Red Diamond Rustlers, page 11
He rested for half an hour in the lee of big oak but when the rain began to fall he decided he couldn’t delay the crossing any longer. His horse was breathing easier when he checked its girth strap and raised a foot to the stirrup. A voice, weary and full of sadness for what was about to happen, spoke behind him.
‘Throw the gun away before you climb up there,’ said Willard Draysmith.
Burt turned his head to see the three men who sat their horses a dozen yards away. He could see the tracks on the ground that had led them to this place. A noose had been thrown over the branch of a nearby tree.
‘You’re not going to hang me,’ Burt said.
‘Then we’ll shoot you,’ Willard told him and three guns were cocked in readiness. ‘You’ve killed and you’ve stolen from me. It’s time to pay the price.’
Burt knew there was no way out but he wasn’t going to go without a fight. His hand reached for his pistol but instantly, three bullets smashed into his chest. They left him there face down in the mud.
Titus Sawyer had spoken to the men gathered in the yard and told them he wouldn’t hold it against anyone who chose not to be with him when he attacked the outlaws’ hideout. There were no dissenters. Not only had every man known the men who had been killed but, because of the bandits’ ruthlessness, they knew that they, too, could fall victim of any future raid. They all saddled up ready to ride.
Linc Bywater was especially keen to join the group. He’d pestered Frank all the way back from town in the buckboard, insisting that Doctor Jones had declared him fit to ride again. Frank hadn’t believed him and knew that hard riding was beyond his current ability but said he would allow it if he could saddle his own horse. When everyone else was galloping out of the yard, Linc had nothing more than the blanket over his animal’s back. He’d asked for help but none had been forthcoming. As much as they sympathised with his desire to be involved in the capture of the men who had left him for dead, they knew that in the event of a gun battle it would be every man for himself. It was clear to everyone that Linc’s recovery was not yet complete. He’d cursed as they rode away; cursed them for leaving him behind and cursed the wound that had weakened his body.
The Red Diamond operated on a smaller workforce than the Wheel. Consequently the band that left the ranch was smaller than the dozen assembled by Willard Draysmith. Six men, including his nephew Frank and Mustang Moore rode with Titus Sawyer, but when they reached Beaver Creek they were bolstered by another two. Zig Braun and ‘Skinny’ Clark, who had been posted to keep watch on the decoy herd, pulled up their horses on the other bank.
Zig pointed across the range behind. ‘They’ve taken the cattle,’ he yelled and, as though he needed to justify his desertion of the stock, added, ‘We didn’t try to stop them. Like you ordered, we were heading for the ranch to let you know.’
Frank was pleased they’d caught the rustlers red-handed. His uncle, he knew, was already convinced of their guilt and intent upon killing them wherever he met them, but Frank was more comfortable with the undeniable proof of discovery in the act. Titus nodded an approval of Zig and Skinny’s action. ‘How far ahead are they?’
‘Two miles. We’ll catch them before they reach the high ground.’
Rain spattered on the face of Titus Sawyer when he asked how many rustlers had taken the herd.
‘Can’t give an exact number,’ Zig told him, ‘but I reckon we’re even matched.’ Skinny Clark agreed.
‘OK,’ said Titus, ‘let’s get our cattle back.’
Rain was now falling heavily, sweeping like a curtain across the open pasture as the wind gusted over the hills ahead. The rustlers needed to be attentive to the cattle that were reluctant to be driven headlong into it, which contributed to the ability of the Red Diamond riders to overtake them almost unobserved. In fact, Carter Ford had dismissed any thought of pursuit after finding and chasing away the two men who had been close to the herd. He was unaware that they were obeying orders when they quit the herd and were not fleeing for their lives.
The drag riders were the first to come under fire, bullets striking them without warning. One fell to the ground like a heavy sack of vegetables. He bounced once then lay still. The other drag man who had twisted to look behind at the sound of the first gunshot fell with one foot caught in a stirrup. His horse bolted and his body bounced and bumped violently as it raced alongside the slow-moving herd.
