Gunsmoke Serenade Read online

  A figure stumbled from the brush, obviously wounded and bleeding badly. A second man followed him, lurching toward Knight and levering his Winchester, spraying the area with a lethal burst of fire. One of the wounded men cursed loudly.

  Knight flung his rifle up and triggered a round that exploded the man’s head. Keeping his rifle steady, he sighted down the barrel and pinpointed a spot midway down the other man’s body as he came into view. The man was too weak from his wound to move out of range. Knight finished him with a shot to the chest.

  The dying man had dropped to his knees and spat blood. Knight took the scene in at a glance, steeling himself before firing again. He was aware of the smell of gunsmoke hanging in the air from his Winchester, the scent of the dying man’s blood, the arrogant manner in which the dying man spat in Knight’s direction. He was aware of all this as his finger curled on the trigger when movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

  A volley of rifle fire sent Knight scrambling backwards. A bullet nicked his arm, stinging like a hornet. His mouth was dry and his pulse was pounding in his temples. Another bullet nicked his boot.

  More men had come up the trail, seen the dead men, and began firing into the brush hoping to kill Knight.

  Knight had a glimpse of a man and fired two successive shots at him at precisely the moment he turned to see what the hell was going on behind him. Both shots struck the man in the face. Someone had come up behind him. He heard the man gasping for breath. Knight spun wildly, believing in that instant that he was doomed.

  He shot the man quickly, levering and firing until his rifle was empty. The man screamed as he was blown out of the way by the impact of the bullets.

  Knight began running.

  The place had gone quiet. Too quiet. Booted steps sounded behind him. Before he could react, a man turned the corner and nearly stumbled into him. The man was wiry. Although he was armed with a Winchester, he was smart enough to throw a wicked left fist that nearly took Knight’s jaw off. The punch rocked Knight on his heels. Then the man bulled into him, dropping his Winchester as Knight chopped at his arms with the butt of his rifle.

  They engaged in a hammering battle. The man’s fists landed on Knight’s head and arms; a boot struck at his inner thigh. Swinging the Winchester upwards with terrific force, he caught the man on the chin with a blow that crossed his eyes. Grunting, the man slumped forward and, just as swiftly, Knight brought the stock down on the man’s spine at the base of his neck. The body slumped soundlessly. The blow from the Winchester’s rifle stock had probably been fatal, snapping the man’s vertebrae.

  But luck was not on Knight’s side.

  Knight struck out wildly, trying to put distance between himself and the men that had come off the trail.

  In a moment, he realized that he was surrounded. Seeing a man come into view, he pulled his Colt free of the holster and the man, seeing this, raised his arms as if the action might prevent the .45 slug from tearing into him. That was his last conscious action. Knight dropped to his knees, holstered the Colt and re-loaded his rifle, plucking the cartridges from his belt and thumbing them into the magazine as quickly as possible.

  There were voices and sounds in the underbrush. Forcing his way past another blackberry thicket, Knight encountered an open space of birch trees and began running.

  It was no good. They had seen him. Voices rang out in alarm. A bullet slapped dismally into a birch tree, showering him with flecks of bark.

  There was scant cover among the trees, but enough that Knight could crouch low and fire at an angle. He took aim at a gunman and let one bullet rip his shoulder apart. The man screamed in pain. The man fell, rose again, and stumbled toward Knight.

  The man was bleeding heavily, his face sweating profusely. Eyes widening at the sight of Knight and his Winchester, the man lifted his gun a second too slow. Knight’s Winchester split the man’s chest apart.

  A second later a fusillade of shots cut apart the trees surrounding Knight. Bits of wood and stale dust sprinkled the air. Then Knight was moving again, dodging and rolling between trees.

  They were after him soon enough.

  He ran, dodging between trees just as a burst of gunfire stitched holes in the treebark. This was followed by a blast of fire from several Winchesters. There were shouts and curses, some garbled, and at least one from a man in pain. Knight’s Winchester had a sting.

