on the dun's neck; the horse sawed its head a little and blew out a breath, as if in some silent agreement with him. They rode on another three hundred yards through twists and sharp turns around land-stuck boulders, and now and then past a lank and sparsely clad pine whose very presence implied that God had a strange sense of humor. Finally the top of the trail revealed itself against a blue cloudless sky. There the Ranger brought the dun to a halt and stepped down from his saddle, rifle in hand.

“Here's as far as you go, Copper,” he said to the dun. The barb took a sidestep away from him as if to protest his decision and continue on in pursuit. But Sam held the reins firm-handed and rubbed the horse's nose.
“You think so now, but what if it doesn't come out to suit us?”

The horse chuffed and slung its sweaty head a little, but then settled under such sage reasoning.

“That's what I thought,” Sam said, cradling his Winchester in the crook of his elbow.

He led the horse a few feet to a lank pine where he loosened the cinch and dropped his saddle from the horse's back. He slipped the bit from the horse's mouth and spun one of the reins around a stub of a pine limb and tied it in a loose slip hitch that the horse could easily pull free if it needed to.

The coppery dun stared at him almost warily, Sam thought, as he peeled the trail glove from his right hand and shoved it down behind his gun belt.

“Don't start being a worrier on me,” he said with a trace of a wry smile. He raised his big Colt from his holster, checked it and let it hang down his side, his thumb over the hammer. “I plan on coming back for you.”

At the top of the trail, Cutthroat
Teddy Bonsell eased down behind the hot boulder he'd been lying on. His shirt glistened wet, covered with sweat from the heat of the boulder standing exposed with no shade on its sides or face. He pulled his shirt free from being stuck against his wet chest and fanned it back and forth as if to cool himself.

“Man!” he said to Jake Cleary sitting on the ground beside him in the boulder's shade. “If hell's any hotter than that, I pity the devil.”

“The devil ain't in hell,” said Cleary, idly scratching
his salt-and-pepper-colored beard. “He's smart enough he's laying somewhere in a cool stream. Did you see the lawman?”

“I saw him; he's headed up,” said Cutthroat. “He's riding slow, watching the ground.” He gave a thin grin. “Riding right into our laps.”

Cleary shook his head.

“What's he still watching our tracks for? Where else could we be but here?”

“Ask him that when he gets up here,” said Cutthroat, levering a round into his rifle chamber. He looked along a line of rock where the brothers leaned, waiting, watching him, all four tired horses standing on their other side. Cutthroat Teddy raised his arm and swung it back and forth and pointed toward the trail on the far side of the boulder.

“No hurry yet,” said Cleary, seeing Teddy and the Cundiffs quickly preparing to meet the Ranger. “The way I figure, he'll leave his horse down there a-ways and ease up the rest of the trail on foot.”

“The way
you figure
 . . . ,” Cutthroat said flatly. He gathered the front of his shirt and squeezed sweat from it. “Let me tell you something, Jake. I'm the one who laid up there on my belly watching for him. We're going by what I figure. He'll be riding up here any minute. You'd best be ready to tell him hello.”

“I am ready,” Jake Cleary said, jiggling his rifle in the crook of his arm. He spat and wiped his hand across his mouth. “You never seen me when I was
un
ready.”

Teddy settled a little.

“Riding, walking, I don't care how he gets here. I
just want the man dead and off our backsides.” He raised his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. “I figured killing Cordy would have been good enough for him, the way these lawmen are,” he added in disgust.

Cleary just looked at him.

“How are they?” he asked.

Teddy shrugged, leveled his hat back atop his head.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “I figured he'd got himself a dead outlaw to show all the folks in Nogales. That's all he cares about.”

Jake Cleary looked bemused, cocked his head curiously and gazed coolly at him.

“Are you sure you've ever heard of Ranger Sam Burrack?” he said quietly.

“Yes, I heard of him,” said Cutthroat Teddy. “He killed Junior Lake, a couple of other second-rate saddle bums. So what?” He gave a shrug. “It ain't going to get me all wrought up and worried inside.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Come on,” he said, “let's get around this boulder, be ready for him when he gets up here.” His grin widened. “Maybe he'll tell you the story of how he killed Junior Lake and his gang of desperados.”

“I ain't making him no bigger than he is,” Cleary grumbled, following Teddy around the large boulder.

“Hell, old man,
everybody
makes him bigger than he is,” said Cutthroat Teddy. “I expect I just ain't as easily impressed as the rest of yas.” The two stopped on the other side of the boulder and waited as the Cundiff brothers walked over closer to them.

“I never said I was impressed with him,” Cleary said in a gruff tone. “I'm just saying what I know. He's a
tough nut, and a man ought to keep that in mind before trying to kill him.”

“Duly noted, Jake,” said Teddy with a smug grin. “However tough he is wouldn't have meant spit once Brax found out he killed his brother Cordy.” He tapped his forehead proudly. “See, I figure we're doing Brax a favor when we kill this fool.”

“You mean
if
we kill him,” Cleary put in grimly.

“Don't cast doubt on me, old man,” Teddy warned. “I will split your gullet like a Christmas goose.”

Cleary grumbled under his breath, but he turned away and watched the trail the Ranger would be coming up. Teddy turned to the Cundiffs. As the two drew closer he waved them to a halt.

“What the hell are you doing coming over here?” he said in a harsh whisper. “This ain't no church gathering! I need you both spread out, over there, the other side of the trail.”

