Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles (22 page)

“That's what I figure,” said Wes. “We'll just find out how much sand they have in the daylight.”

“No ambush?”

“No,” Wes said. “We'll confront them, giving them more of a chance than they'd ever give us.”

Wes and El Lobo rode on, paralleling their westward trail, until they reached a stand of evergreens that would protect them from being seen as their quarry approached.

“Now,” said Wes, “we'll wait until they're within range of our Colts.”

“Per‘ap they no fight,” El Lobo said. “We kill?”

“They'll fight,” said Wes. “Seth has no better sense. You saw him come after me with that hay fork. I'll take him, and if Luke's fool enough to back his play, you know what to do.”

“
Sí
,” El Lobo said.

 

 

“Maybe we better rest awhile,” Luke cautioned. “We git too close, an' they can see us on their back trail.”

“You fret like an old woman,” said Seth. “Them with half a day's start, ain't no way we'll catch up to ‘em 'fore dark.”

They rode on, and as they approached a stand of evergreens they were greeted by a cold voice speaking from cover.

“That's far enough,” Wes said. “Make your play.”

“You got nothin' agin us,” said Seth angrily.

“We all know better than that,” Wes said. “You've been trailin' us with bushwhacking on your minds. Now we aim to give you more of a chance than you'd have given us.”

Wes said no more. He and El Lobo stepped out of the sheltering evergreens, walking toward Seth and Luke.

“No,” Luke shouted.

“Get ‘em,” said Seth with a snarl.

He had a cocked Winchester in his hands, but his first shot went wild. There was no time for another as Wes fired once. The lead struck Seth in the chest, driving him from the saddle. Luke dropped his Winchester, raising his hands.

“Get down,” Wes ordered. “You're goin' to tie him belly-down over his saddle and take him home. If you have ideas about followin' us, don't. Next time, we'll gun you down on sight.
Comprende?”

“I ain't follerin' you no more,” said Luke.

Wes and El Lobo watched as he roped Seth to his saddle. Mounting, Luke rode back the way they had come, leading Seth's horse with its macabre burden.

“Let's ride,” Wes said. “We're still a long way from Nevada.”

Wes and El Lobo continued riding due west and watching their back trail, but could see no signs they were being pursued. While the land was desolate and water wasn't always plentiful, there was enough, thanks to frequent snowfall. There was yet another storm, but of shorter duration, and they waited it out in an arroyo. Sundown was only minutes away when they came upon a crude sign reading PIOCHE NEV.

“Well,” said Wes, “we're finally out of Utah. Let's see what Pioche has to offer.”

But before they saw any evidence of a town, their attention was drawn to a distant arroyo by the rattle of gunfire.

“Sounds like trouble,” Wes said. “Some poor soul may need help. Come on.”

Topping a ridge, they found themselves looking down on what obviously was a mining endeavor. Mounds of earth were everywhere, and a sluice box had been set up to take full advantage of a fast-running creek. From behind one of the mounds of earth a single rifle responded to fire from numerous others beyond the creek. Even as Wes and El Lobo watched, distant horsemen—well out of range—were circling to trap the unfortunate defender in a cross fire. But he was no shorthorn with a Winchester, and there was a shout of anger as one of the besiegers was hit.

“If the varmints get him in a cross fire, he won't have a chance,” Wes said. “I think we'll buy in and head off that bunch. There must be a dozen of the coyotes, and until we know what this is all about, that's an unfair advantage.”

El Lobo said nothing, and while he didn't always agree, he respected Wes Stone's feelings for what was fair. They unsheathed their Winchesters and prepared a reception for the half-dozen men who were riding to trap the lone defender. Wes and El Lobo began firing warning shots before the six were within range, hoping to discourage them, but it had the opposite effect. With angry shouts, the men dismounted, taking their Winchesters. Using available cover, they began advancing.

“Hold your fire until they're within range,” said Wes. “If they won't have it any other way, we'll oblige them. The sagebrush they're using for cover won't stop a Winchester slug.”

