Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) (12 page)

She and Kerr began dragging Bannis toward his horse.

“And take him where?” Kerr asked as they started shoving Bannis up into his saddle.

“To Gun Valley,” Isabelle said. “Hide him there. I'll bring you supplies when I can get away.”

Kerr gave her a questioning look.

“This was my fault,” she said, speaking quickly. “I should have told him right off. I'm Brother Phillips' wife now. He had a right to hit me. Dad unbound me and his older wives and bound us to his brethren.”

“Wait,” said Kerr. “Where will I hide him? This whole bunch is headed for Valley of the Gun.”

“Go across the valley,” she said, “to the old dugouts there.”
She raised Bannis' leg and pushed it over the saddle.

“I know where that's at,” Kerr said. As he spoke he gave a hard shove and watched Bannis roll onto the saddle and slump forward onto the horse's neck.

“Hurry,” she said. “I'll try to slow them down as much as I can.”

Kerr glanced at the running rifleman and said, “Liles is going to have a conniption, me taking off with his horse.”

“I'll explain it to him. Now go,” Isabelle said, shoving him toward his horse.

Mounted, Kerr led Bannis, riding away at a hard gallop. The knocked-out gunman was lying limp, but managing to stay in his saddle. At the edge of valley, Kerr rode behind a stand of rocks, circled and gazed back toward the camp.

“Son of a bitch,” he said, staring up in awe as flames and black smoke billowed upward from the burning wagon. “Frank Bannis, you are one lucky
hombre.
He gave a dark chuckle, watching the riflemen give up their chase and turn to fight the raging fire.

Chapter 12

The Ranger and Mattie Rourke stood atop a cliff looking out past a lower hill line where black smoke drifted along an evening breeze. A few feet behind them lay a set of fresh hoofprints headed down the trail.

“A campfire maybe?” Mattie asked, sounding doubtful. “It is coming from about where the Munny Caves are.”

“No,” said the Ranger, “I wouldn't think it's a campfire. Not if Dad's people are trying to keep from being seen.”

“The posse from Goble?” she asked.

“Could be,” Sam replied. He looked all around, toward hills off to their left. “Ragland knows this terrain. The four of them could have made some good time if they didn't run into any of Dad's men along the other trail.” He considered it. “We haven't heard any shooting.”

“Dad's people don't make mistakes like this,” she said, gesturing toward the smoke.

Sam nodded, watching the long drift of smoke curl and roll off across the evening sky.

“One thing's for sure,” he said. “If we see it, so does Dee Ragland. If the posse's not already headed there, it soon will be.”

The two made their way back to their horses.

Stepping back into their saddles, they turned their horses to the trail, following the fresh set of tracks left by the last of Dad's Redemption Riders to come down the trail toward Munny Caves.

An hour later they slowed their horses to a halt and sat at the bottom of the steep hill trail. Looking out, they gazed across a new stretch of trail winding atop a connected string of natural stone bridgework and barren ridge. Two-thirds of the way across a deep rocky gorge, the trail turned back upward onto a hillside covered with boulders and scrub timber.

“On the other side of these hills is Munny Caves,” Mattie said. She looked at Sam. “From here there are lookout spots that can see every move we make down here.”

Sam studied the hill line for a moment.

“This is a dangerous stretch,” he commented. “I can see why Dad would pick Munny Caves as a hiding place.”

“For Dad it has always been a resting place,” Mattie said. “It's a good place to lie low for a few days and find out who is on their trail.”

“And stop them right here,” Sam said. “Or at least find out just how serious the lawmen were. This trail is an ambush waiting to happen.”

“Few ever even try to make it past here,” Mattie said quietly. She paused, then added, “We can go around, but it'll take a good five or six hours longer.”

Still following the trail with his eyes, gauging the distances, Sam realized that while they could be seen from here by any guards atop the ridgeline and lookout cliffs along the hillside, they would remain out of rifle range until they had almost reached the safety and cover of the rocky hillside. He estimated no more than two hundred yards that they would have to ride in the open, in danger of rifle fire. From that point on the trail would then wind into rock cover and stay there until it reached the hilltop.

“We both see the risk. I say we need to go on across,” he said quietly. “If they want to know how serious I am, here it is.”

Mattie smiled tightly, her rifle propped up on her thigh the same as the Ranger's.

“I was hoping you'd say that,” she said. “We've both come too far to start giving up ground.”

Sam nodded in agreement.

