The Guns of Vedauwoo (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series Book 6) Page 8

  As he plodded on, his thoughts leaped and tumbled like a buffalo stampede.

  How the hell many different factions were at work here in the Vedauwoo, anyway? He had come to this remote place with the intent of intercepting Vilo Creed before he could arrange a gun transfer to Kicking Bear and his Ghost Shirt followers. So far, the marshal seemed to be running into everybody but those he'd expected to encounter—first Elmer Post and his gang of train robbers, then old Twisted Root, and now some group of "innocents" allegedly under threat from Post's bunch.

  Fleetingly, Cash wondered about the accuracy of the medicine man's latest vision. He'd always maintained a healthy respect for Indian spirituality, just as he did for the Judeo-Christian teachings he had been exposed to in the White Man's world. But at the same time, on a strictly pragmatic level, he also lacked total, unshakable faith in either. It seemed to him that during the hardest challenges of his life the only things he'd ever been able to completely rely on were his own strength and wits and the weapons he made it a point to keep close at hand.

  The thought of weapons caused Cash to mentally curse the loss of his Winchester the night before in his first skirmish with the Post Gang. He still had his trusted Colt Peacemaker holstered at his hip, plus the revolver he'd taken from James Danton, now jammed in his belt for added firepower. Danton's gun was also chambered for .44 caliber rounds so he had plenty of ammunition to go around. But the added punch and distance his rifle would have given him might end up being sorely missed for more than just sentimental reasons.

  Trust your own senses ... The spirits will help guide you.

  Despite his reservations about the spirituality that Twisted Root had so much faith in, Cash nevertheless found himself anxiously hoping for some kind of sign as he worked his way toward the southern fringe of the Vedauwoo. Otherwise he'd be facing a mighty long stretch of rugged terrain in which to try and find the "innocents" he was supposed to be on his way to save. What's more, if he spent too much time just poking around blindly he would be running the risk of making his presence known to the Post Gang before he had the chance to spot any of them in return.

  A flock of morning doves suddenly burst into flight a short distance ahead and slightly to Cash's right. He froze in his tracks. He watched the birds rise up and pass directly overhead. Something—not him, he'd been too far back—had spooked them. It could have been any animal on the prowl, of course. But that included the human kind. And the doves could be the sign he'd been looking for ...

  Cash proceeded across a shallow dry wash and then up the incline on the other side to where a line of aspen trees intermingled with a few cottonwoods ran across the rim of a grassy ridge. The doves had risen up out of these trees.

  It was steadily growing lighter now. The first sliver of actual sunlight was only minutes away. Cash was thankful for the masking of the high grass and the shadows thrown by the trees as he eased into place at the top of the ridge.

  In a deep crouch, Cash parted the grass and peered out on the fairly open expanse that stretched before him. To the right, little more than a hundred yards away, a towering, flat-faced mound of granite rose up. Near its base, Cash could see an unhitched wagon with a spill of gear around it. Close by, two people—a man and a woman, by the look of it—stood talking. They were running a cold camp, there was no sign of a fire having burned any time recently. A ways off to the left of the wagon, a team of sturdy-looking mules were staked where there was good graze.

  Cash took all of this in with a quick sweep of his penetrating blue eyes.

  Then his concentration shifted to what—or, more accurately, who—lay between him and the wagon camp. There were three of them. The black man was closest to Cash's position, bellied down behind some low, flat rocks with a Winchester clutched in his arms. A ways to his left, in some evergreen growth, the one they'd called Danton knelt with his left hand gripping a long-barreled shotgun; Cash took some satisfaction in noting that the man's right arm, the one Cash had busted to hell and gone, was secured tight to his body, rendering it all but useless. A short distance beyond Danton, the familiar bulk of Elmer Post was squirmed in behind a grassy hump with his Winchester resting in the crook of one arm.

  Cash wondered where the fourth man, Flynn Remsen, was. He didn't like not knowing. But no matter how hard his eyes scoured the scene, he could spot no sign of the homely little gimp.

