Authors: Stephen A. Bly
Todd volunteered to use the old McClellan saddle. Carty led the way along the muddy tracks. “Ain't going to be hard to track 'em. Heavy loaded horses in the mud leave lots of signs.”
Todd crammed his tie into his coat pocket, his white shirt still buttoned at the top. “We have two advantages. We know we're on their trail. They don't. Second, they think they have relay horses stashed. We know better.” He rode the long-legged black horse whose only gait seemed to be a gallop.
Watson Dover bounced on a wide-rumped bay horse, the stagecoach shotgun perched on his lap. “I can't believe I'm doing this . . . riding in a posse after stagecoach robbers and killers. It's like I'm living out one of those dime novels. I don't know whether to shout or wet my trousers.”
Dacee June insisted on straddling the horse with her long skirt. Todd banished her to riding at the back. She offered only mild protest.
Todd signaled a stop at Boulder Creek to water the horses.
Carty rode up alongside Todd. “I cain't figure this out. Them two was terrorizing town, then they took off goin' south, leadin' the sheriff away from town, then sneakin' over here to the east and robbed the stagecoach. Why was they hasslin' us in town?”
Todd slipped to the ground. “Part revenge. Part diversion. If they kept us in our houses and the treasure messengers preoccupied, they could pull off a robbery with none of us expecting it. Especially when Lander decided to try this fool stunt of his and shipped unguarded bullion.” Todd yanked the cinch tight on his saddle. He inspected the cracked leathers of the old McClellan.
Dover rode up, half standing in the stirrups, to the relief of his tender backside. “What's our plan if we do catch up with them? Are we actually going to have a shoot-out? I find this incredible. Watson Dover riding with a posse chasing stagecoach robbers.”
Todd surveyed his posse of two teenagers and a Chattanooga lawyer.
Alright, Daddy Brazos, this is not exactly your type of gang.
“Personally, I'm praying they throw down their weapons and surrender. Aren't you?”
From the ponderosa pines below the cave entrance, all four surveyed the Smile in the Mountain.
“You see anything?” Carty quizzed.
“Nope,” Todd said. “If they are up there, they are hiding at the back.”
“Why would they do that?” Dacee June asked.
“Because they spotted us and want to set an ambush.”
“That's a happy thought. I would rather not end up shot like the doctor and that Lander fellow,” Dover added.
Todd Fortune slipped down out of the saddle. “Dover, take your shotgun and slip around there to the left. Dacee June, you do the same on the right. Carty, help me pull the saddles off the horses.”
Carty Toluca jumped to the ground. “What are we going to do?”
“You and I will stay behind the horses, but try to herd them up the hill a little. If you were restin' in that cave and glanced down to see the missing horses grazing down below, you'd come running down after them, wouldn't you?”
“I reckon so.”
“We've got to sucker them out of that cave.”
Todd and Carty, guns in hand, pushed the horses out of the pines and up the meadowed slope.
Carty's voice was low. “Do you see anything yet?”
“Still looks empty from here.”
“We push these ponies any higher, they'll be able to spot us,” Carty stewed.
Todd cocked the hammer on his .45 Smith and Wesson. “I'm going to take a peek.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Pray.”
Todd stepped out from the protection of the horses and hiked slowly toward the cave entrance. There was nothing between him and the cave entrance.
Lord, this is either the bravest thing I've ever done or the stupidest. But I have to do it. It was my home they broke into, my wife they tied up, my store they busted up, my friend they shot. This is the moment of destiny where I take care of my own, where I remove the threat. No longer dependent on my father, but I trust in You to lead me . . . and protect me.
His boot heels made no sound in the wet ground around the scattered sage, but his revolver hung heavy in his hand, his finger turned cold as it clutched the trigger. He spotted Dover on the left, Dacee June on the right. His hat, pulled low over his eyes, caught the heartbeat throb in his temples. He held the pistol straight out in front of him, peering down its sights as he aimed it at the cave. His eyes searched for any sign of movement. He took a deep breath, crested the sloping hill, and stared inside the cave.
He let out a long . . . slow . . . sigh.
