Kris Lubbock had caught movement at the cabin’s single window. As he turned he saw the metal can resting on the bottom of the frame, oil pouring from it and splashing to the floor, the pool spreading quickly.
‘We got trouble,’ he yelled.
His warning alerted the others and they all turned and saw the threat as the oil can dropped inside, still gushing oil. Before they could fully react a burning, smoking torch was dropped inside the cabin. It hit the floor, the flames wavering for a few seconds before the rising vapor from the spilled oil ignited and a mass of flame erupted, reaching to the roof timbers and expanding across the pool. The sudden heat was enough to make them pull back.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Gallman said. ‘We got to get out.’
Smoke from the blaze was growing and they could taste it each time they took a breath.
‘Fire’s covering the window and the damn door,’ Dawson said. ‘Jesus, we’ll burn up. ‘
‘I ain’t stayin’ in here to do that,’ Wilkerson said. He snatched up his rifle. ‘No damn way.’
He took a reckless, headlong run for the window, ignoring the burning oil. His sudden move took him through the flames and out the window as he launched himself forward. It was a desperate move that paid off as Wilkerson cleared the window and hit the ground outside, slamming his head against the solid ground. He landed hard, losing his grip on his rifle as he rolled to smother the flames eating at his lower legs and boots. He twisted back and forth, scooping up dirt to smother the flames, aware that blood was streaming down the side of his face where he had opened a gash on hitting the ground.
As he pushed to his knees, reaching for the holstered pistol at his side, he saw a tall figure heading for the cover of the thicket by the water hole. Wilkerson stumbled upright, his Colt leveling. He fired a hasty shot, knew he’d missed, but his anger drove him forward to fire again. This time he saw the figure pause, turn, the rifle he was holding coming up to fire.
~*~
Bodie felt the slug’s passing. He hauled himself to a stop and brought the Winchester into play. He had a quick glimpse of a disheveled, bloody-faced and smoke-stained figure, flame and smoke drifting off his scorched pants. The man was hatless, face streaked with dirt, but recognizable as Lang Wilkerson.
‘Bastard,’ Wilkerson screamed in his rage.
He centered his Colt and fired. The slug plucked at Bodie’s sleeve.
The man hunter’s rifle spoke as Bodie put two .44-40 Winchester slugs into Wilkerson’s body. They ripped in, tearing at flesh and organs, and Wilkerson gave a harsh grunt, toppling to one side. He lay on one side, still gripping the pistol and Bodie took careful aim and put a third shot into the man’s head. Wilkerson’s skull split apart and mushroomed blood and brain matter.
Bodie heard a splintering crash and saw the cabin door smashed apart. Figures spilling out into the open from the flame and smoke billowing out…
~*~
…as Wilkerson took his dive through the window, Lew Gallman had turned about and directed his two partners to one of the heavy wood benches next to the table. They grabbed it and held it between them, taking a run through the fire and smashed it against the cabin door. The force and the solid weight of the bench had the effect they were hoping for. The wood split, the door driven from its hinges.
Gallman, Lubbock and Dawson kept moving, beating at the flames as they emerged from the cabin.
Gallman and Lubbock clawed at the guns they wore, searching for a target, and caught a fleeting glance of Bodie as he crashed through the thicket and trees.
Jake Dawson fell face down, his clothing soaking up the oil. As he struggled upright, his beard and clothes alight and his spectacles lost, he stumbled forward. A shrill cry burst from his burnt lips as he struggled to put out the flames. He could feel the flesh of his face and hands scorching. Without his spectacles he was unable to see clearly and in his panic turned half-around and slammed into the door frame. His nose was crushed under the impact and blood streamed down his face. Dawson threw up his hands to his damaged nose, falling back and losing his balance again. He fell inside the open doorway, landing on his back and was engulfed in fire. Losing control he thrashed about and simply made things worse as the burning oil ate through his clothing and devoured him. The sound of his screaming carried across the basin…
~*~
…slugs tore at the brush, ripped slivers of wood from the trees. Bodie threw himself forward, ignoring the pull and scratch of the vegetation. The cover provided was scant and he realized it was the best protection he was about to get.
