Midnight Rider (Ralph Cotton Western Series) (26 page)

“Well, yes, putting it the way you said,” Dooley replied.

“So, what do you say, fellows?” Swank said in a chiding tone. “Want to get one of them freight wagons that run out of Dunbar every day, or what?” He didn’t wait for an answer; he batted his boots to his horse’s sides.

The five nodded and booted their horses into a gallop behind him.

Hidden among large rocks and scrub pine above the trail, Corporal Rourke and one of the troopers, a young man named George Winslow, sat with their rifles ready as they kept watch in both directions. Overhead, the sun stood farther west. Winslow let out a breath.

“How long you figure the captain will wait here for these men, Corporal?”

“I don’t know, Trooper,” said Rourke. “We can’t leave soon enough to suit me.” He drew a watch from inside his duster pocket, flipped the lid open and checked the time.

“Me neither,” said Winslow. “We’ve been perched up here like squirrels all day.”

“Three hours,” Rourke corrected him. He closed the watch and put it away.

“All right, three hours,” said Winslow. “I can’t believe we’re here. Seems like the captain would want to get right on their trail and ride them down.”

Rourke looked at him.

“I’m just saying it’s quite a gamble the captain has taken,” Winslow explained. “What if they don’t come back for the gold at all? We’ll look like fools when the general finds out.”

“No,” said Rourke, “Captain Boone will look like a fool. But I’m sure the captain thought all that out before he decided to stay here.”

“I don’t mean to be second-guessing the captain,” Winslow said. “It just seems risky, is all.” He shrugged. “Although there are always risks in this man’s army, one could argue.”

“Yes, life is risky. And now it’s going to start getting even
riskier
, Trooper,” Rourke said, staring off down the trail below.

Winslow looked down in the same direction and saw three riders moving into sight single file.

Rourke lifted a palm-sized signal mirror from the inside lapel pocket of his duster and wiped it on his sleeve. He gave Winslow a grin.

“It appears the captain just won his feathers for the day, eh?” he said.

“Yes, he has,” said Winslow, looking almost relieved. “I’m happy to say I was wrong.”

Rourke raised the signal mirror and cocked it to the afternoon sunlight. He moved it back and forth slowly.

Among the rocks on the steep hillside thirty yards back along the trail, Sergeant Goodrich saw the flash of piercing sunlight blink on and off. He turned to the trooper beside him, a young man named John Trent.

“All right, Trooper, be ready. Hold your fire until I give you the order,” he said.

“Yes, Sergeant Goodrich,” the young soldier replied somberly.

Goodrich turned and waved a hand back and forth toward Captain Boone, who sat in the cover of rock farther down the hillside.

“We have riders moving up the trail, sir,” Goodrich called out, keeping his voice as quiet as he could.

Boone waved in acknowledgment, then backed away in a crouch and hurried down a few yards to a level spot where the third trooper stood watch over the three prisoners.

“Trooper Lukens, the thieves have arrived,” he said, seeing Rochenbach seated against a slender pine, his arms behind him, cuffed around the tree’s six-inch trunk. “Are you prepared for a fight?”

“Yes, sir, Captain,” the trooper said, snapping to attention in spite of his civilian trail clothes. “Ready and willing, sir.”

“Good man,” said Boone. “See to it these prisoners are secured and come with me.”

“Sir, should I gag them with a length of rope to keep them quiet?” Lukens asked as he stepped around the tree and checked Rochenbach’s handcuffs.

“I think not, Trooper,” said the captain. He stared down at Rochenbach, then at Casings, whose hands were also cuffed around a slender pine. “If I hear either of you try to call out and tip off your cohorts, I’ll send someone down here to shoot the three of you. Is that clear enough?” he asked.

Rochenbach and Casings both nodded. At a much larger tree a few feet away, the Stillwater Giant sat sleeping soundly. His big hands, already tied at the
wrists, were now held snuggly to his chest by a rope that wrapped around him five times, tying him to the tree.

“Back to our positions, then, Trooper,” the captain said. “These men aren’t going anywhere.”

The two turned and hurried away through the brush and rocks. No sooner were they out of sight than Casings turned to Rochenbach.

“Got any ideas, Rock?” he asked. “This place could turn inhospitable in a hurry once the shooting starts.”

Before Rock could answer, the Stillwater Giant said quietly, “I’ve got an idea.”

The two looked at him in surprise.

“We thought you were asleep,” said Casings as the Giant stared down at the thick rope on his wrists.

“I was a long time ago. But now I’m rested.” He gave a grin. “I feel good enough to break this rope. Once I get my hands free, I can break the one holding me to this danged tree.”

“Wait a minute, Giant!” Rochenbach said, seeing the big man begin to strain hard against the rope on his wrists. “You start that, you’ll get your wounds opening up again. You’ll bleed yourself to death.” Behind him, he went to work getting the key from inside his sleeve lining.

“That’s all right,” the Giant said. “I’ll get you both out of here before I do.” He started to strain against the rope binding his wrists.

“No, Giant!” said Rock. “Look at me!” He quickly raised a freed hand from behind his back. “See, I’m loose. Don’t get yourself bleeding again. I’ll cut you both loose as soon as they get too busy to check on us.”

Casings chuckled and shook his bandanna- wrapped head. He looked Rock up and down as Rochenbach wrapped his arm back around the tree, appearing to still be handcuffed.

“How’d you manage to get the key from the soldiers?” he asked.

Rochenbach relaxed against the tree. “Who said I got it from them?” he said. “Maybe I just a carry one in case I ever need it.”

