Gunsmoke Serenade Page 6

  His first thought was to remove his deputy US Marshal’s star and ride into camp pretending to be a drifting gun for hire. In that manner he might assist Max when they caught up with him, and with this many men Tibbs thought it was a sure thing they’d catch up with the marshal. Knight wouldn’t run. Problem was, some of these men might know him from town and if they had seen him with the marshal he wouldn’t have a chance. So he decided to remain in hiding and watch and learn. He might see something that could be useful, and if the opportunity presented itself he might even be able to whittle the odds down in the marshal’s favor. But he had to be careful.

  He spent the night in a strand of pines. The trees here were thick, growing so closely together that the lower branches were bare and the uppermost section of the pines spread out like a canopy of pine needles. The ground was littered with pine cones and would have been ideal for a fire-pit, but Tibbs decided against it. Making a fire could draw attention his way, and he didn’t want that. Besides, he had been eating well on his fishing trip and didn’t mind the hard jerky he chewed on. He would have Knight buy him a nice steak dinner once he got him out of this mess.

  The men in the camp were organized. They rode out in increments of six and returned no fewer than four hours later. A rotating squad of six men, all searching for the marshal. On the first day he heard gunfire in the distant hills, but there was no indication they had found Max.

  Tibbs concentrated on identifying their leader. It didn’t take him long to see the large, bald man with the handlebar moustache coming and going from his tent. The man was enormous, at least six feet five inches and more than three hundred pounds. His bald head gleamed with perspiration. His wide shoulders and fat body gave him an unreal appearance. His manner and bearing reminded Tibbs of a snake-oil salesman – all dramatic gestures and loud commands but amounting to nothing. Still, he looked formidable. He wore an ivory-handled Colt. His vest had gold buttons. His pants looked to be of the finest material. He barked orders like a sergeant. A real pompous son of a bitch.

  Tibbs watched carefully to see who might rate as second-in-command, but he was lacking in candidates. All the other men appeared to be hired help. There was no hierarchy or chain of command that Tibbs could see. That was unusual. Tibbs decided he had made the right choice by laying low. His aim was to find Max and help get him away from these men as fast as possible. Tibbs was hidden up in the hills east of the camp, meaning that Max was holed up somewhere in the western foothills of the Rockies. Max would fight, and Tibbs had no doubt that a great many of these men would die before they gunned the marshal down. Tibbs would wage a one-man war from the opposite side, hopefully confusing these men.

  That afternoon they brought Max’s horse into camp. He watched the men carefully as they examined the horse. The saddlebags, bedroll and Winchester were missing. So Max had some food supplies and ammunition. Tibbs knew the marshal was a capable outdoorsman and would easily hunt rabbits and squirrels to feed himself. The big man that Tibbs was certain was Silas Manchester showed no outward signs of emotion. He looked over the horse, said something to his men, and returned to his tent.

  They had the horses picketed on the eastern side of camp, closest to Tibbs. Those horses presented Tibbs his first opportunity to cause some confusion, but first he needed a place to hide because they would certainly search these hills afterward. Even as a plan formed in his mind, Tibbs had another thought that made more sense. He sat quietly for several hours simply observing the camp and noted several crucial details. They had guards near the horses only on the interior, close to the first line of tents. No guards scouted the perimeter. That was certainly a flaw in their thinking.

  The horses were actually picketed in three sections. They’d cut down young but long pines and created three squared-off corrals over a flat section of prairie grass. They made a water trough for each section. The first two sections were side by side and connected by a makeshift interior gate. The third section was independent of the others and on the eastern edge of camp. Knight’s horse had gone in here. The saddles were arranged haphazardly, draped over the topmost lodge pole. The saddles added to the illusion of a barrier. Although this was all a makeshift construction, it was effective as long as they kept an eye on the horses.

  If Tibbs was going to attack in hit-and-run maneuvers he would need to be on foot. His horse would be too easy to track. Knight had already obviously come to that conclusion. While Tibbs had initially thought to let the horses loose, or at least some of them, he now revised his plan. A solitary man stood a better chance of staying alive by hiding from pursuit, and the Rocky Mountains offered endless sanctuaries for a determined man. He examined the tall trees where he was camped and made a note of the thick pine needle canopy.

