Gunsmoke Serenade Page 7

  They would all die. Whoever they were, no matter their motivation, Manchester would see the vultures pick the flesh from their bones.

  Returning to his tent, he strapped on his gunbelt. He wasn’t afraid, but neither was he foolish. The hunt had changed somehow, and until he learned more he would be cautious. He went out again and stood watching the camp. A few men glanced up at him when he emerged. They were watching to see if he gave anyone orders, but Manchester simply stood there quietly looking around.

  Was Knight hiding in plain view right here in camp? Or did he have any conspirators working on his behalf and unknown to them?

  Strolling the camp, he smoked a thin cigar and greeted the men, sometimes giving them orders. He was a large man, beefy with broad shoulders, his eyes dark and without emotion. Although he was overweight, Manchester was strong, and he had made a point of demonstrating how strong when he consented to a hand-wrestling contest on their first day in camp. Winning easily, he knew the man’s hand was fractured, although he wisely hadn’t complained about it.

  Having already established a routine of patrols, he was satisfied that his men were doing everything possible to locate the elusive marshal. He had an outlying camp near the swamp that had proven fatal to a few men, so he added fifteen men to the outlying post. A patrol of twelve men were already in the hills, both on horseback and on foot. The patrol he’d added to reconnoitre the eastern hills left just over a dozen men in camp.

  Hell, I might have hired a hundred men to track this bastard down, he thought.

  He stopped by the cook’s wagon and spoke with Juan, the old Mexican cook who claimed he once made a beef stew for old Andrew Jackson. Manchester liked the biscuits and Juan assured him he had enough flour and supplies to feed everyone for another week. Manchester grunted his satisfaction and strode away.

  He sat outside his tent with a small folding table on which he placed the whiskey bottle and a small glass. He finished his cigar and sipped his whiskey.

  He thought about his childhood in Atlanta and his half-brother, Diego, the son of his father’s maid, Manita. Manchester never knew his own mother as she died the day of his birth. His father, however, lived a long life and died but recently, but not before instructing his son to avenge his brother’s death.

  ‘Diego was but a cur, a spawn of that whore maid who served no purpose other than satisfying a man’s lust. But he was still blood. He got what he deserved when that lawman beat him to death, but he was still blood. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Do you remember that first hunting trip we took to Africa? Do you recall, Silas, the thrill we experienced when we tracked those lions into the brush? Do you recall the hot sun and sweat on your brow as your finger curled on the trigger? One false move and one of us or both of us might have died. Now I am telling you this because to hunt a man, a rational and calculating man, is far more dangerous than hunting the lions of Africa. Killing a man is nothing if it’s unexpected. Give this lawman a chance, enjoy the challenge of the hunt, and kill him in the name of your brother, that worthless cur, Diego.’

  His father’s watery eyes were bloodshot, his skin wrinkled like the old Zulu warriors they had met on the Dark Continent; and when he spoke a line of drool spotted his chin. Manchester felt little love for the old man, but he did respect him. The old man had made a fortune, and Silas Manchester was eager to bury his father because he would inherit a fortune to rival John Jacob Astor’s.

  After his second shot of whiskey, with his throat still warm from the alcohol, a notion struck Manchester, so he fetched his writing utensils and drafted a short letter. Manchester was a man of few words. He lived by the principle that his actions spoke for him, and that gold bought him loyalty. When the letter was finished he folded it, slipping it into his vest pocket.

  Then he read for a while, enjoying the sunlight on his gleaming, bald head. He had Harper’s Magazine, and several New York newspapers that he’d brought for just such a relaxing moment.

  Two things happened an hour later that would shape his destiny, and it’s to his credit that he recognized their importance although he had no way of guessing the outcome.

  A man approached. He was small, dusty, dark-skinned, and Manchester correctly guessed he was a half-breed.

  ‘Boss, I heard you need a tracker,’ the man said.

  ‘I do, and what is your name?’

  ‘Castellanos.’

  ‘Do you have a first name Castellanos?’

  ‘Ramone, boss, my name is Ramone, but they’ve always just called me Castellanos.’

