Shotgun Charlie (21 page)

“Randy, don't be a fool! That boy is going to die out there at Haskell's hands and you—”

A quick, high-pitched scream sounded, then clipped off, only its echo continuing for scant seconds before disappearing in the wind.

“Hoy! Hoy?” Scoville threw down the whiskey bottle he'd taken from Wickham's saddlebags. “I'm comin'!” He ran toward the scream.

“Randy, no! Don't do it! It's what he wants!” Wickham heard the foolhardy youth's footsteps punching away into the night. “Randy!” Soon there was only the wind and blowing snow.

Then came a grunt from beside him. Dodd Wickham leaned over onto an elbow. “Charlie?” he whispered. “You okay, boy?” His own head thudded like a cannon fusillade, but he did his best to ignore it. Had to wake the boy. They had no time before Haskell found them.

It took what felt to Wickham like long, long minutes—too long—but finally Charlie Chilton came around. Wickham scooted over close and Charlie was able to untie his hands, though the boy was acting dull-witted. As he untied their feet, Wickham explained what had happened, telling Charlie who the two men were and why they were there.

Charlie nodded and rubbed his temples slowly.

“You're worrying me, Charlie. You took a mighty knock to the bean. Too many more of those and you'll be a blithering idiot.”

“Don't know what one of them is, but I'd guess I wouldn't like it. I'll be all right soon enough.”

Wickham snatched up the bottle of whiskey Randy had tossed aside. It was still a third full. He gulped a couple of swallows then offered it to Charlie.

The big man shook his head. “Never have had any yet,” he said.

Wickham tossed it aside. “Good. Don't ever start, you hear me? It's bad news for the man who can't stop. Trust me on that score. Now grab a handful of snow. Rub it on your face, hard. Work it in like sand, and then eat a fresh handful. Trust me, Charlie. It'll help revive you, straighten out the kinks in your head.” He grinned at Charlie. “I know because I have 'em too.”

Charlie did as Marshal Wickham told him to, and it helped. He felt less mechanical, a little bit more himself. He ate more snow and it felt good, in and out. “What do we do, then?”

“Since Randy saw fit to run off and leave us, no matter his noble cause, we have to arm ourselves and get away from this firelight. Might be if we leave it Haskell will be attracted to it, like a moth to an oil lamp. We can only hope.”

It took some minutes, but they scavenged Wickham's rifle and two revolvers, and then he rummaged in the snow and pulled out the shotgun Charlie had carried. “Here,” Wickham said, jamming it into Charlie's hands. “You're going to have to learn to use this thing, and quick. If Randy's campsite rampage didn't upend everything in my bags, I have a dozen shells for this thing.”

He found them and handed them to Charlie, who brushed him away. “I can load it. I'm not a child, Marshal Wickham.”

“Well, Charlie, that's good to hear. Now let's stick together, walk quietly, and head in that direction yonder. It's opposite from where Randy headed.”

“But what about him? Shouldn't we help him?”

“That's what we're doing,” said Wickham. “If we walk right into Haskell, what good will we be to Randy?”

“You sure the other fella's dead?”

Bending low and wincing with each step, Wickham beckoned Charlie to follow him, deeper into the dark night, snow swirling about them. “If that scream wasn't the last thing that poor boy ever said, I'll eat my hat.”

They walked in stop-start fashion for a dozen yards, each man suppressing pain from various wounds and afflictions accumulated over the previous several days. Neither felt much like trudging through the snowy sparse woods looking for a freshly killed man, another who might soon end up the same, and trying to evade the dripping knife of a murderous fiend who might or might not be watching them while they trudged. . . .

They walked a couple of man lengths apart, each keeping track of the other with a wide eye. Marshal Wickham periodically bent low, scanned the snow, shook his head. Within a few hundred yards of the camp, Charlie glanced back but could no longer see the weak fire they'd left behind in the small lean-to.

A strangled cry far off to their right froze them in their tracks.

“Randy!” growled the marshal. “Come on.” He motioned to Charlie and they bolted toward the sound, each knowing that Haskell had probably done in the young man, each doubting that it had been the other way around.

