CHAPTER 9
Madigan swung out to the left so he’d have a clear line of fire past Smoke as he opened up on the outlaws, too. He had only one gun, so he triggered at a slower, more deliberate pace so as not to waste bullets.
It wasn’t likely the outlaws would give either of them a chance to reload if they ran dry.
The tide of lead from Smoke’s guns washed through the gang. One man threw his arms in the air and pitched from the saddle, falling and rolling over in a welter of dust, only to come to a stop in the limp sprawl that signified death.
Another outlaw jerked in the saddle, clearly hit, and grabbed for the horn to keep from toppling off. He managed to stay mounted and even raised his gun to throw more lead at Smoke and Madigan.
Smoke saw one of the outlaws double over and knew that a slug from Madigan’s gun had found its target. Then, an instant later, the gap between the two rapidly moving groups had closed, and Smoke and Madigan tore through the gang. The mixture of dust and powder smoke that filled the air stung Smoke’s eyes and nose as he fired left and right at dimly seen shapes. Bullets buzzed around his head like angry hornets. Men cursed and cried out in pain.
A fiery finger drew a line of pain along Smoke’s left forearm. He knew a slug had burned his arm, ripping the sleeve of his butternut shirt but not breaking the skin. It stung, but not enough to keep him from putting the pain out of his mind easily. As a man loomed on his right, yelling obscenities through the bandanna that was tied over the lower half of his face to conceal his features, Smoke swung the right-hand Colt in that direction and triggered again.
The bandanna jerked as the bullet tore through it, entered the yelling mouth, clipped the spinal cord, and burst out the back of the outlaw’s neck. The man flopped off the horse like a puppet with its strings cut.
To Smoke’s left, a horse screamed in pain.
Smoke wheeled in that direction, saw Marshal Madigan’s roan rear up on its hind legs in agony from the shot that had mortally wounded it. Then the roan toppled to the side. Madigan tried to leap clear, but the roan came down on his left leg, pinning him to the ground.
On Madigan’s other side, two of the would-be stagecoach robbers were still mounted. Madigan had dropped his gun when his horse went down. Smoke spotted the revolver lying on the ground about ten feet from the lawman, but with that horse’s carcass lying on Madigan’s leg, the gun might as well have been a hundred miles away.
The outlaws spurred toward the fallen marshal and raised their guns.
Smoke jerked his Colts up and triggered them, but the hammers fell on empty chambers. He’d run dry, and there was no time to reload.
“Marshal, keep your head down!” he shouted at Madigan.
The lawman couldn’t know exactly what Smoke had in mind. To tell the truth, Smoke wasn’t all that sure himself. But he had to do something or Madigan was a dead man. Smoke kicked the black stallion into a run.
Drifter didn’t have much room to build up speed, but as they reached Madigan’s sprawled horse, Smoke lifted the black stallion into a jump anyway. Madigan ducked his head and flattened himself as much as possible as Drifter sailed over him.
Drifter actually cleared the obstacle easily and landed running smoothly. Smoke pulled him to the left, into a collision course with the outlaw on that side, while he left the saddle in a diving tackle aimed at the owlhoot on the right.
As Smoke flew through the air, he heard the other outlaw yell in surprise and alarm. Trying to avoid crashing into Drifter had caused him to veer away from Madigan, for the moment anyway.
The next split-second, Smoke slammed into the second outlaw, driving him out of the saddle. Both men landed hard on the ground. The impact was enough to jolt them apart and also knock the air out of Smoke’s lungs. He gasped for breath as he rolled over.
As he came up on his left hand and right knee, he saw the man he had tackled scrambling up, too. The man had lost his gun, but he jerked a knife from a sheath at his waist as he lunged at Smoke.
Smoke met the attack by flinging up his left hand and grabbing the man’s right wrist as the blade flashed down at him. Smoke’s powerful arm and shoulder muscles stopped the potential death-stroke in midair.
At the same time, he drove with his feet and legs and rammed his right shoulder into the man’s chest, knocking him back. As they both came upright, Smoke continued holding off the knife while he shot his right hand to the outlaw’s throat and clamped his fingers around it. The man caught hold of Smoke’s wrist and tried to pry the hand away from his throat.
They swayed there like that, pitting strength against strength, for long moments. Blood roared in Smoke’s ears and hammered in his head, but over that racket he heard guns blasting somewhere else. He halfway expected to feel the life-ending smash of lead into his body, but nothing like that happened.
Instead, the outlaw managed to thrust a foot between Smoke’s ankles and barreled forward into him. It was an unexpected move and caused Smoke to go over backward.
As he fell, Smoke jerked his right knee up as far as he could and then planted that foot in the man’s midsection. He straightened the leg and heaved with the hand that still gripped the outlaw’s throat. The man went up and over and, as Smoke let go of him, flipped over completely in the air before crashing down on his back.