“Keep a few feet between us when we get out in the open,” he said. He pointed to a spot in the near distance where a blackened, lightning-scorched pine stood at the edge of the trail and added, “When you reach the dead tree, put your horse up into a gallop and get on into the rocks as fast as you can.”

She gave him a questioning look, but then she gazed along the hilltop in the distance.

“Gun range . . . ,” she said.

Sam just looked at her.

She smiled.

“Don't look so surprised, Ranger,” she said, nudging her horse forward. “I've done a good job figuring things out for myself for quite some time now.”

“I have no doubt of that, ma'am,” the Ranger replied, nudging his copper dun along beside her.

As the two rode forward at a walk, Sam continued to study the slim, exposed trail lying ahead of them. Starting ten yards out, nothing stood on either side of them but an almost sheer drop of over four hundred feet down hard and jagged stone.

Here goes,
he told himself.

With one hand holding the reins loosely, he gave the dun its head, knowing it was now time to relinquish control and rely on the animal's surefootedness and instincts for survival to ensure his own. In his other hand he held his Winchester cocked and ready. Stepping the dun out onto the narrow open trail, he heard the click of Mattie's horse's hooves fall back a few feet farther behind him, just as he'd asked her to do.

They rode the horses at a safe and steady walk, tensely yet without incident, for the next twenty minutes, feeling an updraft of coolness from below between gusting passes of a hot sun-dried wind. On the jagged hillside facing them, the Ranger knew that rifle sights closely monitored their every step. Yet the eyes behind those gun sights knew as well as he and the woman, as the distance grew shorter between them and the dead standing pine, so did their chances of making it across the gorge alive.

“Get ready,” Sam said over his shoulder as they neared the scorched, broken tree.

Almost as soon as he and the woman collected their horses beneath them and batted their boots to their sides, the first bullet thumped into the trail in front of them. Sam and Mattie put their horses into a hard gallop as the sound of the delayed blast caught up with its bullet. The two horses raced past the spot where the bullet had fallen short by fifteen feet. The Ranger hoped he and Mattie would both be moving targets by the time the rifleman got sighted and ready to fire again.

Without waiting helplessly for the second shot, Sam glanced up, caught a glimpse of gray rifle smoke and fired a quick one-hand shot in its direction. It was a million-to-one shot and the Ranger knew it, but as they raced along, he heard the sharp whine of his bullet ricochet off a rock as he levered a fresh round one-handed. When the rifleman's second shot came, it did not fall short but neither did it hit its target.

The two raced on. Another shot struck the rock trail beside the copper dun's hooves, but the dun didn't waver. Neither did the Ranger. He returned fire, not getting much of an aim, but having the low end of the rising rifle smoke on which to concentrate his fire, and he could pressure the rifleman enough to affect his aim.

Behind him Mattie's horse had closed the gap between them by the time they rode off the narrow exposed trail and onto the other rocky side of the gorge. Another rifle shot pinged off a boulder at head level just as the two ducked into cover and slid their horses to a halt. They both leaped from their saddles, Sam's Winchester smoking in his hand, and he slapped the horses' rumps, sending them farther onto the boulder-strewn hillside.

Another shot rang out, but it was too late; the rifleman had missed his chance. The Ranger moved quickly around the edge of the boulder covering them and fired three shots as fast as he could lever his rifle. Three bullets whined off the rocks at the point of the rising gun smoke.

“Are you all right?” Sam asked Mattie as he levered up another round.

“I'm all right,” she said, her face flush with a combination of fear and excitement. “Are you?”

“Yeah, I'm good,” Sam replied. They looked each other up and down as if checking for wounds they might have missed.

After a tense second Mattie let go of a tight breath and looked back along the narrow trail.

“We did it,” she said, sounding almost surprised.

“Yes, we did,” Sam said, keeping an ear tuned to the direction of the rifle fire. He knew that whoever was up there realized they had made it across. Now they had cover, but the word of them being here would soon be out. “We best get the horses and get moving,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, looking around, “they know we're here and we're not backing off.”

As they moved away from the boulder and walked up-trail, they both stopped when they saw their horses standing over a sweat-frothed horse lying at the edge of the trail.

“Oh no,” Mattie said, looking at the downed animal, seeing one of its forelegs twisted at a bad angle. The horse rolled pained eyes up at them and whined pitifully.

“Stay back,” Sam cautioned, already drawing his Colt as he looked back and forth along the rocky trail. “Somebody must be looking for a horse out here.”

Mattie stood watching the trail, rifle in hand, as Sam stepped forward, gathered their horses' reins and pulled the two animals away from the downed horse. He handed Mattie both sets of reins, turned and walked back to the faltered horse, the look on his face showing he didn't like what he had to do.

