Blood on the trail, p.2
Blood on the Trail, page 2
“I ain’t never been one for waitin’,” Weasel offered. He was a pinch-faced man with a long neck that John had thought made him resemble his namesake. “I say one of us distracts him with a manner of peace offerin’ while I ride around the side and come at them that way. Sneak up on him and put a bullet in his back, then free John. Best to do it now afore he gets too settled.”
“Just like a weasel,” Ace concluded. John had called him Ace because he was something of a card sharp. The gang had relied on his winnings in gambling halls to keep them afloat when times were lean. He was good enough that he did not have to cheat all that often. “I say we ride right at him together before our horses get sluggish. Damn it, boys. It’s only one man in there.”
“One man with a fancy rig,” Pole noted. He was the tallest of the group, more than six feet tall by plenty and as skinny as a bean pole. “You see them irons he was sporting in town? A Thunderer on his right hip and another holstered above his belt on the left. Never saw a man with a rig like that. Probably knows how to use them, too.”
All of the chatter was giving Harry a headache. He had agreed with every man who spoke as each of them had a point to make. They had been bad men long before they had joined up with John and him. He felt like a fool telling any of them they were wrong and did not want to risk the consequences if he was.
Fortunately for him, not all of the members of the gang had spoken yet. He looked at the large black man at the far right of the group. “Cliff, you haven’t said anything yet. What do you think?”
The black man with the patch over his left eye did not speak often, but Harry knew that when he did, the rest of the gang listened. He had gotten his name because John said he resembled a cliff. Anyone who tried to go over him always wound up busted up or dead. He stroked the neck of his horse where the scalps of three dead Indians hung. “Our horses ain’t used to this kind of work anymore, boys. They’re just about played out. I know mine is and all of yours are, too. I can hear a rattle in Cree’s mare, which tells me she’s down with pneumonia or will be soon. They might have one good charge left in them, but not much after that. If this Halstead fella takes off with those mustangs of his, we’ll be left with a bunch of tired horses and nowhere to ride them.” He looked down the line of men looking back at him. “I love a fight just as much as the rest of you boys, so don’t go thinking I’m trying to shirk anything. I want John back, too, but we’re not outfitted well enough to do it right now. Them’s just the facts as I see them is all.”
Harry had hoped Cliff would have come up with something better than that, but he was right. The horses were just about done in. His own mount was shivering from the effort of the chase and he imagined none of the other animals were faring much better.
That left him to ask the final member of the gang for his opinion. He also happened to be the quietest and the deadliest among them now that John was out of the way. He looked to the far left of the group at Ed Zimmerman. “Well, we’ve heard from everyone else besides you, Ed. What do you think?”
Zimmerman had not taken his eyes off the stand of pine trees since they had slowed down. He was looking into them now as he said, “I never thought I’d say this, but every one of you idiots is right in his own way. We’re stuck here with tired horses and a target in thick cover.” He nodded toward the trees. “This boy isn’t just fancy, he’s smart. He’s packing two Winchesters. One’s a ’73 and the other’s an ’86. Saw them when he tied off his horses in front of the jail back in town. That means we’re already in his range, depending on what he’s got it loaded with.”
Harry was glad he could finally contribute something to the discussion. “It only holds if we stand still, Ed, and there’s ten of us. If we rush him, he’s bound to miss most of us.”
“But not all of us,” Zimmerman told him. “And I won’t count on him being the type to panic. I watched how he handled himself in town. He’s about as cool as they come, and I’d wager my share of the money that he’s every bit as good as he thinks he is. He’s a fighter and we can’t buffalo him like some homesteaders on a wagon train.”
He pulled up one of the four scalps dangling from his saddle horn and began to feel the hair between his fingers, as if it might tell him something. For all Harry knew, it just might. Ed had always been the strangest man in their outfit.
Harry hung his head. He had asked the question, hoping someone would have an idea they could all agree upon. But everyone had a different opinion on what they should do next.