Smoke whirled around, saw that the man still held the knife, and dived after him. Both hands locked around the outlaw’s wrist, twisting it and forcing it down. The man cried out in shock and pain as the blade went into his chest. He jerked and kicked, and his eyes were so wide they seemed about to pop out of their sockets. Smoke shoved harder. The life went out of those bulging eyes as the knife’s point reached the outlaw’s heart and pierced it.
Since the guns had fallen silent, Smoke let another moment pass just to make sure the man was dead. Then he let go and pushed himself to his feet, turning to possibly meet a bullet if the other outlaw had survived.
Instead, he saw five more bodies scattered around the road where the battle had taken place.
“Blast it, West, come and give me a hand! Feels like my damn leg might be broke.”
That shouted order came from Marshal Jonas Madigan, who still lay trapped under the carcass of his roan. Madigan was not only still alive, but he had the Henry rifle in his hands. He must have been able to reach it in the saddle boot, Smoke realized, and had finished off the rest of the gang while Smoke was busy with the last one he had killed.
Quickly, Smoke looked around and found his own guns where he had dropped them. Habit told him to check them and reload them before he did anything else, but Madigan might be badly hurt, he reminded himself. He slid one Colt into leather and tucked away the other one.
“You say your leg’s broken, Marshal?” he asked as he hurried over to Madigan.
“Said it might be. I don’t really know. Can’t feel much of anything except this horse layin’ on top of me.” Madigan’s voice softened as he added, “Damn it, Blue, why’d you have to go and get in the way of a bullet?”
“I’m sorry,” Smoke said. “It always hurts to lose a good horse. But we need to get him off of you.”
“Yeah. Go ahead and do whatever you have to do. I’ll keep an eye on those thieving buzzards. I’m pretty sure they’re all dead, but men have made mistakes like that before and paid dearly for it.”
Smoke whistled for Drifter. The black stallion trotted up. Smoke had a good strong lariat coiled and lashed to the saddle. He took it loose, tied one end around the horn on Drifter’s saddle, then fastened the other end to the horn on the roan’s saddle. He led Drifter away until the rope went taut, then urged the black stallion on a few more steps.
After telling Drifter to stay where he was, Smoke hurried back to Madigan’s side and bent to catch hold of the marshal under the arms. The rope was taking enough of the roan’s weight off the trapped leg that Smoke was able to drag Madigan free. He was glad to see that there wasn’t any blood on the lawman’s trouser leg.
That didn’t mean the leg wasn’t broken, just that there weren’t any jagged bones protruding through the flesh. Smoke helped Madigan sit up.
“What do you think?”
Madigan tried to move the leg and winced. He felt around on it and made a face again. But he said, “Get me up on my feet. That’s the only sure test.”
Smoke locked his arms around Madigan’s chest from behind and lifted him. Carefully, Madigan let his weight come down on his legs. Smoke stepped back but was ready to grab the marshal if he started to collapse.
“It ain’t broke,” Madigan announced after a moment. “Just bruised and twisted a mite.” He took a couple of tentative steps, planting the Henry’s butt on the ground to help support himself. “Hurts, but I can walk on it.”
“You’re a lucky man,” Smoke said. “It could’ve been a lot worse.”
“Yeah, I reckon I’m lucky to be alive.” Madigan looked at Smoke. “Thanks to that damn fool stunt you pulled, jumping your black over me like that and tackling those last two owlhoots.”
“Actually, I just tackled one of them,” Smoke pointed out. “Appears you got your hands on that Henry and shot the other one.”
“Yeah, and the ones that were wounded but still had some fight in them, too. But that pair charging me would’ve filled me with lead before I could have done anything, if it wasn’t for you, West.”
Smoke shrugged. “Does that mean you’re not going to arrest me after all, Marshal?”
“Just because I owe you my life? What the hell kind of lawman would I be if I let that affect the way I do my duty?” He swung the Henry up. “I know those guns of yours are empty, so I’ll let you keep ’em for now. Gather up those owlhoots’ horses and throw the bodies over the saddles. One of ’em will have to carry double, because I’ll be riding one.”
Smoke looked at Madigan for a moment, then said, “You know, Marshal, somehow I’m not the least bit surprised.”
* * *
They climbed out of the valley, leading the horses with dead outlaws draped over the saddles and lashed in place. As they rode, Madigan asked, “What made you start ridin’ the dark trails, West?”
“You ask that question of all the men you arrest, Marshal?”
Madigan snorted. “Hardly any, as a matter of fact. Most of the men I bring in are just plumb no good, and they’ve been that way most of their lives. They’re too greedy, or too stupid, or just too plain vicious to do anything except become outlaws. A lot of ’em are all three of those things.” Madigan glanced over at Smoke. “Thing of it is, you don’t seem to fit any of those categories. I don’t think I’ve ever run across a wanted man who would do what you did today.”
“Helping you out, you mean?”
