Dimly, Shores realized Curly Means had turned and was galloping back the way they had come. He thought his neck would snap when his body suddenly whipped around.
The other Hoodoos were hollering encouragement.
Shores was ebbing fast. He had not had much energy to begin with, and the lack of breath was more than his body could endure. Again he heard Curly change direction. This time his neck would break; there was no escaping it. Thankfully, his consciousness faded, and his last thought before he pitched into the abyss was that this was a damn stupid way to die.
Chapter Eighteen
Ubel Gunther did not know what to think. He and his men were approaching Painted Rock from the northwest. Their view of the saloon and the street in front of it was blocked by the enormous boulder that gave the settlement its name, so they were quite close when they observed some men in wide-brimmed hats and slickers whooping and laughing while another was dragging someone dressed in a suit at the end of a rope. The rider reached the north end of the street and reined sharply around. As he did, an old Indian raced from concealment at the side of a house and slashed the cowboy’s rope with a tomahawk. The man in the suit rolled up against a picket fence. Before the rider realized the rope had been cut, the Indian had the man in the suit draped over a slim shoulder and was loping toward a stand of trees.
“What is that all about?” Hans wondered. He had his rifle out.
“Drunken cowboys,” Ubel guessed. “They won’t bother us if we don’t bother them.” He scanned the hamlet. “I don’t see Fabrizio or his party. We have beaten them here. Gut.”
The idea had come to Gunther two nights earlier. He had been warming himself by the fire when Trask mentioned they should reach Painted Rock in a few days. “Exactly how many, I can’t rightly say. But we’re close. The people you’re after won’t get there much ahead of you.”
“I wish we could arrive before they do and arrange a suitable reception,” Ubel said. Then it hit him: Why couldn’t they? He posed the question to Trask.
“They’re not more than ten to twelve miles ahead. Swing wide to the north, ride all night, and by morning you’ll be in front of them. All you have to do after that is head due southeast.”
“I should have thought of this sooner.” Ubel had shot to his feet. “We leave this minute.” At a snap of his fingers, Hans and the rest began gathering up their saddle blankets and saddles. Trask, though, continued sipping coffee. “You will join us, will you not?”
“I will not.”
“But we need you to guide us to the settlement. And don’t forget. My offer of an additional five hundred dollars still stands.”
“You just don’t hear so good, do you? I’m a tracker. Not an assassin. I also told you the day we met that as soon as my job was done, we’d go our own ways. That time has come. At first light, I’m lightin’ a shuck for Denver and my wife.”
“I have never met anyone who would pass up five hundred dollars,” Ubel commented.
“Blame my Arapaho half. I’m not as fond of money as most whites are. To me, it’s a means to an end, not an end in itself.”
On that philosophical note, they had parted company.
Ubel had done as Trask advised, and now here they were at Painted Rock with plenty of time to set a trap. Fabrizio and his friends would ride right into their blazing rifles.
Oscar was staring at the only log cabin in Painted Rock. “Why are those people tied to that building?”
Intent on the commotion, Ubel hadn’t noticed them. Nor the bodies of a man and a dog in the street. Neither were acceptable. Fabrizio would see the bodies and be on his guard when he rode in. It was all due to the rowdy cowhands, Ubel reasoned. Reaching under his jacket, he loosened his revolver in its holster.
The four drunks were fanning out and moving toward the trees. They stopped at the sight of Ubel and his men, and a big ox with a bushy beard declared, “I swear! This place is gettin’ more crowded by the minute!”
“Greetings, gentlemen,” Ubel said cordially, touching his cane to his hat. “Is it me, or are you doing your utmost to turn this quaint bastion of civilization into a model of anarchy?”
A cowboy with curly hair whistled in mock admiration. “Lord Almighty, but don’t he talk pretty? His tongue must be solid silver.”
“Maybe we should invite ’em for a drink,” suggested a swarthy cowboy with a bone-handled knife on his hip.
The youngest cowboy, who wore matching pearl-handled Colts, spat in the dust. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with a bunch of yacks wearin’ chamber pots on their heads. Especially when these yacks must be more John Laws.”
“I beg your pardon?” Ubel said. “You suspect we’re law officers?” The idea amused him. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“So you say,” the young one responded. “Then who the hell are you, mister? And what are you doing here?”
Hans leveled his rifle. “You will not talk to Mr. Gunther in that tone of voice, cowboy.”
“Is that a fact?” The young one’s Colts blossomed in his hands as if from out of thin air.
“No—!” Ubel exclaimed. He hoped to avoid a needless confrontation. But his hope was dashed when the young hothead shot Hans in the chest. Quick as thought, the young one swiveled toward Arne. The other cowboys were unlimbering their hardware, and the next instant the settlement rocked to artificial thunder. Hot lead flew every which way.
Bending low, Ubel spurred his mount toward a gap between the general store and the saloon. “Fol low me!” he shouted. He drew his revolver and twisted just as a slug whipped his bowler from his head. Another nicked his left arm. He saw Hans on the ground but still alive, feverishly working his Winchester. Oscar and Rutger were close behind him, but Arne must not have heard his command and was racing toward the cabin.
The cowboy with the bone-handled knife fanned his pistol twice. Rutger’s horse whinnied and tumbled, throwing Rutger clear. He hit hard but rolled and sprang erect, all in the same motion. Sprinting for the gap, he sent shot after shot at the dispersing cowboys.
Ubel galloped to the rear of the buildings. Swinging down from his saddle, he holstered his revolver and pulled the Winchester out. Moments later, Oscar joined him. Ubel led him on foot toward the front, where Rutger was reloading. The gunfire had stopped.
“I hit one,” Rutger reported. “The big one. I saw him stumble, but he made it to cover.”
All the cowboys had. Ubel didn’t see them anywhere. Hans was dead. Over near the cabin lay Arne’s horse. Arne was alive but wounded and had crawled behind it. He waved to them.
“Damn stupid cowboys!” Oscar fumed.
Ubel was thinking about the young one with the pearl-handled Colts. Not many could afford such pistols. A matched set cost a hundred dollars, three months’ wages for a cowhand. “Pearl-handled pistol,” Ubel said to himself and recalled something Leeds had told them before they killed him. “Damn me for not remembering sooner! Those are not cowboys! They are the Hoodoos!”
“Who?” Rutger asked.
“A pack of horse thieves and killers. The stableman told us Fabrizio and his friends were going after them for the bounty money.” Ubel had read the newspaper accounts. “The young one is Kid Falon. I do not remember the rest of their names. But they are not to be taken lightly.”
Oscar peeked out, then had to jerk back when a slug struck the wall inches from his head. “They are good shots.”
Ubel was incensed. This was the last thing he needed. Fabrizio’s party might arrive at any moment. “We must kill these Hoodoos, and quickly. Rutger, stay here and keep them pinned down. Oscar, come with me.”