  He was tiring, and his wounded arm was throbbing. He could smell his own blood. Insects hovered in the air around him. He swatted them away, grimaced, and backed further into the trees.

  He was running out of time. He had to break free or the men surrounding him would charge and finish him off.

  His sense of direction was off. He had lost track of where he was.

  Taking a chance, he decided to charge them, firing as he went.

  He was sweating when he hit the trail at a full run. With the warm morning sun slanting across the field he remembered a place not unlike this one in a faraway war, his first war; and that had been a life of bugles at dawn and smoke from the artillery fire drifting like ghosts across the Shiloh field, where the incessant buzz of musket fire was as irritating as the mosquitoes that were sometimes so thick on his arms they resembled a fungus. Biting back the memory, Knight shot and killed two men immediately.

  He saw another man up the trail with his back to him. A breeze came up and rattled the trees just as the man turned, having sensed his pursuer. Knight’s Winchester was up, and he was already squinting down the barrel and pulling the trigger as the man swung his Colt around, but much too late. The Winchester bucked once, twice; two neat shots that slapped into the man’s face and toppled him.

  Not knowing how many adversaries he faced, Knight proceeded cautiously. The flurry of sound and stampeding boots had vanished. The breeze teased the leaves and the forest seemed to come alive with the lilting tranquility of a summer’s day. Then he saw a man cross to his left and he fired quickly. The man yowled in pain, stumbled back, saw Knight and tried to raise his wounded arm. Knight’s bullets dropped him in a crimson heap.

  Knight burst into a field and swerved to his right. Knight shouted as two men appeared suddenly. This was a shout of defiance, of anger, of a deep atavistic ferocity that only men born as warriors understood. Knight screamed and attacked, using his rifle with unerring skill. Blood burst from torn flesh. Men screamed as their bones were crushed by a flurry of hot lead. The .45 slugs slapped into a man’s skull, and he lifted his gaze to the sky as if he were studying something etched on the clouds before leaning over and shuddering as he died.

  When his rifle was empty, Knight screamed again and used it as a club. A bullet creased his belly. Yet another man barreled toward him and Knight’s Colt was like lightning in his hand, the man’s head coming apart in a spray of hair and bone, a pink and gray mist filling the air.

  Wounded and bleeding, Knight stopped and crouched on his knees. He could hear his breath pushing in and out of his lungs like a creaky bellows. The stench of death hung in the air. The silence that descended upon the forest suddenly was unnerving. Even more unsettling was the odd sight that greeted Knight as he looked down the trail.

  A man was walking toward him with his hands raised. A piece of paper was clutched in his right hand like a flag of truce. The man was calm and unthreatening. He smiled at Knight.

  ‘My name is Castellanos,’ the man said, ‘and I have a letter for you. I also think I can help you, so why don’t we drink some water from my canteen while you read this letter.’

  NINE

  The man named Castellanos was unhappy. He had taken a job for a man that he realized he disliked. In fact, Castellanos disliked Silas Manchester all the more as he observed the beleaguered US marshal in battle.

  The marshal was a brave man. It was obvious to Castellanos that the marshal was unafraid of death. He took chances in battle that few men would dare take. Castellanos wasn’t certain if he himself would take those chances if he found himsel
f in similar circumstances.

  After Manchester had given him the letter, Castellanos had slipped into the foothills without a word. He cleared his mind of any distractions and set about the task of tracking the marshal.

  Castellanos enjoyed being alone. The mountains and forest, he knew, offered a deceptive image. Nature was uncaring of man’s plight. He had to be careful in the mountains. Nature could be as murderous as any man could. A flash flood could drown a man in a gully in any of these rolling, steep hills, and Castellanos wasn’t about to make any mistakes that would get him killed.