Mattie waited until Sam held his Colt out at arm's length, pointed down at the hapless animal. She managed to look away at the very second he pulled the trigger and kept looking away until Sam stepped over to her and took the dun's reins from her hand. He started to say something, but before he could a harsh voice called out from across the narrow trail.

“Neither of you move,” said Deacon Jamison, standing up suddenly from behind a waist-high rock. “I'll be taking those horses—your guns too.” He waged a big Remington at them.

Sam noted the big revolver was not cocked, as it should have been upon making such a demand. Still holding his Colt down his side as if having foreseen such a situation, Sam stepped away from Mattie and raised the Colt an inch, his thumb going over the trigger.

“You're one of the men who robbed the mine payroll, the bank in Goble?” he asked in a mild, almost conversational tone of voice. Mattie stood watching, stunned into silence.

“I am,” said Jamison. “I told you to drop that gun.”

Ignoring his demand, Sam raised the Colt level, not fast but steadily, cocking it on the way.

“I'm Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack,” he said in the same mild voice. “You're under arrest for two counts of robbery.”

“Are you deaf, Ranger?” Jamison growled. “Did you hear what I told you? I said drop that gun!” But even as he repeated his demand, he saw his mistake had been made, and there would be no correcting it. Whatever edge or surprise he thought he'd taken, the Ranger had just taken it away from him.

Sam saw a desperate look come over the man's face, his eyes. As Jamison tried to throw his thumb over the Remington's hammer to cock it, Sam's Colt bucked once in his hand and sent him flying backward to the ground. The Remington fell from his hand.

“You will forever . . . rot in hell for this, Ranger. . . .” His words fell away in his throat; his eyes glazed over in death and stared straight up at the endless sky. A long breath came from his lips and stopped short.

Sam stepped forward and picked up the Remington. He looked out and up across the hillside in the direction the rifle fire had come from. Mattie watched as he raised the big revolver and fired it twice in the air, then paused and fired again.

Mattie gave him a curious look.

“That'll give them something to think about while we climb this trail,” he said. Lowering the Remington, he walked to Mattie and took the dun's reins from her hand.

—

High up on the rugged hillside, Stan Liles and Dallas Burns made room for a gunman named Manning Thomas as he climbed down using a rope dangling from the trail above them.

“I heard shooting and came running quick as I could,” Thomas said, crouching against a short rock, his rifle pulled in close to his chest. Liles cocked his head around and looked up at the edge of ground above them.

“Is anybody else coming, or are you it?” he asked.

“Yeah, I'm
it,
” said the rough red-faced gunman. “Everybody else pulled out over an hour ago. What have you got going on down there anyway?”

“A couple of riders wearing trail dusters came flapping their tails out across the gorge, but they never made it up this side,” Dallas Burns said with a dark grin.

“You got them both?” asked Thomas.

“No,” said Burns. “But we saw Deacon Jamison down there earlier. We heard shooting—sounded like Deacon's Remington. We're thinking he must've lain in wait and stopped their clocks for them.”

“How do you know they didn't kill Deacon?” Thomas asked bluntly. “Have you seen him since?”

“No sign of him yet,” said Liles, he and Burns gazing out down the rugged hillside.

“Not a glimpse,” Dallas Burns put in. “Of course, if Deacon doesn't want to be seen, he ain't going to be. Could be he knows there's more posse coming and he's going to drop them too.”

Manning Thomas just stared at the two as if in disbelief for a moment. Then he rose into a crouch and dusted off his trousers and coat.

“Boys, this will never do. See you,” he said to the two men. He turned and reached for the rope.

“Wait a minute. Where are you going?” Burns asked.

“Down the trail to see what happened,” said Thomas. “I don't want Dad or Barcinder asking me about it, and I don't know who's dead and who ain't.”

Burns and Liles looked at each other.

“Hold on. We're coming with you,” Liles said, both of them standing in a crouch and moving over to the rope.

“We're talking about an ambush, right?” Burns asked to be clear on the matter.

“Absolutely,” said Thomas, “it's the only way to go.”

Burns and Liles both breathed easier as they climbed up to the steep path, gathered their horses and rode down the trail toward the gorge. Ten minutes down the hillside, at the sound of slow-walking hooves against the hard ground, they cut off the trail and took cover behind a low stand of rocks.

As a figure walked into sight, leading two horses, Burns reached down and cocked his rifle slow and quiet. Liles did the same.