Shot to hell, p.19
Shot to Hell, page 19
“You lived in Kinney very long?”
The man riding alongside turned and looked sharply at him.
“Why are you asking?”
“Just passing the time,” Leif said, slightly taken aback at the harsh reply.
“Been there a week or two. Just passing through.”
“Where are you heading?” Leif saw this question rankled, too. This put him on guard. “I hear the ranches to the south are hiring cowboys for the fall cattle drives.”
“You think I have the look of a cowboy?” This amused the man. If he hadn’t spoken the way he did, Leif doubted he would have noticed the small details. But he did now. The man’s holster was hard leather and well worn. The ebony butt of his Colt was polished, well used, ready for action. His clothing was something between that of a cowboy and a tinhorn gambler.
“I’m not sure what you look like,” Leif said.
“What’s that ahead? Riders!”
Leif went for his Peacemaker in the left holster, cleared leather, and aimed across his body before the other man squeezed off a round.
“Drop it,” Leif said, and then he fired. The hesitation on the other’s part was only a fraction of a second. He fired across his body, too, but Leif’s aim was on target. His bullet drove through the man’s left arm and into his body, exploding his heart.
The rider toppled from his horse and lay still, his pistol still clutched in his right hand.
It had been clever having one of the gang ride with the posse. Leif had to make the most of the shooting now to rescue Marta. Luther Simkins wouldn’t expect anyone but his henchman to show up at their hideout, wherever that was ahead.
Leif dismounted, took the dead man’s gun and ammo. The fight ahead was going to be long and lethal. He wanted as much of an edge as possible . . . if only it was enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Leif Gunnarson worried that he should have buried the dead outlaw. At least a few rocks piled on the body would have kept the buzzards from wheeling about in the sky. A few looks up made him ride faster before the gang spotted the distinctive sign that something had died nearby.
The low hills turned into small mountains as he made his way directly into the rocky patch. The horses’ tracks became indistinct and forced him to watch the ground more closely. Broken twigs and occasional piles of horse droppings were his primary clues to where the road agents had ridden. By now they had a good-sized remuda. Other than their being outright horse thieves, intending to sell whatever they stole, the best reason for their gathering so many head had to be a big theft. Tethering fresh horses every few miles from the robbery let the road agents switch from tired mounts and outride a posse. Three or four stations of such horses insured a clean getaway.
But what could Simkins be after? He had kicked up such a fuss in the region already that every lawman slept with his hand resting on his six-gun. The stagecoach company had to be ready to call in the Pinkertons to track down the gang preying so viciously on their drivers, passengers, and cargo. Even the cavalry had fielded a patrol to find him. With so many eyes scanning the horizon, they had to come across Simkins eventually.
“Trains? Some big army payroll?”
Leif realized he might be crediting Luther Simkins with too much forethought. It might give him a sense of power, having so many posses hunting for him. In the past, his vicious, cruel murders had never been for gain. They satisfied some deep, festering darkness—or fed it. Leif recoiled as he smelled burning flesh. His parents. Marta’s ma and pa. Those kin of the two little girls.
He sat straighter when he realized it wasn’t burned human flesh that made his nostrils flare. It was only woodsmoke from a campfire. He slowed and then stopped to study the terrain around him. It had turned steeper and rockier. The game trail he followed wound in and out through large boulders with heavily wooded areas just beyond. Ahead a fair distance rose a thin twisting column of white smoke. He had to be downwind to have caught even a tiny scent of it. That made approaching whoever built the fire easier.
Easier and harder. If he stuck to the trail, there had to be a sentry. The outlaws wouldn’t camp without watching their back trail.
He cut off the narrow dirt track and rode through the rocky field until he reached the edge of a forest. Dismounting, he tethered White Lightning. He estimated the campfire was a good half mile ahead through the wooded area. If his horse made any noise tied here, it wasn’t likely to alert anyone.