The Red Diamond riders had split into two groups, one led by Titus Sawyer and the other by his nephew. They rode down the flanks of the herd ready to combat any resistance from the rustlers. It was one of the outlaw outriders who, seeing the body of a fellow gang member being dragged by the runaway horse, became aware of the attack. Drawing his gun he fired two shots at the fast approaching avengers.
Those shots were answered by the guns of the men under Frank’s command. That rustler fell dead and the cracks of gunfire had another effect that aided the attackers. The cattle, which until this moment had been reluctant to move, now reacted in their typical, inbred, nervous manner. They began to run so suddenly and swiftly that the rustlers who had been guiding the way at the head of the herd now found themselves surrounded by cattle. The barging and bellowing critters buffeted, squashed and prodded those men’s horses into panicked flight. Carter Ford allowed his mount its head and it raced clear of the stampeding herd. The other, however, became embroiled in the tumult as, unrestricted, the front cattle tried to veer away from the rain that was lashing their faces while the rear animals, fleeing the sounds of gunfire, rushed hard upon them. In the chaos, the rustler’s horse went down and he was trampled to death beneath the thundering hoofs.
Five rustlers were being chased by Titus Sawyer, Zig Braun, Skinny and two other Red Diamond riders. They chased them for a mile, with shots exchanged and casualties sustained by both parties, but the outcome was never in doubt. Zig Braun took a nick on his hip, which was painful but not lethal. One of the outlaws took a similar slight hit to a shoulder but it proved to be a death sentence for him. When he fell from his horse he was pounced upon by two Red Diamond men and strung up alongside the only other survivor of the chase.
‘All accounted for,’ Titus said with a dreadful tone of satisfaction.
But his nephew didn’t agree. At one point in the running battle he’d glimpsed a figure in a long fringed coat but in the aftermath he hadn’t been counted among the dead. Carter Ford was still abroad, making a run for the hills.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When he’d cut away from the stampede, Carter Ford had found himself close to a knoll atop of which grew an old forked cottonwood. As cattle bellowed and ran wild-eyed across the soft, churning pasture and men strove to kill each other he managed to escape the observation of everyone and climb that knoll. Using the tree for cover he watched the ensuing conflict, saw his men fall under the guns of Titus Sawyer and his crew and knew he was lucky to be alive. As the cowboys prepared to lynch the last of his men he turned away, hoping the oncoming night and persistent rain would deter a prolonged search for survivors. He went down the back side of the knoll that hid him from sight as he crossed the meadow towards the nearest fold between the low Comstocks. Anxious though he was to put distance between himself and the hanging tree, he didn’t ask a great pace from his mount. He moved as gently and quietly as possible in the hope that he wouldn’t alert the cattlemen. He would make his way to the hideout in the hills and meet up with Burt’s crew who would have the cattle they’d run off the Wheel range.
Lynching was a distasteful business for Frank. He knew it was the law of the west, that rustlers knew the penalty if they got caught with another man’s livestock, but he’d spent a lot of time working hand-in-glove with city lawmen, and their respect for trials and judges had rubbed off on him. So he’d gone back along the trail of the stampede hoping to find some sign of the missing leader of the rustler gang. His eyes picked out a trail kicked up by a single horse. It was heading towards a tree-topped knoll, but before he could follow it a lone rider came into view from the direction of Beaver Creek.
When the rider got within hailing distance, Frank called to him. ‘Who saddled that horse?’
‘I did,’ lied Linc Bywater. In fact the cook, who had been ordered to stay behind, had harnessed the animal for him. ‘You said I could ride with you,’ he added defiantly. The effort it had taken for him to ride so far from the Red Diamond showed clearly on his face.
‘It’s all over,’ Frank told him.
They looked in the direction of the group that were three hundred yards distant and could see the bodies swinging from the branch of a tree.
‘What are you doing?’ Linc wanted to know.
‘Guess I’m making sure we’ve got everyone.’
