From up on that ridge, the bushwhackers could see down into this cluster of rocks. The area that was protected from their bullets was a tiny one. Sam tried to fit himself into it, but as big and rangy as he was, that wasn’t easy.
He made himself as small as possible and then tried to catch his breath. His left shoulder ached from falling on it, but he moved his arm around enough to know that nothing was broken, only bruised and battered.
He moved his right hand to his hip. The Colt was still in its holster. Sam drew the weapon, and even though he knew the range to the ridge was too great for a handgun, he felt better holding the revolver.
If he stayed where he was, maybe sooner or later the bushwhackers would get tired of the standoff and come after him.
That was when he would have his chance to use the Colt.
On the other hand, if they were smart they might just try to wait him out. The sun was climbing in the sky, and he didn’t have any shade here. It wouldn’t be too many hours before his position would become unbearably hot.
Then his choice would be to leave his cover and probably get shot down, or stay there and bake.
The rifle fire stopped. Sam figured the two bushwhackers were up there on the ridge talking about the situation and trying to figure out what to do next.
He wondered if the shots would draw any attention from the Devil’s Pitchfork. The sound of them might have reached the ranch headquarters.
But if the bushwhackers were two of John Henry Boyd’s men, which Sam supposed was possible, then it wouldn’t really matter.
Sam lifted his head just enough to glance at the ridge. As he did, a bullet slammed into the rock about a foot away. A stone splinter stung his cheek. More shots blasted and sent slugs ricocheting off the rock as he ducked down again.
Well, they were still up there watching and still wanted him dead, he reflected. He had established that beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Staying as low as possible, Sam turned his head to look for his horse. He didn’t know how badly the animal had been wounded.
To his relief, he saw the horse grazing on the hardy bunchgrass about a hundred yards away. A bloody streak on its hip showed where a bullet had creased it for the second time, causing the violent reaction that had cost Sam his place in the saddle.
Sam’s gaze lingered on the butt of the Winchester that rode in a sheath strapped under the left stirrup.
He wished he had the rifle. Pinned down like he was, the Winchester wouldn’t do him much good, but with it the odds might not have seemed quite so overwhelming.
He blinked as beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and trickled down into his eyes. The heat was getting worse.
Already his mouth felt like cotton.
The shooting had stopped again. The bushwhackers were going to wait and let the sun do their work for them, Sam thought. How long could he stand it before he was forced into the open?
With no warning, more shots abruptly blasted out. Instinctively, Sam lowered his head even more, but after a second he realized that he didn’t hear any bullets ricocheting off the rocks around him.
Not only that, but the sound of the shots was different as well. They were coming from somewhere else on the ridge.
And they weren’t directed at him.
The duller boom of six-guns being fired came to his ears. It sounded like quite a battle was going on up there.
Sam risked a look and caught a glimpse of two figures on horseback vanishing over the top of the ridge. They were moving fast, and the shots that still rang out hurried them on their way.
Were those the bushwhackers, Sam wondered, or had whoever was trying to come to his aid been forced to flee?
Either way, he knew this might be the only chance he had to get out of this trap. He leaped to his feet and broke into a long-legged sprint toward his horse.
No bullets came searching for him. When he reached the horse, he yanked the Winchester from the saddleboot, worked the lever to throw a round into the chamber, and whipped around toward the ridge, ready to return fire if any came his way.
Silence had fallen over the valley again. Sam turned his head to look all around him, searching for any other sign of a threat. He didn’t see any, but he didn’t relax his vigilance.
Movement on the ridge caught his eye. He picked out two riders working their way down the slope. They were too far away for him to make out any details, but something about them was familiar.
When they reached the floor of the valley and rode toward him, he realized what it was. He recognized the two horses: a buckskin and a paint.
That was Stovepipe Stewart and Wilbur Coleman riding toward him.
Sam’s forehead creased in a frown as he thought about the two cowboys. From the looks of it, they had rescued him from the bushwhackers.
But there had been two bushwhackers, too, Sam reminded himself. It was possible Stovepipe and Wilbur could have been the men he had seen retreating over the ridge. They could have pretended to flee, circled around, and be riding toward him now intending to claim that they had saved his bacon.
But why would they do that? Maybe to gain his trust, Sam thought.
However, there was no doubt in his mind that the hidden riflemen wanted him dead. Those shots had come too close to be any sort of warning or ruse.
Which meant that if Stovepipe and Wilbur had been the ones shooting at him, they might be riding up to Sam now in apparent innocence so they could blast the life out of him as soon as they got close enough.
Those thoughts went through his head in a flash. He looked at the approaching cowboys again.
Their rifles were booted, and their Colts were holstered. They were in rifle range now, so Sam brought the Winchester to his shoulder, leveled it at them, and called out, “Hold it right there, you two!”
Stovepipe and Wilbur reined in. Stovepipe leaned forward in the saddle with a puzzled frown on his craggy face.
“Why in Hades are you pointin’ that rifle at us, Sam?” he asked. “It appears to me we just done you a mighty big favor, the sort that usually prompts a fella to say gracias instead of threatenin’ to ventilate somebody.”
“I’m just trying to make sure I have everything sorted out the right way,” Sam said. “What are you doing out here? Following me?”
Stovepipe surprised him by answering, “Yep. That’s exactly what we were doin’.”
Sam’s frown deepened as he asked, “Why would you do that?”
Stovepipe rested both hands on his saddle horn and grinned. He said, “Because Wilbur and me, we got a hunch that you might be lookin’ for the same fellas we are.”
Sam was curious enough now that he lowered the rifle slightly.
“Come on over here so we can talk easier,” he said. “But don’t try anything funny, because I’ll be watching you.”
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Wilbur said.
They hitched their horses into motion again and rode slowly toward Sam. He kept the rifle pointed in their general direction and his finger was ready on the trigger.
When they were close enough, he called, “All right, stop there. Now dismount one at a time.”
Stovepipe looked at Wilbur, who shrugged.
“All right, I’ll go first,” Stovepipe said. “Don’t get trigger-happy now, Sam.”
The lanky cowboy swung down from the saddle. Holding on to his horse’s reins with one hand, he raised the other hand to shoulder height.
“See? Not tryin’ anything funny.”
“Now you, Wilbur,” Sam said.
Wilbur dismounted and didn’t make any threatening moves, either.
Once they were both on the ground, Sam lowered the rifle to his waist. He could still fire from the hip with blinding speed if he needed to.
“What’s this about us looking for the same men?” he asked.
“Well, in order to tell you about it, I’m gonna have to ask you to believe a couple of things we can’t prove right now,” Stovepipe drawled. “The first bein’ that we ain’t who we seem to be.”