Die by the Gun Page 7

  Finding a spot atop a low hill, he parked his wagon and began preparation for feeding the entire crew. The Indians stared at him with wide eyes. The amount of food he fixed would be enough to keep them and their families fed for the rest of the season.

  He kept them occupied with more coffee until Messerschmidt came rattling up in the supply wagon. Mac saw the man wore his pistol strapped down. Beside him in the driver’s box rode Klaus Kleingeld, fingering a double-barreled scattergun’s triggers. Both men had been warned by the trail boss what they’d find.

  Mac waved and considered going over to talk to them. Talking to Kleingeld did him no good since the Comanches understood him better—and he understood them better than he did the German. What Mac wanted to know was if Flowers had mentioned more than the Indians being in camp. Had he told anyone else about the men following the herd? The last thing they needed now with the Comanches here was a gang of rustlers stealing a sizable portion of the longhorns.

  The confusion would open the door for the Indians to take plenty more than the three head that Flowers had promised them. So far, they hadn’t lost but a few head to accidents. Two had stepped in prairie dog holes and broken their legs. They had furnished meals for almost a week. A few others turned sickly and had been shot and left for predators. All told, the Circle Arrow hadn’t lost more than ten head.

  Instead, he began cleaning up from the hasty midday meal he had provided. The Indians watched in silence as he did squaw’s work and only showed life when Desmond Sullivan rode up. He galloped to within a half dozen feet of the Comanches, then pulled back so hard his horse dug in its hooves. A shower of dirt rose and covered the Indians.

  “Watch what you’re doing,” Mac snapped. “You’re getting dirt in the food.”

  “What’re them redskins doing here? They got to clear out pronto. There’s no way—”

  “Mister Flowers said it was all right for them to wait. He’s invited them to supper.”

  “Like hell! He can’t do that. I own this damned herd, and I say who eats our food and who rides along.”

  “You don’t own the herd,” Mac said, his voice brittle. “Your ma does. Since she’s not here, Mister Flowers is the one everyone takes orders from.”

  “I’m the owner.” Desmond kicked free of the stirrups and dropped to the ground. The redhead was reaching for his revolver when Mac moved. Fast.

  He dodged between Desmond and the Indians and got the young man’s gun poked into his gut. The danger was high, but Mac didn’t budge.

  “Put down your gun,” he told Desmond, tight-lipped with anger. “Unless you intend to plug me.”

  “I ought to. Who’re you to meddle like this? I want them out of camp. I’m not eating food they eat.”

  “Then you’ll get mighty hungry until breakfast.” Mac reached down and pushed the pistol away. He breathed a sigh of relief when the muzzle pointed at the ground. “They’ll get the three head of cattle Mister Flowers promised them, and they’ll be on their way peaceably.”

  “What? He’s giving away my beeves!”

  Mac wasn’t prepared for Desmond swinging the gun up and around in a wide arc. He felt the barrel collide with the side of his head. For an instant, he didn’t think any damage had been done. Then his knees turned to butter, and he dropped to the ground, stunned. Not sure how he did it, as he fell he swung his nerveless arm around like a club. New pain lanced up into his shoulder, but he knocked the pistol out of Desmond’s grasp.

  This didn’t stop the youth from barreling ahead, fists swinging. His clumsy blow caught one Indian in the middle of the face. Blood spurted from a broken nose. Desmond’s second punch went wild and missed by a country mile. Mac fought to focus his eyes. He groaned and got to his feet, almost falling again until he got his balance back.

  “Don’t, no, don’t!” he called out, and wasn’t sure who he was ordering to stand down. Desmond was swinging like a windmill, but the Indians all drew their knives. The owner’s son would be gutted and left for dead in a flash.

  A distant roar filled Mac’s ears. He thought it was thunder, then realized it was too close and the sky was clear of any storm clouds. A second blast solved the problem. Kleingeld had fired both barrels of his shotgun into the air.

  The explosions startled Desmond, who half turned. The brave he had punched got in a good blow to his exposed belly. Desmond folded like a bad poker hand. But the other Indians all ran for their horses, getting astride and galloping away.

