Brolin spat on the ground as he surveyed the scene before him. He’d seen a lot of death in his time but you never got used to it. Especially on a scale like this.
The bodies were scattered around the camp, left where they had fallen. Off to the side, King dry-heaved once more; all of his stomach contents were long gone. He straightened up and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
‘How can you just stand there and be unmoved by all of this?’
‘Men deal with death in different ways,’ Brolin told him as he looked down at the body of Blaine. He had a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead and another in his chest.
A low moan off to his left caught his attention and he turned swiftly, gun in hand. Carefully he edged forward and found the source of the noise. The sheriff was still alive. Somehow the outlaws had missed him when they left, Brolin thought.
‘Over here,’ he called to King; he knelt down beside the wounded man.
Brolin eased him over gently and looked at the man’s wounds. The one in his side showed a small entry wound; nearby was a larger exit wound. The second wound troubled Brolin more than the first.
The sheriff was gut shot and was dying a slow, painful death. Brolin moved the man’s shirt aside to take a better look; a hoarse whisper stopped him.
‘Don’t bother, stranger, I’m done for.’
King crouched beside Brolin. ‘What can we do?’
The gunfighter looked at him and gave a gentle shake of his head.
‘Surely there must be somethin’,’ King insisted.
‘Don’t worry yourself none,’ the lawman said quietly. ‘He knows there ain’t nothin’ can be done. Not for a wound like this.’
‘When did they hit you?’ asked Brolin.
‘Sometime after midnight,’ the dying lawman said. ‘I don’t know how they crept up on us. We had nighthawks out.’
‘How many?’
‘Two.’
Brolin nodded. ‘I found ’em. Both men had their throats cut.’
Dawson showed no surprise.
‘This trail we’re on,’ Brolin said, ‘where does it go?’
‘About forty miles north of here is a small town,’ Dawson explained. ‘It’s called Miller’s Crossing. It’s on the Standish River.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ Brolin allowed.
A wave of pain swept through the lawman; he shuddered violently, then settled once more.
‘I know the sheriff there,’ Dawson said. ‘He’s a good man, but he’s no match for these guys on his own.’
‘Is there another trail Stall and his men could take?’
Dawson looked surprised. ‘No. Is that who it was?’
‘Yeah.’
Brolin went on to tell him briefly about the train.
‘Son of a bitch,’ the lawman cursed weakly.
Another, stronger wave of pain coursed through Dawson.
‘Mother of God!’ he cried out. ‘It hurts.’
When the spasm had passed he lay there gasping. Then he gathered himself and looked Brolin in the eye.
‘I need you to make the pain stop.’
The gunfighter nodded. ‘OK.’
‘How are you goin’ to do that?’ asked King.
Brolin looked at him.
‘Go and find some branches so we can light a fire,’ he said.
‘But--’
‘Go!’ Brolin snapped.
King turned and walked off into the trees to find what he needed.
‘Greenhorn?’ asked Dawson with a faint smile.
‘Yeah, and then some. His little boy was killed by the outlaws.’
‘Bad business.’
Brolin nodded. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Nope, can’t say as I am. Mind tellin’ me your name?’
‘Brolin.’
Recognition sparked in the lawman’s eyes.
‘You’re supposed to be dead.’
‘Tell me about it. I will promise you this, though, Sheriff. I’ll kill every last one of them damn murderers before I’m through.’
‘One more thing: there’s Blackfeet about. A band of ’em jumped the reservation over at Fort Shaw. We got word in town a couple of days ago.’
Brolin nodded. ‘Thanks. You got anyone?’
‘Nope, just me. But if you could get word to Lazy River I’d appreciate it.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Brolin assured him.
When King heard the gunshot he came running out from the trees, his Colt Lightning drawn and ready to shoot. He stopped short when he saw Brolin standing over the sheriff’s body, gun in hand and a small wisp of blue-grey gunsmoke drifting from the barrel.
‘What did you do?’ he shouted.
Brolin didn’t look up.
‘I did what he asked me to do.’
