‘Under there,’ Cameron Black said, nodding toward the collapsed, charred pile of rubble that had once been a corner of the hen roost. The place smelled of charred wood and burned feathers still, rank with the mold of years of chicken droppings.
‘Get it out,’ Frank Bell ordered.
‘What about him?’ Cameron said, nodding at a defeated and confused Axel Popejoy. ‘I’ll need some help.’
‘All right. He’ll give you a hand.’ Frank Bell’s expression was complex. He had his pistol ready, and he was set to use it. Avarice also floated behind his eyes and yet there was a darting wariness in his glance as he considered the possibility that Dockery and Monty might be on his backtrail. Those two would not take kindly to having been cut out of their share of the army payroll.
Cameron, aware of all this, but seeming not to be, moved into the pile of ash, the fallen timbers, and toed the upright he had kicked free from its moorings the day before. He glanced back at Popejoy and said, ‘Come on, drummer man, earn your keep.’
‘What are we looking for?’ asked Popejoy, still clueless but deeply suspicious.
‘You’ll know when we find it,’ Cameron answered. Popejoy waded through the ash-strewn debris cautiously, holding his hands high as if he was afraid of dirtying them. That could be, Cameron considered. He doubted the man had ever done a day’s labor in his soft life.
It didn’t take as long as Cameron had expected. The corner of the charred strongbox emerged from the rubble and he turned his ash-streaked face back toward the comanchero who held them under the gun still. Cameron forced a smile, ‘Got it, Frank!’
Cameron Black began to clear away the debris with Popejoy’s ineffectual help. Grabbing a singed leather handle, he dragged the box out into the open. Still he watched Frank Bell, a smile disguising Cameron’s real purpose: measuring distances, Frank’s alertness, the split second of time he would have to make his move to disarm Bell.
For if he wasn’t able to do that, he had no doubt that Bell would happily and without regret, gun him down. Frank was waiting only for the box to be opened, to make sure that the gold was still in it, that Cameron had not attempted one last deception.
Frank Bell was trapped now, and he knew it. There were surely Winchesters filling the loopholes in the adobe walls of the way-station should anyone try for the horses. Almost as surely two enraged comancheros were coming from the east, wanting their share of the payroll.
And, more than likely there was an army patrol making its way toward Calico, the stagecoach having failed to arrive on schedule.
Cameron Black now found himself in a much closer trap. Pinned in a small burned-out shack with an unstable gunman, a proven killer, who had no reason at all to keep him alive if the chest contained the sought-after gold. Cameron stepped away from the chest, holding his hands up as Frank Bell strode to it, his gun still leveled. The drummer man, his face now sooty, goggled at the two of them uncertainly.
‘If it’s not here,’ Bell said brutally. ‘I’ll kill you.’
And when he found that the gold was there and he needed Cameron no longer, he would kill him anyway to eliminate a threat to his piracy, for he had known Cameron Black in the old days – not well, not long, but well enough to know that the man would not back down. Frank Bell regretted that he had not tracked Cameron down then and killed him as he had killed Slow Jack for deserting the comancheros. For no one deserted the comancheros. They suffered no traitors in that closed and violent society.
But Frank Bell himself was now a traitor to them, and they would be coming for him as well.
He needed to move quickly now and he knew it. There was no doubt in his mind after Cameron’s remark that Dockery and Monty, perhaps with others following them, had designs on the gold. And he had no doubt that they would kill him if they discovered that he had double-crossed them.
Waving his pistol ominously, he told Cameron, ‘Step away from that chest. If it’s empty …’ He nearly strangled on a knot of broken curses in his anger.
Cameron backed away, Popejoy still watching them both in confusion. Frank Bell crouched to open the gold chest and Cameron made his desperate move. He flung himself against Bell’s body as he was preparing to blow the lock from the strongbox, and the Colt .44 in Frank Bell’s hand discharged as they collided.
Cameron’s body slammed into Bell’s hard and the pistol flew free. Bell clawed frantically at his left-hand holster, but Cameron had anticipated that, and he pinned Bell’s hand to his side as he swung his own left fist over the top and down hard into Frank’s jaw. Bell went briefly limp then recovered his strength and fought out in blind fury. Temporarily forgetting about gunplay, his fists swung wildly in all directions, driving Cameron off him.
Bell rose, spun and shouted out, ‘Now! Take him now?’
Cameron, braced and ready for a frontal attack was totally taken by surprise when Axel Popejoy threw himself into the fray, leaping onto Cam’s back, his stubby arms clenching around his throat. Cam twisted around and banged the side of his fist above his shoulder where Popejoy’s head had wedged itself. The drummer sagged away, his weight falling from Cameron’s back.
