Ralph Cotton - Midnight Rider

Standing in a crouch, he picked up a bandoleer of ammunition and slung it over his shoulder. Below him the fighting raged. Along the ridgeline stretched out before him, he saw two separate clouds of looming gray smoke. He heard the endless explosions of gunfire.

“One down, two to go,” he murmured to himself.

He climbed a steep footpath to the spot where Lyle Myers’ horse stood hitched to a scrub juniper. He snatched the horse’s reins free and slipped up into the saddle. Rifle in hand, he booted the blaze-faced chestnut out along the rocky ridgeline.

When he got to the next gunman’s position, he saw the man’s horse reined to a stand of rocks. While the gunman stood looking down over the edge of the trail, his full attention focused on firing madly down at the soldiers, Rock slipped from his saddle and reined the chestnut next to the other animal. As the two horses nosed each other’s muzzles, Rock slipped over to the edge in a crouch and stared at the gunman from twenty feet.

As if suddenly realizing someone was watching him from behind, Frank Penta turned around, smoking rifle in hand, and looked at Rochenbach through a haze of gun smoke. Seeing that Rockenbach had him cold, the rifle in Rock’s hands pointed, aimed and cocked at him, Penta gave him a strange, tight grin.

“Some fight, huh, Rock?” he called out above the roar of gunfire, sounding as if the two of them had been close friends.

“Yes, it is,” Rock agreed. His right eye fixed down the rifle sights, he squeezed the trigger. Penta dropped his rifle and clasped his chest with both hands as he staggered backward. He caught himself at the edge of the cliff for just a second. Then he fell off the cliff and bounced down the steep, rocky hillside.

Rochenbach looked toward the next looming cloud of smoke thirty yards away. He levered a fresh round into his rifle chamber and walked back to the horses. Before stepping into the saddle, he dropped the saddle and bridle from Penta’s horse and slapped its rump. As the horse bolted away, the chestnut tugged at its hitched reins, trying to run alongside the freed animal.

“Not you,” Rock said to the chestnut. “Not yet anyway.”

Looking along the ridgeline, he heard one shot fire at the trail below. Then he saw Dent Spiller scramble over the edge of the cliff and run to his waiting horse. The gunman grabbed his horse’s reins, jumped into his saddle and raced away, not giving Rochenbach so much as a glance.

Rock raised his rifle to take aim, but Spiller disappeared over a rise on the hilltop and thundered down the trail. Lowering his rifle, Rock turned and stepped up into his saddle. Noting that the firing below had waned over the past few minutes, he gave the chestnut a tap of his boots and rode away.

Realizing they’d been caught in a trap, Grolin and Swank leaped atop their horses and fled the trail as soon as the rifle fire from their men above the trail came to a stop. As they beat a hasty retreat around the turn in the trail, Swank looked at the reins to Bobby Kane’s horse in Grolin’s hand, Kane riding along close behind him.

“Why are you keeping that idiot alive?” Swank shouted at him.

But Grolin didn’t answer. He kept his head down and rode hard toward Dunbar.

Silas Dooley and the Dog fought on fiercely for a few minutes longer, until they saw Dent Spiller ride down a thin path and across the trail twenty yards away and keep on riding.

“What the hell was that?” Dooley cried out as shots still whistled past them.

“That was the last of our rifle cover running out on us!” said the Dog.

“Damn it!” said Dooley. He looked down the trail toward the empty wagon, then back to the Dog as two more bullets sliced past them. “What the hell are we waiting for?”

“Beats me,” said Lou. “I’ve been ready.” He turned and ran in a crouch in the same direction their spooked horses had taken toward the turn in the trail.

“That bastard Swank!” said Dooley, running right beside him. “He led us right into this—made it sound easy, talking about taking the gold away from Grolin and his men!”

“He shoulda hit a little harder on what we’d have to do to get it from these fellows first !” shouted Lou.

The two continued running away even as the firing slowed to a stop behind them.

Chapter 26

Rochenbach caught sight of the two fleeing gunmen as he rode from the ridgeline back down onto the trail. But he didn’t have time to raise his rifle and fire at them before they’d disappeared out of sight around the turn to where their horses stood beside the trail. Instead, he booted the chestnut on to where his big dun stood at the foot of the path he’d sent it running down.

“Glad to see you made it,” he said to the waiting horse.

He picked up the reins from around the dun’s saddle horn and had started to lead the animal away when he saw Trooper Lukens spring out of the brush on the other side of the trail with a rifle pointed at him.

“All right, Smith, drop the gun! Drop it now!” the young soldier said, his voice sounding nervous and uncertain. He stood pale-faced and covered with fresh blood. But upon closer look, Rochenbach saw no signs of a wound on him.

“Do you hear me, Smith?” the trooper said. “Drop that rifle before I shoot!”

Rochenbach ignored his order and let out a breath.

“Where’s the captain, Trooper?” he asked, seeing the young soldier squeeze his hand tight around his saddle carbine.

Lukens’ strong demeanor appeared to almost melt at the mention of the captain. His face took on a worried look.

“He’s—he’s down off the side of the trail with the horses,” he said. “He’s been shot bad. ”

Oh no.…

Rochenbach winced and swung down from his saddle and led both horses toward the edge of the trail.

“How bad?” he asked as he led the two animals into the cover of rock and brush.

“I told you to drop that rifle, Smith!” Lukens shouted suddenly, trying to take charge. He looked all around, frightened.

“Well, I’m not going to, Trooper,” said Rock, “so shut up about it and let’s see about the captain. How bad is he?” he repeated.

“As bad as ever I’ve seen, Smith,” Lukens said, swallowing a knot in his throat.

“You know there’s a doctor in Dunbar,” Rochenbach said, gesturing the young soldier in front and following him down the hillside.

“I’m thinking he’s past doctoring, to be honest with you,” Lukens said.

Rochenbach winced again.

In the small clearing where the soldiers’ horses stood, the wounded captain raised his head and looked up from where he lay slumped back against a tree. The center of his chest was covered with dark blood. His right hand held a blood-soaked bandanna against the wound. An open canteen rested against the side of his leg.

“A soldier… should not die… out of uniform,” he rasped, seeing Rochenbach walk toward him.

Rochenbach stooped down beside him. He lifted his hand and the bandanna a little and examined the wound closely, seeing the severity of it.

“You’re a soldier, Captain, uniform or not,” he said. “There’s no doubt about that.”

“I—I saw you,” Captain Boone said, clutching his forearm with his other bloody hand. “You were up there… shooting at them. You were on our side.”

“Don’t tell anybody,” Rochenbach said. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Who are you, Smith?” the captain said. “I know there’s more to you… than you told me.”

Rochenbach saw the man was dying. He tossed a glance up toward Lukens. Captain Boone caught the look.