William Johnstone - Snake River Slaughter

“Let’s go,” Sherman ordered.

“What are we going to do with the marshal?” Scraggs asked.

Sherman looked down at him.

“Leave him,” Sherman said. “Let the town bury him their Potter’s Corner.” He laughed, a brusque laughter from hell. “Soon there will be more people lyin’ in Potter’s Corner than in the regular cemetery. And I intend to see that there are a few more that wind up in there tonight.”

Crack and Matt were both on top of the bluff, waiting for Sherman and his posse to come try and reclaim the herd. It was dark, and looking back toward the north was a strain on the eyes, and made it difficult to stay alert. Matt and Crack were taking turns keeping watch. For the moment it was Crack’s time to be looking.

He had been staring, unceasingly, to the north for at least the last half hour. And when he did spot them, and made the announcement, he did so in a voice that was as calm as if he was pointing out a cloud formation.

“Here they come,” Crack said.

Matt had been sitting on a rock, sucking on the soft under part of a grass stem when Crack spoke.

“Are you sure?” Matt asked, standing up and moving to the edge of the bluff to look north. “I don’t see anything.”

“That’s ’cause they just rode down into a little draw,” Crack said. “They’ll come out in a second, and you’ll be able to see ’em.”

“Yeah, I can hear them now,” Matt said. He stared in the same direction for a moment longer, then saw them emerge.

“Get your rocket ready, but don’t light it until I tell you,” Matt said.

“Matt, it looks like there’s at least a dozen of ’em. And we only have four men down there.”

“It will be all right,” Matt said. “Sherman doesn’t know we only have four men and, believe me, when they start shooting from the rifle pits, Sherman will think he’s facing an army.”

Crack chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I forgot about the rifle pits.”

“They are getting closer,” Matt said. He struck a match and, shielding the light from view, lit his cigar. Then, with his cigar lit, he swung into the saddle and rode out to the edge of the bluff and looked down. The posse had passed by now, but they were still a good mile away from Tyrone and the others.

“All right, send up the rocket,” Matt said.

Crack lit the fuse to the rocket. It sputtered for a moment, and then raced up into the sky, leaving a long, glowing golden trail streaming out behind it. Even as he heard the hiss of the rocket’s ascent, Matt slapped his legs against Spirit’s side and started down the trail to the valley floor below.

“Tyrone, there goes the rocket!” Prew said.

“All right, you and Clem get over there in the other pit. Jake, you stay here with me.”

“Come on, Clem,” Prew said as he started across the field.

“Prew!” Tyrone called.

Prew stopped and looked back.

“Remember, Matt is going to be out there, smoking a cigar. Don’t shoot at the glow.”

“I ain’t goin’ to shoot at the glow,” Prew said. “But I tell you the truth, you couldn’t get me out there for a thousand dollars. I mean, even if we don’t shoot at him, there’s goin’ to be bullets flyin’ around.”

“There’s goin’ to be bullets flyin’ around ever’ where,” Tyrone said. “So hurry on over there, and remember to keep your head down.”

“Halt!” Sherman said, holding his hand up. “Hold it up here for a moment!”

Sherman had twelve riders with him and they all stopped on his order. “Pull your pistols and be ready,” he said. “Spread out. We’ll go in abreast.”

“What if we see someone?” Scraggs asked.

“If you see anyone, kill them,” Sherman said.

“Even before they shoot at us? You’re always wantin’ them to shoot at us first.”

“They killed Garrison, Edwards, Reid, and Kennison, didn’t they? That means they have already shot at us.”

“Yeah, I guess you are right.”

“We’ll go in at a gallop,” Sherman said. He laughed. “It’ll be a regular cavalry charge. I’d like to see how a bunch of cowboys are going to be able to handle a cavalry charge.”

Sherman moved slightly out front, then looked back at his men, and waited until they were spread out twelve abreast. Then, he turned back toward the field and brought his hand down sharply.

The posse thundered across the field.

When Matt saw the posse begin its cavalry charge, he urged Spirit into a ground eating gallop, quickly catching up to them. He rode in between the two riders at the left end of the line, and as it happened, one of them had been sitting at the table with Scraggs when he confronted them.

“Hey!” Matt called. “Where are we going?”

“It’s Jensen!” one of them called, and both of them turned their pistols toward Matt.

Matt hauled back on Spirit and the horse came to an almost immediate stop, just as the two men fired. Both men fell from their saddles, having shot each other.

Hearing the gunshots, but not realizing what happened, Sherman ordered the others to open fire. The fire of the attacking posse was immediately returned by the Coventry riders who were shooting from the rifle pits. Bright muzzle flashes from pistols and rifles lit up the night as the battle was joined. Although the posse had superior numbers to the Coventry riders, the advantage was to the latter. The rifle pits not only gave them cover, it also gave them concealment, whereas Sherman’s men were riding in the open, without cover, and concealed only somewhat by the darkness.

The bullets were flying as thick as if someone had struck a hornet’s nest, and four more posse men went down. Within less than a minute, the number of men riding with Sherman had been degraded by half.

“We’ll all be killed!” Scraggs screamed in terror, and he turned his horse away from the charge.

“Scaggs! You cowardly son of a bitch, come back here!” Sherman shouted. In his anger, he shot Scraggs.

Now there were only six left, counting Sherman himself. But at that moment, Sherman made the same decision Scraggs had made a moment earlier. If they stayed here, they were all going to be killed.

“Let’s get out of here!” he shouted, wheeling his horse around.

The others broke off the attack, then turned and chased after their leader.

Matt watched them gallop away and, for a moment, contemplated going after them. But they no longer represented a threat to the horses or to the ranch, so Matt let them go, deciding instead to check with Tyrone to see how the men had done during the brief but ferocious gun battle. He rode in slowly, puffing on the cigar to keep the tip bright, hoping they would remember not to shoot at the glow.

Evidently it was working because all the shooting stopped, and the only sound that could be heard was the slow but steady clop of Spirit’s hooves as Matt rode toward them.

“Tyrone, it’s me,” Matt called, when he got close enough for them to hear him.

“Yeah, we didn’t figure the cigar was floating in by itself,” Tyrone’s voice called back from the dark. “Come on in, Matt.”

Matt crossed the last few yards, then saw Tyrone standing alongside the pit. Tyrone was the only one standing, and for a moment, Matt was concerned.

“Where are the others?” he asked.

“They’re fine,” Tyrone said. “I told them to stay in the pits until we were sure.”

Matt chuckled. “Yes, that was probably a pretty good idea. Anyone hurt?”

“Nobody was hit,” Tyrone said. “How did we do against the posse?”

“Pretty good, I think,” Matt said. “There were a lot fewer of them who left, than came.”

The sun was just coming up when Sherman and what remained of his posse returned to Medbury. Most of the town was still asleep, though two men were loading a freight wagon, and Mr. Dunnigan was sweeping the front porch of his store.