Gunsmoke Serenade Read online

  His wife had once said to him not long after their wedding day, ‘I fell in love with you because you understand why a child’s smile is beautiful, and you see goodness in people.’

  It was true, but the man that he had been was gone forever. He died the same day his wife was trampled by horses as the five bank robbers made their escape.

  Rodriguez was the last one he had hunted down. He beat him to death with his bare hands in an Albuquerque cantina.

  The first one had been a man named Garrison, the leader. Knight shot him when he found him working as a drover on a cattle drive. Then the others: the half-breed Sam Coon; the gunslinger Waddy Hensel and a man named Duggan. They all died fast, and by the gun. But Rodriguez died slowly, with Knight’s own knuckles nearly broken from the savage beating he had given him.

  He hadn’t decided yet how he was going to kill Manchester.

  There was no hurry now. He could take all summer if he wanted, and somehow this thought was comforting. But Knight knew he wouldn’t wait, at least not long.

  In the morning he crawled out of the lean-to and made a perimeter check to confirm that he was alone. There was no sign of Manchester’s men, although he knew he needn’t travel far to find them. For the moment, he was perfectly hidden.

  He decided to connect with Lacroix before commencing his war against Manchester. Let the old boy stew about it and keep him guessing. Meanwhile, Lacroix might have news regarding the gunmen’s movements.

  By now he was quite familiar with the trails that crisscrossed the valley and he was comfortable as he made his way north and upward into the mountains. He stopped now and again to listen for sounds, but he hadn’t heard any gunfire since yesterday afternoon, and that had been near the creek that swept down to the lake. He thought Lacroix must have stirred things up.

  He could not keep Manchester’s note from intruding on his already troubled mind. He felt victimized, although he wasn’t able to say it with those exact words. Perhaps he thought the war had been fought to end this country’s troubles, but naturally it hadn’t worked out that way. What Knight understood of history indicated that Man was always at war. Maybe it was mankind’s fate to destroy itself. That was a grim thought, and it didn’t sit right with him.

  A maelstrom had struck him the day his wife died. Foolishly believing that mankind’s madness was behind him, he had set out to build a life as a farmer, living off the land, and nurturing a family. Her death had taken that all away from him.

  The discovery that this land was still populated by random evil acts nearly destroyed him with his grief. Eventually, and only after killing the first of the men responsible for his wife’s death, he thought that possibly the best hope for this nation was that our dreams come true a little bit at a time. He could live if he could make that happen for others. He did not think of it as noble or righteous, but simply as something that he was capable of doing. He did not believe then, nor did he believe now, that he was capable of anything except fighting. This was his solitary skill.

  He had a purpose, and he understood that purpose instinctively. A man who died without finding his purpose was unfulfilled. The difference between Maxfield Knight and some of the men he faced lay in the fact that they weren’t willing to die with a purpose.

  With nothing to lose, Knight trudged along a trail, conscious of movement and sound at the periphery of his senses. He slowed, taking in the scents on the breeze and listening carefully to the natural sounds of a morning in a forest.

  The grizzly had two cubs.

  He had stopped. He watched without moving save for the turning of his head. Straight ahead near a thicket ripe with berries he could make out one grizzly cub in the brush. To his right, but further away, he had a glimpse of the mother. Closer to him, and on his right but almost behind him, the second cub was moving toward the mother.

  He didn’t feel alarmed, but rather he calculated his options, which at that moment was to remain motionless. None of the cubs were near enough to him to spook the mother, but he needed to remain absolutely still.

  The real problem, he thought, almost with a sigh of exasperation, was the fact that two of Manchester’s men had suddenly become visible on the trail approximately three hundred yards in front of him.

  They hadn’t seen him yet, and they were unaware of the grizzlies.

  Something caught the men’s attention and they stopped. Realizing that they might have spotted that first grizzly cub, Knight sprinted toward the cub closest to him and gave it a swift kick in the ass. Startled, the cub let out a yelp and scampered toward the now fully engaged and angry mother, who had risen up, sniffing the air.

