Shot to hell, p.14
Shot to Hell, page 14
The man wearing the duster sprawled on the ground. Even from a distance, Leif saw that the man’s open eyes stared upward into the forest canopy—and saw nothing. He was dead. Leif looked at the gun in his hand in surprise. He was a great shot, but this one bordered on the miraculous. In any gunfight, he’d accept that.
Darting from tree to tree, Leif hunted for the woman who had ridden with the man in the duster. Haunting stillness smothered the forest. She hadn’t come back past him, so she’d ridden farther along the road. As far as he could see, the road was empty. If she had ridden to one side or the other, she had completely camouflaged herself. Keeping his guns trained on the empty road, he stepped closer to the fallen man.
When he didn’t draw fire, he dashed to the man’s side and dropped to his knees. Leif poked the man. His instincts had proved true. The man was deader than a doornail. Tugging on the man’s duster revealed his left shoulder where a flap of canvas hung down. The threads had been cut by a bullet. Blood had oozed from a shallow wound and stained the duster. Leif pulled the man’s hat down low and blocked his lower face with a hand. He couldn’t be sure, but his gut told him this was the owlhoot who had held up the stagecoach.
He rocked back and looked around. The forest remained still, but vibrations caused the ground to rumble. From the intensity, he could sense many horses approaching.
Leif started to duck back into the forest and find his own stallion when the guidon bearer for the cavalry troop trotted into view. Immediately behind him rode the lieutenant at the head of his patrol.
The officer motioned for the sergeant to scatter soldiers throughout the woods while a few remained on the road to block any retreat.
“Drop those six-shooters,” the lieutenant called out. Beside him, his corporal had a carbine hiked to his shoulder, aimed at Leif. “Drop the weapons and raise your hands!”
“It’s all right, Lieutenant,” Leif answered. He rolled the Peacemakers around on their trigger guards and settled them in his holsters. “It’s me, Leif Gunnarson. You saved me from the road agents.” Seeing his identification did nothing, he added, “The stagecoach that was being held up. You and your men ran off the road agents.”
Leif half turned as soldiers rode from the woods. One private led White Lightning.
“Thanks for fetching my horse for me,” he said. Leif took a step and jumped back when the corporal fired. The carbine slug tore up the grass a few inches in front of his boots.
He spun angrily.
“What are you doing, shooting at me? I’m Leif Gunnarson. Trickshot! From the Wild West Show.”
“Drop the gun belt, or my corporal will put a bullet through your heart.” The officer’s voice came brittle and cold. As he spoke, he drew his sidearm and trained it on Leif, too.
“I don’t know what you think happened here, but I haven’t done anything wrong.” In spite of his rising anger at the foolish lieutenant jumping to conclusions, he unbuckled his gun belt and let it slide gently to the ground. He valued the twin six-shooters above about anything else in the world, other than White Lightning. Carelessly dropping them invited damage.
“I rode into the woods, and somebody opened fire on me. I shot back and found him like that.” Leif pointed to the dead man. “I think he’s one of the outlaws from the robbery.”
“You say it was self-defense and that he shot at you?” The lieutenant dropped to the ground and kneeled beside the fallen outlaw.
“It’s more than me saying it, Lieutenant. It’s the truth.” Leif started to add that the outlaw’s traveling companion had hightailed it, but he clamped his mouth shut when the officer rolled the corpse over.
“Shot smack in the middle of the back.”
“I couldn’t see who was shooting at me. I—” Leif’s mouth dropped open when the lieutenant pulled back the duster.
“He’s not wearing a gun belt. Where’s his gun?” The officer stood and motioned to his soldiers to come into a circle around Leif. “It looks like you shot an unarmed man in the back. You’re under arrest for murder, Mr. Gunnarson. Put shackles on him, Sergeant.”
Leif stared in disbelief at the dead outlaw. All Leif knew was that he had fired toward the source of the attack as he entered the forest. The man might not have been armed. He wasn’t able to say, but that meant the woman had shot her own partner in the back. Whether the incident was accidental or intentional didn’t matter.