Leif checked his Peacemakers, then the pistol he had taken from the outlaw. Ammo filled his pockets. He patted White Lightning, then made his way through the forest. The farther he went, the more carefully he picked his footing to keep from breaking twigs or rustling bushes. Even if the gang hadn’t put out guards where he approached, they might think he was dinner waiting to be shot if he made too much noise.
He caught his breath when he saw the blazing fire through the trees. Falling onto his belly, he watched for several minutes to be sure they hadn’t spotted him. He counted men moving about. Three. Four. His heart almost exploded when the woman riding with the gang stood between him and the fire. Her face was hidden in the shadow for a moment until she turned, and he finally got a good look at her profile—the profile of Petunia Gunnarson.
The woman spun and bellowed, “Where’d you get off to, Luther Simkins? We’ve got plans to make.”
Leif drew a six-gun and rested it on the ground, bracing it. The shot would be at least twenty yards in shadow, with dancing firelight complicating his aim, but whoever she was, she had identified Luther Simkins as being in the camp.
“Over here, Sally. I got the map all laid out.”
“It’s dark over there.”
“When have you ever been scared of the dark, my pet?” A boisterous laugh sounded. The woman whirled about and drew her six-shooter. Leif blinked at her speed. She moved faster than about any man he’d ever seen.
“I’ll shoot your eyes out if you keep calling me that.”
“Why, Sally? Is that sharpshooter fellow getting under your skin?” A dark figure came up on the far side of the fire. The woman’s body shielded him and prevented Leif from getting a good look.
From his hiding place, that hardly mattered. He hadn’t seen anything but wanted posters for Luther Simkins. His eyes welled with tears. It had been ten years since he had seen his sister, since his family had been slaughtered. Until now, he had thought it a little bit crazy that he carried such hatred for Simkins over such a long time. If the Wild West Show hadn’t returned to Wyoming, he’d never have crossed trails with the outlaw again.
He came to a decision. He couldn’t recognize Simkins, but the woman had called him by name. That was good enough for him. Leif took careful aim, then caught his breath. Something moved in the forest behind him. Every muscle trembled when he realized someone walked through the underbrush, not trying to be quiet.
The movement stopped. Then he knew why someone from the camp had come out like this. The man relieved himself against a tree trunk. Leif willed himself to be invisible and for the outlaw to return to the campfire.
“Hey, what’re you doin’ out here? You’re all sprawled out and—”
The outlaw realized Leif wasn’t one of his partners. The familiar hiss of metal against leather sounded. A hammer came back. Leif rolled onto his back and fired blindly. His instincts saved him. His bullet hit the man high in the right shoulder and spun him around, forcing his gun off target. Lead dug a pit in the dirt next to Leif’s head. A second round exploded from his Peacemaker. This removed all threat from behind.
The camp erupted in action, shouts and orders and questions that went unanswered. For a moment, Leif thought luck rode with him. Then the woman shouted, “Out there. In the woods. I saw a flash.”
She showed the others where she had seen the muzzle fire by opening up with her six-shooter. Lead tore through the air above him. Leif tried to dig down into a hole to avoid it. The gunfire went above his head, but Simkins snapped out, “He’ll be on the ground. Shoot lower, men.”
Dead leaves and twigs and dirt danced all around Leif. He scooted back, and when he did, he drew more accurate fire.
“Get him. Don’t let him get away. It’s got to be that marshal from where we robbed the bank!” Simkins led the way, walking steadily and firing as he came. To his side, the woman provided an even more deadly barrage.
The rest of the gang filled the woods with death, but those two were coming ever closer to Leif with their outpouring of lead. One emptied a gun while the other reloaded. Leif thought he faced an entire army.
He stopped retreating and took careful aim at the dark figures. In the night, he missed his intended target but hit another. The outlaw gasped and dropped to his knees off to Simkins’s left.
“He hit me in the leg, Luther. Help me.”
“Shut up. Either join us or quit!”