But it was too late. Frank Bell had recovered and now stood with his Colt in his hand, his dark hair hanging across his eyes, his smile vicious and assured.
‘So long,’ Frank Bell said.
There was the sudden crack of a weapon, but it was not Frank’s Colt that had spoken. Bell, his eyes wide with surprise, blood trickling from his mouth, straightened spasmodically and, as he looked toward the doorway of the destroyed hen house, he slumped back onto and over the strongbox, his stunned expression unchanged as he blinked once and fell dead.
Cameron swung around to discover Ellie behind him, the Winchester repeater she held still curling smoke from its muzzle. Her legs went limp and she staggered toward him, her dark eyes wide with disbelief. ‘I …’ was all she managed to say as she handed the rifle to Cameron and threw her arms around him, shuddering with the shock of realization of what she had done.
Cam held her tightly for a minute as Popejoy sat up rubbing his soot-streaked face, sobbing softly. Frank Bell did not move; he would never move again.
‘I told you to stay in the station, didn’t I!’ Cameron said with a ferocity he did not feel. ‘You could have been killed, Ellie.’
‘So,’ she managed to snuffle, her face buried against his shoulder, ‘could you.’
‘Don’t kill me,’ they heard Popejoy plead. He had gotten to his feet and now circled them, trying to reach the doorway. He suddenly took to his heels and rushed out, throwing his arms in the air. Then they heard him cry out, ‘Watch out! He’s on a killing spree.’
Frowning, Cameron stepped away from Ellie. Who was Popejoy yelling his warning to?
A peek around the scorched door frame provided the answer. Sitting a tall, leggy roan horse with froth on its mouth, was Dockery. As the comanchero reached for his holstered pistol, Cameron shoved Ellie aside, went to a knee and raised the Winchester to his shoulder. Dockery’s bullet, fired off-handedly, whipped past Cam’s head and punched through the flimsy back wall of the coop.
Cameron Black, from his knee, the bead on the Winchester’s barrel nestled in the iron ‘V of his rear sight, did not miss. The .44.40 bullet racketed from the muzzle of the rifle. The recoil nudged the Winchester’s brass butt plate sharply against Cam’s shoulder. The impact against Dockery’s chest was much sharper, slamming his body back from the saddle as a bloody smear painted his white shirt. The roan bucked its rider free and bolted for the oak grove, leaving Dockery, already dead, flat on his back against the red earth of the station yard.
Eleanor rushed to Cam, but he motioned her away.
‘There’s another one,’ he hissed. Understanding, she crouched in the shadowed corner, her arms thrown around her drawn-up knees.
Cameron wiped the perspiration from his eyes and waited, searching the depths of the dark oaks. He was certain that Monty was out there somewhere – and possibly many other comancheros; there was no way to be sure – but where were they?
It was then that the racketing of a dozen guns sounded across the yard, echoing violently, like rolling thunder. Who …?
And then he saw the blue uniforms of the arriving cavalrymen.
Eleanor rose shakily at his gesture and she came beside him, gripping his arm. ‘Is it over now?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Cameron answered grimly. ‘It’s all over now.’ And he led her back toward the way-station where the body of men was swinging down from their army bays, the sun glinting on the drawn sabers of their officers.
There was a captain leading them, a gruff-appearing man with a long silver mustache and a set of ‘Burnside’ whiskers. And, dismounting now there was a tall, blond, fine-looking young lieutenant who rushed to meet Eleanor as the smoke settled across the camp.
Lieutenant Lyle McMahon’s face was dark with concern as he reached out his arms toward Eleanor. It seemed to him that she clung just a little too long to the arm of the stranger, but now she rushed to him with vast relief. He took her in his embrace, but it seemed that her eyes slid away from his toward the tall man who was tramping up the station steps toward the open door.
‘Are you all right, Eleanor? You’ve been through hell, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said very softly. Her fingers were on his shoulders, but when, after glancing back toward Captain Collins, McMahon bent to kiss her lips, she deflected him, her head turning ever so slightly so that his kiss fell on her cheek. Frowning, McMahon put his arm around the frightened woman’s shoulders and walked with her to the station.
Captain Collins was already inside. As were Aunt Mae amd the wounded station master, Tabor, and his wife, Dora. In the corner, sagged into a leather-bottomed chair, sat the stranger McMahon had discovered with Eleanor. A disheveled little man with a round face watched from the kitchen doorway as Collins reported to the civilians.