Without even stopping, Joe and Willie Cundiff turned a tight circle and walked away toward the other side of the trail.

“Damn it,” Willie whispered sidelong to his younger brother. “I knew we should've gone on over there in the first place. Now we've made ourselves look like a couple of rubes, him having to tell us where to go.” He paused as they walked on, then said, “Makes it look like this is our first ambush or something. . . .”

To be on the safe side, the Ranger had left the trail a hundred yards below the top of the hill. There had been too many places where he knew he could be seen by
anyone keeping watch above him. A hundred yards or less put him in a dangerous position. He didn't like moving forward with the threat of rifle sights beading down on him, even though climbing around the rocky hillside off the trail was no less dangerous.

The last hundred yards had taken him over a half hour, but upon easing up out of the rocks and brush behind the big boulder he realized the extra time had been worth it. As soon as he stepped up and slipped around the side of the boulder he looked down and saw the Cundiff brothers sitting huddled in a stretch of brush. Ready, waiting for him, he told himself.

A dry-gulch in the making . . .

Across the rocky trail from the Cundiffs he saw Cutthroat Teddy Bonsell and Jake Cleary. It was easy to see that these two had grown tired of watching the trail and stood leaning against a rock twenty-five yards away. Both of them were facing toward him, Cleary with his head bowed on his chest. Teddy stood smoking a thin black cigar. He fanned the smoke away after each puff.

So far so good,
Sam decided. He stood still just long enough to check his Colt and rifle, taking stock of himself out of habit. Then he raised the Winchester to the pocket of his shoulder and steadied it alongside the boulder. This shot would be tricky, he reminded himself, but he wanted to take Cutthroat Teddy alive if possible.

Here goes. . . .

Taking tight aim on the Colt holstered on Teddy's hip, he let out a breath, feeling the rise and drop of the
gun barrel with each steady beat of his heart. He relaxed his right cheek on the rifle stock as if settling in for a nap. Then he cut his breath short, saw the gun sights stop dead on their target; and he squeezed the trigger in that perfect moment of stillness, his breath, mind and heartbeat centered on the fine black point of his rifle sights.

“Jesus, God . . . !”
he heard Teddy Bonsell shriek behind the roar of the rifle shot, throwing both hands up as if hit by a sudden attack of hornets. Sam levered a fresh round into the Winchester even as Bonsell's holster, Colt and all, fell to the ground at his feet. The startled outlaw's rifle flew from his hands as Sam's rifle sights swung to Jake Cleary and he fired again. Cleary jerked back against the rock behind him, then staggered forward bowed at the waist.

The Ranger quickly levered another round as he saw Bonsell sidestep and reach down for his rifle in the dirt. Aiming for the rifle stock, Sam fired again. But this time instead of hitting the rifle stock, his shot sliced two of Bonsell's fingertips off at the top knuckles and sent the bloody inch-long nubs flying up into the outlaw's face. Cutthroat Teddy let out another shriek, this one louder, longer.

“Don't shoot . . . !” Bonsell shouted, rolling down into a ball against the rock, gripping his left wrist, blood running from the mangled fingers. Both of his guns had fallen three feet away. He dared not reach for them. Jake Cleary lay rolling writhing in pain, still bowed at the waist, his feet scraping, walking him in a circle on the rocky dirt.

Sam swung the Winchester toward the Cundiffs as pistol shots resounded from their position. One of their bullets thumped the ground at his feet, another zipped past his shoulder. But before he could return fire, he saw the two brothers bounding in and out of sight, firing backward over their shoulders as they skittered down off the trail, breaking brush, hopping over rocks, stumbling back to their feet, continuing on without missing a beat.

That went well enough. . . .

The Ranger let out a tight breath. In the waft of gray rifle smoke he waited and watched the rocky hillside for a moment longer. Twenty-five yards away Cleary groaned in pain and Cutthroat Teddy hunkered and panted like a trapped mountain cat. Wild-eyed in disbelief, Bonsell stared toward the Ranger, gripping his bloody left hand.

“You've—you've shot the wrong men, Ranger,” he cried out as Sam stepped away from the boulder and walked toward him, his Winchester hanging in one hand, and his Colt out and cocked, hanging down his right side.

“No, I haven't,” Sam said confidently, walking closer. “You're Cutthroat Teddy Bonsell. That's Jake Cleary. Howdy, Jake.”

Jake Cleary managed to stop groaning long enough to look up and give a stiff nod.

“Howdy, Ranger,” he gasped.

Sam turned back to Bonsell.

“I've got both your names on a list here in my pocket, Cutthroat Teddy,” he said. “Want to see it?”

“Hell no!” Bonsell said. “What if this wasn't us?” he said, holding his bloody hand up for the Ranger to see. “What if you was tracking the wrong men—
innocent
men?”

Sam didn't reply. He stooped and untied Bonsell's sweaty bandanna from around his neck and wrapped it around his bloody shortened fingertips.

“Hold it there,” he said to Bonsell, placing the wounded outlaw's right hand around the bloody bandanna. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jake Cleary struggle onto his knees and wobble there, clutching his lower belly.

“You okay there, Jake?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I'll do . . . ,” Jake groaned, examining himself. Cupping his belly with one hand, he felt down his inner thigh past his knee. “Thank goodness,” he said in relief. His voice strengthened. “I thought you put a bullet in my gut rack, but you didn't. It hit my CSA belt buckle, went down my leg and sliced down the side of my boot well.” He paused, then said, “I'm obliged, Ranger. I mean it.”