  “They ride for the herd,” Messerschmidt called. “They will steal our cows!”

  Mac stepped over Desmond and grabbed the dangling reins to the young man’s horse. It took most of his strength to pull himself up into the saddle. The horse was spooked by the shotgun and Mac used all of his skill as a rider to keep it from bucking him off.

  He put his head down and clung to the horse’s neck for dear life. The uneven gait jolted him and caused the world to spin. Slowly, his eyes focused and the ringing in his ears died down to a buzz. Ahead he saw the Indians fan out along a broad, wide ravine. The herd wasn’t visible, but the lowing as they approached told the story. The Comanches readied for their theft of as many cattle as they could. Somewhere in the back of his head Mac thought they deserved whatever they could steal. Desmond had violated the uneasy truce with his impetuous attack.

  Then Mac came to his senses. It was stealing Circle Arrow property. No matter what Desmond had done, the Indians were wrong taking more than the three Flowers had promised them. He saw the Indians swooping down. They cut at least thirty head from the main herd and tried to rush them through the gap. Only their scrawny horses kept them from succeeding.

  “Stop! Those aren’t yours,” Mac shouted, but the sounds from the herd drowned out his orders. Mac slipped his revolver from its holster. Shooting the Indians would be akin to murder since he knew they were out of ammo. But if he didn’t they would make off with three times as many cattle as they’d lost this far in the drive.

  He fired at one Indian and instantly regretted it. The gunshot caused the lead steer to run. He had unintentionally started a stampede.

  The Comanches tried to cut out a few of the cattle, but the tide of frightened gristle and immensely wide, long horns kept them from stealing any. Mac galloped alongside the herd as the steers scattered the Indians. In less than a minute the Comanches had vanished back onto the prairie—but Mac rode alongside tons of stampeding cattle.

  His horse began to tire. He knew something had to be done fast, and he was the only one in position to do it. Before, on his previous trail drive, he had learned the dangers of a stampede, and how to stop it. Getting the beeves to mill was the only way to keep dozens or even hundreds of them from being run into the ground and killed. Turning the leaders was the answer. The cattle instinctively sought to gather rather than run out by themselves. Getting a few to turn and try to lose themselves in the middle of the herd would eventually rob them of leaders and get them spinning around and around rather than racing across the countryside.

  Lather flecking its flanks, the horse’s speed began to slacken. Mac fired his gun in the air and yelled until he was hoarse. Make the leaders run away from him, cross back in front of the rest of the herd, find a way to circle and begin to mill. It sounded easy. The longer his horse galloped, the more it faltered and the leaders of the stampede outdistanced him.

  Then he caught a bit of luck. The herd shifted just a little in the right direction, forcing the leaders to run up a slope. This caused them to turn even more and definite milling began to occur. Mac fired until his revolver came up empty. The reports worked a miracle to force the cattle away from him.

  The stampede was broken. And then his horse stepped into a prairie dog hole. The cannon bone snapping sounded louder than any of his gunshots. As the horse pitched forward on the broken leg, Mac sailed over the horse’s head. He hit the ground hard enough to jolt him senseless, but in some distant part of his brain he knew the shaking ground beneath his back meant the he
rd was coming in his direction.

  Moving was impossible. Staring up at the twilight sky, he saw a star. Irrationally, he began to make a wish on that first star of the night. He hoped for a quick death.

  He didn’t get it.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mac tried to call out when he heard a horse approaching rapidly. The air had been smashed from his lungs. Simply trying to suck in a breath sent knife stabs of pain throughout his chest. His legs kicked feebly. Trying to sit up caused more agony than he wanted. Ribs might be broken. Or worse. There had been a loud sound that might have been his spine snapping when he hit the ground.

  His hand twitched. He tried to signal as the swift rataplan of hoofbeats came closer, but the rider didn’t seem to notice him lying on the ground. Outlined against the stars, the man slowed his horse, turned in the saddle, and called out, “Frank? You see him?”

  From a distance came the faint reply, “Son of a bitch ain’t nowhere to be found.”