  ‘Are you a half-breed?’

  Manchester studied the man’s eyes. He was pleased there was no sign of him being offended by the question. The man never blinked. His face was a mask. Castellanos nodded. ‘My mother was an Italian and my father was from Spain. I think that makes me a half-breed.’

  ‘Interesting mixture. I would have guessed Mexican and Negro. How well can you track?’

  ‘As well as any man, boss.’

  ‘I’ll give you a chance to prove it. I believe the man we are hunting isn’t alone. I don’t know how that happened, but it has. I want you to pinpoint where they are. There must be some camp, or some way they are staying hidden. Maybe a cave. Find them, and come back to tell me. When you learn something, anything at all, you come back and report it. I want you to report it even if it’s not specific; even if it’s simply a general area. I want something – anything, and then I’ll attack. Do you understand?’

  Castellanos nodded. ‘Yes, I understand.’ He turned and gestured at the mountains. ‘I have an idea already. I’ve been thinking about what has happened. Those are not an Indian’s arrows.’

  ‘I’m impressed. Yes, that’s right. He has an ally, and that explains the arrows.’

  ‘Some of the men are good trackers, but they can’t think like I can. I can see when I hunt, the way an animal sees, and I can plan.’

  ‘Good. Those are precisely the qualities I’m looking for.’ Manchester took the letter from his pocket and gave it to Castellanos. ‘If the opportunity presents itself then give this letter to the man we hunt, the marshal. Give it to no other but Maxfield Knight. See to it that you don’t get killed doing it, because I would enjoy knowing that he’s read this letter.’

  Castellanos nodded. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Manchester dismissed Castellanos with a wave of his hand. The wiry half-breed vanished like a shadow finding shade. Manchester was satisfied. Gold had bought him some good men after all, and he had no doubt that Castellanos would find the marshal.

  The second moment of importance occurred when Silas Manchester sat outside his tent and enjoyed his whiskey. He watched the horses in the corral for a long while. He could see them well enough even from a sitting position, and he admired their strength and independence. Soon thereafter his men returned from scouring the pine-studded hills. He waited patiently as they dismounted and walked their horses to the corral. Finally, they approached him. The man he knew was named Joe removed his Stetson and wiped the sweat from his face.

  ‘Boss, we looked all over those hills but we didn’t find anyone. There’s horse tracks and boot prints all over the place, so we know someone was there. It was hard to read the signs. Could be anyone was roamin’ about in those hills.’

  ‘As I expected,’ Manchester said. ‘Anyone can be anyone, sort of like a riddle isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s that, boss?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ve been sitting here and enjoying my whiskey, and as I was looking out at the corral I noticed a horse I hadn’t seen before. Have you brought in any strays other than the marshal’s horse?’

  ‘No, boss, I don’t know anything about any extra horses.’

  ‘Get yourselves some grub. No harm done.’

  Men, horses and gold were the three things that Silas Manchester understood better than anything, and in that instant when he noticed the fine stallion that lingered near the marshal’s horse, he knew wi
th great certainty that some prophecy was being fulfilled; some ancient destiny of death was about to play out here in the mountains, and he was as determined as ever to honor his father’s wishes and do right by his brother, no matter what trickery his enemies used to befuddle him. After all, blood was blood.

  EIGHT

  It was mid-morning of a summer’s day and if they had not known better the two men might have believed this was Eden before the Fall and no serpents threatened them. But Lacroix and Knight were well aware of the force of armed men that hunted them; and so a summer’s day might prove beautiful to the eyes, not unlike a woman, but possessing an edge like a knife that cut very deep.

  ‘I used lodgepole pine,’ Lacroix was explaining, ‘and built a shelter I could crawl into if I got caught in a storm. You see, I’ve a hankerin’ to fish, and when I fish I lose all track of time.’

  ‘I have a friend with the same habit. I’m hoping you get to meet him soon.’

  Lacroix squinted at Knight. ‘Is that so? Well, anyway, I cut these poles and made this shelter. It’s simple enough, and it keeps the rain off a man.’

  ‘You made it far enough from the trail, but this is hardly a good hiding place.’