He was the one being arrested for a hanging crime.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
You’ve got this wrong,” Leif Gunnarson protested. He tried to lift his hands and gesture, but the shackles kept him from moving too far. Shifting in the saddle, he looked to the front of the column. Between him and the lieutenant rode a dozen soldiers. The sergeant trotted alongside his superior while Leif had the corporal who had all too willingly been anxious to plug him as a companion.
“They all say that,” the noncom said tiredly. “Shut up.”
“The woman who led the stage holdup. She must’ve been the one who shot him. I was too far away, and he was off to the side, anyway, when I returned fire.”
“Keep up a story like that, and the jury’ll find you guilty in a flash.” The corporal chuckled. “Considering the way the people are in Kinney, they won’t take more ’n a minute anyway. The jury’ll want their free booze. I’ve heard tell they get more if they convict.”
Leif knew the soldier only poked him out of boredom.
“Why not take me back to your post for trial?”
The corporal snorted in disgust.
“You’ve never seen it. Even the rats left. The major’s a drunk, and the captain’s more interested in the major’s wife than in keeping discipline. I was with the Third Indiana. That was a good outfit. Better than anything out here in Wyoming.”
Leif turned a deaf ear to the soldier’s reminiscences about earlier days and better commanders. At least he wasn’t going on and on about seeing his prisoner swinging at the end of a noose. Without a chance to convince the corporal or the lieutenant of his innocence, Leif settled down and stared hard at the shackles on his wrists. As he bounced along, he noticed the link going into the left cuff was rusted.
The corporal never noticed when his prisoner began rubbing the link against the shackle. To Leif’s delight, the ancient link parted quickly. If the cavalry post was a calamity because of lax discipline, it certainly carried over to the equipment. He had freed himself with almost no effort, at least enough so he could use his hands. The iron cuffs still chaffed, and the length of chain dangling from the right one slowed him, but he wasn’t held captive in fetters anymore.
The column slowly pulled ahead as Leif held White Lightning back. The corporal never noticed as they eventually separated from the others.
As the soldier some distance ahead vanished around a curve in the road, leaving corporal and prisoner on their own, Leif acted. He twisted around in the saddle, then uncoiled, using all the strength he had to swing the chain on his right wrist around like a scythe. The end link hit the corporal on the cheek and left a bloody, rusty mark. The soldier’s eyes went wide, and his mouth opened. Then he toppled off his horse.
Leif bent over and made a frantic grab. He snared the reins on the corporal’s horse before it bolted. Pulling back hard, he brought the horse to a halt. The soldier lay on the ground, moaning. Leif grabbed and caught the saddlebags dangling over the horse’s rump. Fumbling, he opened the canvas bag and found his prized Peacemakers inside, beckoning him with their highly polished gleams.
Knowing he had little time, he dismounted and kneeled by the fallen soldier. In a jacket pocket, he found the keys to his shackles. The locks were half-rusted but yielded to hard twists. He dropped the chains and stared at the corporal. The man was coming around, moaning louder now. It would be easy to silence him—forever. But that wasn’t the kind of man Leif Gunnarson was. He measured his punch and clipped an outjutting chin. There wasn’t time to tie him up or gag him. Other soldiers soon enough would notice they were running a couple riders shy in the column.
“Come on,” Leif said, jerking on the soldier’s horse. “We’re going on a ride.” He stepped up into the saddle and winced. The McClellan saddle hurt as he sank down onto it. The horse might have appreciated its design, but the rider suffered.
Leif caught White Lightning’s reins and secured them to the rear of the saddle, then put his heels into the horse’s flanks. He galloped until lather formed. He pushed the horse even harder. When the stallion began faltering, he slowed and got as much additional distance from it as possible. Only then did he jump over into his own saddle with some relief.
