King moaned softly as he stirred from the depths of unconsciousness. He rocked back and forth with the buckboard’s movement as it traversed the rough trail, bumping from one deep rut to the next.
A sudden lurch shot a jolt of pain through his throbbing head. He clutched at it in an attempt to make it stop.
‘How are you feelin’, mister?’ a woman’s soft voice asked.
King fought to open his eyes. On the third attempt managed to get the lids apart, but only fractionally.
A woman’s face, framed with long black hair, swirled in front of him. King was forced to squeeze his eyes shut as he tried to make the swirling stop. He cracked them open again and was able to focus this time, without a feeling of nausea.
‘Where am I?’ King groaned.
‘We’re on the trail from Miller’s Crossing,’ the woman informed him.
Hurriedly King tried to sit up but his head swam once more. He slumped back.
‘Take it easy mister,’ the woman cautioned. ‘ You took a nasty whack on the head.’
‘Where’s Br ...’ he started but caught himself before the gunfighter’s name spilled out. ‘Where’s the man I was with?’
‘He went on into town,’ the driver answered. ‘He sure didn’t want you along with him. Good thing if you ask me. There ain’t nothin’ waitin’ in that town but death.’
This time when King sat up he shook his head to clear it, then demanded:
‘Where’s my horse?’
‘It’s tied to the back of the buckboard,’ the woman explained.
‘Stop the wagon,’ King snapped.
‘What?’ The driver whipped his head around.
‘I said stop the damned wagon!’
The driver eased to a stop. King climbed down and went to where his horse was tied. He unhitched the reins and looked back up at the driver. King still had the Colt Lightning but. . . ?
‘Where’s my rifle?’
‘Your friend took it with him,’ answered the man.
King nodded curtly, then swung stiffly up into the saddle.
‘Where on earth are you goin’, mister?’ the woman asked.
‘Back to town,’ he informed her. He turned the horse about and heeled it into a gallop, back down the trail towards Miller’s Crossing.
The man shook his head in bewilderment.
‘Damned fool!’ he muttered.
Thirty minutes of hard riding returned King to their earlier observation point above the town. This time the scene was different.
The great plume of smoke was no more; instead there was a faint brown smudge against a blue backdrop.
Gone too was the procession of townsfolk who had sought to escape the cruelty of Mike Stall.
When King heard the sound it was faint, so faint in fact that he thought his ears were playing tricks. He strained hard and was able to make out the cracking of distant gunfire. King’s jaw set firm. He knew what it meant and just hoped that he wasn’t too late.
‘Damn it!’ he cursed loudly and drew the Lightning from its holster.
Without no further thought the store owner gave his mount a savage kick and sent it cannoning towards town.
~*~
After he’d crossed the river Brolin paused. Two bodies lay in the street. Both were male, their six-guns lay in the dirt beside them. It looked as though they’d tried to make a fight of it and failed. Their clothing indicated that they were lumbermen. No wonder they had never stood a chance against Stall.
That in itself made Brolin frown. Lumbermen were known to be a breed who spoiled for a fight. They were tough men, so why hadn’t they banded together to stand against Stall and his men? Where were they now? He hadn’t passed them on the way in.
He could only guess they were up in the mountains felling trees.
Brolin eased back the hammer on the Winchester. He grimaced as the dry triple click sounded loud in his ears. He let the buckskin’s reins go and slowly moved forward.
Three horses stood tied to the hitch rail outside the Lumberjack saloon. Without a doubt, that would be where he’d find Stall and his men.
He hoped to have the element of surprise on his side, enabling him to take them all out, but no, alas. As they say, even the best-laid plans can come undone.
‘Hey, mister!’ A woman’s voice broke the silence.
Brolin looked up but continued his pace. A woman leaned through a second-storey window of the Silk Purse and waved frantically to draw his attention. She was young, red-headed and dressed in a pale corset that forced her milky-white breasts to bulge upward.
‘Hey mister!’ she called again. ‘Can you help us?’
A larger blonde woman joined the redhead at the window.
‘Come on, mister,’ she screeched. ‘Get us out of here. Quickly!’
Brolin cursed under his breath; then suddenly, as if on cue, the Lumberjack’s double batwing doors burst open and three men spilled on to the boardwalk, guns drawn.
Stall was first in line; he sighted Brolin as the gunfighter brought the Winchester around to snap a shot off from the hip.
‘Son of a bitch, it’s him!’ the outlaw snarled. ‘It’s Brolin.’
The Winchester’s barrel spat flame and the bullet chewed splinters from the saloon’s awning upright, close to the killer’s head. Stall flinched instinctively and the reflexive action threw off his aim.