They hadn't scramble-slid ten yards when they heard a shout.

“That all of ya? That all you got? I doubt you'd only send two men—make that boys!” A laugh cut through the zinging wind sounding like a saw blade dragged over rusted wire. “You keep on a-comin'. You know where to find ol' Grady!” The laugh trailed off, some distance from where they'd heard the cry.

“Hask—” Charlie began bellowing the killer's name, but Wickham clapped a long, cold hand over the big man's mouth.

“Don't let him know there's more of us, and don't let him know where we're at! It's our only hope!” Wickham hissed the words close to Charlie's ear.

Charlie nodded, but it was all he could do to keep rein on his animalistic rage. He wanted to twist off Haskell's head with his bare hands.

“Come on,” whispered Wickham. “Time enough for him. We got to find the boys.”

And it didn't take them long. Wickham was in the lead, walking slowly and scanning left, then right, when he held out an arm and made a low whimper. Charlie looked down and there they were.

The snow had yet to cover the slumped forms of the two young men with more than a light dusting. Wickham had bent down, grabbed the shoulder of the top form. The body flopped to the side. It was Deputy Randy Scoville. From the looks of the scene, he'd been bent over the prone form of his friend Hoy when Haskell had come up behind him and stabbed him high in the back.

As soon as Charlie realized this, he dropped to one knee and scanned the snowy scene, holding the loaded shotgun outthrust and ready. Wickham said close to his ear, “They're done, Charlie. Both of 'em. Vicious brute stabbed them both bad. Let's go get Haskell.”

Charlie welcomed the idea. No more was said. No more needed to be said . . . for the time being. They resumed their former way of progressing—the old lawman in the lead, bent low and scouring the snow for tracks. Charlie followed close, hunched low and ready to squeeze the trigger on the shotgun. He kept the remaining shells divided between his two outer coat pockets, their reassuring weight bumping against his gut as they walked.

Marshal Wickham halted, straightened, nodded ahead to where the trees thinned at the top of a rise. “See what I see?”

Charlie squinted. “No . . . wait. It's starting to get light.”

“Yep,” said the lawman. “Good for us. Bad for Haskell. We'll wait here a few minutes more. Hold your patience, Charlie. That bad seed isn't going anywhere soon.”

It was all Charlie could do to stay low as the sun made its slow climb skyward, brightening the landscape surrounding them, the snowfall slowing at the same time. Despite the sad, brutal situation they found themselves in, Charlie thought the snow was such a pretty thing, like a gossamer blanket laid over everything. Too bad so much evil rummaged under it.

“It's time, Charlie. Let's climb up to the rise, see what's what.”

They did, switchbacking and keeping an eye out for anything that might vaguely resemble a killer in waiting. As they topped the rise, both men flattened out in the snow. And for the second time, the old lawman nodded, said, “See what I see?”

And Charlie did—down the slope in the gulch below sat the little miner's shack that had to be the one Haskell had mentioned. But the most unusual bit of it all was the thread of smoke rising out of the shack's tin chimney pipe, up into the windless gray sky of early morning.

“What's he on about?” Wickham squinted at the shack. “Does he think he's done with the posse? Or maybe he figures he can snipe easier from inside at whoever else comes?”

Charlie shrugged, studied the lay of the land. Now it began to make sense to him. Stretching from the shack in a long curving fashion southward, the trail they had been following for days led down. That meant their camp for the night was not too far down there too. He thought of Nub, of Missy, Marshal Wickham's horse, and the horses of the two other men, Deputy Scoville and his friend. He hoped the morning would turn warm and sunny for the horses.

“Because there's smoke doesn't mean Haskell's in there.” Wickham said it aloud, though it sounded to Charlie as if it had been a private thought that had somehow escaped through his mouth.

He nodded. “But what if he is?”

Wickham turned his head, half faced him. “Then we best find out.”

“How?”

“Simplest way's the best, I find. And that means we take him as close to head-on as we can. I expect he'll be looking for trouble first from the trail down below. That's the direction we would have come from. But if we approach the shack from the northwest, to our left, we can maybe gain a little edge on the surprise. There's no window that side, the side facing the trail from the south. With any luck there won't be a window on the north side either.”