  Once he made up his mind it was a matter of waiting. Tibbs had learned from Maxfield Knight in just of a few short years of riding with him that being fast with a gun wasn’t enough to keep any lawman alive. You had to develop an instinct for circumstances, and react accordingly. He waited until the stars were shimmering in the lavender sky and the tall grass was swaying gently in the warm night wind. He watched three elk emerge from the trees north of the camp and stand chewing at the sage and brush, their ears flicking nervously when they heard any loud voice from the camp.

  They had several campfires going, and the men in camp seemed disciplined, and perhaps even a little bored. Surprisingly, there was no sign of alcohol. Only a great deal of money could have made such a scene a reality, for these were all hardened gunmen or cowhands desperate for money yet still accustomed to a saloon’s pleasures. They talked and smoked, and drank coffee and told bawdy stories.

  The glittering stars had begun to crawl across the horizon when Tibbs led his horse out of the trees and began his long walk down the foothills toward camp. He took his time, holding the horse’s reins, walking casually and calmly out of the trees and across that long plain of whispering grass. The night was warm, the air languid. In another time and place he might enjoy such a walk with his girl, Jamie, at his side, but such moments would have to wait. The tall grass was swaying back and forth as they cut a path through the cattails and wildflowers.

  He came up to the corral an hour after beginning his walk. After unsaddling his horse, he lifted the pole and allowed his horse to trot into the corral. Eventually, he would find Knight’s horse for the two had ridden together often. Tibbs draped his saddle over the crude fence line and immediately turned his back on the corral and walked away. The sun would be up in but a short time, but the camp was quiet.

  This was the most dangerous time in his plan. He had waited most of the night before putting his plan in motion. If anyone should notice him he’d be in trouble. A moment passed where the skin was prickling on the back of his neck, but the night remained quiet. It was a gamble, but he didn’t think anyone would notice the extra horse and saddle. There were simply too many horses, and these men were careless about the horses.

  When he was halfway into the tall grass he slipped to his knees to make himself invisible. He had taken enough chances, but the gamble had paid off – so far. Moving out of the tall grass a few minutes later placed him near a line of thin birch trees. Tibbs had just moved near the trees when a horse nickered and twigs snapped beneath a shod hoof. Immediately crouching low, he peered around to locate the rider.

  The man on horseback was thirty feet away, the glow of his cigarette illuminating his scraggly features. The man was parallel with Tibbs, his face a golden silhouette as he sucked on his tobacco.

  Of all the damn bad luck. He had come this far only to nearly blunder into a late-night sentry. Then the man’s horse flicked its ears and turned its neck to stare at Tibbs. The man turned his head, following the horse’s gaze. Tibbs couldn’t take any chances. He was close enough to be seen, even if the man was half blind. Tibbs leapt forward, his legs pumping as he ran directly at the man. He had his hands on the man’s legs and began yanking him from the saddle just as the cowboy realized what
was happening and tried to pull his gun.

  Tibbs slammed his knuckled fist into the man’s nose as he slid forward, but Tibbs was off balance and together they fell in a heap. A knee came up and grazed his ribcage. Tibbs retaliated mercilessly, pummeling the man with his fists as quickly as he could send his knuckles hammering at the man’s head. The man was tough – tougher than Tibbs had expected. More damn bad luck.

  A fist raked Tibbs, his jaw bruised. The man sprang to his feet and unleashed his own blistering flurry of punches. Once, twice, three times and Tibbs felt a tooth come loose with the last punch. He spat blood.

  A solid jaw, breaking punch knocked Tibbs to his knees. Rather than give up, however, Tibbs pushed himself head first into the man hoping to buy some time and shake the cobwebs loose from his head. They grappled and Tibbs kicked the man mercilessly in the right thigh. Tibbs knew well that such a kick would do painful damage to the leg’s muscle, especially when the kick was delivered by the toe of a new pair of rawhide boots.