  ‘It’s not a hiding place at all, just a shelter from storms.’

  The shelter was about seven feet long and four feet high, set back in the brush and invisible to anyone passing. There was just enough room for a man to crawl in and sleep off a storm. The covering was all leaves and mud, layered so that the shelter wouldn’t leak.

  ‘I’ve slept here when I’m out fishing,’ Lacroix said. ‘I have to shag out the snakes and raccoons, and it’s right comfortable when you get used to it.’

  ‘What about the other hiding place you mentioned?’

  ‘That’s just up the trail a way.’

  ‘Hell,’ Knight growled, ‘It’s a nice day for a walk.’

  Lacroix grinned. Soon, they passed the bark canoe near the creek where they’d hidden it again, but this time they continued north in a straight line. They were several miles now from Lacroix’s cave dwelling.

  When they emerged from a strand of birch trees after following a meandering deer trail and saw the four wolves watching them up the trail, Knight had a sinking feeling that their luck had changed for the worse. The four wolves were lined up in a row not two hundred yards away, and they didn’t look scared.

  ‘Well, I’ll be,’ Lacroix said.

  ‘I saw their tracks a few days ago. Lots of grizzly tracks, too.’

  ‘I don’t know which I like less, the wolves or the grizzly. I will say that a grizzly pelt brings me more money, not to mention that it keeps me warm in winter.’

  ‘I suggest we turn around.’

  Lacroix shook his head. ‘No sir, that won’t help. They’re hungry. Look at their eyes.’

  Knight saw it all right; hunger looked the same in any living creature’s eyes, and it wasn’t pleasant.

  ‘They’ll hunt us now,’ Lacroix continued, ‘so I reckon we best get to killing them as fast as we can.’

  ‘That’ll sure let everyone know where we are.’

  ‘That it will. The one on the far left is mine.’

  In an instant, Lacroix threw his rifle to his shoulder, squinted down the barrel and stabbed a shot at the wolf. The slug found its mark and shattered the wolf’s skull. Knight, having no time to admire Lacroix’s marksmanship, levered from the hip, firing on instinct, his bullets whamming into fur and bone as the wolves attacked. In the next moment the air was a blur of snarling fangs and deep yellow eyes alight with hunger. A wolf fell at Knight’s boots, its head torn apart, the legs kicking spasmodically. There was no time to breathe.

  Lacroix, having spent the solitary slug in his flintlock rifle, pulled his 1851 Navy Colt and fired as another wolf lunged. The wolf fell dead just inches from his feet. Knight swung his rifle around and blasted the last wolf seconds before its fangs would have torn apart Lacroix’s leg.

  The echo of gunfire bounded through the trees as the gunsmoke drifted in the air around them.

  ‘Reload,’ Knight said.

  Lacroix didn’t need to be told twice. He reloaded his colt first and then his flintlock. Knight reloaded his Winchester.

  ‘How much time do you figure we have?’

  ‘Depends on how far away they are,’ Lacroix said. ‘I suppose they could be on us quick enough, and there’s still a way to go before we get to where we need to be.’ Lacroix eyed the four dead wolves sadly. ‘It’s a shame to leave these pelts but we don’t have time for skinning.’

  The sky seemed to open up and unleash showers of sunlight. In the stillness, the air was hot. This time, Lacroix was sweating. He unbuttoned his buckskin shirt to let the air get at his skin. They trudged along, much slower than either of them wished, besieged by birdcalls, the sent of fresh pine on a mid-summer’s afternoon, and assailed by the notion that death was galloping in their direction.

  It wasn’t long before the skin was prickling on the back of Knight’s neck as they cut along a deer path and started to ascend a hill thick with sapling and scrub. Once over the hill, they moved rather quickly through a long gully before ascending another hill and edging up into a rocky formation that towered above them like the parapets of an ancient castle.

  ‘Home away from home,’ Lacroix said. ‘We need to be careful not to leave any sign. No boot marks or broken twigs. And this is going to be difficult, but judging by the commotion I hear behind us, we don’t have any choice.’

  ‘Lead on.’