‘Why?’ the store owner gasped out. ‘What they said about you is true. You’re nothin’ but a killer.’
The gunfighter whirled about to face King, his eyes blazing.
‘If you ever call me that again I’ll leave you out here on your own. The man was dyin’ and he was hurtin’ more than he could stand. So he asked me to end it for him. Nothin’ could be done for him. He could die slow or quick. He chose quick.’
King’s face had paled under the verbal barrage. His eyes dropped to the shaking Remington, which was pointed in his direction.
Brolin followed his gaze and realized what he was looking at.
He holstered the six-gun, turned away and walked off a distance, stopping when he reached the Beaver pond. He reached inside a pocket and took out a small picture. He stood in silence for a few minutes, looking at it.
King swallowed, then asked:
‘What are you lookin’ at?’
The gunfighter stuffed the picture back into his pocket and looked up at a ridgeline on the far side of the valley.
‘Nothin’,’ he said in dismissal of the question.
King could tell enough from the man’s tone not to press the matter. Instead, he asked:
‘What are we goin’ to do with all these bodies? Are we goin’ to put them over the horses and take ’em with us, or what?’
‘Leave ’em there,’ Brolin ordered.
‘We can’t just leave ’em for the wolves and bears or God knows what else,’ King protested.
‘I said leave ’em.’
‘Why?’
Brolin sighed angrily; he didn’t turn his eyes away from the far ridge.
‘All right, listen up,’ he snapped, impatience evident in his tone. ‘You see the ridge yonder?’
King moved to stand beside him. ‘Yes. What about it?’
‘Atop the ridge there’s a big spruce tree, standin’ all on its own. Do you see it?’
‘Yes.’
‘To the right of it there is a large rock formation and just below that you’ll see ’em.’
‘See wha … yes, I see ’em.’
Brolin guessed there were fifteen Indians or perhaps a few more. They were sitting, watching. He surmised that they were the Blackfeet warriors who’d jumped the reservation, about whom the sheriff had told him. If that was who they were it would mean trouble.
Brolin glanced up at the sun and judged there would be a few more hours before sunset.
‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
The two men turned and walked at a brisk pace towards where the horses were quietly cropping grass. Brolin guessed that the Indians would be coming down off the ridge about now, and making a beeline for the camp.
‘Leave the posse horses,’ the gunfighter ordered. ‘With any luck they’ll be satisfied with them.’
‘And if not?’
‘Then pray we can stay ahead of them until the sun goes down and we can give ’em the slip.’
~*~
As fate would have it, everything changed an hour later.
‘We’ll have to make a stand!’ Brolin yelled amid the thunder of horses’ hoofs. ‘If we keep drivin’ the horses like this we’ll kill ’em.’
When they’d hit the incline up to the ridge their mounts had begun to labor noticeably. The trail climbed steeply ahead, switching back on itself many times as it cut a path through the pines.
Off to his right Brolin saw a steep rock face with a large deadfall at its base. A little to the left was a massive boulder, which would provide adequate cover for the tired mounts.
‘This way,’ the gunfighter shouted. He guided the buckskin off the trail.
King followed and they ducked beneath low-hung branches of trees until they reached their destination. Brolin tethered the horses behind the boulder, then dug out the spare ammunition from the saddlebags. He removed the Sharps from the saddle boot.
‘Grab your Winchester and canteen,’ he ordered King, ‘and follow me.’
King did as he was told without question and followed Brolin to where he crouched behind a tree. At least with the cliff at their back they would be safe from that direction.
Brolin watched as the Blackfeet warriors came along the trail through the meadow’s open expanse. He’d been right, there were fifteen of them. He set out five .45-caliber cartridges for the rifle within easy reach and left the open box next to them. He took a box of .44s for the Winchester and tossed them to King.
‘You’ll be needin’ them.’
‘Do we have a chance?’ the store owner asked nervously.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Brolin assured him. ‘Take your time and try to hit what you aim at.’
As the Indians came on the two men had a reasonably clear field of fire from their vantage point.