‘We only yesterday received a report of the Apache raid. Then, of course, when the stage did not reach Fort Wingate on schedule, we became even more concerned.’
‘We heard your gunfire,’ Stan Tabor said.
‘Yes. A well-known comanchero called Monty was spotted prowling in the oak grove. He panicked and opened fire. My troopers shot him. I have a patrol out now, searching for others who might be lurking. What is they were after, Mr Tabor?’
‘Why, the payroll, of course,’ Tabor said, shifting his injured leg as Dora rubbed his shoulders.
Eleanor stood next to Lieutenant McMahon, listening. She seemed to shrink away from the arm he had around her shoulders. Glancing down, the young officer noticed that her gaze was on the rangy, somehow familiar man sitting loosely in the corner chair.
‘You’ll show them where it is, won’t you, Riley?’ Stan Tabor asked, his eyes heavily lidded.
‘ ’Course,’ Cameron agreed lazily.
‘This is the man you have to thank for saving the payroll,’ Tabor went on.
‘And for saving us!’ Eleanor blurted out. ‘I would still be a captive of those outlaws if Riley hadn’t come to my rescue.’
Captain Collins pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. ‘We all seem to owe you our thanks,’ the cavalry officer said. ‘Just who are you, young man?’
‘He’s our new line driver,’ Stan Tabor said quickly, before Cameron could answer. ‘He took over when Kyle Post was injured. Now that Kyle – unfortunately – has passed away from his wounds, Riley is our man.’
‘He saved us all from the outlaws,’ Aunt Mae put in, coming forward a few steps.
‘His name is not Riley!’ The outburst issued from Axel Popejoy who rushed suddenly into the middle of the room, startling all of them. The drummer waved his arms frantically. ‘He’s Cameron Black, a known killer and thief! I’m claiming the reward on this man,’ he panted, leveling a stubby finger at the relaxed man in the corner. ‘Five hundred dollars. You can check out everything I’m telling you.’
‘The man’s wrong,’ Stan Tabor said, glancing only briefly at Cameron. ‘His name’s Riley. He’s our relief driver.’
‘His name is Riley,’ Aunt Mae said with quiet assurance.
‘I tell you he’s Cameron Black!’ Popejoy persisted vehemently.
‘After this man saved your life!’ Eleanor said, angrily confronting Popejoy. ‘How can you make such accusations?’
Captain Collins pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘It appears we have some sort of disagreement here. Riley, you’ll have to come along with us to the fort until someone can verify your identity.’
‘There’s no need, sir,’ Lyle McMahon said. He had been watching Eleanor’s eyes, seeing the concern – and something deeper – in them. Looking directly into Cameron’s eyes he told the captain. ‘I have encountered the outlaw, Cameron Black. This is not him.’
Collins nodded and said decisively, ‘Well, that settles that. I apologize, Mr Riley. For the rest of it – if you will show us where the strongbox is, we can proceed to Wingate. Who will be traveling? Miss Gates? Mrs Gates? Fine. Mr Popejoy, is it?’ the captain said with distaste. ‘You, I suppose. Then, Mr Riley, is there any reason we can’t be on our way?’
‘The horses are pretty beat up, Captain,’ Cameron said, rising stiffly from his chair.
‘Understandable. We’ll take it easy, I promise.’ To Stan, the captain said, ‘Mr Tabor, the surgeon will arrive soon. You will understand we didn’t want to bring him into a difficult situation. I am sorry about Kyle Post. He was a good man.’
‘The best,’ Stan Tabor said, limping forward to shake hands with the captain. ‘But we have a fine young replacement in Riley, here.’
‘So it seems,’ the captain said, nodding.
‘We thank you so much, Captain,’ Dora Tabor said, taking the officer’s hand gently. Then to Lieutenant McMahon, ‘And you, too, sir.’ There was only the slightest hint of a wink as she took his hand in turn.
Outside the dry wind was blowing. Cameron Black looked to the big sky and shook his head. He had dodged a bullet, he knew. He ought to feel like the luckiest man in the world, but he did not. He saw Popejoy climb glumly into the stagecoach and then watched as the handsome young cavalry officer handed Eleanor Gates up.
No, he thought, he did not feel so lucky at all. The sky was clear and the day warming. The yellow dog had slunk home to be welcomed into Dora’s kitchen. The off-wheel horse glanced at Cameron with an accusing eye and stamped its hoof twice as he drew himself up into the box and started the coach toward Fort Wingate.