“See, Corporal Rourke! I got that sucker! Got him good!” Trooper Winslow shouted, still standing, gunshots resounding along the trail below.
“Get down, Trooper!” shouted Corporal Rourke. But his warning came too late for Trooper Winslow.
A shot from the rocks above them exploded, picked the young soldier up and hurled him off the cliff in a mist of blood. His body struck the steep, jagged hillside twice on its way down, then landed with a smack facedown on the hard, rocky trail.
“Uh-oh!” Rourke saw the shot had come from above them and realized there were more men than the six on the trail below. He swung his rifle up and fired as he saw the glint of a rifle barrel in the afternoon sunlight. But as he fired, two other riflemen along the top of a high ridgeline sent shots ricocheting and screaming all around him. As he ducked down, one of the bullets hit him in the collarbone, snapping it like a seasoned twig.
“Damn it, Rourke!” he said, chastising himself. “Just look at you now.” He squeezed the bloody, broken collarbone with his good hand.
On the edge of the trail below, Sergeant Goodrich saw the dead trooper facedown in the trail; he saw the riflemen firing heavily on Rourke’s position—Rourke not firing back at them.
He called out to Trooper Trent, who sat firing from behind a rock ten feet away.
“I fear the corporal is wounded up there,” he shouted. “Give him some help!”
As Silas Dooley and the Dog kept up a merciless barrage of rifle fire, the sergeant and Trent turned their fire up along the high ridge long enough for Rourke to get himself into deeper cover and return fire himself. Between shots, he pulled a dusty bandanna from around his neck, wadded it up and stuffed it inside his coat onto the bleeding collarbone wound.
Captain Boone and Trooper Lukens had moved along the hillside, traveling upward diagonally until they reached a thick stand of rocks at the edge of the trail. The driverless wagon sat a few yards away.
Crouched down behind the wagon, unable to turn the wagon horses or the wagon’s single stuck wheel back onto the trail, Grolin and Swank returned fire relentlessly. But they found themselves pinned down by rifle fire coming from above them and down the edge of the trail. Beside Grolin, Bobby Kane sat leaning back against the wagon wheel without a care in the world. As shots pinged and thumped and whistled past the wagon, Bobby raised his rifle backward and gazed curiously down its dark barrel.
“God almighty!” Grolin cursed in disgust, seeing Bobby grin dreamily. He grabbed Bobby’s loaded rifle and handed Bobby his empty, smoking Winchester.
“Here, load this, idiot!” he shouted. “You’ve got to be good for something.”
“Will do,” Bobby said calmly, the side of his face still purple and swollen from the Giant’s backhanded slap. Seeing smoke rise from the Winchester’s barrel, he stirred his finger around in it, watching it swirl.
Chapter 25
As soon as the fighting started, Rochenbach had rolled away from the tree onto all fours and crawled over to Casings. Stray bullets whistled overhead, thumped into pines and ricocheted off rocks.
“We’re heading straight down this path,” Rochenbcah said, nodding toward a thin break in the trees. “The horses are hidden down there.”
“You’ve got to be crazy, Rock, staying behind with this going on,” Casings said as Rochenbach unlocked his handcuffs and dropped them to the ground. “Change your mind, before somebody lands a bullet in your head.”
“Forget it, Pres,” Rochenbach said as bullets zipped overhead. “We’re not going through all the reasons again. Both of you need to get to a doctor, before you start bleeding out again.”
“Want me to backhand him, Pres, carry him over my shoulder?” said the Giant. His big eyes widened as he saw Rock stand crouched before him with a long boot dagger in his hand. “Just joking,” he said.
“I know,” said Rochenbach. Leaning in, he slipped the blade under the rope holding the huge man to the tree. One slice and the rope fell away.
“Jesus!” said Casings. “You’ve been carrying that around? Didn’t anybody search you?”
“Yes, but not that good,” Rochenbach said.
“When were you going to use it?” Casings asked, seeing Rochenbach run the blade under the rope on the Giant’s wrists and make one swipe through it.
“When it came time to cut somebody loose from a tree,” Rock said, hefting the knife on his palm, then slipping it down his boot well. He stared at Casings as he turned to the hidden path. “Now come on, follow me, get yourselves out of here. I’ll meet you at the doctor’s in Dunbar.”
“The doctor in Dunbar is a drunkard and an opium smoker,” the Giant said.
“So?” Rochenbach responded.
“Nothing,” said the Giant. He shrugged. “Just thought I’d mention it.”
Casings shook his head and fell behind Rochenbach on the narrow path.
“Come on, Giant,” he said, “I know when I’m not wanted.” He grinned, holding the bandanna to his wounded side.
“Me too,” said the Giant, turning to follow Casings. A stray bullet zipped past and opened a seam on the shoulder of his coat. The impact of the shot startled him. “Whoa, let’s get out of here!”
When they’d reached the horses, the Giant looked back and forth, deciding which horse would be strong enough to carry him down off the trail and into Dunbar. Bullets continued to slice through the treetops.
“Take two, Giant!” Casings said, getting impatient. As he spoke, he pulled the reins to three horses loose from a rope hitch line tied between two trees. He handed two sets of reins to the Giant.
“I want to leave a good horse for you, Rock,” the Giant said.
“Don’t worry about me, Giant,” Rochenbach said. “My horse is standing right there. You’re the one needs medical attention.”
Climbing into the saddle, Casings spun his horse toward Rochenbach and pointed a finger at him.
“Dunbar, Rock,” he said. “Don’t make us come back looking for you.”
“I’ll be there before you are if you don’t get going,” Rock said. He slapped the horse’s rear. Casings galloped away, the Giant right beside him, leading a spare horse for himself.
Halfway down the trail, both men slowed their horses a little and looked back toward the raging gunfire.
“What the hell is Rock up to?” the Giant asked.
“I have no idea,” said Casings. “Whatever it is, he wants to handle it himself.” He shrugged and booted the horse forward. “He’s been straight with us. This is what he wants, this is what he gets.”
“Dang it, I’m starting to bleed all over again,” the Giant said.
Casings looked him up and down, seeing fresh blood on his wide chest, his sides, running down the back of his hand from under his sleeve.
“So are you, Pres,” the Giant said, gesturing toward the fresh blood soaking through the shoulder of Casings’ coat.
“Yeah, I know,” Casings said. “Got to get to that doctor in Dunbar.…” He booted his horse forward, back up into a gallop.…
With the two wounded men out of sight, Rochenbach jerked his horse’s reins free from the hitch line and stepped up into his saddle. The big dun grumbled and chuffed and slung its head back and forth before Rock collected it with a strong draw of the reins.
“I’ve missed you too,” he said wryly to the horse. He booted the big, restless dun onto another thin path leading diagonally up the hillside toward the fighting.
As he neared the edge of the trail, he swung the dun wide to his left, avoided the fighting and climbed up a steep rocky path as far as the spirited horse could take him.