Gunsmoke Serenade Page 12

  Flat on the ground, he sighted down the Colt’s barrel and fired. He had to keep them from getting closer until he could find his rifle again.

  The rifle was thirty feet away, and in the open. He would be a sitting duck if he went for it. His minor wounds and cuts ached along with his tired muscles but there was enough adrenalin rushing through him that all Knight understood was that red core of anger, hotter than a blacksmith’s fire, burning in his veins like hot iron.

  He knew how to handle a Colt single-action revolver as well as any man alive. It was not something that he bragged about, and it certainly wasn’t something that he wanted to rely on. Knight much preferred a rifle.

  He stood up, aimed at the first man he saw and fired. A red spray exploded on the man’s chest as he fell. The other men cursed, diving for cover themselves. Knight quickly grabbed the rifle and slid down into a thicket. He had disappeared so quickly after shooting the man that the others were shouting in consternation at each to draw a bead on him and kill him.

  He paused and took time to eject the spent brass from the Colt and reload it before holstering it again. He checked the rifle. It was fully loaded.

  He heard voices on the trail and the crackling underbrush beneath a boot. Knight was tired of this trail and the parade of gunmen that had welled up as if from a vile spring. He wanted to get downhill, and fast.

  Bracing himself, he raced ahead, smashing through brambles just as two gunmen roared at him from the side. He had nearly stumbled into them but for once the men had reacted quickly and charged. He kicked a man between the legs so hard he thought he might have permanently injured him. The man lurched forward, dropped to his knees and vomited before rolling on his side while holding his groin and wailing in agony.

  Knight barely had time to club the second man with his rifle butt and dash away. Knight felt that his position on the trail was compromised, but he also knew it wouldn’t matter much in the end. That was all right with him as long as he took down Manchester.

  He heard gunfire in the distance. It was either Lacroix or Tibbs. The gunfire had been about half a mile away. Knight didn’t like the set-up. He wanted to move faster and get at Manchester. He cursed, loudly, not caring if anyone heard him.

  He decided to hunt the two men that he had fought with. Remarkably, they hadn’t moved far from the place where Knight had viciously kicked the one man in the balls. In fact, that man was limping about and muttering oaths under his breath. They didn’t see Knight, who had circled around to come up behind him.

  Knight shot them both quickly and moved further down the trail.

  Half a mile away Lacroix was sitting on a rock with a smoking Winchester rifle in his hands. A man of immense appetites complimented by a long and vast memory, Lacroix recalled sitting in this same spot decades earlier with his father. They had been hungry. Lacroix had fired at a fleeing pheasant, but missed. At the sound of his gunshot a covey of partridge rose to the turquoise sky. That was when his father’s shotgun boomed and a bird fell to the grass. His father killed several more birds that day. They ate well, and Lacroix’s life as a mountain man had begun. Those had been good years. His father taught him the secret ways of mountain trails; the path of midnight deer and the dens of slumbering bear. He knew these things now as well as any Indian, and the Indians in turn knew him and respected him, although Lacroix lamented he had fewer Indian friends these days.

  He had lost his father and his Indian wife to the ravages of time, and he long ago accepted that his bones would become dust here in the mountains.

  The arrival of Maxfield Knight had brought some excitement to his solitary existence. While he had no taste for killing, he lent a hand in the battle as best he could, primarily by firing on the scattered gunmen and keeping them confused. For Lacroix, Knight and Tibbs could do all the killing, or all the dying as the case might be, but Lacroix wouldn’t kill a man randomly. Besides, he thought, it was too easy. Lacroix knew every nook and cranny of these twisting trails, and Manchester’s men could easily be whittled down.

  Maxfield Knight was impressive, especially when he drew his gun. Lacroix had never seen anyone pull a gun and fire that swiftly, or with such accuracy. Of course, he had heard about all of the west’s legendary gunmen – Wild Bill Hickok, Chance Sonnet, Hank Benteen – but Knight must certainly be the fastest.

  An hour passed and Lacroix offered but a small sampling of firepower. It appeared that most of Manchester’s men had circled high into the hills and were now clambering down again. Knight was probably leading them on a merry if not lethal chase.