“That didn’t help much.”
Zimmerman cleared his throat and spat over his horse’s head. “I say we play it Weasel’s way for once. That’ll mean one of us rides out there and tries to talk to him. Can’t hurt. We can’t scare him off, but maybe we can buy him off. We’ve got enough to spare. A man in his position might be willing to take the money and let John go. You can tell him we’ll ride on and away from Rock Creek if he wants. Tell him we’ll ride clear out of the territory. Promise him the moon. We can always kill him later after we get John back.”
Ace cursed. “No way in hell I’m giving up Rock Creek. The only reason why we left was because they had John. I’d rather see that place burn than have them say they rode us off.”
“Then we’ll burn it,” Zimmerman said, “because even if we get John back, we’re going to have to kill that deputy who has him. Halstead doesn’t strike me as the kind of loose end you leave untied.”
“So what?” Bandit said. “Won’t be the first lawman we killed.”
“Won’t be the last,” Pole added.
“He’ll be the last we kill in Montana,” Zimmerman told them, “because once word gets out that this Halstead fella is dead, Aaron Mackey will come looking for us. And believe me, boys, you don’t want to still be in Montana when that happens.”
Weasel was far from impressed. “Hell, I heard all them same stories you have, Ed, and I don’t believe the half of them. What’s one man against the ten of us? Eleven if we can get John out of this.”
Zimmerman continued to stroke the scalp in his hand. “I’m not going on any rumors or fairytales. I’m going on what I’ve seen, and I can tell you Aaron Mackey’s worse than anything you’ve heard. If we kill Halstead, he’ll kill all of us. That’s a fact.”
“I don’t care about Mackey right now,” Cree said. “I care about that half-breed whose got us pinned down in there.”
“He’s not a breed,” Zimmerman said. “His father’s white and his mother’s Mexican. Heard them talk about it in The Railhead last night.”
“I don’t care what he is,” Cliff said. “He’s in our way, and someone’s got to do something about it.”
Zimmerman finally took his eyes off the stand of pine trees and looked at Harry. A shiver went through Hudson when he did.
“I say one of us needs to ride out to talk to Halstead,” Zimmerman said, “while Weasel flanks him from the right over there. I’d prefer to send more, but if too many of us disappear, Halstead’s likely to notice. It’s not perfect, but it’s the best plan we’ve got, given the circumstances.”
Harry swallowed hard as he felt the eyes of every man in the gang on him. They did not have to say what they were thinking. Harry was smart enough to know they doubted him. They thought he was weak and stupid. They thought he had lived his life in his brother’s shadow. What’s more is that he knew they were right.
He also knew it was up to him to decide what needed to be done.
He tried to keep the quaver out of his voice as he said, “Sounds like a good idea to me, Ed. I’ll ride ahead a bit to get into shouting distance of him while Weasel here works his way around the right side.” Giving orders like this made him feel a little better about what he was about to do. Put a little iron in his backbone. He only hoped he didn’t catch any iron in his belly for his trouble. He picked up his reins and urged his horse forward. “No time like the present. Just be ready to back me up, whatever happens next.”
The men grumbled their encouragement to him as he walked his horse at a steady pace. But the closer he got to the pines, to the chance of death he knew was waiting for him in its shadows, the more his courage began to wane. He even thought about turning back and having one of the other men do it. But kept on moving.
He feared his own men might shoot him dead if he did anything else.
CHAPTER 3
Halstead dropped to a knee beside a pine tree when he saw one of the men break away from the middle of the line and begin to ride toward him. His pace was slow and deliberate. It did not feel like the beginning of an attack.
Halstead raised his field glasses to get a closer look at the approaching rider. It was clear now that it was John Hudson’s younger, thinner brother Harry. The front of his beard was thinner than the rest of it, more scraggily as if he had spent a considerable amount of time pulling on it. It was a nasty habit for a grown man to have. It showed weakness.