  Knight was irritated. He hadn’t wanted to get caught out in the middle of nowhere, but the wolf-pack attack had left them little choice. And Lacroix was right; the sound of neighing horses and disgruntled men was louder. They were being hunted again, and this time by a larger force.

  The wild country was spread out on either side; the valleys and forest, deep crags and towering cliffs all made their trek a dangerous venture. The Rocky Mountains were uncaring; a force of nature that extinguished life with the blink of an eye. A storm, a misstep, or encounters with a wild beast were all enough to test the average man’s mettle. For miles uncounted on either side of them the valleys and trees seemed impenetrable, and the mountains themselves a barrier that appeared capable of crushing them with landslides or other treacheries of the lone trail.

  Death nipped at their heels.

  When they paused to rest and drink some water from Lacroix’s canteen, Knight offered a suggestion that they stand and fight, but Lacroix didn’t agree. He stated that, might they succeed in hiding, it would confuse their pursuers all the more. Fear, he said, was a weapon they should exploit. Knight thought it over and agreed grudgingly.

  It took the better part of the day to reach Lacroix’s second hideaway. It was another cave, but this one at ground level, accessible by squeezing into a rocky crevice where once a great storm of creation cut the rock with centuries of rain and ice. Thirty feet along this thin split in the mountain they found a cave entrance. As Knight expected, the entrance was hidden by a barrier of branches lashed together and made to look like natural tumbleweed.

  ‘I’m getting too fat for this,’ Lacroix grumbled, ‘but we have to crouch low and crawl in. I’ll go first and get a lamp lit. You pull those branches back to cover the hole.’

  Lacroix was holding an oil lamp high when Knight crawled inside and lumbered to his feet. Every muscle in his body ached from their day-long walk.

  The cave was sparsely furnished, nowhere near the comfortable environment that Lacroix had created with his primary residence. A circle of stones marked the fire pit, still loaded with twigs and branches for Lacroix was a man that thought ahead. There was the oil lamp and a tin of extra oil. Lacroix had matchsticks in his pocket.

  ‘This place is what I call “just in case” if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I get the idea.’

  ‘As I get older and fatter I don’t reckon I’ll be able to climb that cliff back home, so when the day comes I’ll
move here.’

  ‘It’s a good idea to have a plan.’

  ‘I know some better caves, but further north. This one is about like the others. Speaking of plans, I reckon we better come up with one.’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Knight agreed, ‘I thought come sundown I’d go out and stir up trouble. I can spend a night in that shelter you showed me.’

  Lacroix nodded. ‘I’ll go back and see what the trail looks like. If an opportunity presents itself I’ll stir up some trouble, too.’ Lacroix grinned and winked at Knight. ‘Maybe we can whittle them down one by one.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Knight said, ‘but I don’t plan on being here come Christmas.’

  He sat on the cold, hard stone and wondered when Tibbs would show up. Knight had no doubt that Tibbs would set out on his trail, eventually, but at what level of success he could not guess. The young deputy was headstrong, but he had horse sense and hands that were quick on the guns. Tibbs had proven himself several times, notably when they had faced down old man Usher and his sons.

  They set out at twilight, repeating their pattern of cautious activity. Crawling from the cave, Knight tipped his Stetson at Lacroix as the big man grinned at him and wished him luck. They moved off in different directions.

  An hour later Knight would learn first-hand of the effort being made to track him down, dead or alive. Moving slowly down an animal trail, he turned a corner but jumped back as a Winchester blasted hot lead and tore up the tree next to him. Three men down the trail had seen him. Knight dove to his left. Then, making a snap decision, he raced ahead and flung himself into a clump of wildberry and rolled across the snapping branches, ignoring the pain as the branches and twigs tore at his skin.

  Rolling away, he pulled himself up and stumbled into a thicket. The warm breeze carried the scent of gunsmoke. He paused, hoping to catch a glimpse of his pursuers, when a burst of gunfire on his right forced him into a crouch. He fired quickly at the sound of boots crunching branches. Although he couldn’t see through the thicket, he knew that only a few feet separated him from his attackers.