  The first fiery slice of the sun was above the horizon now. More people appeared to be stirring in the wagon camp ... the "innocents" Twisted Root had urged him to come to the aid of.

  Cash pondered who these people might be. Experience—especially that gained from wearing a badge—had long ago taught him that nobody was completely innocent. But some came a hell of a lot closer than others. And, in this present situation, it was pretty damn clear who had the greater right to that claim.

  It was also pretty damn clear that this thing was ready to bust loose any minute now. With or without Remsen, Elmer and his bunch were primed for an ambush on the unsuspecting camp.

  All Cash had to do was get himself primed to stop them.

  -TEN-

  Flynn Remsen tipped the whiskey bottle high and let the final drops of its contents gurgle down his throat. When he lowered the emptied bottle, he discarded it with an indifferent toss over one shoulder, heard the glass shatter against the rocks.

  Despite the warning from Elmer, Remsen was drunk. He'd nibbled at the bottle sparingly throughout the night, but once Elmer and the others pulled out and left him behind, he began throwing down the harsh liquor with a vengeance. And now he was drunk. Feeling no pain, the old saying went. What a crock. Remsen was still feeling plenty of damn pain. And he was also feeling plenty of damn resentment over being left behind like he was.

  To hell with old sayings that were nothing but a crock.

  And to hell with Elmer Post, too.

  Remsen tried to stand up so he could go get another bottle. But the fresh wound to his leg combined with his soused condition made the act extremely difficult. He fell back three times before he got the job done, each time roundly cursing everybody and everything he could lay his tongue to. Most of all he cursed the sonofabitch who'd shot him and then, coming in a close second, he cursed not being given the chance to go after the sonofabitch for the sake of returning the favor.

  Finally managing to get himself upright, Remsen began making his way painstakingly along by leaning against the boulders strewn so generously around the camp. He followed them back into the cave-like notch where most of the gang's gear was stored, including more bottles of cheap whiskey.

  That was also where Virgil lay.

  That goddamned Virgil. The real fault for all of this rested with him. Elmer's pampered, delicate kid brother. Stupid enough to take a bullet during the train robbery and then being so weak and wet behind the ears that Elmer, who'd been coddling the snot-nose ever since he first showed up to join the gang, had felt compelled to break all the rules and scrub their original getaway plans so they could hole up here in order to try and nurse the little bastard back to health.

  In the old days, anybody who couldn't hold up their own end and threatened to bog down the rest of the gang, got silenced and ditched. Period. Plain and simple. Everybody had a clear understanding of how it was and Remsen had seen Elmer enforce that rule a dozen times.

  But now, for Virgil, the tradition had been altered. What was worse, Elmer wasn't just bogging down the rest of the gang with this allowance, he was refusing to give any of them the option to take their rightful cut of the loot and move on.

  That flat-out wasn't right.

  Teetering now before the supply pile that contained the additional bottles of whiskey, Remsen turned his head and glared down at Virgil. Goddamned little snot-nose. He obviously wasn't going to make it anyway. A blind man could see that. They'd burn up all this precious time, waste the lead they'd gained on that stupid damn posse, and then Virgil would finally get around to dying. Why couldn't the ungrateful little basta
rd have the decency to just go ahead and get it over with?

  A desperate thought crept through Remsen's befogged brain.

  If Virgil was dead by the time Elmer and the others returned from taking care of those rock climbers ...

  Remsen shuddered so suddenly and violently that he damn near lost his balance and fell. He looked down in horror at his hands, the fingers curled as if by their own volition in anticipation of how easy it would be to clutch a folded blanket and hold it down on Virgil's face until the shallow breathing he was barely able to manage was shut down altogether. God Christ Almighty! What a repulsive thing to consider. Remsen shook his hands, forcing the fingers to uncurl, and then slapped his palms hard against the boulders he was leaning against, as if punishing them for being associated to the black deed he'd momentarily contemplated.