Halstead lowered the field glasses when Hank stopped his horse about a hundred yards from the pines. He pulled them off his neck and leaned them against the tree as he brought his ’86 up to his shoulder. It would be an easy shot from this distance. One hundred yards was practically point-blank range for his Winchester, especially since there was no wind to complicate the shot.
He moved his finger next to the trigger while he aimed his front site just to the right of Harry’s chest. Legally, he was within his rights to kill the man right then. He had been part of the gang that had not only chased him but had shot at him all the way from Rock Creek to here. That broke about half a dozen laws Halstead could think of and probably a few more he did not know about.
But killing Harry would serve no purpose at present. At least not until Jeremiah knew what the man was up to. He could always kill him later.
Harry cupped his hands to either side of his mouth and yelled, “Hello in there. Deputy Halstead. John Hudson. Can either of you hear me?”
“What do you want?” Halstead yelled back. He was careful not to say too much or else the men might know his position.
“I want to talk about how we can all get out of this alive and still get what we all want.”
Halstead watched one of the nine men behind him ease his horse out of the line and ride off. Probably trying to flank him. Some of the trees in front of Halstead’s position blocked his shot, otherwise he would have easily brought the man down.
He readjusted his aim back on Harry Hudson. “How so?”
Harry thumbed over his shoulder. “You see that man who just left? He’s heading back to where we’ve got our gold stashed. He’s going to be back here in an hour or so with more gold than you’ve ever seen in your life. And it’ll be all yours if you’ll just agree to let my brother go.”
Halstead grinned behind the rifle. Harry was a rotten liar. “And here I was thinking that skinny runt was riding around trying to flank me.”
“Not at all, friend,” Harry assured him. “There’s been enough shooting for one day, don’t you think?”
“I should,” Halstead yelled, “seeing as how I was the one getting shot at.”
“Well, that’s all done with now,” Harry said. “There’s no reason for any more shooting. Not from us. Not from you, either. What I propose is simple. I get my brother back. You get rich, and no one else has to get hurt.”
“Except for that mayor your brother killed.” Halstead heard a branch snap somewhere close. The skinny man was fast. He was coming toward him from the side.
So much for becoming a rich man.
Halstead had grown tired of Harry’s banter. “How much were you planning on offering me to hand over your brother?”
Harry seemed happy to get an easy question for once. “We’ve got five thousand in gold if you’re of a mind to end this peacefully. You can tell your boss in Helena that we jumped you if you want. Hell, mister. With five thousand in gold in your pocket, you can just ride off and never go back to Helena at all.”
Halstead heard another branch snap on his left, only this time it was closer. Weasel was making progress.
He decided it was time to draw the show to a close. “Never been much of a fan of gold, Harry. I prefer to deal in lead.”
Halstead fired and the .45-70 round slammed into Harry’s chest, sending him tumbling backward and out of the saddle.
He levered in the next round and took aim at the rest of the Hudson gang that had already begun to turn and ride the other way. He aimed at the middle of the line and fired. The gang was about three hundred yards away and Halstead had rushed the shot. His bullet hit one of the horses in the side of the head, killing the animal immediately. The rider managed to fall out of the saddle on his right as the horse collapsed to its left.
Halstead heard another branch snap, followed quickly by another. The skinny man was in a hurry now and running toward him through the pines.
Halstead leaned his rifle against the tree and pulled the Colt Thunderer from his belly holster just as the man broke into the clearing. He had spotted John Hudson hogtied to the mustang and, for a moment, froze where he stood.
That moment cost him his life as two shots from Halstead’s pistol hit him in the chest and cut him down.
Halstead remained quiet against the tree, listening for anyone else who might be approaching on foot or horseback. But the only sound he could hear was the quiet whimpering of John Hudson through his gag.
Halstead looked back out at the grass beyond the pines. The gang had regrouped some five hundred yards away or more and did not look like they were in any hurry to charge his position. Their horses looked more winded now than before.