  Mac stopped his struggles and simply lay motionless, staring up at the sky. The voices weren’t familiar.

  “Quick Willy is scouting the far side of the herd. He’s having a devil of a time avoiding those cowboys.”

  “We gotta meet up with him. We’re not havin’ any luck findin’ the son of a bitch.”

  “It was the stampede that scattered everything. Horses, cattle, men.”

  “We done missed our best chance to nab him.”

  “Nab him, hell. I’ll shoot the bastard down when I find him. I don’t much care what Quick Willy says about a bonus reward for bringin’ him back alive.”

  Mac’s entire body quivered as his breathing began to return to normal. He fought down the loud gulping sound that tried to well up from his throat. His heart hammered so loudly in his ears the riders had to hear it. Frank. Quick Willy. Those names didn’t belong to anyone on the drive. Bonus reward? These weren’t Circle Arrow riders. They were bounty hunters after him.

  After him.

  The two men moved away, the thuds of their horses’ hooves diminishing to nothing. Mac began rocking from side to side. Finally, he was able to roll over onto his belly. A huge effort brought him to his hands and knees. Only after a moment of dizziness did Mac get his feet under him to stumble to his horse.

  The forward tumble had taken its toll on the animal. It had broken its neck right after its leg. Mac swallowed. This saved him a bullet—one he didn’t have since he had emptied his gun turning the herd.

  That thought made him turn in a full circle. Except for the dead horse, he stood alone on the range. The herd had vanished. Of the two riders hunting for him he saw not a trace. A deep breath hurt, but not as much as before, and settled his nerves.

  At least three men were hunting for him. He knew two of their names. Quick Willy. Frank. Whoever Frank had been talking to earlier had been on the other side of a nearby rise. Taking a few more minutes to recover his strength, Mac got the tack off the horse, heaved it onto his shoulder, and hiked to the top of the hill where he believed the other bounty hunter had ridden.

  Careful not to silhouette himself against the clear night sky, he looked around for the bounty hunters but didn’t see them. In the distance he heard cattle lowing. That was where the herd had finished its stampede. Grunting with effort from the weight of the saddle, he began hiking.

  Less than ten minutes later, a rider approached him. Mac touched the empty revolver in his holster, then jerked his head from side to side as he searched for a place to hide.

  Too late. The rider homed in on him like an eagle swooping down on a rabbit.

  He wished there had been a rifle in the saddle sheath, but Desmond hadn’t carried one. Considering the boy’s recklessness, Flowers had done well not letting him stick one in the scabbard before going on patrol. Mac dropped the saddle and widened his stance. A quick move pushed back his coat to get at the empty six-gun. Bluffing never worked for him as well as outright shooting, but he had no choice.

  “That you, Mac?” called a voice with a familiar twang.

  “Mister Flowers?” He relaxed his stance.

  “Who’d you think it would be? Tarnation, Mac, you saved the herd from running itself into the ground. Three of the drovers said you turned it all by yourself. They were too far away to help, but they’re singing your praises.”

  “Glad to hear they appreciate something other than my biscuits.” Mac mulled over telling the trail boss about the men hunting him for the reward on his head back in New Orleans. There wasn’t any reason to reveal that, he decided, since Hiram Flowers couldn’t do anything about it.

  “Desmond’s not so fond of you right now. What happened to his horse?”

  Mac explained about the horse’s sad end. As he spoke, he rested his hand on the butt of his pistol. Flowers noticed.

  “I didn’t hear a gunshot, not after the herd came to rest.”

  “I was out of rounds,” Mac said.

  Flowers nodded grimly.

  “Well, it’s too damn bad. But I’ll make it good with Desmond.”

  “The horse was his personal mount, not one from the remuda?”

  “Climb on up behind me,” Flowers said without answering Mac’s question. “We’ll get back to camp. You need to move the chuckwagon before breakfast.”

  “This is Desmond’s tack.”

  “Leave it where it lays. I’ll have him come out and get it himself.” Flowers chuckled at this small punishment. He sobered quickly. “The way you lit out to turn the stampede—and he didn’t—says a whole heap about the jobs you each do on the drive.”

