Ralph Compton - Doomsday Rider

Fletcher let the stud drink, then led him to a patch of grass and chokecherry within the tree canopy. He sat with his back to a juniper and, without appetite, ate a couple of the mescal cakes, then built and lit a cigarette.

It was peaceful here among the trees, the only sound the rushing water and the breeze rustling among the branches. When he looked up and caught a glimpse of the sky through the pine needles it was blue and cloudless, but the sun held no warmth and frost clung thick to the north-facing bark of the tree trunks.

The air smelled fresh, of sage and cedar, and when Fletcher tilted his nose to the wind he thought he could detect the scent of buffalo grass buried under the snow.

He finished his cigarette, rose to his feet, and swung into the saddle.

The men who had taken Estelle had also ridden through this valley, perhaps not two hours before, and Fletcher knew the time of reckoning was getting close.

Now, as he cleared the divide and worked his way across hilly, broken country, he rode alert in the saddle, his eyes never still.

Ahead of him in the distance he saw rugged Mazatzal Peak, the foothills sweeping away from him, rising higher and higher to meet the mountain’s lower slopes.

As Fletcher topped a low rise, the horse tracks stretched out in front of him and disappeared within the walls of a narrow, high-walled canyon about a quarter of a mile distant. A jumble of rocks was scattered on top of the canyon rim facing him, and here and there grew spruce, identifiable as dark arrowheads of green against the sky. To his right rose a gradual slope ending after thirty yards at a band of mixed pine and low-growing greasewood that in early summer would be covered in yellow blossoms.

The gulch seemed innocent and peaceful enough but Fletcher’s survival instincts were clamoring. Something didn’t seem right. . . .

He leaned over to slide the Winchester out of the boot—and that motion saved his life.

Fletcher felt the bullet burn across the side of his head before he heard the racket of the rifle.

Stunned, he toppled out of the saddle and hit the ground hard. Another bullet kicked up snow inches from his right leg; a third pounded into the ground close beside him.

He had to get away from here!

Fletcher climbed to his feet and stumbled toward the tree line, firing as he went, cranking and triggering the Winchester as he ran. He saw no target except for a fleeting puff of gray smoke atop the canyon wall. He fired at the smoke, then to the left and right of it, and kept running.

Without slowing his pace, Fletcher dived into the trees, landing headfirst in a wild blackberry bush that tore at his face and hands with vicious thorns. Fletcher rolled out of the bush and scrambled higher up the slope, taking up a position behind the wide trunk of a spruce. Heart pounding in his chest and dizzy from his head wound, he waited, the salty, metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

A slow ten minutes ticked past, and out in the snow where his horse stood, reins trailing, nothing moved.

A jay flapped into the tree beside Fletcher, saw him, and took exception to his presence, protesting noisily and furiously before it indignantly fluttered away.

Fletcher’s horse pawed at the snow, seeking grass, and he heard its bit chink softly in the quiet.

Something was moving out there.

A huge, bearded man in a long buffalo-hide coat was walking out of the canyon, heading toward the horse. Beside him stepped a tall, thin man in a wide-brimmed black hat and sheepskin mackinaw, a red muffler wrapped loosely around his neck and the bottom half of his face.

But for Fletcher there was no mistaking that arrogant tilt of the head and the way the man wore his guns—it was Wes Slaughter.

As he studied the gunman, the dawning realization came to Fletcher that here was the guardian angel Charlie had spoken about. Everything Slaughter had done, from the shooting of the Apache back at pueblo to the killing of Andy Wilson, had been done to preserve Fletcher for this moment . . .

. . . the moment he could be killed alongside Estelle Stark and her father’s vile scheme finally completed.

Was Estelle already dead? That seemed unlikely. Falcon Stark, such a meticulous planner, would want them both murdered at the same time.

Slaughter’s voice rose among the trees where Fletcher knelt hidden.

“You sure you got him good, Woody? He looked right spry to me.”

The man called Woody pointed at the surface of the snow with his rifle muzzle. “See that blood, Wes? I tole you I hit him hard.” The man pointed in the direction of the trees with his bearded chin. “He’s probably in there dead, or dying.”

Fletcher recognized the bearded man. He was Woody Barton, a sure-thing back shooter, scalp hunter, and piece of white trash out of the Cumberland Plateau country of Tennessee. His usual fee for a murder was fifty dollars, and he didn’t much care if the victim was man, woman, or child.

Slaughter was talking again.

“You go in there and get him, damn it. I want Fletcher a-laying dead alongside that pregnant sow when we get Crook or one of his officers down here.”

Barton hesitated. He was long on bullying those he considered weak or old or scared, but short enough on the courage to face a man like Buck Fletcher, even if he was wounded and dying.

“What if he ain’t hurt so bad, Wes?” he asked. “I could be mistook.”

“Then go in there and get him, or I swear, Woody, I’ll gun you down myself.” Slaughter took a step toward Barton. “Go ahead. Hell, I’ll be right here covering you.”

Fletcher saw Barton’s throat bob under his beard as the man swallowed hard. But he walked slowly toward the trees, his rifle at a high port. A few feet away from the tree line he stopped and looked back at Slaughter.

“You got me covered real good, Wes?”

“Depend on it, Woody.”

Woody Barton stepped into the trees, his head swiveling this way and that, knuckles white on the stock of his Henry.

“Wes,” he called out without turning his head, “you still there?”

“Right behind you, Woody. Now go get Fletcher.”

Barton started to climb the slope. He was about ten feet from Fletcher’s position. Nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . .

Fletcher stepped out from behind the spruce. “You looking for me, Woody?”

The man’s rifle swung on Fletcher fast. But not nearly fast enough.

The Colt in Fletcher’s right fist hammered, three shots so close together they sounded like one.

Each bullet hit Barton in the middle of the chest and the man screamed, his face wild, and he fell backward, crashing down the slope.

Fletcher threw himself to his right as Slaughter thumbed off a couple of quick shots into the trees, scattering branches and pine needles. Both missed.

Gray gunsmoke drifted through the trees as Fletcher crouched, heart thudding, and punched shells into the empty cylinders of his gun.

Behind him, higher up the slope, the jays were scattering, frightened by the gunfire, and something larger crashed through the underbrush in panicked flight.

“Woody!” Slaughter’s hushed voice came from somewhere among the trees to Fletcher’s right. “Are you there?”

“Poor Woody ain’t with us no more, Wes,” Fletcher said. “He caught a bad case of lead poisoning.”

He quickly moved his position, moments before Slaughter sent another shot crashing into the trees where he’d been standing.

“Buck, did I get you?”

This time Fletcher didn’t answer, knowing the gunman was using his voice to direct his shots.

A few minutes passed in silence; then Slaughter called out, “Buck, we don’t have to snipe at each other. Let’s me and you settle this thing like gentlemen.”