A half hour later, from the bottom of the trail leading back into town, Lonnie Bonham and Turley Batts stopped and turned in their saddles. They stared up at the sudden clap of thunder that resounded from the hilltop behind them.
“It sounds like our boys just finished taking care of business,” said Batts, talking about Spiller, Penta and Shaner, the ones left behind to blow open the door of the big safe.
“Yeah,” said Lon Bonham, “and a damn good piece of business it was.” He rode with the saddlebags lying over his lap, prepared to quickly throw the money over the side of the trail and get rid of evidence should a party of lawmen come riding up the trail. But the probability of anyone investigating the blast was slim, especially with so many mines working throughout the night.
The two turned forward in their saddles and had started to nudge their horses when they saw four dark figures step into sight, forming a half circle around them on the trail.
Bonham raised the saddlebags and sat ready to hurl them away.
“Don’t do something stupid,” said a deep voice. The man moved closer, coming more clearing into sight in the pale light of the moon.
“Christ in a canoe!” said Turley Batts. “It’s Dirty Dave Atlo.”
Dirty Dave gave him a slim, evil grin, holding a double-barreled shotgun pointed and cocked up at him.
“See how smart you are, Batts, when you apply yourself?” he said. He looked past Batts at Bonham and said, “Lonnie, you stinking little bastard. I hope you do try to throw that money over the cliff, so I can air your guts out for you.”
“Sit tight, Lon!” Batts ordered, knowing Bonham well enough to anticipate that he would drop the saddlebags and go for his gun. To Dave Atlo he said weakly, “What money are you talking about, Dave?”
“Jesus, I can’t believe I let you Denver City idiots beat me out of money,” said Dirty Dave. The shotgun bucked in his hand, lighting his face blue-orange in a blossom of firelight.
Batts flew from his saddle as the bulk of the scrap iron load sliced through his chest and face. His horse screamed loud and long. Catching some of the perimeter of the shot in its neck and withers, the animal reared high and fell away onto its side. But before it fell, as it stood on its hind hooves between Lonnie Bonham and Dirty Dave, Bonham made his move.
Slinging the bags over the edge of the trail, he jerked his Colt from its holster and fired furiously, one of his shots flinging Dirty Dave from his saddle. But the other three shotguns blossomed and exploded in the darkness, pounding Bonham mercilessly.
“That’ll do!” shouted Macon Ray Silverette, rasping and choking in the looming broil of burnt powder. He called over to Dirty Dave, who stood bowed at the waist on the far side of the trail from him, “You hit, Dave?”
“Hell yes, I’m hit, you damn fool!” Dave growled as Macon Ray reached and gently took the shotgun from his hand. “I’m gut-shot… belly to backbone!” he gasped, and added, “I feel blood running down my ass.”
“Now, there’s a picture I would not pay to look at,” said Ray, lifting Dave’s Colt from its holster and shoving it down behind his belt.
“Wha-what are you doing?” Dirty Dave asked, in a distrusting voice.
“Lightening your load, Dirty Dave,” said Macon Ray.
“I won’t need no lightening, once I’m in the saddle,” said Dave, pain coming to his voice. “And don’t call me Dirty Dave. I’ve warned you enough!” he managed to growl.
“Dirty Dave, your warnings don’t impress me the way they used to, say… an hour ago?” Ray grinned. He patted Dave on the back. “Anyway, I’m lightening your load so you don’t have as much to carry, bringing the saddlebags up to us.” He gestured a hand toward the edge of the trail, beyond the bodies of the two outlaws—beyond one dead, and one dying, thrashing horse.
“Are you—are you kidding me?” said Dave as Albert Kinney walked in closer from across the trail, his shotgun still smoking in his hands.
“Joe,” said Macon Ray with a dark chuckle, “he wants to know if I’m kidding him.”
Joe Fackler pitched a rope on the ground at Dave’s feet.
Dave shook his bowed head and said, “You can’t expect me to climb down that cliff. Look at me.” He held a bloody hand up from his belly.
“I told you I was winning on that cockfight, Dirty Dave,” Fackler said in a sullen tone.
“Well, there you have it,” Macon Ray said, patting Dave’s bowed back. “Tie that rope around your waist. We’ll help you skin on down the cliff side. You just tie the saddlebags onto the rope and give it a yank, and we’ll pull them up.”
“I’m no fool,” said Dave, his voice sounding more pained. “What about me? Are you pulling me back up too?”
“That’s a tough one to call right now, Dave,” said Macon Ray. “I’d like to tell you we will, but knowing our outlaw nature…” He let his words trail.
“If you’re not throwing the rope back down for me, I’m not going down,” Dave said firmly.
“Suit yourself, Dirty Dave,” said Ray. He looked at Joe Fackler. “We can’t waste time here. You can bet Grolin’s men are trailing the money.” He looked back along the dark trail. “Air him out, Joe,” he said.
“My pleasure,” said Fackler, breaking open his shotgun, plucking out two spent shells and reaching into his pocket for fresh rounds.
“Please, Joe,” said Dave Atlo.
But Fackler only stared coldly at him as he reloaded.
“I had just won twenty dollars on one fight,” he said bitterly, snapping the shotgun shut.
“All right, wait! Hold it!” said Dave, forcing himself to straighten up. “I’ll go down and send the money up. If you don’t throw that rope back down for me, may you all rot in hell.”
Fackler and Ray grinned.
Moments later, Ray stood watching, smoking a cigarette, rifle in hand, keeping an eye on the back trail as Albert Kinney and Joe Fackler lowered the wounded outlaw over the edge and down the steep rocky hillside.
“He’s got it!” Kinney called back over his shoulder.
“Haul it up,” said Macon Ray, walking over to the edge and staring down at Dave’s shadowy, wounded figure standing on a ledge staring up at him.
“Here it comes!” said Kinney, pulling the rope up until the saddlebags flopped over on to the edge of the trail.
Ray chuckled and flipped his cigarette butt out over the edge. He stopped and untied the saddlebags, opened them and looked inside with a widening smile, Fackler and Kinney crowding his elbow as he untied the rope.
“Boys, here’s your cockfight,” he said. Shaking the stacks of money in the bags, he closed the flaps, tied them and slung the bags over his shoulder.
“What about him?” Kinney asked, gesturing down into the darkness.
“Tie it off on a tree and throw the rope back down to him,” said Ray, feeling generous. “He won’t live the night either way.”
On the ledge below, one hand holding his bleeding belly, Dave stared up toward the sound of their voices.
“What about… that rope?” he called up in a failing voice.
“Here it comes,” said Macon Ray.
Dave saw and felt the rope lash down the steep hillside and dangle beside him. Grabbing it quickly, he tied it around his waist.
“All right, give me a pull,” he said, holding on to the bite of the rope with both hands. “Ready when you are,” he added, after a moment of silence from the edge above him.
“Ray…? Joe…?” He stood with blood running down him front and back. “Damn it to hell,” he said finally, hearing the sound of horses’ hooves move off quickly along the rocky trail.
Chapter 10