  “I just wanted to choose which beeves I fed the crew. Having to cut up meat that’s been trampled doesn’t suit anybody.”

  “Hamburger,” Flowers said.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Mac perched behind the trail boss’s saddle and settled down as Flowers walked his horse back to camp.

  “That’s something Messerschmidt told me about. Ground beef made into a patty and then cooked. It’s something he heard about from back in Germany.”

  “Do tell.” Mac shook his head. “That’ll never be popular, not if you can get a nice, juicy steak.”

  “I’d have to lose all my teeth before I’d want one of them hamburgers.”

  “China clippers,” Mac said, laughing. “False teeth work just fine for chewing up a tender slab of beef, especially if it’s one I fixed up just for you.”

  “Get your chuckwagon moved.” The change in Flowers’s tone caused Mac to jump down. They were within earshot of many drovers, and Flowers had to keep his reputation as being a hardcase.

  Mac stretched, which made every bone in his body hurt again. Landing flat on the ground had taken more than the wind out of him. He winced as he touched a spot in the middle of his back. He found a long spine from a Spanish bayonet plant stuck in him. He was lucky. If it hadn’t broken, the spine could have run all the way through him as surely as a knife blade. The more he moved around, the more aches and pains he discovered.

  He tried to climb up into the driver’s box and couldn’t. His legs refused to lift him.

  “Give me a boost, will you?” he called out into the dark as someone approached, not caring who knew how bad a shape he was in.

  “Flowers just told me you killed my horse,” Desmond said as he stalked up to the chuckwagon. “You stole my horse and gear and killed it. You killed my damned horse! I had that horse since he was a colt.”

  Mac sagged. He took a deep breath and regretted it as more pain stabbed through him. His ribs burned like liquid fire. A slow turn brought him face to face with Desmond Sullivan.

  “I didn’t want to hurt your horse,” he said. “You trained him real good. Without his heart, I’d never have been able to turn the herd. He kept up and—”

  Desmond launched a clumsy punch at Mac’s face. Even in his debilitated condition, Mac had no trouble ducking the blow. As the knuckles slipped past his cheek, he stepped up and swung as hard as he could with his right fist. The punch lande
d smack in the middle of Desmond’s belly. The young man gasped and backed off. He leaned forward and rubbed his belly, then spat. He doubled his fists.

  “You sucker punched me.”

  “Better figure out what that really means.” Mac ducked and weaved as Desmond came at him, flinging wild punches. “You weren’t sucker punched. We were facing each other and you left your belly open. Like this!”

  Mac let another punch slip past, then stepped up and drove his fist hard into Desmond’s exposed midriff. His fist disappeared up to his wrist. The gush of air rushing from Desmond’s lungs meant that the fight was over. Desmond folded up, fell to his knees, and then toppled onto his side.

  Mac stepped over his opponent. Desmond struggled into a sitting position but couldn’t maintain it. He fell onto his side and retched. When he finished losing his supper, Desmond tried to get back onto his feet. When he finally made it, he stumbled toward Mac.

  “You can’t . . .” he gasped out.

  Mac pushed him away with just the tips of his fingers. Desmond lost his balance and sat down hard, back propped against the front wagon wheel. Tired, Mac sank down beside him and also leaned on the wheel.

  “You’ve got quite a chip on your shoulder. More than that, you can’t fight worth beans.” He almost added that the young man’s performance in the Fort Worth brothel probably rivaled his fighting skills, but he held that back. He had no reason to further inflame the boss’s son.

  “You’ll pay,” Desmond rasped. “I swear it. You’re gonna pay.” He turned to the side and leaned over to begin gagging again. However, this time he had nothing left in his stomach to lose.

  “If you square off before launching a punch, you won’t leave yourself open. Take your time, measure your opponent. And don’t retreat. Stand your ground or advance.” In a short, compact punch, Mac slammed his fist against a wheel spoke next to Desmond’s head. “That’s a lot more powerful than this.” He duplicated the blow with his other hand, reaching a long way and keeping his elbow stiff when he hit.