  He had lost sight of Cole Tibbs. When the shooting began, Tibbs had flung himself off to the left and moved downhill. Lacroix had heard him firing for some time, but now the only gunfire he heard came from further downhill and in the direction that Knight had gone.

  He reloaded his rifle and, just as he thumbed in the last cartridge, a flash of beige caught his eye on his far right. The moving beige spot flitted in and out of his peripheral vision like an irritating speck of dust. He studied on the floating beige spot a moment before deciding it was a battered Stetson plopped on the head of a gunman wearing a light blue shirt. The beige and blue moved in unison through a strand of birch, which made the colors stand out.

  The man was moving uphill and trying to get behind Lacroix. Damn if he hadn’t almost slipped past unseen. Lacroix hefted himself up and backed away from his favorite boulder to find another spot from which to shoot. He was slightly chagrined to realize he nearly missed seeing the man. That just wouldn’t do.

  He moved toward the man, but keeping to the trees, and settled on a mossy hillock between two spruce trees. Lying flat on his belly, he squinted down the barrel and estimated the distance and location where he thought the man would emerge from a cluster of wild flowering brush.

  A fat black bee buzzed past seeking clover.

  A centipede inched its way across a fallen twig.

  Lacroix breathed in and out slowly, sweat trickling from beneath his coonskin cap. He removed the cap, and repositioned himself, holding the Winchester steady.

  He saw the man emerge from the brush and look about in a confused manner. Lacroix wasn’t where the man thought he was, and he was trying desperately to find him. His actions were almost comical. His head swung back and forth, his eyes wide as saucers as his brain tried to fathom where Lacroix had gone. Hell, it was almost a waste of ammunition to shoot a man who was that easily befuddled. But Lacroix had no choice. The man was too close, his own rifle seeking a target, and in another minute he might spot Lacroix.

  Lacroix’s Winchester thundered once. The echo shattered the stillness. Bluejays and sparrows suddenly took flight. Some small animal, possibly a chipmunk, scampered away on his left, burrowing into a wavy clump of pine needles.

  Smoke dribbled from the Winchester’s muzzle as the gunshot’s echo mocked itself in the sunlit hills. He saw the man drop as the echo faded into the forest.

  Waiting a few minutes, Lacroix finally hauled himself to his feet with a mighty grunt. He wanted to make certain the man was dead. A span of twelve slow minutes passed and he found the body face down and as still as ole Abe Lincoln.

  Once again he wiped his brow, and a breeze came up and the oaks and pines made a rustling sound as if they wanted to move, and in that instant the natural sounds of the forest and valley returned. He took a moment and swept his gaze over the valleys and hills. Seen in the slanting golden light of afternoon, the valleys seemed fresh and new. The mountains behind him, limned by the arcing sun, stood out like a majestic sculpture. He heard the birds chattering and scuttle of animals foraging in the thickets, and for a moment everything was as it should be.

  There was no gunfire, There hadn’t been any gunfire for a few minutes. He studied on the valley and the surrounding hills and neither saw nor heard any sign of a gunfight. Whatever was happening, it had moved farther down and nearer to Manchester’s camp.

  There was no sense putting it off. Lacroix had to see
for himself how Maxfield Knight had fared, and if possible he would lend the lawman a hand.

  Life isn’t much without some danger now and again, Lacroix thought to himself as he started down the trail.

  FIFTEEN

  Cole Tibbs was in a quandary. Maxfield Knight had disappeared and Tibbs was pinned down by two mangy curs who couldn’t have been any smarter than a can of peas. Ever since he had set out to help his partner he’d suffered one stroke of bad luck after another. It was downright embarrassing.

  He was also giving serious thought that all of them were doomed, and, in fact, the only tangible thing in their favor was the fact that Maxfield Knight possessed an uncanny ability to beat the odds.

  He attempted to circle around the two men but they were on to him. Disgruntled, Tibbs was becoming increasingly irritated. The two men were wiry. Keeping hidden, they were stalking him from opposite sides and sending over an occasional bullet to keep him ducking. They weren’t smart, but by happenstance they had developed a routine that had, at least for the moment, kept Tibbs stuck in a patch of tall mountain grass and wildflowers near a strand of pine.

