On his hands and knees, Longarm crawled rapidly toward the dam. He didn't want to shoot at Flint's men because his own muzzle flashes would just give them something at which to aim. When he had almost reached the dam, he slid down the steep slope and wound up in the thick shadows underneath the flume.
Longarm moved under the flume in a crouching run and came out on the other side. Craning his neck, he looked up at the top of the dam looming above him. As he had feared, Flint was starting out onto the dam once more. Longarm was convinced he had brought more dynamite with him.
The hired killers were still throwing lead into the place where Longarm had been a few minutes earlier, but they weren't hitting anything except some tree branches. Longarm knew it wouldn't take them long to realize he had gotten out of there once some of the gunmen reached the far side of the pond. He went to one of the thick logs that supported the framework of the flume and wrapped his arms and legs around it. He began shinnying up the pole toward the flume itself.
As he climbed, he heard the sudden pounding of hoofbeats in the forest nearby. Someone yelled, "Over there!" Longarm thought it might have been Matt Kinsman. A moment later, more guns began to bang. The dusk was lit by near-constant flashes of exploding gunpowder.
The help he had sent Molly and Wing for had arrived--and just in time too.
Longarm kept climbing. He leaned his head back and looked up, spotting the dark figure of Jared Flint atop the dam. Flint was fumbling with something, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what it was. Longarm lost sight of the man as he reached the flume itself. He reached up and caught hold of the trough's edge with one hand, then two. Pain shrieked in his back as he pushed off from the framework with his legs and dangled there for a moment. That bullet crease was not yet fully healed, and Longarm figured he had just torn it open again.
Pulling himself up with a grunt of effort, he swung a leg over the flume's edge and caught his heel on it. He was able to lever himself up and roll over, landing in the still-dry flume. The angle was extreme, but he began scrambling toward the top, even as Flint struck another match and moved it toward the fuse of the second bundle of dynamite.
"Flint!" Longarm bellowed, trying to startle the man into dropping the match or the dynamite or both. Instead, Flint jerked his head around to peer down into the flume, and in the light of the match, his features contorted with hate as he saw Longarm climbing toward him. With a sneer, he reached down for the sluice gate handle with the hand holding the match.
Longarm's eyes widened, and he threw all of his strength into lunging upward toward Flint. There was no time for gunplay now, only for a desperate grab. Longarm's hand shot out and closed over Flint's ankle just as the timber company foreman pulled the sluice gate.
Water slammed into Longarm and rocketed him back down the flume, but his fingers were still wrapped around Flint's ankle in a grip of iron. With a yell, Flint was jerked off the dam and crashed down into the flume just above Longarm. The force of the water carried both of them down the mountainside in a mad, careening ride.
Longarm's mouth was full of water. He spit out as much of it as he could and coughed up some more. The racing water, which was moving with enough force to carry huge logs down the flume, slammed him into the sides of the structure. He bounced off and kept going. He had ridden the rapids of some raging rivers in his time, and this experience was somewhat similar. There was nothing he could do except let himself go limp and hope the wild ride wouldn't kill him.
Something hit him in the head, but it wasn't the side of the flume. It was Jared Flint's work-booted foot. Flint kicked at Longarm again as he slid down alongside the lawman. The flume was wide enough for both of them to go flying down it side by side. Through the turbulent water that splashed in his face, Longarm saw Flint reaching for him, felt the man's fingers close around his throat.
Longarm was already gasping for breath due to the fact that his head was constantly going in and out of the water. Flint had caught him at a bad time, when there was little air in his lungs. Desperate, Longarm struck out at Flint with his fists, hoping to knock Flint's grip loose. Instead the fingers only tightened. A gray haze that had nothing to do with nightfall began settling over Longarm's vision. He knew he was very close to losing consciousness, and if he did, Flint would kill him.
Then, suddenly, there was nothing underneath him. The water fell away, leaving Longarm and Flint shooting through thin air.
Of course, thought Longarm. The construction of the flume had only started.
They had reached the end of the line.
Instinctively, Longarm grasped Flint's shirt and twisted in midair as they traveled through a long, graceful curve toward the ground. Tree branches caught at them, slowing them slightly, then with a crash that jolted all of Longarm's teeth, they slammed into the earth. Longarm's quick thinking had put Flint on the bottom, though, and he bore the brunt of the impact. Flint's fingers were torn from Longarm's throat as their landing knocked the two men apart and sent them rolling separately down the slope.
Water was gushing in rivulets around Longarm when he finally came to a stop. The torrent pouring off the end of the flume was washing down the Mountainside. The cold water revived the stunned lawman, and he lifted his head to look toward the flume. As he watched, the flood came to a halt, dying away to a trickle. Someone up above had thought to lower the sluice gate once more. There were no more shots coming from up there either. The fight was over.
Longarm wondered who had won. For the time being, he was more concerned with Jared Flint. Here under the trees, the shadows were even thicker and darker, but after a moment he spotted the sprawled bulk that could only be Flint. Longarm pushed himself to his feet, groaning at the pain shooting through his battered body. He stumbled toward Flint, and as he did, he checked the holster on his hip. The gun he had taken from the dead guard at the outlaw camp was gone, which came as no surprise.
He didn't need it, he told himself. If Flint put up a fight, Longarm would kill the son of a bitch with his bare hands.
Flint wasn't going to be putting up a fight, though, not ever again. Longarm dropped to one knee beside the man, who lay on his back staring up sightlessly at the stars now appearing through the spaces in the canopy of trees. Slamming into the ground at such high speed with Longarm on top of him like that had probably busted up Flint inside. When Longarm grasped Flint's shoulder and turned him onto his side, even in the faint starlight he could see that the damage was much worse. The whole back of Flint's skull was caved in. He had to have died almost instantly.
With a sigh, Longarm pushed himself to his feet. The threat of Flint's schemes was over. Now he had to hope that Flint's hired gunmen had been dealt with as well.
"Custis! Damn it, Custis, where are you?"
Longarm lifted his head. That was Molly Kinsman's voice. She wouldn't be up here unless the forces led by her father had won the battle. Longarm began trudging wearily up the Mountainside toward the dam.
When he reached it a few minutes later, looking no doubt like a half-drowned rat, he saw that several lanterns had been lit. Matt Kinsman's cowboys and some of the loggers from Aurora's camp were standing together around several prisoners, covering the captured gunmen with rifles. Molly, Matt Kinsman, Joe Traywick, Wing, Aurora Mcentire, and Ben Callahan, of all people, stood near the dam. Molly spotted Longarm and ran toward him, shouting excitedly, "Custis!" She threw her arms around him, ignoring his soaked clothing.
Kinsman strode after her, followed by Traywick, who limped along being supported by Wing. Traywick's injured foot hadn't stopped him from being in on this showdown.
Aurora and Callahan joined the group clustering around Longarm.
"You all right, Marshal?" Kinsman demanded gruffly. "Or is my daughter about to squeeze you to death?"