Charlie nodded. “And it looks like there's plenty of rocks and a few trees to hide behind as we get closer.”

“You're learning, Charlie Chilton. Now let's go back downslope, head north toward that copse. Good place for us to set off toward the cabin from.”

It took them much of an hour to make their way to the stand of trees that bristled to the northwest of the shack, some four hundred yards away in the gulch. By then the sun had crested the ragged peaks around them and set the snowed landscape to glittering. It was pretty, but harsh and blinding, and had made their route a slow affair.

They made it to the trees and slumped with their backs to a couple of large ones, facing the shack. “He's down there, warm and snug, and we're up here shivering in the trees. I'd sorely love a little campfire right about now.”

Wickham nodded. “Not a prayer, Charlie. We can't tip him off yet. Might be he doesn't know there's anyone left out here. Now, I think we should low-crawl toward the shack. You angle up and over, and then come down at it straight on from the north. I'll come at it from this side, the northwest. Then when we both get about thirty yards or so from it, I'll motion to you like this.” He waved his left arm in a wide arc. “And then get set, because I'm going to open the ball.”

“What's that mean?”

“Means I'm going to raise a ruckus. Likely I'll shout something to provoke him into action. With any luck he'll scamper on out his south-facing door and come around right into my sights.”

“What'll you do then?” asked Charlie, blowing on his fingers.

Wickham recoiled as if the big young man had slapped him. “What do you think I'll do? I'll shoot the evil creature.”

“Okay,” said Charlie. “But what about me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't you think I deserve a chance to . . . to lay him low?”

Wickham smiled, shook his head. “Charlie. You aren't a killer. You ever shot a man, Charlie?”

The big man shook his head no.

“Well, I have. And it's not something you can let go of. Ever. You're a good person, Charlie. Don't let Haskell taint you any more than he has already. Now stop yammering at me and let's get going.” Wickham cat-footed away from him, looked back, and said, “Keep your head low, Charlie Chilton. And do as I say and we'll make it out in good shape.”

“Yes, sir.” Charlie nodded. “You too.” He watched Wickham go for a moment, not sure of anything, not convinced of anything. He crouched low and headed in his own direction.

Scant minutes later, they were still both in sight of each other, despite a few moments when they lost sight of each other behind boulders, scrub bushes, and stunted trees. Charlie looked toward the shack. Smoke still climbed up steady but thin out of the chimney. We don't even know if he's in there. Maybe he's long gone. And where are the man's horses? Should have three or four of them.

A far-off whinny, then another, were his unexpected responses—from the east, sounded like. Charlie strained to see up that rise behind the shack, raised himself up on one knee—had to be Haskell was keeping the horses in those trees to the east. . . .

A
spang!
sound cracked the silent morning air. Rock chips spattered in Charlie's face. He dropped down, more out of instinct than strategy, and gritted his teeth, one hand held to the right side of his face. He pulled it away. The cold red palm was speckled with blood.

“I see you out there, you big galoot! I knowed you was coming! Ol' Grady knows everything, Charlie boy! Wanna know another thing I know?”

The cold air carried Grady's voice perfectly straight to Charlie's ears. Charlie shook his head, tears of rage stinging the tiny rock cuts on his face. Before he could stop himself, he shouted, “No! You shut up now, Haskell!”

“Charlie boy, I got you pinned. I can even see your big ol' ham legs, Charlie boy!” As if to prove his point, shots, one after another, drove all around Charlie, some digging into the earth, spraying snow and gravel in their paths, some spanging off the big rock behind which he was poorly hidden. One chewed a divot in the toe of his right boot.

Charlie let out a yelp and pulled his legs up as tight as he could to his body. He was pinned down. He tried not to make the sounds he was making, but he couldn't help it. And the lead kept raining.

There wasn't a thing he could do. It was a matter of time before one of Haskell's shots hit him. Then another, and another. . . . Think, Charlie, he told himself. Think of something smart. . . .