They were about to look elsewhere when Clinch noticed something. A bag resting in the corner. He picked it up and opened it. It was fully packed with clothing and food. His bloodless smile made its latest appearance as he slowly drew his gun.
Albert crouched low on all fours, hoping for all the world that he wasn’t visible. In each hand, he clutched a fistful of white wool, courtesy of the two sheep on either side of him. He pulled hard, making sure they didn’t drift. The flock was made up of approximately sixty sheep, and Albert had concealed himself smack in the center. He knew that as long as the sheep remained grouped together, he should be able to wait out Clinch’s search without being discovered.
They would turn the house upside down, find it empty, and deduce that Albert had fled. After that they would probably head back to town and scour every nook and cranny there too. By the time they realized that he had escaped, he would have such a lead that, even if they guessed which direction he’d gone, they’d never catch up.
He listened intently until finally he detected the outlaws emerging from the cabin. He waited for the sound of horses being mounted. Surely Clinch would give up the search now. But what Albert heard next reined his heartbeat to a screeching halt.
“I know you’re here, Stark.”
Albert noted the sinister pleasure in Clinch’s voice. It chilled him to the bone. He heard the men slowly, methodically walking the premises as they searched for him. How the fuck did he know? And then he realized the idiocy of his mistake. The bag. Clinch had found the bag, opened it up, and seen the supplies. Since only a fool would leave food, water, and supplies behind when riding off into the desert, Clinch would recognize that Albert must still be here.
Albert began to panic. All that stood between him and certain death was a flock of sheep. And Clinch Leatherwood was not the type of man to leave a stone unturned. Albert would be found. And then he would be killed. There would be no explaining the situation, no pleas for mercy. He would die.
He could hear the soft jingle of multiple spurs. They’re getting closer. He realized if he had any hope of saving his own life, he had to act soon. And then a possibility occurred to him. Curtis. Curtis is tied to the corral fence. It couldn’t be more than fifty feet from where Albert was hidden. If he could somehow reach Curtis, he might be able to mount the horse quickly enough to get a head start. Outrunning the outlaws from that point was another matter—Albert was hardly the world’s greatest equestrian—but his only alternative was to wait here and be shot.
From the recesses of his memory, Albert recalled the story of Odysseus’s escape from the cave of Polyphemus. The blind Cyclops had let his sheep out to graze, feeling their backs one by one to ensure that his prisoners were not escaping. However, Odysseus and his men had cleverly attached themselves to the undersides of the giant sheep, using them to slip away to freedom, undetected. It should have been an inspiring image. But Albert was no Odysseus. And Clinch was not blind.
Albert crawled on his stomach through the packed flock, resisting the urge to retch when he felt his hands press into the soft, wet piles of sheep shit and the puddles of foul ovine urine. He slowly made his way, inch by inch, toward Curtis. How much farther did he have to go now? Thirty feet? Twenty? He would have to risk a peek. He held his breath and peered over the top of a sheep back. Curtis was now only about fifteen feet away. Depending on where the outlaws were, he might be able to sprint for it. He turned and looked in the other direction…
… and almost had a stroke. Lewis was standing within spitting distance, facing away from Albert. Albert dropped to the ground and lay motionless on his back. He dared not make a sound. After a few moments, he tried to focus through the mini-forest of sheep legs to see if Lewis was still there, but it was difficult to make anything out. He looked up, but all he could see was the underside of the nearest sheep. Its pink sheep dick stared at him with its single cyclopsian eye—making him think again of Polyphemus—and pissed in his face.
Albert remained frozen, fear now mingled with horror. Once the sheep was finished evacuating its bladder, Albert wiped off his drenched face with his sleeve, trying desperately not to throw up. After he had more or less collected himself, he decided to risk another glance. He slowly peered over the sheep’s back once again. Lewis was gone. He had moved to the other side of the flock. In fact, all the members of the gang were on the opposite side. They appeared to be preparing to search the barn. He would never have a better chance.
His heart in his throat, Albert took a deep breath… and bolted to his feet. He charged through the remaining sheep, scattering them on either side, as he made directly for Curtis. Luck was on his side. He had almost finished untying Curtis’s reins when one of the outlaws spotted him.
“Clinch!”
Clinch and the other members of the gang whirled in Albert’s direction. They immediately drew their guns and started for him, but Albert swung into the saddle and spurred Curtis into a gallop. The outlaws raced to their mounts and broke into pursuit.
Albert leaned in hard as he pushed the horse faster than he ever had in his life. “I never make you go fast, buddy,” he pleaded. “Give it to me today!”
Comprehending, Curtis took his speed up a half notch. Albert could hear the pounding of outlaw hooves behind him as Clinch and his men gained ground. When the surrounding vegetation diminished and the chase reached the open prairie, Albert knew he was in for the long haul. There was nowhere to hide out here. Nothing to do but keep running until escape or death won the day.
And then the gunfire started. The shots were deafening, and out of the corner of his eye Albert could see little geysers of dust erupting from the sand as the bullets struck the ground, several of them just inches away from Curtis’s hooves. “Curtis, you outrun these guys, and I’m gonna take you to a horse whorehouse. You’ll get so much horse pussy. Just please, go faster.”
The gang was still gaining. One of the bullets punctured a hole in the canteen attached to Curtis’s saddle. Water sprayed out behind Albert as he kicked hard at Curtis’s sides. Albert had never ridden so fast and so hard, yet he knew it was not enough. And then something caught his eye off to the left. He turned and saw a puff of black smoke on the horizon.
It was his only hope. He veered hard left just as a bullet whizzed by his right ear. He exhorted Curtis again and again, knowing it was useless—the horse’s legs were already pumping at top speed. Finally, Albert crested a small rise and saw the train tracks below. The freight train was traveling on a perpendicular course to his own. He would get only one shot at this, but if it worked…
He headed straight for it. A few more bullets whistled by him, and then one grazed him on the ankle. He realized it was almost the exact same spot that Charlie Blanche had shot him not so long ago.
The train raced onward, and he raced toward the train. At the final instant, Curtis uncorked a last reserve of speed, evidently bottled for just such an occasion. Horse and rider dashed at the tracks a mere half second before the train barreled past.
For the moment, Albert was safe.
Clinch and his gang were forced to wait for the train to pass completely before they could resume their pursuit. The outlaw horses idled aggressively back and forth, fueled by the fury of their masters. At last, when the caboose whizzed by and shrank into the distance… Albert was gone.
Clinch stared darkly at the receding train as Ben galloped up beside him. “What the hell do we do now, Clinch?”