Gunsmoke Serenade Read online

  ‘We better sit tight and keep looking around. If we can kill an injun that’ll get us some extra gold. It don’t matter what type of injun it is.’

  ‘It makes me nervous, is all. Just knowing there’s injuns makes my skin crawl, and I wanna hang on to my scalp.’

  ‘You ain’t got enough hair left to get a squaw excited.’

  ‘Squaws ain’t much interested in hair, if you know what I mean.’ Ramsey looked around nervously, but Tibbs noted that he never looked up. ‘I can feel them injun eyes on me. I just know someone is watchin’ us.’

  Tibbs resisted the urge to shoot them both. It was too easy, he thought, from his seat high in the pines it would be like shooting ducks in a pond.

  ‘Let’s amble around a bit and follow this trail,’ Claude said.

  As they wandered off Tibbs noted with amusement that the trail they were following, whatever it was, wasn’t even connected to the false trail he had created hours before. These two had spent a tad too much time on the lonesome prairie letting their brains get scrambled by the sun.

  To make matters worse, some ants had come up the tree and were biting him viciously. This, on top of the fact that his choice of tree had put him in proximity with a hornet’s nest that dangled from a branch just ten feet from him. More than a few hornets had glided past, either out of curiosity or perhaps assessing him as a threat. It was enough to dampen his shirt with sweat.

  Tibbs had been in the tree for over an hour. Way too long. His leg muscles ached, and his rear end was numb. It was time to climb down and either kill someone or find a new place to hide, whichever came first.

  Opting to keep his bedroll hidden in the tree, and with extra cartridges stuffed into his vest pocket, Tibbs set out with his rifle and six-shooter, fueled now by anger, which his enemies had learned was the equivalent of any weapon.

  He stood for a moment at the base of a pine and glanced about. The soft pine needle bed gave off a heady aroma; the sun, slanting down through the branches, offered up a deceptive view of paradise. The birdsong added gaiety to his surroundings, but the dangerous fools he knew prowled the forest put him on edge. He proceeded cautiously through the sun-laden greenery, circling about to make certain that he was alone.

  Once he left the sanctuary of the pine-shadowed hills he felt his pulse beat stronger as he anticipated an attack at any moment. Keeping low, Tibbs made his way once again across the plain of tall grass that bordered the corral. He could hear the horses whinnying; could smell their scent, but he kept his head down and took no chances. It was an interminably long walk, and being hunched over strained his already tired muscles.

  He was nearly past the corral and venturing into new territory when voices stopped him. There were guards nearby, and their voices were close. His intention had been to sneak entirely around the camp and enter the foothills at about the same location that he guessed the marshal had escaped. At least he was heading in the right direction.

  The voices were familiar to him. Claude and Ramsey, Manchester’s devoted clowns, were stumbling toward Tibbs.

  ‘I saw an Injun once in Albuquerque,’ Ramsey was saying, ‘but he was already dead, shot by a posse of farmers.’

  ‘I’m glad we didn’t see any today,’ Claude said.

  The anger and irritation that had been simmering in Tibbs now flowed to the surface. With his back aching and his cramped leg muscles protesting, he stood up and faced the two men. He felt better when he stood up, the oxygen rushing into his lungs and dissipating the sense of claustrophobia that he’d experienced being crouched in the tall, swaying grass.

  He smiled. Claude and Ramsey stopped in their tracks.

  ‘Howdy boys! I am really tired of listening to you two caterwaul like stuck pigs.’

  ‘What? Who are you?’ Claude’s eyes popped.

  ‘I’m deputy US marshal Cole Tibbs and you two damn fools need to start running.’ Tibbs levered a round into the Winchester’s breech.

  ‘You can’t shoot us!’ Ramsey protested, ‘Manchester has fifty men in this camp!’

  ‘I suspect there’s a tad less than fifty of you with my friend Max on your trail.’

  Claude, perhaps being the dumbest of the two, allowed his fear to overcome common sense, and pulled his gun. His shot flung wide by nervousness, the bullet clipping off harmlessly into the grass.