  ‘Aaah! Damn you!’ the man howled.

  Ignoring his pounding head and his own pain, Tibbs kicked the man viciously between the legs. Doubling over in pain, the man grunted in agony, clutching at his crotch. Tibbs landed a haymaker right next to his left eye, his knuckles cracking the cheekbone. The man flopped forward and vomited into the grass.

  Ignoring the stench, Tibbs leaped on to his back and hooked his arms around the man’s neck. The smell was horrendous, a combination of blood and vomit, but Tibbs knew he had to finish the fight quickly.

  He began choking the man. His muscles tensed, his fist tightened, his other arm across the back of the man’s neck while his right arm crushed his Adam’s apple. Thrashing wildly then, the man nearly broke free by lurching forward, but Tibbs held him fast. Squeezing tightly, unrelenting, showing no mercy, Tibbs heard the man choking, his tongue lolling from between his lips. He squeezed harder.

  Fingers clawed at Tibbs, legs jerked spasmodically. He squeezed harder.

  The gasping and gurgling sounds were horrific and not something that Tibbs would easily forget, but he had no choice. He exerted more pressure. Slowly the man’s efforts to break free were diminished, but still Tibbs squeezed.

  When at last the body was still he slowly released his hold, sweat dripping from his forehead, his arms aching from his tremendous effort. He rose slowly and looked around. The man’s horse had run off. He stepped away from the corpse and forced in a lungful of air to clear his head. Without thinking, his right hand slapped at his holster to check his gun. He still had it.

  He figured the horse would head toward the corral where it knew it would find food, and since the corral wasn’t all that far away Tibbs now faced limited options. They would come looking for the dead man they would find here in the tall grass. Nothing wrong with that, Tibbs thought, except he hadn’t come up with a hiding place yet. But a thought struck him, wild though it was.

  The sky had paled as the sun rose. The stars were fading. He had to move fast. He heard the wind strum the grass and ruffle the leaves of those tall oaks; and then he was sprinting up a slope and into the sanctuary of the hills.

  The shadows were cool beneath the trees and the scent of pine brushed away the lingering scent of death that clung to him after strangling the man in the meadow. Looking up, he studied several pines that grew close together. The lower branches were bereft of leaves because no sun touched this area; the trees were so tall that only the uppermost branches flourished with pine needles.

  Climbing the tree was easy. He went carefully, his boot pushing off branches, careful not to break any and leave a sign. When he was above the blanket of pine needles he surveyed his surroundings and decided he could hide his bedroll up there. Climbing down again, he retrieved his bedroll, which had extra cartridges wrapped in the blankets and some modest food stuff such as dried beef and a few biscuits. Tibbs climbed up and fixed his bedroll in the branches by tying the bundle to a branch with a leather cord. When he climbed down and walked about the base of the tree and examined the view from different angles, his bedroll couldn’t be seen.

  The high grass was changing color with the movement of the sun, drenched in gold and then muted as a cloud passed overhead. Looking out across the plain, he saw activity in the camp. He assumed they had found the body.

  He went back into the trees, into the shadiest section far off any animal trail, where the sun glanced off the pine blankets and where the trees grew so close together the upper branches sheltered the forest bed from the sun. He looked up. He would have his rifle with him and he couldn’t drop it. The Colt revolver would have minimal effectiveness if they saw him.

  If they saw him.

  Tibbs had to make certain they didn’t see him, or find any sign of him.

  Criss-crossing the area, he left scuff marks among the fallen branches and needled bed, leading them in circles, until finally he wandered off and down into the grass. Then back into the pines walking backward. The trick would confuse any skilled hunter. Knight, he realized, would face the same problem. The fact that Knight was still alive meant that either these men weren’t all that skilled at tracking, or Knight was simply the better man. Tibbs, believed – hoped – that a little of both were true.

  He waited an hour watching the camp when he saw the riders coming. He took his time, careful where he stepped, and, when he was again sheltered from the rapidly rising sun, he picked his tree, eyed the swaying blanket of pines above him, and began climbing.