  As a boy, Castellanos had lived in Rome with his parents. There he learned of the gladiators that had fought and died in the Colosseum. His mother told him tales of a brave slave named Spartacus and Castellanos thought Spartacus was a hero. A year before embarking on the long journey that would take him to Boston, Castellanos visited the plains of Lucania where Spartacus fell in battle. This experience was deeply moving for Castellanos. He stood looking out across the sun-drenched hills under a deep azure sky and imagined that final great battle when the Romans finally defeated Spartacus and his followers.

  Knight, in some odd way that Castellanos hadn’t yet deciphered, reminded him of the legend of Spartacus. Perhaps the resemblance lay in the fact that Knight couldn’t be shackled by fear.

  Several hours after entering the hills and traversing a long trail into the forest, Castellanos already had a sense that Knight wasn’t alone. He found signs of two men, one rather heavy. It took him the better part of the afternoon to sort out the crossing signs and overlapping tracks that would confuse most hunters, even the best ones. But Castellanos wasn’t a normal tracker. His father had told him once that he possessed ‘a second sight’ and this sight, or instinct, provided Castellanos with an edge over most men.

  Even in Rome, on those warm summer cobblestones that stretched into endless alleyways and alcoves, Castellanos could track most anyone when he put his mind to it. In fact, tracking a man in a forest was much easier. The earth assisted him, cajoled him, left its own mark as men passed over the mossy surface. A broken twig, fallen leaf, or an indentation where a man had stood next to a tree all told a story that he could read.

  He had been in the United States ten long years. His mother and father, last he heard, were still alive and still living in Rome. He had come here to make money – gold – with the intention of taking it back home so that his parents might live in security in their old age.

  Silas Manchester had provided such an opportunity.

  And Silas Manchester was a bloated pig of a man, uncaring and manipulative. Castellanos deeply regretted taking the job of helping Manchester hunt down the lawman. Fortunately, this was a mistake that might be corrected. He had already received a small leather sack of gold dust to ensure his loyalty, and as Castellanos traversed the forest he plotted how he might honor his commitment without compromising his own integrity. Castellanos answered to himself, and as such his personal code dictated that he keep his word. After all, he wanted to keep the gold dust, not return it.

  The solution, he decided, was simple. He had been hired to ‘help track down Maxfield Knight’. To this end, Castellanos was content. No violence was required. In fact, while Manchester had offered large sums of money to the man who killed Knight, there was never any discussion of this action being mandatory. As for delivering the letter, this was but a simple thing to accomplish.

  Tracking the two men was easy. The challenge was time, which worked against all men. Castellanos wanted to deliver the letter quickly, which wouldn’t happen unless he could decipher which track was the freshest.

  Knight and his companion were smart. They knew to cross-cover their own tracks and kept to rocky areas whenever possible. Castellanos had determined they had a hiding place up near the cliffs and given more time he could probably find it. As to who Knight’s companion was, he had no idea. That mystery could only be solved by locating them both.

  He began moving north, sensing from the signs they had gone in that direction. The wild country before him was dense with forest, valleys and hills, all spreading out in the shadow of the treacherous mountains. Cresting a hill, he gazed down into a long valley of pine trees grown so close together they resembled feathered spears lined up and stuck in the ground by some ancient tribe. A solitary eagle swooped high above the trees, its majestic wings spread out on a warm breeze.

  Knight and his companion had the advantage. Manchester’s men wouldn’t travel too deeply into these valleys. There were places here in the mountains seldom seen by any man because of their inaccessibility. The wandering animal trails, hidden glens and furthest reaches of hills thick with pine, birch or oak and maples were seen by none but the soaring eagle, curious bear or wiry cougar. Many a pilgrim on the trek from Massachusetts to the dreams offered by the golden west lost their way; and in some forgotten corner they perished, their bones lost in the pine needles and oak leaves that made a bed of the forest floor.

  But Manchester’s men wouldn’t need to travel to some distant location, as it became obvious that the marshal would fight back. The lawman did not possess the nature of a man who would be comfortable hiding. He would seek out his enemies. He would fight. For Castellanos, this endeared him to Knight as a fellow warrior.