  It wasn't that the thought of smothering a man to death was so troubling to Remsen. Hell, he'd killed men just about every way there was and never fretted one ounce over it. But snuffing Elmer's baby brother—the very one he'd been left in charge of taking care of? The thought of Elmer's wrath upon returning and finding Virgil dead—by whatever means—was damn near enough to startle Remsen sober. To make sure that didn't happen, he hurriedly dug out a fresh whiskey bottle with hands that had been scraped raw and bloody from slamming them against the rocks. Wrenched the cap off, hoisted the bottle, and drained several slobbering gulps.

  Once he'd gotten himself calmed back down, Remsen sagged against the boulders and decided to just rest there for a while. He studied Virgil some more, his gaze softened now. Hang in there, boy. For Christ's sake, hold on. Don't do something stupid like up and die on me ... Not now. Wait until Elmer gets back and then you can kick just as soon as you want ... Hell, the sooner the better after that.

  As he studied Virgil, Remsen kept looking closely for some sign of the boy's chest rising and falling with his weakened breathing. He couldn't spot anything. And was it his imagination, or did the snot-nose somehow look even paler and more waxen now than he had the last Remsen had checked?

  Propelled by a new surge of alarm, Remsen pushed himself away from the boulders that had been supporting him and took an uncertain step over to where Virgil lay. He lay a rough hand against the boy's cheek and where the skin had been cool before, now it felt ice cold. The hand moved down to Virgil's chest, pressing anxiously to feel for movement from inhalation or exhalation. Nothing.

  Remsen's chin began to tremble as he gave the wounded lad a shake. First very gently, then gradually rougher. "Virgil? Virgil! ... Goddamn it, you breathe for me, boy!"

  But there was no response. None whatsoever. Virgil's breathing days were done.

  Remsen's wail of anguish was so loud and long that it effectively drowned out the faint crackle of gunfire suddenly discernable from somewhere on the other side of Vedauwoo.

  -ELEVEN-

  Cash was unable to prevent it from starting. All he could do was react once it did.

  Not surprisingly, it was Elmer who set it in motion. Without warning, he rose up and opened fire on the team of mules. With a rapid-fire rain of lead from his Winchester, he dropped the poor braying, screaming beasts in their tracks.

  An instant after Elmer started shooting, the black gang member began firing on the people clustered near the wagon. And on the heels of those rifle cracks, one-armed Danton extended the long barrel of a shotgun and triggered an additional blast in the direction of the camp.

  One of the campers raised a rifle and began shooting back.

  Cash was in motion by then, breaking out of the trees and high grass with both pistols drawn and cocked. He hated shooting even a bushwhacking snake in the back but, under the circumstances, he didn't see where he had much choice. The black man not only was his closest target but he also was the one doing the most damage to those down in the wagon camp.

  Even as Cash triggered his Colts, he saw the rifleman beside the wagon take a hit and spill to the ground. Another man ran to him, kneeling to seize up the dropped rifle. A woman started screaming.

  Shooting down slope, on the run, threw Cash's aim off. His first slugs chewed into the ground well behind the splayed feet of the black man, who was stretched out on his stomach, firing with his Winchester braced across a low, broken spine of boulders. Thus warned, the shooter squirmed around to face Cash. He dropped back onto his shoulders and swung the rifle up, levering a fresh round as he did so. But Cash had his range and angle corrected by then and he never allowed the round to discharge, sending three close-grouped slugs slamming into the center of his target's chest, pounding him tight to the ground and leaving him limp, lifeless.

  Cash dug in his heels, trying to slow his descent down the grassy, slippery slope now. As he did this, he twisted his torso and snapped another rapid-fire volley over at Danton, who was awkwardly attempting to shift his balance and swing the shotgun in Cash's direction. One of the marshal's bullets caught the shotgunner square in the throat and punched his Adam's apple out the back of his neck. Danton pitched sideways, instantly dead, his spasming finger touching off a final roar of the shotgun that sent its heavy load into the dirt.

  Cash's goal then became to drop for cover behind the carcass of the fallen black and get his hands on the dead man's Winchester. From there he intended to finish shooting it out with Elmer.