Lord, I might of overdramatized this a tad. The absolute turning point in my life ends up being an empty cave? Like the rest of my life, this was just a dry run, a practice.
“What do you see?” Carty shouted from below.
“No one's here!” he called out.
All four resaddled and mounted, then circled the cave for signs. Carty spotted the tracks first. “Did they have a wagon? They seem to be trailing this wagon track.”
“That's our carriage tracks,” Todd exclaimed. “They're trailing us! They figured people in the wagon hauled off their horses, so they're going to track them down.”
“All the way back to the tollhouse?” Carty asked.
“They don't know where the wagon tracks lead. They'll follow them out to the Sturgis road. But our carriage is obviously headed back to Deadwood, so they won't follow it far. They'll have to ride out into the real Badlands, broken down horses and all.”
“Will we follow them out there?” Dover asked.
“No, we'll mark their trail, then break off and go back to town. At least we'll be able to send the sheriff in the right direction.”
“No gunfight?” Dacee June whined.
Todd's stern glance silenced his sister. He led them in a canter down the trail they had covered earlier in the day. The sun dropped behind the hills as they skirted the eastern edges near the Sturgis road. Scattered clouds and evening dimmed visibility, even though it was a couple of hours until dark. The rain had taken away the advantage of dust clouds that followed riders in a Dakota summer. Todd slowed down to a trot, knowing it's always possible at any moment to come upon the outlaws.
When they reached the road breaking off to Sturgis, Todd reined up. The others pulled alongside.
Carty read the tracks. “They didn't go to Sturgis! That means . . .”
“The tollhouse! They're still following the carriage.” Todd slammed the heels of his boots into the flanks of the black horse and wished for spurs. He knew the other horses were dropping behind, but he didn't turn to look or slow down. Somewhere down the road, a gust of wind caught his hat and blew it off his head. He didn't slow down a step.
Lord, this is exactly what I didn't want to happen. Send Rebekah and the others off to Deadwood. Lord, get them out of there before these men show up. I was up at an empty cave thinking myself heroic. Lord, I'm not a hero. I don't care if I'm ever a hero. I don't care if I have to live in the shadow of Brazos Fortune my whole life. I don't care if I live in Rapid City or Omaha or Chicago. Just don't let anything happen to Rebekah and the others.
For fifteen minutes he slammed into the bounce of the saddle and prayed hard.
Gunfire from over the next pass caused Todd to kick the already lathered horse and quit praying. When he reached the descent toward the old tollhouse, he could hear more gunfire. Gunsmoke drifted up from the stagecoach and the building.
He spied two gunmen using the parked stagecoach for cover. Todd couldn't spot a third outlaw but assumed he was nearby.
I need to wait for the others to catch up. But I can't wait. I've got to get them to stop. I'll get myself killed if I ride in there now. I could get Rebekah killed if I don't ride in there, quick. At least they're putting up a fight. I've got to do the same. Lord, I'm tired of thinking about it . . . fools rush in . . .
Todd's first shot was at the dirt in front of the lead horse of the stagecoach. The white horse reared, and he blasted another .45 bullet under the horses. As if on command, all six horses bolted the rig forward. Totally exposed, the two men scrambled for shelter.
A shot from inside the tollhouse clipped the dark-haired man in the thigh. He dropped his gun and screamed. Falling to the mud, he tried to drag himself to cover. More shots from the tollhouse's window and from the approaching posse stung the yard around him, and he collapsed, too wounded or too scared to move.
A tall, blond man with broad shoulders, hat dangling down his back on a stampede string, sprinted toward some boulders near a huge, rusted, abandoned winch. Todd galloped straight at him. His first shot sailed just over the man's head, and caused Todd's horse to jerk sideways. The second shot slammed into the boulders ahead of the man. Todd kept the horse at a gallop and jammed his gun back into his holster.
The man fired a couple of wild shots over his shoulder. He stumbled, picked himself up, then bolted toward the boulders. Leaning low next to the galloping horse's head, Todd continued straight at the fleeing man. He dropped the reins on the saddle and kicked his left foot free from the stirrup. He stood with all his weight in the right stirrup just as the man stopped running, spun around, and pointed his gun.