The lone defender, aware of the unexpected support, intensified his efforts, and there was a distant shout of pain. Another of the attackers had been hit. Those who seemed determined to catch him in a cross fire continued advancing, and when they were well within range, Wes and El Lobo began firing. The attackers returned the fire, but firing uphill, found themselves at a disadvantage. Two of them were hit, and when the others ran for their horses, El Lobo wounded a third. Reaching their horses, with a comrade helping the wounded man, they quit the fight.

“We'll ride around and get behind that bunch raising so much hell,” Wes said. “They're needin' a dose of their own medicine.”

Mounting their horses, Wes and El Lobo followed the ridge. Crossing the creek above the scene of battle, they circled in behind the attackers. Dismounting, they began throwing lead all around the four men who remained, wounding two of them.

“Hold your fire,” said Wes. “We'll let them run, if they've had enough.”

The two wounded men sat slumped in their saddles, their horses being led by their companions. Out of range, they reined up and one of those who hadn't been hit shouted a warning.

“You
hombres
doin' the shootin' has just bought yourselves a mess of trouble. Don't let the sun set on you in Pioche.”

They rode away. Wes and El Lobo rode along the creek, seeking the lone rifleman who had fought so valiantly. They were unprepared for the dirt-smudged figure who stepped out from behind a huge pile of earth. She wasn't more than twenty-one or -two, with blond hair and blue eyes. Her flop hat had a hole in the crown, her flannel shirt had patches on the elbows, and the brown of her jeans had faded to almost white. Rough-out, run-over boots completed her unpretentious attire. Wes and El Lobo had returned their Winchesters to saddle boots, and reined up.

“You had to be strangers,” she said. “Nobody in Pioche would lift a hand.”

“I'm Wes Stone, and my
amigo
is El Lobo,” said Wes. “The fight seemed a mite one-sided. What's it about?”

“Claim jumping,” she said. “I'm Amanda McCall. My husband Jim and me made a small strike here on Pioche Creek, in a place nobody believed there was gold. Brandon Starke, who controls Pioche, sent a gunman after Jim. He then had Jim convicted by a miner's court, and he's waiting in jail to be hanged. I don't know why I bothered trying to defend our holdings. The gold's playing out.”

“Then maybe you and Jim should have just quit the territory,” said Wes.

“I wanted to,” Amanda said, “and we have a decent stake, but Jim's stubborn. He was determined to pan it out to the finish.”

“Then there must be more at stake than the gold,” said Wes, “unless Brandon Starke's a fool. He must know there's no fortune to be made with a sluice box. I can't see that as reason enough to frame a man for murder.”

“Brandon Starke wants me,” Amanda said.

“All the more reason you should have taken the gold you had and pulled out,” said Wes. “Your husband doesn't know Starke has his eyes on you?”

“Pioche is a mining camp, with few women,” Amanda said. “When we came here from Tonopah, lots of men had their eyes on me, so Jim didn't know Starke's intentions. He's hounded me since the day we arrived.”

“You didn't tell Jim, then,” said Wes.

“I was afraid to,” Amanda said. “Starke owns Pioche, and Jim's no match for his paid gunmen.”

“If he was free to ride,” said Wes, “would he quit the territory?”

“I don't know,” she said miserably. “His pride ...”

“There's times when the best of men can't see the difference between being proud and being foolish,” said Wes. “Have you talked to him?”

“ ‘Til I was blue in the face,” she replied.

“Then maybe I'll talk to him,” said Wes. “Where's your horse?”

“I'm afoot,” Amanda said. “The night after Jim was jailed, our horses were stolen.”

“We just happen to have extra horses,” said Wes. “Mount up.”

She mounted one of the horses and led out, Wes and El Lobo following. They rode not quite two miles, reining up and dismounting before a small cabin.

“It's the closest thing to home I've ever had,” Amanda said. “I was seventeen when my father died. He was a down-and-out prospector, and in all my years with him, I never had a roof over my head.”

“There's worse things than not havin' a roof over your head,” said Wes. “Will you be safe here, while I ride to town?”