  The grizzly mother charged when she saw the two men.

  Her speed was incredible. In seconds she had closed the distance and with one mighty sweep of its paws she tore away the man’s face. Screaming, the man went down.

  Without hesitating, Knight slapped his Colt into his hand and inhaled once, held it, and exhaled as he pulled the trigger. It was a very long shot but it clipped the horrified second man, who had overcome his astonishment and turned to run.

  The grizzly took him down. The bullet wound had slowed the man and then the grizzly was on him. A terrible flurry of agonizing screams rose up from behind the hedge where the grizzly clawed and chewed at both men.

  The screaming didn’t last long.

  Already, Knight was running in the opposite direction. He never looked back. All he knew for several excruciating moments was his breath rasping in his lungs and the sweat that soaked his already exhausted body. But he didn’t stop.

  He also wasn’t going in the right direction. He was heading down toward the valley where Manchester’s men had spread out in their expanding search.

  To hell with it!

  Taking time to pause and make certain his Colt was loaded, he determined to take a Winchester from one of Manchester’s men at the next available opportunity. His battered Winchester, which he had used as a club, had been discarded and Knight didn’t relish being shy of weapons.

  He reckoned that Lacroix would come find him soon enough, and that dang kid, Cole Tibbs, was overdue. Knight had expected the kid to show sooner. He would have to talk to him about his fishing habits.

  Cutting east, he started toward the creek that rushed down from the high snowy peaks and emptied into that blue lake glimmering down in the valley.

  Clambering uphill, Knight followed the gurgling sound of the mountain creek. Eventually, he found the other small bark canoe Lacroix had shown him. It was hidden in the brush and covered with a tarp. He found the paddle under the cover and pulled the canoe loose and cleaned it out. Squirrels and raccoons had made a home of the canoe. The bottom was littered with acorns and twigs, but the canoe looked solid. If it didn’t leak he would use it to move downhill.

  There was a rope affixed to the bow and attached to a brass hook. Sliding the canoe into the water, he held the rope and let the canoe dangle in the current. A few minutes later he pulled the canoe in and examined the bottom. It was dry.

  He climbed into the canoe and pushed off. Cutting the water with the paddle, he adjusted the canoe and swung out into the current.

  He immediately realized the current was far stronger than he’d anticipated, and he had difficulty keeping the canoe from flashing downstream. Stroking furiously, he paddled toward shore, having already been jettisoned fifty yards downstream and nearly capsizing.

  He paddled along the opposite shore, and, using the paddle as a rudder, he positioned himself just half a foot from the embankment whenever possible. In minutes his shoulders and arms ached from his exertions. Knight frowned. Lacroix hadn’t warned him about the stream’s current, and Knight should have thought of it himself. This was dangerous, hard work.

  Once, spotting an outcropping of rocks in the water ahead, Knight pushed himself up near shore so that his paddle struck sand. With the canoe sitting in the shallows, he gingerly maneuvered past the craggy rocks, the ice cold water slapping at the sharp bo
ulders just inches from the canoe.

  Once past the rocks he made better time.

  Once, a glimpse of a rifleman downstream had saved him from discovery. Then he heard voices, and laughter.

  Quickly, he cut into shore, leapt from the canoe, and pulled the canoe on to the muddy incline.

  They hadn’t seen him, and Knight, being practical, still harbored a desire to get his hands on another Winchester.

  Moving swiftly, he circled around listening to the voices. He soon spotted two men near the shore. They were relaxed but irritated.

  ‘He ain’t got a gun,’ one man said.

  ‘Leastways, we don’t think he does,’ said a second man.

  ‘He didn’t look like no marshal either.’

  ‘You heard the boss. He might have friends.’

  ‘Hell, it doesn’t matter. Let’s find this fella, kill him and get back to camp.’

  Knight took a breath, his hand gripping the walnut stock of his Colt, and stepped out of the brush.

  ‘Put your hands up.’

  Both men froze, their eyes wide.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Drop your rifles.’