He rode to the top of the knoll, paused and examined the line of hoof prints leading towards the hills, then kicked off in pursuit. Even the limited tracking abilities he possessed were enough to tell him that the man ahead was not moving quickly. The hoof prints were deep; the animal’s weight was settling on the ground longer than if it had been at full gallop. Consequently, he didn’t spare his own horse, eager to catch up to the killer as quickly as possible. Although he assumed that Carter Ford was heading for the cabins in the hill he couldn’t be certain. Perhaps he meant to make a run for the river in the hope that crossing the border would save him from pursuit. Visibility was diminishing; he needed to wipe the rainwater from his eyes.
He had followed the tracks into the fold between the hills, a narrow route that seemed familiar to him. He guessed it was the trail that he and Mustang had used that first morning together. Memory told him that there were no natural turnoffs along this trail. If Carter Ford was heading for the hideout then either he had to cut his own trail over the hills or he had to go through to the river and ride north until he reached the valley that would give him access to the track that led to the hideout in the hills. It was at that moment that the first flash of lightning split the heavily clouded sky, providing a vivid glimpse of what lay ahead. At a bend in the corridor, at walking pace, a horseman could be seen. He was bent forward across his horse’s neck as though using his head to butt his way through the storm. His hat was suffering the full force of the assailing squall, his face turned aside so that he was looking back along the trail he had just ridden. In that brief moment of light they saw each other.
Frank Sawyer loosened the buttons on his heavy, sodden jacket, but by the time he’d pulled his pistol from the holster on his right hip Carter Ford had disappeared from sight. With hands and feet he asked his horse for more effort, spurred it on towards the bend in the trail around which his quarry had disappeared. When he reached it, Ford wasn’t in sight, but the muddy tracks stretched out ahead. The valley had developed a slight slope, one that would eventually bring him down to the riverside. He kicked on, determined that Carter would not escape punishment.
As expected, when he emerged from that narrow trail through the hills, Ford’s tracks turned to the north. At this point he was on an embankment that, here and there, bulged over the river that was roaring and racing more than twenty feet below. The sodden ground had become quagmire soft and Frank’s horse was struggling to lift its feet from the clinging mud. For a moment it almost came to a standstill. Frank yelled encouragement in its ear, knowing the beast wasn’t objecting to the chase but simply floundering in conditions that would be almost impossible to overcome if he had to tackle them afoot.
Suddenly a shot rang out. A lance of flame that cut momentarily through the gloom was accompanied by a jarring impact high on his left shoulder. He was tumbled out of his saddle with such awkwardness that the gun was dislodged from his hand and his horse was brought to its knees. He could hear it crying in distress as he began to slide down the muddy embankment. The pain in his shoulder was less severe than he’d expected from a gunshot wound, similar, in fact, to a strong punch to the shoulder, but even so it restricted the use of his left arm as he tried to put a brake on his descent. Every effort to halt his downward slide succeeded only in filling his hands with mud.
The sound of another gunshot reached him, muffled by the mud that filled his ears. No further damage was inflicted; Frank wasn’t even aware if it had come close to hitting him. For the moment, his every thought, every instinct was dominated by his uncontrollable descent through the cloying mud. If he failed to arrest it he would be carried to a watery death in the raging river. Such a fate didn’t appeal but his frantic struggles were having the reverse effect to what he intended; his plunge to the bottom was gathering momentum.
Then he struck a tree and stopped almost abruptly. The force of the impact was cushioned by the mud and his heavy jacket, otherwise the breath would have been forced out of his body. As it was, his mind was still clear enough to reach out with his right hand and grasp a willowy offshoot at the base of the trunk. Slippery though his hand was, he knew he had to hang onto it if he was to have any chance of survival.
Once again a gunshot cracked. It sounded closer than the others and a lump of bark jumped off the tree behind which Frank sheltered. He raised his head to seek out the location of his enemy. Another shot forced him to lower it again but he’d had time enough to understand the predicament he was in.