  Tibbs triggered the Winchester, the barrel spewing smoke and hot lead, the shot echoing loudly under the immaculate summer sky. Claude took the bullet on the right side of his chest, just above the bottom ribcage. The impact turned him to his right as the bullet exited from his back at an upward angle. A crimson trail of bone and blood hung like a tendril in the air behind him before collapsing with his body into the grass.

  Horrified, Ramsey panicked and charged at Tibbs. Taken by surprise, Tibbs only had time to swing his rifle and crash the rifle butt into Ramsey’s forehead. Ramsey took the full brunt of the impact, his eyes rolling in their sockets. Tibbs had put enough force into his swing that the rifle imbedded into the skull a full inch. When he pulled the rifle free blood was welling up in the wound and Ramsey, although unconscious, was muttering incoherently. The impact would either kill him slowly or leave him brain damaged.

  The two shots that had been fired were enough to alert the camp. Wasting no time, Tibbs was crouched low and moving swiftly again through the grass. Once past the camp there was less cover. He paused with his heart hammering in his chest. There were scrub-brush and small trees dotting the landscape, but little else to cover his escape. He was forced to chance it, still crouched, but moving as fast as his aching legs allowed.

  He didn’t look back. A steady gaze on the territory in front of him was his sole focus. He never stopped. He sprinted from one perceived place of cover to another. A tree, a rock, the swell of a hill, all provided him the opportunity for minimal exposure. He was moving closer to the tree-line and thus allowing himself a better chance of escaping into the thick hills.

  He almost made it.

  A shout rang out; then additional curses and yells. He’d been spotted.

  Bracing himself, Tibbs sprang up and ran head-on toward the trees. Without having looked back he was uncertain as to how close his pursuers were, but he prayed he was out of rifle range.

  In answer to that silent prayer a shot clipped into a rock ten feet to his right, and in front of him. Flinging himself to the ground at a point where the ground offered a minimal rise in contour, he jerked about and levered three fast shots behind him. The closest men – four of them on foot – were about a hundred and fifty yards away and crossing the grassy plain near the corral. His shots sent them diving for cover.

  Move your ass, he told himself.

  He was up and running hard. He started down an incline and up another when another rifle shot pursued him, but this one fell short and wide. He had to keep moving. The danger now was being overrun by men on horseback. The trees loomed closer. Anxiety washed over him. What direction was best once he made the trees?

  Another rifle shot shattered the air, followed by curses. His breath was rasping in his lungs; a pain stitched itself up his side. At first he thought he was hit but soon he realized it was his body protesting his exertions. Swallowing a sense of panic, he willed himself to push harder than before. His legs felt tight, the muscles screaming in protest.

  Then he was up and into the trees, an all too familiar sanctuary. He was now on the opposite side of the camp. He turned quickly and emptied his Winchester at the men racing toward him. They scattered for cover. Thumbing fresh cartridges into the rifle, he turned and fled into the hills.

  There was no trail to follow, so he moved blindly, seeking the thickest groves and tangled green shadows beneath the canopy of swaying pines and maples.

  The voices behind him began to diminish but he pressed on. There was no turning back. He had no choice now but to find the marshal. He had a fine tale to tell about getting stuck up in a tree that he felt was certain to bring a rare frown to Knigh
t’s face.

  At last when he did encounter an old deer trail, he darted into a clearing that spread out and tapered up into the high cliffs. He thought he might catch his breath if he could make the high ground and secure a reasonable position.

  An hour later he was sitting with his back to a boulder and looking down at a glimmering blue lake just visible beyond a ridge of maples. There had been no sign of Knight, but that didn’t surprise him. Tibbs knew it would be a chore finding the marshal. By now Knight would be riled up. Seeing the marshal angry was something that Tibbs was accustomed to, and he didn’t envy anyone on the receiving end of the marshal’s anger.

  After resting awhile he decided to head toward the lake. He needed fresh water, and there was always the chance he would run into Knight, although he believed it was more likely the marshal would find him first.

  Two hours later he was on a northern ridge, having circled about without realizing he had crossed Knight’s trail several times, and watching a mountain stream rush downhill toward the lake. He smelled death. There were signs of men – bootprints – and the faint scent of a decomposing body that was unmistakable on the summer breeze.