  His nose itched.

  The scent of wild blooming flowers was making him nauseous.

  Guessing that one of the men was crouching behind a bush blooming with small, white petals, he levered his rifle and emptied the cylinder in a rush of noise and slinging lead. Nothing happened. No wails of agony, no moans of pain.

  Then they rushed him.

  Tibbs didn’t have time to reload the Winchester. Scrambling backwards, he was forced to switch the empty rifle to his left hand while pulling his Colt with his right hand. He thumbed the trigger back and fired a solitary, haphazard shot that stopped them in their tracks. Although his shot was nowhere near them, the two men stopped, firing at him from a standstill. Bullets tore up the greenery.

  The Colt had four shots left. Tibbs realized he had to reload that rifle quickly, but he was still exposed. He rolled into the brush and pushed himself downhill. He landed in a prickly bush. The plant’s needled leaves scrapped his skin. Another flurry of gunshots exploded into the brush, but wide of him. They had temporarily lost sight of him.

  Never underestimate the value of a rifle, he thought to himself.

  He holstered the Colt and reloaded the Winchester, forcing himself to breathe slowly. One cartridge at a time. Then he loaded the Colt so that all six cylinders were full. Hell, he thought, it only takes one bullet to kill a man and there’s only two of them! A shot boomed and struck closer. Peering through the brush he saw a cloud of smoke from a rifle. He fired once and this time was rewarded with a yelp of pain. Still, the man was only wounded. Tibbs knew he hadn’t dropped him.

  To make matters worse, the gunfire had attracted more men. Tibbs saw them coming uphill towards him. Two more men, and now he was between them and boxed in. They were too close for him to escape. In another moment the men on either side would figure out where he was and either flush him out of the brush or ventilate the undergrowth with bullets until they killed him. He was out of time.

  There was no choice but one. The best direction, he thought, was downhill because he might have a better chance of losing them in the trees or brush. Only those two men downhill stood in his way. What would Max do? Tibbs knew the answer.

  Jumping free of the underbrush, Tibbs let loose with a warrior’s yell just like the Apaches did, and ran toward the two men firing his rifle.

  He was unprepared for the fact that gravity would lend a hand and he was suddenly lurching at long gaits downhill at a much faster speed than he’d anticipated. The two men looked up in shock. ‘You boot-licking bastards!’ Tibbs yelled. His bullet tore a hole in one man’s leg, a fountain of blood popping loose like a cork set free of a wine barrel and unleashing its contents. With a torn artery, the man would bleed out. He fell to the ground clutching his leg and wailing.

  Tibbs crashed into the other man. They tumbled and rolled, and Tibbs used every ounce of his strength to hang on to his rifle. He wouldn’t lose his rifle again. Tangled on the ground, Tibbs suffered a terrible kick as the man lashed at him with arms and legs as he tried to right himself. Tibbs was forcing himself up and trying to bring the Winchester in play when he saw the man’s hands lever his own rifle.

  A booming shot exploded the man’s head as another man came swiftly into view. Tibbs turned toward him as the man raised his hands and said, ‘Easy now! I’m on your side!’

  Tibbs held his rifle steady and pointed at the man’s belly. He was conscious of the twitching body at his feet and the other still form a few feet away.

  ‘My name is Castellanos. I hope the marshal told you about me.’

  ‘He did,’ Tibbs said, still holding his rifle steady, ‘but why should I trust you?’

  ‘No reason except I would have shot you already if I wanted to.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  A shout rang out as the two men uphill came into view. ‘ Shoot him!’ A rifle was slapped to a shoulder and the muzzle flared as the bullet winged toward them. Castellanos fired his Colt at the same time. Tibbs had seen only one other man manipulate a Colt single-action Peacemaker with such speed and skill. In one silent but lethal motion Castellanos had fired and his bullet destroyed the man’s shoulder. Tibbs, edging down, had missed being hit by the rifleman’s bullet by mere inches.

  Recovering from his surprise, Tibbs aimed and fired. The other gunman spun about trailing a string of blood.

  ‘One is still alive,’ Castellanos said. ‘Stay here and watch my back while I go finish him.’