“I don't know,” Amanda said. “I shot two of Starke's gunmen. He's not the kind to let that go.”

“Then you'd better ride to town with us,” said Wes. “I think it's time you leveled with your husband about what Starke really wants.”

“But he's in jail, convicted of murder,” Amanda said. “What good will it do?”

“Maybe convince him there's no shame in backing away from a fight he can't win,” said Wes. “You said he's to be hanged. When?”

“Tomorrow,” said Amanda. “Starke's making it all legal, bringing in a hangman.”

“Then we don't have a lot of time,” Wes said. “Let's ride.”

Pioche looked exactly like what it was: an all but played-out mining town, it's only touch of elegance being the Gold Dust Saloon. There was a combined livery and blacksmith shop, a café, a general store, and a one-cell jail. There was no hotel. When they reined up before the jail's office, a door opened and there was no friendliness in the hard eyes of the lawman who stood looking at them.

“Sheriff Webber,” said Amanda, “I have some friends who want to talk to Jim.”

“Nobody allowed, ‘cept next-of-kin,” Webber said sourly.

“As a lawman,” said Wes, “you can't deny a man a chance to speak to his brother.”

“His brother, huh?” Webber said.

“I'm going too,” said Amanda.

“Nobody goes in there wearin' guns,” Webber said.

“Then I'll leave the guns with my
amigo
,” said Wes, unbuckling his gunbelt.

“You sure you don't want the Indian in there too?” Webber asked sarcastically.

“No,” said Wes. “He'll stay out here and be sure nobody listens to our conversation with Jim McCall.”

Webber stepped back into the small office, allowing Wes and Amanda to enter. From the single cell, Jim McCall said nothing. While Webber unlocked the door, Wes studied the young man behind the bars. Like Amanda, he was dressed poorly, but there was something about him—in his dark eyes and rugged face—that Wes found appealing. Webber swung the barred door open, closing it behind Wes and Amanda. When Webber had turned away, Amanda quickly introduced Wes. McCall listened while she explained how Wes and El Lobo had taken part in the fight at the mine.

“I'm obliged,” McCall said, “but I've played out my string. They're stretchin' my neck tomorrow.”

“Only if you stick around for it,” said Wes. “Given the chance, would you ride out and quit the territory, taking Amanda with you?”

“My God, yes, but how?” McCall said. “You saw the kind of men Starke sent against Amanda at the mine. They'll ride us down, you and your pardner along with us.”

“They won't get that far,” said Wes, “if El Lobo and me have an understanding with them tonight. How many men ride for Starke?”

“Maybe fifteen,” McCall said.

“Then he has eleven now,” said Wes, “and several of them wounded. Amanda killed two of them, while El Lobo and me accounted for two more. The rest decided they'd had more than enough.”

“You'll never get out of Pioche alive,” McCall said. “From this window you can see Starke's saloon. Look at all the horses at the hitch rail. He's gettin' that bunch ready to do some killing.”

“Considerate of him, gettin' ‘em all together,” said Wes. “Is there an honest man in the bunch, or is every one a kill-for-hire gunman?”

“Killers, to a man,” McCall said. “Pioche's dying. There ain't enough honest work here to feed a bunch like that, if they was willing.”

It was already dark outside, and light streamed from the windows of the distant Gold Dust Saloon. Suddenly El Lobo appeared in the gloom of the corridor.

“Sheriff go to saloon,” said El Lobo.

“He's gone after them,” McCall said, “and you're trapped in here, just like me.”

“Not for long,” said Wes. “El Lobo, kill that lock.”

With a slug from one of his Colts, El Lobo sprung the lock.

“McCall,” Wes said, “there are two extra horses out front. Take Amanda and ride to your place. El Lobo and me will be along when we can.”

McCall laughed. “What kind of man do you think I am? I'm used to stomping my own snakes, but this time there's enough to go around, so I'll accept your help. But when you face Starke's hired guns, I aim to be right there with you. Webber had a Winchester out there back of his desk. How are you fixed for shells?”