  Tibbs took his time surveying the area and following the stream down the slope. It was tedious work. Eventually he found a body. It was one of Manchester’s men all shot to hell. Flies buzzed in the air. Covering his mouth with his bandanna, Tibbs left the body where it was. Although he didn’t find any more bodies, he sensed instinctively that Knight had killed several men already.

  Halfway down the slope, with the gurgling stream thirty feet on his left, he stopped. Some innate instinct had struck an alarm and he sensed danger. Birdsong chattered from the trees and the sun-laden forest and hills gave the appearance of tranquility, but still his senses warned him of danger.

  Then, after scrutinizing every inch of foliage within his field of view, he determined a shape moving about a hundred yards down the slope. The man’s outline was partially obscured by the branches and leaves, but Tibbs could see he had a rifle in his hand. Ever so slowly, he shifted his position, once again keeping low, which was causing his overworked leg muscles to protest. Sweat was dripping under his arms, soaking his shirt. A few seconds later he spied a second man off on the right at about the same distance.

  Several obvious facts came to his mind. First, Knight was alive, which wasn’t surprising, or else these men wouldn’t be here. Secondly, they were taking extra care in being quiet, which could indicate that Knight had succeeded in killing or injuring more than a few of Manchester’s men. Without knowing Knight’s location, Tibbs was forced to plunge headlong into an unknown battlefield that included every small crevice, shadowed recess, deer trail, switchback and hills and valleys densely populated with trees. The prospect of being killed was at a much higher percentage than Tibbs wanted. He would have to proceed carefully.

  But being careful, was one thing, he thought, and sitting on his ass and doing nothing was another.

  The minutes ticked away as he considered his options. To the best that he could determine, these two men were the only two within his immediate vicinity. Of course, there might be others nearby, but not close enough to make a difference. These two appeared to be sentries watching the creek. It was an obvious location for Knight to use as a swift way of traveling down from the high ridges. He might even have a canoe left here by trappers and hunters.

  He took in a deep breath. Still crouching, and with his elbow braced against his raised knee, Tibbs sighted down the barrel and drew a bead on the man closest to the creek. The sound of the cold mountain water tumbling down over the rocks made a roaring sound that amplified in his ears as the tension grew thick. His finger squeezed the trigger.

  The man was wearing a brown vest over a blue and white plaid shirt. In that instant when the rifle cracked he saw a puff on the man’s belly, just above his belt-buckle. Then he heard the man yowling in agony as he fell.

  Shifting his position, he tried to sight on the second man, but he was too late. The man had spotted him and Tibbs, crouched in the mountain underbrush, could smell the gunpowder and scent of wildflowers mingled with the brisk tang of the mountain spring rushing downhill. The twang of rifle slugs hummed past him.

  He was up and moving, dodging into the underbrush.

  He wasn’t fast enough.

  A stinging bullet creased his left thigh. Glancing down, Tibbs breathed a sigh of relief that it was nothing more than a flesh wound. He would bandage it later. Levering a cartridge into his Winchester, he slapped two rounds in the shooter’s direction knowing that he missed, but forcing the man to jump for cover.

  His foot caught a rotten branch that made a sickening snap! Off balance, Tibbs fell left, rolling toward the gurgling creek.

  Another shot whammed into the dirt on his right. The man had recovered quickly and was firing non-stop at Tibbs. The sizzling lead came splattering through the leaves and tearing up the ground in front of him. Pushing back, Tibbs rolled, clawing his way backwards.

  He lost his rifle.

  His hands clawed the pungent, mossy earth, his fingers blackened with grime. Gravity tugged him, his own weight his enemy as the embankment gave away and Tibbs was flung backwards into the creek, followed by a blanket of moss and twigs. The cold water slammed into his lungs, knocking the breath from him. Sputtering and flapping unceremoniously, Tibbs, came up gasping for air but covered with soaking moss. In seconds, the powerful stream had swept him twenty feet downstream, his legs buffeted against some rocks. His body was numb from the cold water.