Simkins fired again, finishing Leif’s work. He had shot down his own henchman. If only taking care of the others would be that easy.
Leif emptied one gun, grabbed the one taken from the outlaw he had killed on the way, and emptied it. This drove back the advancing wave long enough for him to get to his feet and press his back against a thick tree trunk. Bullets spanged into the far side but couldn’t reach him. That would change fast as the outlaws spread out on either side of the tree. While Simkins pinned him in place, the rest would catch him in a cross fire.
He reloaded his Peacemakers and judged distances. To both sides he saw movement. Firing first left, then right, he ducked and dashed away into the night, using the tree to protect his back.
The forest lit up with gunfire.
“Stop, stop shooting, you fools. He’s got you firing at each other!” The woman understood right away what he had tried to do. Let the outlaws kill one another. “He’s running away from me and Luther. After him!”
She added a few shots in Leif’s direction. They came close enough to make him duck involuntarily, though they were wild and away from where he crouched.
Sally Randall had figured out his ploy. Leif changed direction and tried to sneak off by crossing past the outlaw on his left. It almost worked, but something gave him away.
“Here. He’s here!” The owlhoot began shooting with such accuracy that Leif winced as a piece of lead creased his shoulder.
He dropped to his knees and aimed both six-shooters. Movement guided his pistols. He fired three times from each gun—six slugs headed for the outlaw. Leif had no idea which one hit its target, but at least one did. The man grunted and collapsed. The death caused a flurry of firing from the gang.
Leif retreated farther and reloaded, but this let them creep closer to him. He was a crack shot, but being unable to see his targets clearly put him at a disadvantage. Once more he tried to count his opponents. The only two he knew for sure were Simkins and Sally Randall. They called out instructions to the others on how to circle him. Their voices located them, but they remained sheltered by trees, letting the rest of the gang risk their necks.
With some trepidation, he changed tactics. Instead of trying to retreat ahead of the gang, he slipped around the tree and hoped the gang on either flank kept hunting where he wasn’t. Leif worked his way toward the tree where Luther Simkins remained hidden. If he was going to die, he’d take the killer down with him.
“Where is he? What’s happening?” Sally Randall bellowed out her questions from off to Leif’s left. He strained to hear Simkins’s reply so he could take him out. Leif’s heart hammered louder in his ears. Nothing but silence ahead of him warned that Simkins either was staying quiet or had moved.
“Don’t know where he got off to, Sally. He’s a slippery one. I think he’s a mile away by now.”
“No, he’s not. He’s still here. I feel it in my gut.” She moved, making a considerable noise as she crashed through dried brush.
Leif suspected a trap. She was trying to draw him out so he’d fire at her. He kept his attention focused toward the last spot where Simkins had taken refuge. Leif raised his six-shooter when he saw a shadow move from a tree to his right. A hundred things raced through his mind. Before he consciously came to a decision, he fired. He hit the shadow—it jerked back, then dropped and lumbered away.
He caught his breath. He had fired on a bear and wounded it. Worse, the flash from his gun revealed his location to not only Sally Randall but another of the outlaws behind him. Ducking and running got him away from where they had spotted him, but the crunch of his boots on dried leaves made it obvious where he fled. Bullets tore through the forest around him. He flinched when one passed close enough to an ear to deafen him momentarily.
The near miss still whistling in his head, he fired again in the direction of the wounded bear, but the animal had more sense than he had. The bear had hightailed it away from the gunfight.
“He’s there. Boys, he’s there!” Sally Randall spotted him and opened up with a furious barrage of lead. Only her gun’s coming up empty saved him from being hit. Leif pushed forward and burst around the tree where Simkins had been.
Leif heard slugs tearing splinters from the tree behind him. A quick shot to his left drove the woman to cover. This was his only chance. Leif sprinted forward, hot on Luther Simkins’s heels. He burst into the clearing where the outlaws had camped. He scanned the entire area. Instinct caused him to fire across the campfire into the night. For an instant, he thought he had failed. Then he heard a low moan followed by a curse.