He felt the solid thump as something struck his left thigh. No pain at first—that came later—but he did feel the wet rush of blood and knew he’d taken a hit. He braced himself as his leg weakened and he fell, slamming to the ground with some considerable force, the rifle bouncing from his grasp. He sucked in a harsh breath and forced himself to reach behind for the Colt in his belt. Knowing what was coming Bodie hauled out his holstered Colt as well, twisting over onto his back as he heard the noise of Gallman and Lubbock pushing into the thicket.
Twelve damn shots, he told himself. If you can’t put them down with twelve shots it’s time you quit the job.
Through the tangle of brush he made out a moving figure. Close, but not close enough.
Come on, you sonofabitch.
Bodie wanted to see the whites of the man’s eyes.
Both pistols had their hammers back and Bodie’s fingers on the triggers as he brought them both up.
The looming figure stepped briefly into view, clear against the backdrop of the open sky. His searching eyes rested briefly on Bodie’s face.
Saw the raised pistols and his mouth dropped open in shock because he knew he was staring death in the face…
Bodie stared back, recognition in his eyes as he saw Lew Gallman.
Then he pulled both triggers. Felt the guns kick back against his grip as they spat out flame and smoke.
Gallman’s face vanished, leaving behind torn flesh and shattered bone, then a wash of blood as he fell back without uttering a sound. A pulpy, ragged bulge formed on the back of his skull. He hit the ground and his body curled in a reflexive action as he died.
The moment he fired Bodie twisted and caught a fragment of movement nearby. He lurched to his feet, bracing himself against a tree and faced the surviving figure as Kris Lubbock moved into view, his pistol sweeping back and forth as he searched for Bodie.
Their eyes locked briefly, each recognizing their adversary.
‘I should have known,’ Lubbock said. ‘Couldn’t have been anyone else but you, Bodie. Ain’t no other man could have stayed on Gallman’s trail for so damn long…’
His gun leveled, finger already easing back on the trigger.
Bodie leaned forward and Lubbock had to alter his aim, yet he was only a fraction behind when the crash of his shot merged with the response from Bodie who triggered both his Colts repeatedly, the rolling thunder of his fire rolling out across the basin and echoing off the high walls of the escarpment, even as he felt the impact of a slug from Lubbock’s gun.
Kris Lubbock was rocked back by the multiple shots that slammed .45 caliber slugs into him. Blood was welling from the multiple holes in his chest as he went down, a long, shuddering final breath escaping from his body as he lay there. And died there.
Bodie saw Lubbock fall as he was hit himself. The pain in his thigh had become less as it was overtaken by the stronger one from the slug that had embedded itself in his side, cracking at least two ribs. The ragged furrow it made sent blood soaking through his shirt, all the way down to his pants. Dazed he slumped back, half sitting as he stared around him, half expecting another challenge until he realized he was the only one still alive.
Bodie realized he could hear his own breath because it had become so quiet after the gunfire. He could smell the drift of powder smoke. He felt suddenly very tired and let himself slide down to the ground. Warm sunlight filtered through the foliage. The air was cool and the mountain breeze stirred the greenery around him. He lowered the guns he was still holding in his hands.
There was a sudden crackle of small explosions coming from the cabin. That would be from ammunition overheating in the fire. He noticed too, that Dawson had stopped screaming.
Right them Bodie wasn’t too concerned. He knew he should move. Do something about the wounds he’d received. But right then he was unable to raise the energy to it. He was feeling comfortable. Warm. And the day around him was slipping away…Bodie felt his eyes closing…didn’t have the strength to resist. It felt good where he was, so he decided he would simply rest for a while…just for a while…