  It was the moss that had saved him from being shot. With his body partially obscured by a blanket of moss, the shooter was confused as to his location and so fired aimlessly into the creek. The bullets thunked uselessly into the water. By then Tibbs was well past the rifleman, his Stetson spinning on the mossy blanket as if caught in a tornado. Spinning out of control, he grabbed his hat and tried to right himself and force his body toward the opposite shore.

  Cursing his bad luck, Tibbs moved with a turtle’s pace toward an outcropping far ahead on his left, but his speed left him only seconds to react. Somehow, and with a surge of determined strength, he moved closer and managed to grab the thinnest handful of branches to halt his momentum.

  Hanging by the branches, he inched closer, but the scrub was too thick. He couldn’t pull himself on to the shore from here. Tibbs would have to scramble around and try to circumnavigate the overhanging tangle of branches and find an easier place to crawl ashore. But at least he had stopped his momentum. Had he continued he was certain he would have been crushed or drowned.

  His boots kicked at naught but fish, and with the water up to his chin, he needed to find a shallow section. Pulling himself around, Tibbs was able to see a shallow stretch about thirty feet ahead, apparent to him by the lighter sandy color wavering in the sunlight. Using the branches, he moved slowly toward the patch of the sandy shoreline.

  He breathed a relieved sigh when his boots touched solid ground and he lumbered out of the creek with the water sluicing from his sodden clothes. Instinctively, his hand went to his holstered gun. His spirits darkened when he slapped at the empty holster. He had lost his six-shooter in the creek.

  Being without a weapon, especially after barely surviving his fall into the creek, was a devastating blow. His only hope now was to overpower one of Manchester’s gunmen and take his weapons.

  Tibbs slipped away from the creek and kept himself in the shadowy recesses of the forest. He would have preferred drying off in the sun, but now he had no choice but to remain hidden. He cursed under his breath. He was wet, cold, hunted and without a gun. This, he thought, was not an ideal situation for any respectable deputy US marshal in which to find himself. Max Knight would have yet another good laugh at his expense, that is, if he lived long enough to tell Knight about his misadventures.

  What I really need, Tibbs thought to himself, is a shot of whiskey!

  ELEVEN

  During the night he dr
eamed that his wife walked into the forest wrapped in a blue mist, her funeral dress tattered and rank with mold. But her face was still beautiful, and she smiled at him. The forest had grown silent and about her there emanated a faint whispering sound that he could not explain. She gestured to him, raising her left hand and talking, but he couldn’t make out the words. Her golden hair was ruffled by an unseen breeze. He attempted to rise, but his body refused to cooperate. He shouted at her, but by now she was moving past him, a wraith of the night, gliding in a blue mist and vanishing.

  Opening his eyes, there was pale light filtering through the forest and, distantly, he heard a voice. He wished that it were her voice, but knowing that it wasn’t roused him from a troubled sleep. For an instant he did, however, recall her voice. She had loved reading out loud the poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, especially from Evangeline. She would repeat the lines she loved the best over and over, and thinking of her now he recalled one with astonishing clarity.

  ‘When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.’

  Far off among the mountains he heard a gunshot and wondered if it was Lacroix entertaining himself. A cluster of blue and yellow butterflies suddenly burst silently from a crop of grass, and while he wasn’t particularly a religious man, he thought that was the closest thing to a sign from above that was possible. What it might mean was beyond his comprehension.

  That evening he had crawled under Lacroix’s seven-foot lean-to, far off the trail, and tried to sleep. Several hours earlier he’d heard a spattering of gunfire from down near the camp and he vaguely wondered if Cole Tibbs had joined the fracas. His body ached terribly but otherwise he was calm and alert. The exertions he had endured caused muscle pain, and the bullet that nicked him made a wound that was easily cleaned.

  Knight thought about killing Diego Rodriguez.

  He felt no remorse. He was long past sentiment because in order to survive Knight had been forced to repress any emotions about his wife’s death. That had not been easy, not at first. Over time he had managed it, and eventually his grief was replaced by an iron-strong desire to vanquish evil.