CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Damn it all, Dave, if we try walking up that hill again, we’ll step into the same mess,” Clay Kyle said. “They got a couple of shootists up there.”
James Duran said, “Yeah, Clint Cooley and the Indian. I saw them cut loose, and those boys can unravel a bullet with the best I’ve seen.” He shook his head. “Damn it to hell, I knew Cooley would be a problem.”
“What do you suggest, Kyle?” Shannon said, his voice hoarse with a seething anger, staring at the other man through tightened eyelids.
“Wait until dark,” Kyle said. “Injun up on them and then do some throat cutting.”
“Duran?” Shannon said.
“I reckon Kyle is right. We’d have a better chance at night,” Duran said. “Get close and then charge right into them. Hell, Cooley and the Indian have got to doze off sometime.”
“It’s thin,” Shannon said. “Way too thin.” Then, irritably, “Will this damned wind never stop?”
One of the outlaws, a train robber named McMurray whose participation in the El Paso Salt War gave him a measure of respect, said, “Dave, I sure as hell ain’t charging up that damned hill in daylight in the teeth of this big blow.”
“Dave, it can be done,” Duran said. “The darkness will cover us until we’re almost on top of them and the three dead horses will help our cover and so will the wind.”
Shannon thought that through and then said, “All right, then that’s how we’ll play it. We go come sundown. But in the meantime, we’ll hunker down and take pots at them all day, keep their heads down, and give them no rest. Shake ’em up, like. Hell, we might even wing a few.”
That last won a chorus of agreement from the relieved gunmen. Events had not gone how they’d hoped . . . a quick victory over a bunch of rubes and maybe a pretty woman as a spoil of war. Instead, all they’d found was hot lead and death.
Clay Kyle grinned. “Hey, lookee there, Dave. I bet ten dollars that he doesn’t make it to the bottom of the hill.”
Shannon looked and saw what Kyle had seen, a wounded towhead on all fours making his painful way down the slope. The man looked like he’d been gut-shot because blood and black bile hung in thin strands from his mouth.
“Duran, who is that?” Shannon said.
For a few moments, Duran studied the man and then said, “His name’s John Shivers. He murdered his wife and the man in bed with her and then lit a shuck. The Rangers were only a day behind him when he rode into the Sierra del Carmen. He’s neighborly enough, I guess, but he don’t talk much.”
“Right now, I reckon he’s never gonna talk again,” Shannon said.
“Good boy,” Kyle said. “Another ten yards and you’ll be home free.”
“Free to clutch at his belly and scream for hours,” Duran said. “After what happened, we don’t need to hear that all damned day.” He pulled his gun, drew a bead, and shot Shivers in the head. The man collapsed and didn’t move.
“Good shot, Duran,” Kyle said.
“Bad for him,” Duran said.
Shannon said, “Kyle, we got time, so head back to the Stanton woman and tell her I want the girl,” Shannon said. “I don’t want her harmed, understand?”
“Sure thing, Dave,” Kyle said.
“Just make tracks back here before dark,” Shannon said. He drew, fired off a few shots at the top of the hill, and then said, “We’ll keep them busy until then.”
“I’ll return very soon,” Kyle said, his eyes fixed on the sky. At that moment, he didn’t know that he stared into the agent of his own death.
* * *
Tossed around by the gusting wind, the red balloon was in difficulty.
No one saw it until it rounded the north slope of the mountain and scraped along a projecting rock outcrop. The wicker basket swung wildly, and Professor Lazarus Latchford and Miss Prunella struggled to keep their feet and at the same time reduce the burner flame.
The balloon came closer, dropped height rapidly, and the basket now careened back and forth like a pendulum as it soared over the vigilante position on the hilltop. Dan Caine and the others, conscious of the nonstop fire from Dave Shannon’s gunmen, frantically tried to wave Latchford away. But Miss Prunella, mistaking their warning for a greeting, leaned over the rim of the basket, held onto a rope cable with one hand, and waved with the other.
The balloon seemed badly out of control as Dan Caine cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”
It seemed that Miss Prunella still didn’t hear him because she continued to smile and wave as the balloon soared over them like a runaway freight train. Professor Latchford joined Miss Prunella and waved, grinning. His mouth opened in a shout, but Dan couldn’t hear him. If anything, the wind had gained in intensity, and the red balloon bounced crazily in turbulent air at a height of about fifty feet.
And then the death and the carnage began.
Witnesses, including Dan Caine, would later say that the entire incident that claimed the lives of so many men was over in less than a couple of minutes.
Someone, most sources say it was Dave Shannon, raised his rifle and shot into the basket. Agreeing that this was fine sport, others joined in and soon bullets rattled through the wicker. It’s quite possible that Miss Prunella was mortally wounded at this stage but that’s never been verified. Latchford was as mad as a hatter, but he was smart . . . smart enough to realize that the shooters were the enemy. As he hurtled over them, he leaned over the side of the basket and dropped two of his contact-fuse bombs into the middle of the clustered gunmen. Both exploded with a terrible crash and a blinding flash of light. Lead balls tore into human flesh like volleys of canister from a battery of cannon, killing and maiming . . . tearing bodies apart. Most of the outlaws died instantly, a couple lingered for a few shrieking, agony-filled minutes.
The balloon, made lighter by the weight of the bombs, suddenly rode an upward current of wind and, the canopy flaming from flying burner coals, skyrocketed up the side of the mountain and then lost height rapidly, crashing headlong into a pine-covered sky island before it vanished from sight. A thin column of smoke, quickly shredded by the wind, marked the balloon’s last resting place.
* * *
It was reported that in 1926 rock climbers discovered what they described as the scattered bones of a child and an adult male on the mountaintop. If that is the case, the remains were never recovered.