“That you, Simkins? Come out and face me like a man, or can you? You’re a woman-killing, children-stealing coward.” Leif leaped over the fire and landed hard, going to one knee. This saved him from a bullet coming from his right side.
A quick turn and he loosed three rounds. The dull thuds of bullets hitting a body told him more than the sound of a falling body.
“Simkins. You killed my family. You’re going to pay for that.”
“I don’t even know who you are, boy. But chances are good I did kill your kin. I’ve killed more people’s kin than I can remember.” He let out a laugh.
Leif got to his feet. He held his six-shooters, one in each hand. He returned them to their holsters.
“You can draw anytime you want, Simkins.”
“Tell me who you are. It’s always good to know who I’m killing.” The man stepped up. The guttering fire behind lit Simkins’s face.
Seeing how he outlined himself, Leif edged to the side. This gave him a better look. He had only glimpsed Luther Simkins from a distance before, and those times he had only guessed this was the man he sought. Simkins, who was about his height, had a weathered face and was thin, very thin. His clothes hung from his frame. His hat had been pushed up on his forehead, giving Leif a clear look at the face of the man who had murdered his family.
“Draw, old man,” Leif said. It startled him how old Luther Simkins was. The folk saying “Rode hard and put away wet” came to mind. The years had not been good to him. Living on the edge, dodging the law, had taken its toll. Now Leif intended to collect the final coin in the man’s life.
“You’d deprive me of spending all the money I been accumulating?” Simkins laughed hoarsely, then coughed and spat. “You got to admit I’ve been on a tear. I got me enough horses to start a breeding ranch, and that bank back in town filled my pockets.”
“The stagecoach robbery,” Leif said, his nerves settling. He felt the calm usually reserved for a complicated shooting sequence. “You killed the judge.”
“He surely did have a wallet packed with greenbacks.” Simkins lifted a hand and waved. Leif thought he was waving off his men so he could gun down this upstart on his own.
“What happened to Marta Esquivel? Did you kill her? She’s not anywhere I’ve seen in camp.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, boy. The judge and his toady were all of them in the coach. And the driver, but he didn’t count; I shot him before he went for his iron.”
Leif felt like a raw nerve. He absorbed information from all directions and reacted to it. He fired to his right again, hit one of Simkins’s henchmen, whipped to his left and fired several times. Another of the gang screamed as Leif’s bullet ripped into him. Jerking back around, Leif fired twice at Luther Simkins.
The gang leader shot back. The flash from his pistol showed that Leif had been off by a couple feet. He corrected and prepared to end the man’s life. His parents. Marta’s ma and pa. Marta! And so many others had been slaughtered by the outlaw. Justice was at hand.
The hammer on Leif’s right Peacemaker fell on a spent round. He dropped the gun, fanned off the gun in his left hand—and its hammer fell on an empty chamber, too.
Leif Gunnarson jerked erect when a sledgehammer smashed into his back. He staggered forward a step. Another powerful blow hit him. Pain shattered his world. He toppled forward onto the ground, not moving.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
You finally got the range, my pet. It was about time.” Luther Simkins walked over and kicked Leif in the ribs.
The shock caused Leif to regain consciousness. He tried to lift his six-shooters, but they had fallen away from where he lay. The memory of pulling the triggers and the hammers falling on spent cartridges seeped upward into his brain. His guns would do him no good. The pain in his back spread and numbed him when Simkins kicked him again.
Pretend. He had to play possum. The outlaw couldn’t know he was still alive. Shot in the back. By Sally Randall, “my pet.”
“Luther, we gotta ride,” came a distant call. “I think those soldiers have found us.”
Simkins swore.
“Too much gunfire, and all because of this one.” He kicked Leif again, but this time the toe of his boot hardly affected his victim. “You ever see him before?”