The rider who had escaped being crushed beneath his dying mount had managed to reach Harry’s fleeing horse and was already climbing into the saddle.
Only one man had held his ground through the ordeal. Halstead picked up his field glasses to get a closer look at him. It was the same man he had seen at the very end of the line. A tall, broad man in a torn black coat and a rumpled black hat whose crooked brim shielded his eyes. His beard had been thinner than that of the others, as if he had only started growing it a few days before. He rode a dappled gray. The rifle under his left leg remained in its scabbard, and Halstead saw him patting one of the four scalps that dangled from his saddle horn as if it was a cat. It was difficult for him to see if the man was smiling, but Halstead imagined he was.
That’s him, Halstead thought. That’s Ed Zimmerman.
He could not see if the man was looking at him directly or just at the pines in general, but that did not matter. He had shown the lawman and the gang who he was. When everyone else had run away, this man had held his ground. While two of his men had died, he lived.
Halstead saw one thing clearly. Zimmerman was the new leader of the Hudson Gang now. And John Hudson’s life had just become a lot less valuable.
Halstead holstered his Colt and picked up his Winchester as he rose to his feet. He carefully aimed at Zimmerman, who seemed to sense he was being targeted and reluctantly wheeled his horse around to join the others.
Halstead knew the man was still within range, but he did not want to risk taking the shot. He did not want to give Zimmerman the satisfaction of missing. He had no doubt that he would have to kill this man someday, but not on this particular day. He had no doubt that they would face each other again some day.
Halstead picked up his field glasses and brought them back to where he had tethered Col and the other mustang. He slid the field glasses into his saddlebag and took two. 45-70 rounds and loaded them into his rifle before tucking it back into the scabbard.
John Hudson’s whimpering was getting on his nerves. He slowly walked over to where the skinny man had fallen as he pulled the Colt in his belly holster and opened the cylinder. “This one the man you called Weasel?” he asked Hudson.
The bound prisoner struggled to lift his head to see where Halstead was. Hudson stopped squirming and began to weep.
“I figured as much.” Halstead dumped out the empty shells on Weasel’s body, plucked two fresh rounds from his belt, and slid them into the cylinder. He gave the wheel a good spin and snapped it shut.
“Your brother Harry is dead.” Halstead tucked the Colt back into his belly holster as he went back to Col. “Weasel tried to sneak up on us. He’s dead, too. Your gang is down to eight now and their mounts are about done in. They won’t be coming for us any time soon, and they sure as hell won’t be catching up to us before we reach Silver Cloud. Of that, you can be certain.”
Halstead walked back to his prisoner and took another handful of Hudson’s hair and forced his head to raise. The outlaw’s eyes were red, and his gag was soaked from spit and tears. The good nuns down in El Paso had done their best to instill some compassion and Christian love into their charge when they raised him. He liked to think their lessons took, at least most of the time.
But not where John Hudson and his men were concerned. Where someone else might feel sorry for this man tied over a mustang’s saddle, Jeremiah Halstead only saw the fear in the faces of the countless men, women, and children Hudson had killed over the years. Instead of Hudson’s whimpering, he heard their screams and begging and sorrow. He heard the tears of the loved ones they had left behind.
Jeremiah Halstead did not see a man when he looked at John Hudson. He did not even see a prisoner. He saw a package that needed to be delivered to Marshal Aaron Mackey in Helena, Montana. A piece of meat that would soon be swinging from a noose. Hung by the neck until it received the death it had earned in life.
“No one’s coming for you,” Halstead told him. “Zimmerman’s in charge now, and the last thing in the world he wants is you telling him what to do again. You remember that as we ride to Silver Cloud.”
Halstead let the prisoner’s head drop and untied the mustang’s tether from the tree. He led the animal over to Col and kept a good grip on the lead rope as he climbed into the saddle.