The shot flew wide of its mark but close enough for Brolin to feel it pass. He lurched to his left and looked for cover. He found it on the other side of the street.
He dived behind a water-filled trough just as Kansas and Murphy opened up with their six-guns.
Their bullets hammered into the trough and gouged out wooden splinters. The wicked slivers scythed dangerously through the air above Brolin. More shots dug into the damp earth beside the trough and others burned the air above it.
The Winchester whiplashed as Brolin snapped off a shot at the exposed Murphy. The slug missed and shattered the saloon’s large window behind him.
Brolin dropped back behind cover as an even more ferocious storm of lead assailed his position.
Though he was behind cover Brolin felt too exposed. If he stayed where he was the outlaws would flank him and cut him down.
Stall had been thinking along those very lines. When Brolin came back up to fire again, he caught a glimpse of Kansas moving left.
Brolin fired twice at the fast-moving outlaw but the shots only kicked up dirt at the outlaw’s heels. Brolin dropped back down as more shots from Stall and Murphy came at him.
Damn it! He had to move now. He looked about from his current place of refuge and tried to figure out his best escape route. The buildings behind him were no good. They were more than likely locked, and would only serve to trap him for the outlaws. The only other viable option seemed to be the river.
About a hundred feet separated him from the embankment that fell away to the raging torrent of white water below.
Now or never.
Brolin got to his feet and launched himself on his run. He’d covered no more than a few yards when a hail of bullets forced him to retreat.
Brolin dived back behind the trough, glad to be still in one piece.
‘Goin’ somewhere, Brolin?’ shouted Stall gleefully from across the street.
The gunfighter remained silent. He had more pressing problems than becoming engaged in a yelling match with Stall.
He looked down at the Winchester and guessed there were only a few shots left in the magazine. He’d fire them, then run before they could flank him.
Brolin took a couple of deep breaths. He was about to fire when a drumming of hoofbeats hammered out on the bridge’s boards.
He swung his head and saw, of all people, King, riding hell for leather towards him and waving his double-action Lightning.
As the horse thundered off the bridge King started to fire wildly. No shots found a mark, but they had the desired effect of keeping the outlaws’ heads down.
‘Damn fool!’ Brolin cursed loudly.
The gunfighter took advantage of the cover-fire distraction and ran full tilt towards the river.
Keeping his head down, pumping his legs furiously, it still took Brolin what seemed to him like an eternity to cover the open ground.
Meanwhile, gunfire still echoed from the false-fronts that lined the street.
The drop-off loomed large in front of him when the sudden high-pitched shriek of King’s horse brought him to a sliding stop. A mixture of anger and helplessness flooded through Brolin as he saw the bay down on its side and King struggling to free his trapped leg.
The Colt Lightning had spilled from his grasp and now lay out of reach, leaving him vulnerable.
Through his struggles, he looked towards Brolin and their eyes met. The store owner ceased his fight to free himself.
‘Go!’ he screamed. ‘Get away.’
Brolin paused, then took a tentative step towards the trapped King.
The outlaws turned their attention back to Brolin and opened fire.
A bullet clipped his coat; another gouged a bloody furrow in his left shoulder, knocking him off balance. Down on one knee, he glanced again at King.
‘Go!’ King yelled again.
Another slug snapped close to Brolin’s head and his survival instinct kicked in. He pushed his concerns about King aside and lunged backward over the steep embankment. He hit the slope and slid down into the Standish River’s raging waters.
The moment he splashed into the fast-flowing river a bone-chilling coldness took his breath away as though he had been punched in the stomach.
Brolin opened his mouth and gasped for air. Instead, freezing mud-filled water flooded his throat and caused him choke and splutter. He fought hard to keep his head above the turbulent torrent but the strong undercurrent dragged him down.
The powerful flow carried Brolin swiftly along the rock-strewn watercourse. He let the Winchester go so that he could put all of his strength into surviving this ancient battle of man versus nature’s fury.
His lungs burned in their quest for air as he was sucked below the surface once more. He intensified his efforts, hands the water as he reached out and pulled back in an attempt at a crawl.
Just when Brolin thought he was winning fate dealt a hefty blow in the form of a large lump of granite.
A boulder sat proudly above the surface, powerful currents eddying about it. It was an immovable object, battered and worn down over thousands of years.
Brolin was hurled brutally against it. His head connected solidly and stars flashed before his eyes. Stunned, he lost all of the fight he’d displayed earlier. Now he was helpless; the unforgiving current sucked him below the foaming white water and out of sight.