Brolin looked at the sun. There was still around an hour before it sank behind the highest snow-clad peaks. If they could hold out until dark they might be able to slip away.
He turned his attention back to the Blackfeet, who urged their horses on. His brow furrowed and he looked down at the Sharps, which was lying across the fallen tree in front of him.
‘King, start shootin’.’
‘Aren’t they still a bit far away?’ King questioned. ‘I don’t think I could hit anythin’ at this distance.’
‘I don’t want you to,’ Brolin explained. ‘I just want you to make ’em stop and think. Two shots are all you need to fire.’
While King lined up for his first shot Brolin fed a .45-caliber cartridge into the single-shot Sharps. He too lined up on the fast-approaching group.
‘Do it.’ Brolin spoke calmly.
The Winchester barked and the shot fell short but the rifle’s roar had the desired effect and the Indians stopped.
All of them were armed. Some had Spencers, some Winchesters and a couple had newer-model Springfields.
‘Again.’
King worked the lever and fired his second shot. It too fell short but the confused Blackfeet warriors remained where they were.
Brolin sighted the Sharps on the foremost rider, took a deep breath, then expelled it slowly. His finger took up the slack on the trigger.
The Sharps slammed back against his shoulder; its deep, throaty roar echoed along the surrounding ridges. The Blackfeet warrior was thrust bodily from the back of his magnificent buffalo horse and blown backwards over its rump.
There came a cry of confusion as the warriors looked down at the half-naked Indian with the fist-sized crater in his back.
Brolin swiftly opened the loading-gate with the lever and extracted the spent brass cartridge. He replaced it with a fresh round and closed the breech.
He took a bead on the next painted warrior and fired. Through the cloud of blue-grey gun-smoke that belched from the Sharps’ octagonal barrel Brolin saw the warrior throw up his arms and fall to the ground.
This time, however, the Indians overcame the shock of what had happened and were spurred into action. They didn’t flee, as Brolin had hoped. Instead they set their mounts in a dead run for the ridge.
‘Let ’em have it, King.’
The store owner sighted down the ridge and started firing at the oncoming Blackfeet warriors.
As King laid down fire with the Winchester Brolin reloaded and fired once more. This time the heavy-caliber bullet smashed into the leading horse’s head , killing it in mid-stride. It went down on its nose, tossing the rider forward. The warrior landed head first and his neck broke with an audible crack.
Once more the gunfighter reloaded and sighted; when the Sharps bucked again another Indian went down.
Now the Blackfeet were within range of King’s Winchester. With his next aim he hit a target. A Blackfeet warrior cried out in pain and leaned to the right, pressing his hand on his side.
The Sharps boomed again. Brolin cursed. The wounded man’s horse had shied into the path of the gunfighter’s next target. The warrior hauled away to his left just as the Sharps had discharged its lethal load. The shot flew harmlessly past, three feet wide.
At last they reached the ridge’s base. They leaped from their horses, ran into the trees and found shelter from the gunfire amongst the rocks and large pines.
‘What happens now?’ King asked.
Brolin’s face took on a grim expression. ‘Now things get interesting.’
~*~
Kansas hauled back on the reins of his dun horse and stopped in the middle of the trail. Stall pulled back on his reins, Murphy did the same.
‘What the hell are you stoppin’ for?’ Stall snapped impatiently.
Kansas looked at him, puzzled.
‘Did you hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
On cue, the sound reached their ears. It was faint, but it was unmistakable.
‘Did you hear it that time?’
Stall nodded. ‘Sharps.’
‘That’s what I figured,’ Kansas confirmed.
A period of silence ended when the gunfire started again. Now there was more than just the Sharps to be heard. The faint popping of many shots drifted to them on the wind.
‘Someone sure is havin’ themselves a whole mess of trouble,’ Murphy observed. ‘What do you think’s happenin’?’
‘Who knows?’. Stall shrugged. ‘One thing is for certain though. I plan on puttin’ a lot more territory between us and whatever it is before dark. Come on. Let’s go.’