Clay Nash was in trouble. His horse had been hit a lot worse than he’d thought during the escape from Tall Trees and he’d had to put it out of its misery in this grassy meadow. And now there was a rider up on the rim, looking down at him and unsheathing a rifle.
Nash was crouched beside the downed animal. Suddenly the rifleman opened up on the rim and two slugs thudded into the dead horse. Nash threw himself down and struggled to free his rifle from the saddle scabbard that was partly pinned beneath the horse. A bullet kicked dust behind him. Another flicked at the brim of his hat. He sprawled back as the rifle suddenly came free of its scabbard and then he threw himself flat, cursing at the tearing pain that ripped through his side where the saloon girl had winged him.
The rifle blasted again and Nash was surprised to see that the man was still in the saddle. Obviously he figured he had the Texan trapped and it was only a matter of time before he nailed him.
But he made a fine target silhouetted against the bright sky. Nash’s first shot blew him out of the saddle. The man struggled to get up as his horse ran off, whickering, and Nash nailed him again. The man slipped over the edge of the rim and rolled down to the meadow, his body not moving once it came to a stop.
Clay Nash rose slowly, his gaze moving over the rim, looking for more riders. Reindeer Creek crossed the north end of this meadow, running behind the hogback. The man he had just killed must have been a guard, likely one of the Olsens, as the man had bleached-looking hair and he knew this was a feature of the killer brothers.
But the next threat didn’t come from the rim.
Nash spun left at the sound of galloping hoofs and was surprised to see a rider racing through the tall grass, having burst out of a screen of brush. The man’s six-gun hammered and Nash dropped to one knee as lead whistled past his face. As he threw up his rifle he heard a yell behind him and flung himself backwards desperately as a second rider appeared only twenty yards away. A shotgun thundered as he dived over his dead horse and he felt the animal’s body shudder under the charge of shot.
The rider veered in, leaning from the saddle to cut loose with his second barrel. The charge blew away nothing but grass and the man leaped his mount over Nash.
Nash levered his rifle but in his haste he closed the lever too soon, jamming the shell. The other man leaned down from the saddle, his teeth bared as he swung the shotgun. Nash recognized Jubal Ricks. He jumped aside and used his rifle like a club, but it slipped from his hands as it smashed across Ricks’ midriff and lifted him out of the saddle.
At that moment Nash heard the other rider thundering towards him. He whirled, his hand streaking for his six-gun as the second Olsen rode at him, shooting. Nash’s Colt roared twice and Olsen stood up in the stirrups and then fell from the saddle, landing on his head, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
Nash spun around as Jubal Ricks lurched upright and drew his six-gun. The Wells Fargo man stepped in close and slammed the man across the side of the head with his Colt. Ricks grunted and went down on one knee. Nash clubbed him to the ground, unconscious.
He stood above the man, panting, his left hand pressed against his wounded side as he looked around. Two dead, one alive. And now he had three horses to choose from. All he had to do was find the remainder of the loot and it would be considered a successful assignment.
But he also had to get Jubal Ricks behind bars, and that might not be easy.
Sitting in the high box seat, swaying with the jolting of the Concord as it rolled across the Big Plains, Larry Holbrook closed his eyes against the throbbing of his head. Beside him, Sol Guinn expertly handled the reins and maneuvered his team around a bend in the trail. He cursed then as the stage bounced and lurched as the wheels hit potholes.
Muttered complaints from the passengers in the cab drifted up to the two men. Larry grabbed for his shotgun when it almost bounced over the side as a wheel went into a particularly deep hole.
“Easy, goddamn it!” Larry growled.
“Had a preacher for a passenger once,” Guinn said. “He rode up top in your seat ’cause we didn’t have a guard in those days. Well, my horses broke stride and I forgot he was there and let out a blue streak of cuss words. That preacher tapped me on the shoulder when I had the team under control and he said with a smile, Driver, while I am not exactly on speaking terms with our Lord, I’m sure that his last name is not ‘Damnit’!”
Guinn laughed and turned to look at Larry who merely scowled. “C’mon, kid, brighten up. You’re lucky you’re here and not behind bars in the Atcheson jail. You threw a real mean one back there.”
Larry sighed and frowned at Guinn. “I never did nothin’ like that before, Sol. I only had a couple of fights in my life. Pa used to beat the hell out of me and I saw him in many a brawl. He used boots, knives, pickaxe handles, rocks, anything he could lay his hands on. Guess I sort of picked it up from him without knowin’ it. But I don’t really remember much about it ...”