“You’re rested enough, old boy,” he told White Lightning, patting the horse’s neck. “Let’s put even more distance between us and the soldiers.” He rode away, varying the gait to keep the stallion fresh. The lieutenant’s command had been in the saddle all day, and their horses weren’t rested. Leif intended to outrun them.
Over his years with the Wild West Show, he had spoken to more than his share of wranglers. Their stories had been laced with boasts and outright lies about their own prowess, but enough truth had come through that he had learned a thing or two about horses and being on the run. Never in all his born days had he thought he would be dodging the law, but listening instead of topping the lies now paid off.
He rode back into the hills where the gunfight had occurred and trotted past the bloody patch of grass where the outlaw had been cut down. A mound of dirt without a marker told of how the soldiers had taken care of the body. Leif walked White Lightning beyond the spot and deeper into the forest. Before, the woods had been as silent as a grave. Now birds chirped, and small animals rustled in the undergrowth. Insects whirred, and he heard the sounds of life everywhere.
It was past sundown, the time of day when hunters and the hunted came out. He knew which he was, not only from being ambushed but also realizing the lieutenant wasn’t likely to simply ride away. An escaped prisoner reflected poorly on him. The corporal might get his stripes yanked off. Leif felt little sympathy for him. He remembered the expression on the soldier’s face when he drew a bead with his carbine. The man was disappointed when he was ordered to stand down. He wanted blood.
Leif slowed and finally saw a place along the road to camp for the night. He wanted a fire and a hot meal, but the vision of soldiers riding down on him, howling and demanding his blood, convinced him a cold camp and a piece of jerky were more prudent. After tending White Lightning, he settled down and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. Riding into Kinney and the scam there, leaving Marta behind, and dealing with the ambush and arrest had all tuckered him out. He either fell asleep or dropped into a stupor, thus letting the soldier creep up on him unawares.
A hard poke in the ribs brought him around. He moaned, rubbed his eyes, and looked up into a frightened face partially lit by the dawn sunlight filtering through the trees. Immediately, he was wide awake and alert at the sight before him.
“Don’t you go doin’ nothing sneaky now, mister. I got the drop on you. I ain’t afeared of you like the others.”
The private wasn’t a day over seventeen. How much younger was a question Leif wanted to answer. Weathered veterans like the sergeant or world-weary men like the corporal were different. And their lieutenant had a military reputation to earn. But a youngster like this might never have been in a gunfight and be worried about his own unproved courage.
“You’ve got good reason to be afraid of me,” Leif said. “I’ve got both my six-guns aimed at you.” He lifted both hands under his blanket and moved them around just a tad, mimicking the moves he’d make if he held his deadly six-guns.
“I got the drop on you.” His voice quavered. The soldier lifted his rifle and snugged it into his shoulder to steady it. His hands shook so hard, he risked pulling the trigger by accident.
“You can’t see through this blanket. You’ve heard how accurate a shot I am. I never miss.”
“But I got you in my sights.” In spite of the truth that he did, the boy sounded unsure. That was all Leif needed.
“Two bullets in your heart against your one. Who’s likely to walk away?”
“I was ordered to find you. The lieutenant’d be furious if I let you go.”
“He doesn’t know you caught me. You ever see a man all shot up?”
“Not ’fore yesterday. The fellow you gunned down was the first dead man I ever saw. Well, not the first dead man but the first one that died from a gunshot. My pa lost his hand when a wagon wheel broke and he bled to death, but that’s nothing like what you done.”
“I didn’t shoot him.”
“Did, too!” The private began trembling as if he had the ague.
“I’m on the trail of the real killer. Why would I lie to you? I’ve got you dead to rights. Two of my guns against your carbine.” Leif was beginning to cramp up but dared not move for fear of revealing that his hands were empty and both his six-shooters were still in his holster.
“If you shoot me, the rest of my squad will be here in a trice.”