  Tibbs was too exhausted to argue. Castellanos went up the hill warily, but there was a confidence in his stride that was impressive. He also accepted the fact that this man was no enemy. He didn’t really know who the hell he was or what he wanted, but he had just saved Tibbs’ life.

  A few minutes later a gunshot echoed from the hill and Castellanos came strolling down as if he were at a church picnic. He had stripped the dead gunmen of their holsters.

  ‘You need cartridges?’ He asked.

  ‘I’ll take what you have. I don’t rightly know what we’re getting into down in that valley.’

  ‘Manchester is a tough hombre. The men are disorganized and scared. This morning Manchester led them on horseback into the hills to flush out your friend.’

  ‘It worked.’

  ‘Sure, but Manchester lost a lot of men. Who is that old mountain man with the marshal? He has a lot of grit, too.’

  Tibbs had to grin. ‘A fellow named Lacroix that lives in a cave. It’s pure luck that Max ran into him.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t luck,’ Castellanos said, shaking his head, ‘for it says in the Bible, ‘and I will smite thy bow out of thy left hand, and I will cause thine arrows to fall out of thy right hand.’ This is the Lord’s will.’

  ‘We’ll take whatever help we can get,’ Tibbs replied.

  Castellanos shrugged and set his gaze on the sweeping valley below them. ‘It’s quiet. Too quiet. Let’s get down there and see if Maxfield Knight is still alive.’

  ‘He is,’ Tibbs said.

  Thirty minutes later they had walked down and over two rather large hills that Tibbs decided he never wanted to climb over again when they encountered Lacroix waiting for them on a log. The big mountain man was contentedly puffing on a corncob pipe. His cheeks puffed in and out like a fat fish sucking air, the smoke swirling about his coonskin cap.

  ‘Took you boys awhile to get here. You make enough noise for the whole Cherokee nation to hear you a hundred miles away.’

  ‘Well, you don’t look any worse for the wear,’ Tibbs said sarcastically.

  Lacroix chuckled and expelled blue smoke from his nostrils like a bull. Ignoring Tibbs, Lacroix said, ‘I know a shortcut. Why don’t you follow me and we’ll see how this ends.’

  They followed him, and while it took them the better part of an hour to rid themselves of hill climbing, Tibbs had to admit the shortcut was easier than the up and down
trail they’d been following.

  When they came at last out of the hills the heat was simmering in the green valley under an eggshell blue sky with the lingering scent of gunsmoke on the breeze. Maxfield Knight was very much alive and standing in a stretch of tall, wavering grass. Manchester was forty feet away, on horseback. A few of Manchester’s men were on each side of Knight, but further away. They were sullen and apprehensive. Here, thought Tibbs, was a lesson in warfare. Max had frightened them with his merciless killing, unnerved them, and survived to face Manchester down. Lacroix went left while Tibbs and Castellanos separated but remained within thirty feet of each other. They heard Manchester say, ‘Ah, the cavalry has arrived.’

  Knight glanced back at Tibbs and Castellanos without emotion. Then he turned back to Manchester and said, ‘Get off your damn horse.’

  Manchester took his sweet time. First he took a cigar from his vest pocket and made a show of striking a wooden match on his saddle pommel and lighting the cigar. Manchester dismounted, gestured for one of his men to take the horse, and stood there appraising the lawman.

  ‘You are well named,’ Manchester said, ‘Like a knight of the western range righting the world’s wrongs. How noble. Men like you and I have much in common. We might have made a grand time of it alongside King Arthur.’

  ‘We have nothing in common.’

  Manchester nodded. ‘Very well then, let’s not argue. Not at a time like this.’

  ‘Go for your gun.’

  Manchester shook his head. ‘Oh, no, I think not. Such an ending is beneath us both. Why don’t we agree to leave such showdowns in the realm of Buffalo Bill Cody, who makes such an entertainment out of fast-gun shooting.’

  Knight stared, calmly, not a flicker of emotion showing on his features.

  ‘Don’t you agree that we should settle this like men?’ Manchester continued, ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  ‘Spit it out. I’m tired of listening to you already.’

  Manchester unbuckled his gunbelt and let it fall to the ground. ‘I’m suggesting that we settle this as only real men could, with our hands.’