Guinn sobered. “It was my fault, kid, I did a stupid thing loadin’ your beer with that whisky. Drove you loco for a spell, I reckon. Not that that bouncer didn’t need some takin’ down ... but, well, a broken bottle ...”
Larry nodded. “Thanks for squarin’ it with the sheriff, Sol. I could’ve been in real trouble. Did you hear how the bouncer was?”
Guinn shook his head. “Didn’t ask. Had to get you out of town as fast as I could.”
“I sure feel lousy,” Larry complained.
Guinn nodded sympathetically, looking at the youth through the corner of his eye. Larry Holbrook sure had the miseries this morning. Sol Guinn frowned. He couldn’t shake the thought that behind that pleasant young face was a mean streak that could reveal itself again at any time.
And it might not need the trigger of alcohol to do it ...
It was a long, hot run across the Big Plains and by noon Larry was standing in the high seat, balanced precariously as he looked ahead for a sign of the relay station.
“No sign of it yet,” he told Guinn.
“It’s a real low building,” the driver said. “We’ll have to get a lot closer before we can see it.”
“Guess so.” Larry started to climb down, then froze. He shaded his eyes with his hand.
Guinn looked up. “Do you see somethin’?”
“Yeah. Not sure what it is, though. Looks like—by hell, it is, Sol! An overturned buckboard! There’s the horse way out near that patch of brush.”
“Anyone in the buckboard?”
Larry gripped the Ithaca shotgun. “Can’t see anybody yet. Slow down some, Sol. I don’t like the look of this ...”
Guinn slowed the team and a curious passenger stuck his head out the window, demanding to know what was happening.
“Stay in there!” Larry snapped and the man swiftly withdrew his head. “Ease up a little more, Sol. I can see some color in the grass a few feet from the wagon. It—it looks like a woman. And—yeah! There’s a kid, too! They were thrown clear, looks like.”
Guinn muttered a curse and Larry climbed onto the top of the stagecoach and stood there with his legs spread wide, shotgun at the ready.
“The kid’s bonnet’s all bloody, looks like!” Larry said. “The woman’s dress, too. We better pull up, Sol.”
Guinn hauled back on the reins. As the horses came to a stop a rifle cracked from the brush. Larry spun, staggered to the edge of the stage roof and tripped over the low luggage rail. They’ve done it again, he thought as he fell. They’re robbin’ my stage and makin’ a fool of me! Only this time I’m likely to be a dead fool!
Then he hit the ground and there was an explosion of brilliant light behind his eyes before darkness crashed down on him ...
As Sol Guinn started to whip up the team, there was a second shot and the left-hand lead horse staggered, whickered as it reared, forelegs pawing the air. Then the horse crashed to the dust and there was pandemonium as the other animals piled up and the traces and reins tangled hopelessly. The wooden tongue jerked up and the stage shuddered to a halt, tilting dangerously.
Sol Guinn jumped down, clawing at his six-gun.
Then the “injured woman” near the wrecked buckboard suddenly jumped up and the bonnet fell back to reveal the bearded face of a man. In his hand was a sawn-off shotgun that he fired from the hip. Sol Guinn took the full charge of buckshot in the chest. He was blown back several feet, his arms flailing wildly as he crashed onto his back.
Two riders came out of the brush and another stood up in the rocks, a smoking rifle in his hands. The “woman” ripped off the dress and revealed rough range clothes. He strode towards the stage, stepping over the “child”, a large doll.
He waved his gun at the coach. “All right, folks, out. We got no quarrel with you and you won’t get hurt if you hand over your valuables. Now you seen what we did to the driver and guard so you know we ain’t foolin’.”
The passengers tumbled out, hands high in the air. As the bearded man took their watches, wallets, rings and other jewelry, two of the outlaws hauled the wooden express box from the stage. They couldn’t break it open and the leader, cursing, fired three shots at the lock before it finally blew apart.
It took them another ten minutes to transfer sacks of gold and silver coin and bundles of banknotes to their saddlebags, then all of them stepped into their saddles and raked the frightened passengers with a final cold stare before riding across the Big Plains towards the distant sawtoothed hills.
The passengers stayed in a tight group, watching the outlaws until they were indistinct dark blobs out on the plains. Then the two women were helped back into the coach. One of the men walked over to Sol Guinn’s shattered body and turned away, sick.
Another man, a storekeeper from Topeka, ran back to the thicket where Larry Holbrook had fallen. He knelt beside the young guard and saw blood on his shirt.
“Lend a hand,” he called out. “This feller’s still alive!”