  When he heard the sound of gunfire he knew his objective was within his reach. He made his way hastily along the trail, pushing himself toward the sound of the guns.

  The letter, he knew, would change everything. Naturally he had read it, and Castellanos thought Manchester had made a mistake by writing it. The letter would infuriate the marshal. From his viewpoint, the letter would have the same effect as pouring coal oil on the dying flames of a fire. Rekindled, roaring to life, a new fire would burst loose from the old embers. He remembered reading the short letter, Manchester’s handwriting flowing across the page:

  Dear Mr Knight – My name is Silas Manchester and I am hunting you to honor my father’s request. Some years ago, my half-brother, the bastard Diego Rodriguez, the son of my father’s maid, Manita, robbed a bank, the actions of which resulted in your wife’s death when she was trampled by their horses as they made their getaway. I have heard that you followed General Sherman on his March and that you killed Diego with your bare hands. You are a formidable opponent. I have hunted the great lions on the African plains, and my father wished that I do right by his bastard son and avenge his death. I will enjoy making a sport of your demise. Sincerely yours, Silas Manchester.

  Castellanos knew these words would anger the lawman. Manchester had no respect for life, and he took his victory for granted. The marshal, on the other hand, would accept the inevitability of his own death and endeavor to take Manchester with him to hell.

  Castellanos was forced to remain hidden as he approached the ongoing gunfire. A misstep might result in his being shot by Manchester’s men. Rather than join them, he had decided to stay out of the fight, and he would deliver the letter if the opportunity should present itself.

  He saw but bits and pieces of Knight fighting, and he appeared to Castelllanos like a ferocious bulldog. He was constantly in motion; like a whirlwind. He realized something then that at times surely worked in Knight’s favor – he looked older, weather-beaten, but his physical condition was that of a younger man. His looks were deceiving. This was no aging lawman to be taken lightly.

  Remaining hidden, he watched until it was finished and then, without hesitation, he approached the marshal. He offered the marshal the letter and his canteen. He kept his hands away from his gun. The marshal never took his eyes from him, and, even as he read the letter, he sensed the lawman was watching him in his peripheral vision. Castellanos was impressed. When he was finished with the letter his asked Castellanos his name, and then for a pencil. Castellanos had a pencil stub in his pocket and he gave it to Knight. Castellanos watched him curiously.

  Knight removed his marshal’s star from his vest. He wrote a note on the letter that said, ‘I’m coming for you
– Knight.’ Then he wrapped the badge and the note in his bloodstained bandana. He gave the bundle to Castellanos. He showed no emotion whatsoever.

  ‘Give this to Manchester,’ he said. Castellanos glanced at the bloody cloth and nodded.

  ‘What did you mean about helping me?’ The man’s gaze was fierce.

  ‘I meant that I will not fight against you. Manchester is not a good man. When I deliver your note back to him then my obligation to him has ended. Perhaps I will join you in battle.’

  ‘I don’t need any help.’

  Knight walked away without another word, and his footsteps were those of a man moving too slowly, and with too much pain. But he was alive and there would be a reckoning. Castellanos wasn’t surprised by the lawman’s comment. He had expected it, and he smiled. The breeze kicked up the dust on the deer trail. Castellanos watched him hike higher into the mountains. Castellanos looked at the words Knight had written. There was no doubt in his mind that this lawman would bring death with him when he emerged again from these mountain trails.

  TEN

  Cole Tibbs watched the two gunmen with an irritated interest. They had been stumbling about the trees examining the ground and trying to impress each other for the better part of an hour. Both men were infuriatingly stupid.

  ‘There’s Apaches ’round these parts. That’s their sign.’

  ‘They ain’t Apaches, Ramsey, they be Suzies. The meanest injuns there is.’

  ‘Claude, you’re a damn fool. You mean Sioux, and they spell it with an x.’

  ‘I don’t know how they spell it, and I rightly don’t care. All I know is there’s injuns on our trail. We best be getting back and reporting this to Mr Manchester.’