“No, they won’t,” Leif said, gambling that the boy lied. “You came here on your own. You’ve got good instincts. Use them now. I’m innocent. I never shot anyone in the back.”
“You’re threatenin’ to shoot me!”
“Not in the back. Never. Why should I do that when I’m the fastest gun that ever lived—and the most accurate shot?”
“I don’t know. What are you tellin’ me?”
“Lower the carbine, and we’ll talk this out. I’ll put away my guns if you lower your rifle.”
“Well, all right.” The private lowered the rifle. As he did, Leif pushed away the blanket and came to his knees. From this position, he could draw, if necessary. The soldier’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t have me covered. You lied!”
“That just shows how fast I really am. I put the guns back in their holsters so quick, you’d have seen only a blur.”
“I don’t believe you.” As the soldier started to raise his rifle, Leif went for his guns. Both slid from his hips. Before the private had the rifle half on target, he realized Leif had him dead to rights.
“I’m an even better shot,” Leif said softly.
“Please don’t kill me.” The private dropped his carbine and raised his shaking hands. “What are you going to do with me?”
“Make you a hero in your sergeant’s eyes, I reckon.” Leif got to his feet, picked up the carbine, and examined it. “You’re going to take me on and get outshot.”
“I don’t understand.” The private backed off a pace.
“Get on your horse, ride back to the column, and tell them you shot it out with me. Don’t say any more than that. Let them come to their own conclusions.”
“But—”
“Then lead them straight back here,” Leif said. “Shoo!”
The young soldier lit out, running. Leif looked around and decided how to stage what would become a major battle rivaling anything during the Civil War. He hefted the carbine. A story began to unfold, a fantasy that would stand up to a first impression but not much more.
He put his tall-crowned hat on a stump, backed off, and began firing. The first shot ripped through the crown and whined off into the woods. He continued shooting into the trees, blowing splinters everywhere. When the magazine came up empty, he placed the rifle on a stump, judged angles, and fired so his bullet smashed along the length of the stock and hit the trigger. The impact tore away metal and left a shiny, sharp metallic spike.
“There,” he said. “Almost complete.” He cut his finger on a splinter and found his hat with the fancy silver conchas. Leaving it behind was a pity, but he needed evidence that the private hadn’t turned tail and run like a craven. A large bead of blood formed on the tip of his finger. He turned the hat over so he could smear the blood around inside the exit hole. When enough blood soaked into the felt to make it look like a serious, but not fatal, head wound, he sent the hat spinning away. He had done all he could to set the scene.
Leif had no time to waste now. If the other soldiers hadn’t heard the gunfire and already set out to investigate, the private would report in any second. He mounted White Lightning and sent the horse galloping down the road. When he found a likely spot, he cut away from the road, splashed along a small stream to cover his tracks, and kept riding.
He wasn’t inclined to kill any of the soldiers, much less a wet-behind-the-ears boy, but he wasn’t going to let them take him to town for trial, either. The sergeant, or whoever was the patrol’s tracker, had a simple enough scene to decipher. The private had fired on the escaped prisoner, then had his rifle disabled by a return shot. He had then done the proper thing, reporting back to his superiors, because staying meant death, no chance of recapturing the prisoner.
Leif had given them his tracks. Now it was up to him to evade discovery—and to find Sally Randall. It sounded easy, but he knew how close to impossible it could be.
It was time for him to prove he was as good as Wyoming Bob claimed, only he had to do so much more than shoot the center of a target.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They were about to catch him. Leif Gunnarson felt it rather than saw it. He tried riding while keeping an eye in front and on the trail behind him, where the lieutenant and his soldiers would have to appear. He expected them to pop up suddenly in spite of his efforts at hiding his tracks. Leif wasn’t any frontiersman, and this was the longest he had been in the saddle for years. Traveling with the Wild West Show was usually easier because the larger animals had to be fed and watered more often than horses or men. That always provided frequent rest stops and the chance for him to climb down from the saddle and stretch muscles tired from the road.