“I don’t care how you got it,” Casings said. “I’m just glad you’ve got it.” He looked up toward the edge of the trail above them. “As soon as the shooting starts, we grab all the gold we can carry and get ourselves out of here.”

“Huh-uh,” Rock said, “No gold.”

“What do you mean no gold?” said Casings. “This is our chance to turn this whole mess around—”

“The ingots are worthless,” Rock said, cutting him off. “They’re not real. Leave them lie.”

“Rock, what are you talking about?” Casings asked.

“The ingots are nothing but gold-plated lead,” Rock said. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“How do you know that?” Casings asked, giving him a curious look.

“I checked a couple of them,” said Rock. “Trust me, they’re not real.” He stared closely at Casings and past him toward the Giant. “When the time comes, get to the horses and get yourselves out of here. Don’t stop for nothing and don’t look back. I’ll keep you covered in case—”

“Wait a minute,” said Casings. Now he was cutting Rochenbach off. “You’re coming with us.”

“Yeah,” the Giant cut in, “we’re not leaving you behind.”

“I’m only staying behind long enough to make sure you’re both out of here without catching a bullet in your backs. Then I’ll catch up to you.”

“We don’t need you covering our backs, Rock,” said the Giant. “Come with us.”

“You’re both shot up,” Rock said. “You both need a doctor.”

“I can’t argue with that,” said Casings, looking down at his blood-crusted shirt.

“Then don’t argue,” Rochenbach said. “You’re going to need cover to get out of here. Listen to me on this. I’ll catch up to you.”

The Giant started to say more on the matter, but Casings shook his head.

“Let it go, Giant,” he said quietly. “Rock says we need cover. All right, then,
we do.
I would not want to turn him down—have him saying ‘I told you so’ to my dead body.”

“All right,” said the Giant, giving in. “Seems like when we do like Rock says, things have a way of going better for us.”

“I’ve noticed that myself,” Casings said, giving Rochenbach a look. “But I’ve got to say, I’d feel better if I saw one of these ingots, satisfy myself they’re not real.”

“I don’t have one to show you right now,” Rochenbach said. “You’ve got to take my word on this.”

“I do take your word, Rock,” Casings said. “The thought of that damned gold caused me to lose my head there for a second.” He grinned. “But I’m all right now.”

Rochenbach settled back against the tree and waited for the fight to begin on the trail above them.

The first two riders, Silas Dooley and Lou the Dog Duggins, eased their horses around a turn in the trail and rode forward at a walk. Grolin and Swank led the wagon warily, fifty yards behind them. Grolin kept Bobby Kane close to his side, keeping him from mindlessly wandering away. Eli March drove an empty freight wagon, his horse tagged along behind, its reins hitched to the wagon’s tailgate.

“What do you say, Dog?” said Dooley, stopping on the trail and looking back for the others. “Think they backed off—these posse men, Pinkertons, railroad detectives, whatever the hell they were?”

“Nobody backs away when gold’s in the mix,” Lou the Dog said, his voice lowered. He sniffed the air as if scenting for trouble. “Leastwise, nobody I’ve ever seen.” He kept his horse at a walk, his rifle propped up on his thigh, his shooting finger on the trigger.

“That’s a fact,” Dooley said. He stepped his horse away from Lou and rode along on the other side of the narrow trail.

When the two stopped again, they’d reached the point where the wagon tracks led off the side of the trail. They looked down at the pieces of broken wagon lying strewn down the hillside.

“Damn,” said Dooley, “a wagonload of gold flying
out off this trail…” He shook his head at the wonderment of it for a moment. Then they both turned and looked back as the wagon and the other horsemen rounded the turn and rode forward. Dooley waved the men toward them.

“I’m all for getting this thing done and getting out of here,” Dooley said. “A place this quiet always gives me the willies.…”

Atop the trail, spying down from the cover of rock, Corporal Rourke raised his thumb over his rifle hammer and cocked it back.

“Once we commence,” he said sidelong to Trooper Winslow, “don’t let them back around that turn. As long as we keep them down here, we’ve got them in a box. They get around the turn, they’re gone.”

“Six of them, and six of us. Sounds fair enough to me,” Winslow said. He cocked his rifle and looked down the sights at Silas Dooley’s back.

“Leave those two to Goodrich and the others, Trooper,” said Rourke. “Work on the wagon, pin it down first thing.”

Winslow moved his sights away from Dooley and back to the wagon, which was slowly rolling forward.

“Good move, Trooper,” said Rourke. “Now let’s wait for our sergeant to start this ball.”

No sooner had the corporal said the words than rifle shots rang out from Goodrich and Trooper Trent’s position farther along the edge of the trail.

“And there it is now, Trooper!” said Corporal Rourke. “Fire at will!”

Winslow and Rourke both opened fire on the wagon.
Trent’s first shot startled Eli March, who let out a scream as a bullet thumped into the seat beside him.

Farther up the trail, Goodrich and Trent fired steadily on Dooley and the Dog. Dooley and the Dog both leaped from their saddles as the sergeant’s first shot sliced through Dooley’s shoulder. Making a mad scramble for cover, the two returned fire as their horses raced away along the trail, a gray rise of burnt powder already wafting on the chilled air.

“I’ve got the wagon driver this time!” Winslow said, rising from behind his rock as he took careful aim. He squeezed the trigger, felt the jolt of the rifle against his shoulder and saw the wagon driver fly from the seat in a spray of blood as he tried swinging the wagon around on the trail. His rifle flew from his hand over the edge of the trail.

The empty freight wagon skidded sideways and jammed its rear wheel down into a three-foot-deep washout rut on the inside edge of the trail. It stuck there, the team of horses bucking and rearing to no avail.

“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.