  Both men dropped their rifles, but each man still carried a holstered Colt. Experience had already taught Knight what would happen next, but he still had to offer them a chance.

  ‘If you both will be so kind as to unbuckle your gunbelts, I’ll be happy to let you live. If you don’t I’m afraid we’ll have a problem here.’

  ‘A problem here?’ one man said incredulously. ‘There’s two of us. You can’t be that fast on the draw! Do you know how much you’re worth to us dead?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I’m worth,’ Knight said, ‘My gun is already in my hand and I’ll kill both of you.’

  ‘You ain’t gonna kill nobody!’

  Knight shot them both as they simultaneously went for their guns, the blasts from his Colt like thunder in the trees. He stripped their bodies of their gunbelts and picked up both rifles.

  Then he went looking for Cole Tibbs.

  TWELVE

  Castellanos found Manchester standing in a patch of sunlight outside his tent and smoking a thin Havana cigar.

  ‘Would you like a cigar?’ Manchester offered, ‘The Cubans make very good cigars.’

  ‘No thanks, boss. I have a note for you from the lawman.’ Castellanos kept his tone even.

  ‘Let’s have it then.’

  Castellanos handed him the note. Manchester read it without emotion, his features blank. He folded the note and slipped it into his pocket before blowing a plume of smoke into the sky. He snorted smoke like a bull, the only sign of emotion that Castellanos could determine.

  ‘There is blood on this note. Is it his blood?’

  ‘Yes it is. His knuckles are badly torn. I saw him kill a man with his bare hands. This lawman is a formidable fighter.’

  ‘Is there anyone with him?’

  ‘None that I saw, but there are signs of other men, at least one, but the lawman is the only person I found.’

  ‘What did he say to you? Tell me everything.’

  ‘He said very little. I was lucky he didn’t shoot me. He read your letter and wrote that note and said for me to give it to you. That was about it.’

  Manchester nodded thoughtfully, looking at the marshal’s star. ‘You said you saw him kill a man. Tell me about that. What is he like?’

  ‘He fights like a man that isn’t afraid to die. I have never seen anything like it. He will stop at nothing and fight until he drops. He’s fast with a gun and accurate, and he can fight with his fists.’

  ‘Are you afraid of him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go against him alone. He can’t be stopped.’

  Again, Manchester nodded. ‘I had guessed as much from his reputation, and so I have brought all of you men here to ensure my success. But now I’m truly intrigued by this man.’

  ‘He’s impressive.’

  Manchester scrutinized Castellanos, who felt a wave of apprehension wash through him as those cold, calculating eyes locked onto him. He couldn’t tell what Manchester was thinking, and he didn’t want to come under fire – at least not yet. He preferred to see Knight go against this man, and then he would help Knight if he could.

  ‘And his gun skills? You mentioned he was fast, but how fast?’

  ‘Like lightning.’

  ‘How long is the barrel on his Colt? Seven inches?’

  ‘No, I think it may have been five inches, a standard Peacemaker.’

  ‘That’s a mistake on his part. A four-inch barrel is best for fast draw shooting from a leather rig. The short barrel levels the gun faster.’

  Manchester turned and went into his tent and came back with a gun. ‘This is a short-barreled Colt. I am exceedingly fast at drawing and firing it accurately. Knight cannot be faster than I am. I won’t believe that, but, of course, we may yet find out.’

  ‘It’s good to be confident and especially to have a skill like that. This man will not roll over and die easily.’

  ‘No, I don’t expect him to. It’s coming down to a matter of willpower.’

  ‘You’ll need willpower to beat him.’

  ‘We all will,’ Manchester said, eyeing Castellanos suspiciously, ‘and I expect all of my men to make a valiant effort at killing Maxfield Knight.’

  ‘You bet, boss.’

  ‘Come into my tent for a moment. I have something that may interest you.’