  But the gang leader promptly demonstrated he had a different plan. Before Cash could make it to cover and seize the discarded rifle, Elmer switched his attention away from the wagon camp and began pouring lead at the scrambling marshal. A bullet tore through the back side of Cash's left thigh and spun him around, sent him tumbling. He fell five feet short of the low spine of boulders. With fiery pain shooting upward through his whole left side, he immediately lunged to his feet again and made a desperate dive for cover. Another bullet caught him in mid air, punching through the meat and muscle just above his left collar bone. He toppled to the ground once more, only this time he managed to roll in behind the body of the black man and his hand closed with an iron grip on the rifle he'd so badly wanted to get to.

  Elmer kept pouring lead at him, slugs whining off the boulder spine and thumping wetly into the dead body. "Whoever you are, you sonofabitch," Elmer roared, "you're gonna die knowin' you picked the wrong piece of business to stick your nose in!"

  Cash hunkered low and still, except for the quick, sure movement of his hands as he thumbed reloads into the confiscated Winchester. "Seems to me I'm doin' more killin' than dyin', old man," he shouted back. "I'm a deputy U.S. Marshal out of Cheyenne and you've got one chance to lay down your weapons and give yourself up or I'll see to it you end up just like your two pards."

  "You're bleedin' out, you lyin' bastard of a law dog. I saw my shots hit. We'll see how tough you talk in a couple minutes when you're swamped in a puddle of your own mud."

  All of the people down in the camp had swarmed to the back side of the wagon by now, using it for a shield. They'd dragged with them the rifleman who'd been cut down earlier and Cash could see his body lying very still on the ground behind a wagon wheel. The woman who'd been screaming before had now quieted to a low, sobbing wail, as if in great pain. As Cash watched, one of the men rose cautiously into view and braced the rifle—apparently they had only the one gun—over the boot of the wagon and took aim on Elmer's position. This also made it apparent they'd heard Cash identify himself as a lawman so were going to focus any armed response from their side strictly on Elmer. From what he'd seen, Cash didn't have much faith in the effectiveness of that but at least it meant he wouldn't have to worry about being fired on by them.

  Elmer had gone momentarily quiet, both with his mouth and his Winchester. Cash figured that meant he, too, was reloading.

  "You thinkin' over what I said, Post?" he called out. "You ready to give yourself up?"

  "So you know who I am, is that it?" There was an odd mixture of surprise and pride in the outlaw's tone. "Well, if you know that much, then you know the answer to your question."

&nbs
p; "Okay by me. Just checkin' one last time, that's all. Makes no never mind to me which way I cross you off the list."

  "You figure you got time to try and talk me to death before you bleed out? Or you gonna get around to lettin' your gun do some of the talkin'?"

  From his angle, Elmer must not have been able to see the man down in the camp taking aim over the wagon boot. Or maybe he was plain too focused on Cash to take notice. Either way, it must have surprised the hell out of him when a shot blasted up from the wagon camp. What was more—of equal surprise to Cash—the shot scored a hit on the gang leader.

  Elmer jerked and cried out from the impact, then immediately let loose with a string of blistering curses. Cash heard the shot, heard Elmer cry out, and knew—in spite of his amazement—what had happened. The marshal snapped up immediately, raising the Winchester in the same fluid motion, intending to take full advantage of this turn of events.

  Cash's eyes locked on the grassy hump where he'd last seen Elmer. The outlaw was still there but also still crouched low enough behind the hump so that, from Cash's vantage point, he was offering only a sliver of a target. Elmer was fiercely intent on triggering lead back at the shooter who'd wounded him, continuing with his string of epithets as he did so. "You rotten, dirty, no-good, dog-humpin' sonofabitch! I'll fill you so goddamn full of holes they'll be able to nail your hide up for a screen door on a shithouse!"

  Cash took his shot. Then another, right behind it. Tufts of grass spurted into the air and Elmer's hat flew off. But that was all. As far as Cash could tell, he'd scored nothing more serious. By the time he levered in a fresh round and fired a third time, Elmer had broken off his barrage of both bullets and curses and pitched away from his position, rolling out of sight down behind the crown of the grassy hump.