In defiance of the weather and conditions, his long fringed coat flapping in the rain-carrying wind, Carter Ford was advancing towards him, rifle in hand, eager to finish off his adversary and get a clear run to safety. He placed his feet carefully, ensuring that he didn’t slip so that he, too, wasn’t sent hurtling down the embankment in an uncontrollable skid. The lack of return fire was assurance enough that his hunter was unarmed and at his mercy. To verify that fact he fired his rifle twice more, each bullet gouging huge chunks out of the tree trunk that was the only barrier between the foes.
Frank waited, barely moving, almost holding his breath. There was mud in his mouth, up his nose and around his eyes but he ignored the irritation they caused. He could do nothing but await his executioner. The next bullet would end his life.
A strange noise reached Frank. It wasn’t loud but the roar of the river diminished every other sound. It was Carter Ford’s yell that prompted Frank to raise his head above the roots of the tree. The noise came from above. It was an ominous, wet, plopping sound that continued until one of the high overhangs broke away from the embankment. A wave of mud slid down the slope, ploughing an unstoppable course to the river below. Carter Ford raised his arms as though commanding it to halt but he had no control over it. One moment he was there and the next he was gone, wiped from the earth as had been the fate of that whole Mandan village years earlier.
A spluttering cough broke from Frank’s mouth. Not only did it help to clear out the mud but it also marked the relief he was experiencing. He’d survived the gun of his foe but his jubilation was only momentary. More mud was beginning to slip from the top of the embankment, this time on a course that was likely to claim him as the next victim. The tree seemed to be his only source of refuge. If he could climb onto one of the lower branches he had a chance of staying clear of the mudslide. Its approach, however, was too quick. It was almost upon him before his body could react to the messages from his brain. It seemed inevitable that he would be swept to his doom.
The voice that called his name might have been dismissed as a delusion of hope if a rope hadn’t snaked through the air to reach him a mere second before his feet were taken from under him. He clung to the rope with his right hand, somehow managed to twist it around the wrist as the vile flow tried to carry him down to the river. He was face down and covered in mud, unable to find the necessary purchase that would enable his feet to push against the slimy tide. Only desperation kept him fighting, lifting his head from the morass in an instinctive search for air, while fearing that his right arm might be pulled out of its socket as the rope by which it was secured provided resistance against the downward pull of the sludge.
Although the ordeal seemed interminable, it did in fact last only a few seconds. The knowledge that he had survived another threat to his life occurred when he eventually realized that most of the movement was not caused by the sweeping hillside mud but by his body being dragged uphill. When it came to a stop, Linc Bywater sank down at his side. The young man removed the rope from Frank’s wrist, the other end of which was tied to his saddle-horn. Exhausted, barely alive, one with a black face and the other deathly white, they knelt side by side in the torrential rain.
Three days later, with the long overdue sun searing Braceville’s main street, Frank entered the town’s new eating place. He’d failed in his promise to be the first customer; it had taken him a couple of days to recover from the battering he’d received on the banks of the big river, but he had no intention of leaving town without first visiting Meg Rouse and Alice. The interior wasn’t spacious and most of the dozen covered tables were occupied, but a place was found for Frank and Mustang, who accompanied him. In fact, Mustang had described the internal fixtures and fittings in such fine detail that nothing in the place was a surprise to Frank. Indeed, he had begun to wonder what future role Mustang intended to fulfil in this place. The greeting the older man received from Meg Rouse more or less convinced Frank that Mustang’s days at the Red Diamond were numbered and that, it seemed, was a sentiment to which Alice, too, adhered. He’d watched her taking orders, carrying trays, pouring coffee and chatting with customers with verve and a smile, but when he spoke to her alone she confessed that the life of a waitress was not for her.
‘I want to dance,’ she told him. ‘Meg is happy to have a settled home but I miss the open road. When things are settled between them,’ she’d indicated Meg and Mustang, ‘I intend to head east. There are big theatres in New York. I know I’m good enough to get a job there.’