  For a second Castellanos hesitated but then reluctantly followed Manchester into his tent. The interior was bathed in yellow and cool inside, with the flaps on both ends open to allow in air. There was a small folding table with an oil lamp, a chair, a cot, and a traveler’s trunk reinforced with brass hinges. Manchester opened the trunk and rummaged through it. Castellanos saw silk shirts and an expensive pair of riding boots. He removed two small gilt-edged frames containing daguerreotypes. He showed them proudly to Castellanos.

  ‘Not that many years ago I took up the manly sport of knuckle fighting. I made a great deal of money working the waterfronts in New York. I once killed a man with my bare hands.’

  Castellanos looked at the daguerreotypes. They depicted a bare-chested Silas Manchester in a fighting pose, wearing laced ankle boots and shiny shorts.

  ‘Of course,’ Manchester continued, ‘I have killed in other ways, too, such as hiring a man to do it for me. There are times when a real man shouldn’t sully his hands.’

  ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘Maxfield Knight is interesting. He killed my no-good brother with his bare hands. I heard he killed Carleton Usher and his sons in Raven Flats, and he killed Juno Eckstrom in Crippled Horse.’

  ‘They say he’s a man without fear, and I believe it.’

  ‘Hmmm …’ Manchester chewed his lower lip, his eyes flicking in his head like butter bubbling in a skillet. It was unnerving to watch. Castellanos thought Manchester was certainly possessed of Satan. ‘I may have taken the wrong approach. A man with his formidable talents requires special attention.’ Manchester blinked and refocused on Castellano. ‘Did you know I hunted the lions of Africa? I have stood in the tall African grass and held my ground against a charging beast.’

  ‘I have no doubt as to your courage, boss.’

  ‘You seem like a man of means,’ Manchester said, ‘so tell me what kind of man could beat him with his fists.’

  ‘Well, he’s a big man, over six feet with broad shoulders. I can’t tell his age, but he could be near forty, maybe even younger, but he has the face of an older man. He appears to be very strong. His hands are large, like hammers. There is a great force to his punches.’

  ‘Are you familiar with John L. Sullivan?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. A prizefighter, right?’

  ‘He licked Paddy Ryan in Mississippi a few months ago. I was there. One on one there is no prizefighter like Sullivan! He’s a bull of a man, tall, strong! By god, a man like that is unstoppable. I have no doubt that Sulliv
an could easily beat this lawman.’

  ‘Well, boss, I’ve never seen Sullivan so I’ll take your word on it.’

  ‘You do that!’ Manchester said sarcastically. ‘I fought a man named Patrick Loughman, a tall bastard. He had a reach on me by half a foot and I knew he was dangerous. Do you know how I beat him?’ Castellanos shook his head. ‘I bulled into him and I let him hit me. Every time he hit me I screamed. That’s right, I screamed in his face and charged. It rattled him. Pain is nothing. I shook it off and used my fists like anvils, swinging at him again and again. I gave no thought as to my own comfort. You might be surprised to learn that fight only lasted ten minutes!’

  ‘I think this lawman will have his hands full if you decided to fight him like that.’

  ‘Yes, Knight may indeed be formidable, and I’ll admit that he is. After all, he’s killed quite a number of my men already, and he’s survived much longer than I expected. But now it is perhaps time that I took a stronger hand in these activities.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘A full assault, every man on horseback and armed. And I myself will lead the charge. We’ll start tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I want you to gather the men – all of them, bring them out of the hills and outlying camps. They are to return immediately. We’ll all have a good meal and a good night’s rest before charging after this infernal marshal!’

  THIRTEEN

  Cole Tibbs was hiding in a clump of blackberries and preparing to jump the gunman who was coming up the trail. When he saw that it was Maxfield Knight he breathed a sigh of relief and whistled between his teeth. Knight stopped, his rifle ready. Tibbs noted that Knight held a rifle in each hand. The rifle in his right hand was cocked, and although he was holding it with one hand, the barrel was steady. He also noted that Knight had two spare gunbelts looped about his shoulder.

  Tibbs stepped on to the trail. ‘I see you brought me some guns. I appreciate that.’