  SEVEN

  Silas Manchester lay on the cot in his tent and fell asleep watching the shadows scamper across the tent flaps as the sun beat down. His breakfast of eggs and venison had made him tired. With a full belly he was inclined to rest awhile, content that his gold had bought him men that would help him avenge his brother’s death.

  He dreamed fitfully, his pulse hammering in his temples. His mind conjured images of a night years back in a Savannah whorehouse where the bitch, Lucy, had become drunk and tried to claw his eyes out. He recalled the yellow flames of the oil lamps in the room, and the swaying shadows that danced across the wall. Downstairs, the piano player hit a wrong key and he heard the squeal of laughter. Whores were easily amused.

  When Lucy had come lurching at him he backhanded her with such force that her eyes rolled white in their sockets as she fell back. Within minutes her face had swollen. When she regained consciousness she apologized, no doubt fearful that he would harm her further. Little did she know that Silas Manchester was the type of man that liked to hire other men to do his bidding for him.

  So a week later he paid a man to kill Lucy. Then he paid another man to kill that man. Silas Manchester talked with gold, believed in the power of gold and silver, and used gold as the ultimate weapon. The gold never failed him. Men were weak, foolish, lacking in ambition, but with gold they rose to any occasion dictated by Manchester.

  Gold would bring down Maxfield Knight.

  Lying in his tent he dreamed the grinning skull that visited him each night in his mind was that of the soon to be deceased US marshal. He dreamed a landscape of grinning skulls falling from the heavens and rolling at his feet, their gold teeth clattering as the skulls laughed.

  He awoke with a dry mouth.

  The nightmares had been getting worse. There was a nagging thought in the back of his mind that he had somehow made a mistake. But what was it? He had no idea. Certainly, Knight was formidable. He had already eluded fifty men, a remarkable fact considering that Knight was alone. And the fact that Knight was alone was something of which Manchester was absolutely certain. His men had watched him in the town of Cherrywood Crossing, and other than the sheriff, Knight had kept to himself.

  But something wasn’t right.

  He pulled himself from his cot, poured a glass of Kentucky whiskey and splashed it down his throat.

  It was those damn arrows that had killed a few of his men.

  Arrows.

  There might be some old Indians living in the mountai
ns, but attacking a force of well-armed white men made no sense. The Apache wars were ending and this far north the Indians avoided white men. The Sioux were docile these days.

  Manchester had instructed his men to bring him the arrows so that he might examine them himself. He had two arrows lying on his table next to his oil lamp. They were well made, with goosefeathers and forged from stone. He wasn’t an expert on arrows, but they looked authentic enough. Still, he never believed for a moment that an Indian had attacked his men. Nor did he believe that Maxfield Knight had used these arrows. So there had to be another player in the game. Manchester didn’t like that at all.

  He went outside his tent and gestured for the closest man to come over.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Manchester barked.

  ‘Larry.’

  Okay, Larry, ask around camp for the best tracker. Ask some of those half-breeds and Mexicans. Tell them if they say they’re good trackers they can prove it and get a bonus. I have something special for them to do.’

  ‘Sure boss.’

  As the man went away Manchester saw a commotion over near the corral. Irritated, he strode toward the corral where several men were bringing a body into camp. When they saw Manchester approaching they stopped.

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘This is Paul,’ one of the men said. ‘He was on guard duty and I found him out there.’ The man gestured past the corral at the long field.

  ‘Damn it!’ Manchester spat the words. ‘Take him away and bury him. Keep his guns and his gold. Then get ten men and go up into those hills and look around. Most likely you won’t find anyone, but if you do, kill them.’

  Fifty gunmen paid with gold and five or six were dead already. It was preposterous. Manchester looked up at the tall pines on the hills. If Knight had made his way around and was now hiding on the opposite side of their camp then he was far better than anyone might have imagined, but Manchester didn’t believe that. No, there were other players here, and that sobering fact made him all the angrier.