“It’s not just because I came along. You were gonna try to stop that stagecoach robbery all on your own, before you knew I was anywhere around. At least, that’s what you told me, and danged if I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t have any use for thieves,” Smoke said.
“But you’re wanted for robbery, as well as murder.”
Smoke shook his head. “That part’s a lie. I’ve never stolen anything. As for murder, I’ve killed, but like I said earlier, not anybody who didn’t have it coming. It’s just that I have enemies, men who want me dead and don’t mind using the law to try to accomplish that.”
“What did these so-called enemies do to you?”
“To me?” Smoke said. “Nothing. But back during the war, they double-crossed my brother . . . and the Confederacy . . . and killed him. Then, after the war, my pa and I came out here to look for them.”
“To settle the score.” Madigan’s words weren’t a question.
“That’s right. But they killed my father, too, and then later . . .” Smoke had to stop and draw a deep breath to settle the emotions inside him before going on, “Later, they were responsible for the deaths of my wife and our baby son. The only men I’ve killed, other than Indians who attacked us, were gun-wolves working for that bunch.”
Madigan let out a low whistle. He studied Smoke intently for a moment, then said, “I’ve heard about a fella who ran into some trouble just like that, but his name wasn’t Buck West. There are wanted posters out on him, too.”
“All lies,” Smoke said curtly.
“Maybe so, but the law’s still the law. But it sounds like somebody ought to do some looking into your case, West . . . and that other fella’s, too . . . and try to find out what justice really is.”
“Maybe that’ll happen, Marshal . . . one of these days.”
A short time after they entered the hills, they came to a way station. The stagecoach wasn’t there, having already changed teams and moved on. But as Smoke and Madigan drew rein in front of the squat, log building, they heard an unusual sound coming through the open door.
The wailing cry of a baby.
“What in tarnation?” Madigan muttered.
A short, wiry man with a gray brush of a mustache emerged from the building. He lifted a hand in greeting and said, “Howdy, Marshal. Thought I heard somebody out here.” He leaned to the side to gaze past the two riders at the other horses with their grim burdens. “Looks like you been busy. Would that happen to be the varmints who tried to hold up the stage?”
“It would,” Madigan answered. “Did the coach make it here all right?”
“It did. And just in time, too.” The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the building, where the crying continued. “Man and his wife were on board, and the lady was just about to, uh, be delivered of a young’un. Seems all the joltin’ and jouncin’ around in the coach must’ve got the festivities started a mite early.”
Madigan frowned. “You had a baby born here?”
“I sure did. My wife delivered it. Whole thing went off slicker’n water off a duck’s back, if you don’t count the young fella who’s the father almost faintin’ a time or two. But it’s all taken care of now. Mother and child appear to be healthy. They’re gonna stay here until the next westbound comes through, on account of my wife says the lady hadn’t ought to be travelin’ so soon.”
“Well, Lord have mercy,” Madigan said. “A baby.” He frowned. “But that don’t change what we’ve got to do. You got a couple of shovels, Schofield?”
“You know I do,” the station man said. “You gonna plant those owlhoots?”
“Unless you want to keep ’em like daisies.”
“Whoo-ee! No, sir. Shovels are in the barn. You and your deputy help yourselves, Marshal.”
Madigan glanced at Smoke, then nodded and said, “Obliged.”
While they were digging graves a couple of hundred yards from the station, Smoke said, “I notice you didn’t correct that hombre when he assumed I was your deputy, Marshal.”
“It’s none of Schofield’s business who you are,” Madigan snapped. The shovel in his hands bit into the earth. He tossed the dirt aside, then leaned on the shovel and regarded Smoke solemnly.
“You didn’t just save my life,” he went on. “You helped save the lives of that driver and guard, and a man and his wife and their baby. There’s a good chance that bunch would’ve killed ’em all.”
“Could’ve happened that way,” Smoke allowed.
Madigan drew a deep breath, frowned in thought, and said, “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna finish puttin’ these no-good skunks in the ground, and then I figure on going in the station and paying my respects to the lady and her new little one. While I’m doing that, you can tend to the horses.”
“You think so?” Smoke said.
“I know so. You should pay special attention to that black of yours, and maybe one of the horses those owlhoots were ridin’. Pick out the best of the bunch.”
“And what should I do with those two horses?”
“Whatever you think is best,” Madigan said. “And here’s one more thing. Anybody who wants to get word to me can write to the chief marshal’s office in Denver. I like to get letters, too.”
“All right,” Smoke said slowly. If Madigan needed to talk around what he was actually saying, that was fine.
“I was wrong,” Madigan went on. “I got one more thing to tell you, West. I know what today’s date is. I keep up with such things. If I ever come across any wanted posters on Buck West . . . or that other fella . . . that were issued after today, I won’t take it kindly. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
“Yes, sir, Marshal, I do. I can’t promise anything, though, except that I’ll try.”
“See that you do.” Madigan lifted his shovel again. “Let’s get to work. These desperadoes won’t bury themselves.”