Todd was no more than fifteen feet away.
He saw fear in the man's narrow eyes.
When Todd leaped from the racing horse, he felt the dry, cracked stirrup leather bust. He dropped more quickly than he planned. Suddenly it was as if everything was enlarged and in slow motion. Flying through the air, he could see the finger pull the trigger. The hammer slammed against the cartridge.
Fire flew from the barrel.
Smoke swirled.
A report blasted.
Todd didn't think of dying.
Or the pain a lead ball could bring.
Or Rebekah dressed in widow's black.
At the moment, the whole focus of his attention was upon tightening his clenched fist and making sure it landed on the face of the gunman below.
The crash of knuckles into the jawbone, the collision of two men on the Dakota mud silenced the rest of the shooting.
The outlaw didn't move.
Todd did.
He scampered, gun drawn, behind the boulders that the unconscious gunman never reached.
Lord, I don't know where that bullet went. But I'm mighty glad it's not in me. Thank you for broken stirrup leathers.
There were no more gunshots.
Carty Toluca, Dacee June, and Dover slowly rode up toward the tollhouse, their guns focused on the two downed men.
“Rebekah,” Todd shouted. “Rebekah, are you alright?”
It was, for him, the sweetest song he had ever heard in his life. He wanted to mount a tall white horse and lead a giant parade when he heard Rebekah's voice call out. “We're safe!”
“I'm shot in the leg. You got to help me,” the dark-haired outlaw screamed from the mud.
“You raise your head up one more time and you'll get it shot too,” Todd yelled back. “Stay down. We'll get you some help.”
“There is another one out there, Todd!” Rebekah shouted. “Be careful. I saw a third man.”
Todd waved at Dacee June and the others to keep their distance.
The third one must be the new stagecoach driver. He should be with the stage but it rolled off.
With gun pointed toward the stage, Todd stepped out from behind the rocks and marched across the yard toward the restless six-up team.
No one in sight . . . but the lines are drawn tight . . . Under the seat? If he's a little man, he could be under that seat.
Todd's shot splintered the back of the driver's bench. The horses lurched forward, and a short man with a long black beard unfolded himself from under the seat. He slapped the ribbons, and the stage bolted for Todd.
Pointing the .45 straight at the driver, Todd squeezed the trigger. Deafened by thundering hooves was the dull click of the hammer on an empty chamber. Todd holstered the empty gun as he jumped out of the way of the frightened horses. He vaulted for the iron railing next to the driver's seat.
What he grabbed was the long hickory stick of the hand brake. The impact jerked his feet off the ground. His right hand reached up and clutched the hand brake as well. The result was to throw all Âhundred and seventy five pounds of Todd Fortune against the brake-levered brake pad. The stage jerked sharply left. The horses stopped instantly. The stagecoach driver tumbled out among the prancing hooves.
The short man hit the ground between the two wheel horses who danced and strained at the brake, terrified of what was lying at their feet.
“Get me out of here,” the man screamed.
“Crawl out under the horse's belly,” Todd instructed.
“He'll trample me!”
“They will all trample you if I let go of this brake. Crawl on your belly.”
“I ain't crawlin',” he hollered.
“And I'm not hanging on any longer.”
“Wait! I'll crawl . . . I'll crawl!”
On his stomach, his hand wrapped over his hatless head, the man scooted in the mud as the eleven-hundred-pound wheel horse pranced above him. When the man's muddy boots cleared the ground under the horse's belly, Todd released the brake. The nervous team rumbled the stagecoach up the trail.
Todd pulled his gun and started shoving cartridges into the cylinder from his bullet belt. “Carty, tie that blond one up before he comes to,” he yelled. “I'll take care of this one. Dacee June, you and Mr. Dover tie up the injured man.”
“You cain't tie me, I'm shot!” the man hollered.
“Tie him!” Todd replied.
Rebekah scurried out of the tollhouse, still holding her revolver. Abigail was right behind. Todd hugged Rebekah's shoulder but kept his focus on the stagecoach driver at his feet.