Ralph Compton - Down on Gila River

Wells was on his feet in an instant. He staggered to the bank, grasping his bowie above his head, intent on diving on top of Sam again.

Water running into his eyes, Sam fired. Fired again. Missed with both shots.

He waded away from the bank and glanced fearfully over his shoulder.

Wells didn’t dive into the water. He jumped in with both feet and this time he had a gun in his hand.

Sam fired into the splash, but he thought he’d done no execution.

Wells was on his feet, legs spread against the current, his Colt up at waist level. He fired.

Sam felt the shock of the bullet, like a blow from a fence post swung by a strong man, to his lower left ribs.

He staggered, almost fell on a slippery rock, but recovered his balance.

“You done for me, but I’ve got ye now,” Wells said. “Damn you, you can cook me supper in hell.”

Sam had one round left in the cylinder. He two-handed his Colt to eye level and squeezed the trigger.

At first he thought he’d missed again, because Wells stood his ground. The big man shot twice, three times, all his bullets flying wild.

But Sam’s last round had hit home.

His chest running scarlet with blood from two wounds, Wells finally dropped to his knees and pitched forward into the river, fountains of water erupting around him.

Blood stained the river, spreading out from the big man like rust, and Sam stepped aside as the huge spread-eagled body slowly floated past.

For a few moments Sam watched Jeptha Wells bob facedown in the river and then he shook his head. “Mister,” he said, “never trust a wolf until it’s been skun.”

Dripping wet, he waded for the bank, then stopped to holster his gun.

A bullet kicked up a startled exclamation point of water less than a foot from where he stood.

Two men were shooting at him. One stood on a hard talus incline that sloped down from the rock ledge. The other was already on the riverbank, a rifle to his shoulder.

Wading as fast as he could, Sam again made for the bank, bullets ripping up the air around him.

He clambered onto dry ground and saw to his joy that Wells’s horse was still there. The sorrel was an outlaw’s mount and had been trained to stand.

Sam stepped into the saddle, swung the horse around, away from the gunmen, and kicked the animal into a gallop.

Probing bullets followed him, rattling through tree branches, and he heard angry shouts as someone found Jeptha Wells’s body.

The game trail along the riverbank made a swing to the west and followed the course of the Gila.

A long canyon wind and the hot sun began to dry Sam’s wet duds. He put a hand to his ribs and it came away covered in blood and he knew a moment of panic.

How badly was he hurt?

The only way to answer that question was to find a safe place to hole up and see if he was carrying Wells’s lead.

Sam heard no sound of pursuit and felt secure enough to ride into the shelter of the trees, the tobacco hunger on him.

By some miracle his makings were still dry, but after he built a cigarette he used up all his damp matches. His last and final hope barely flared into fire, but the flame lasted long enough to light his smoke.

Sam looked around him, dragging deep on his cigarette, the pain in his ribs gnawing at him.

“Sam,” he said aloud through a sigh, “no matter how you sum it up, you’re in one helluva fix.”

He was fresh out of ideas and no closer to rescuing Hannah and Lori. Worse, he might be shot through and through, maybe even dying.

And worse still, he’d killed Jeptha Wells and now brother Dan would soon be on his trail, hunting revenge.

Sam sighed deep and long. “What a fix I’m in,” he said again.

He glanced down at the blood on his shirt and figured he was bleeding hard. It had to be a serious wound—as if there was any other kind.

The sorrel was up on its toes, ready for the trail, and Sam kneed the big horse into motion.

He felt like a man climbing the gallows steps to his own hanging.

Chapter 17

Vic Moseley grinned when he heard the shot. “I guess your brothers caught up with them two idiots,” he said.

“Seems like,” Dan Wells said. “Jeptha and Jake have done for them.”

“It’s no great loss,” Moseley said, grinning.

But when more shots echoed through the river canyon, Wells jumped to his feet and grabbed his Winchester.

“Hell,” he said, “that isn’t a shooting. It’s a blasted gunfight.”

Moseley didn’t get up. “Relax, Dan,” he said. “It’s only the boys having some fun. We got important business to discuss.”

“Later,” Wells said as another shot blasted. “That came from the river. I’m gonna take a look-see.”

Moseley’s eyes followed Wells out the door.

He hesitated a moment, and then he too got to his feet. Anger pinching at him, he went after Wells.

Thirty thousand in cash money was a lot more important to him than the well-being of Dan Wells’s crazy brothers.

* * *

As Moseley started on the slope from the ledge to the bank, he stopped when he saw Dan Wells shooting at a man in the river.

The sheriff watched Sam Sawyer clamber up the far bank, and took a pot at him. He missed and then watched as Sam stepped into the saddle of Jeptha’s horse.

Wells stood on the bank, a Winchester to his shoulder. He fired and Moseley saw Sam reel in the saddle.

“Dan, you got the son of a gun!” Moseley yelled.

The three women stood at the rim of the edge, enjoying the show. A skinny man wearing a white apron, a scattergun in his hands, joined them.

Moseley wore hand-sewn, hundred-dollar boots, and he wasn’t about to get them wet fishing a body out of the river. He contented himself by taking another hopeless pot at the fleeing Sam.

Dan Wells was almost at midstream before he grabbed his brother’s body. Jeptha had snagged on a submerged tree branch and his huge carcass rocked gently in the current. Wells dragged the body to the bank and Moseley helped him haul it onto dry land.

After he turned Jeptha on his back, Wells gazed down at the lifeless face. His brother’s eyes were wide open, staring into some terrifying eternity. His wounds still seeped blood.

“I’m sorry about this, Dan,” Moseley said. “Real sorry.”

Wells said nothing.

Then he tipped his head back and emitted a high-pitched, dreadful scream, the frightened-woman shriek of the hunting cougar.

Moseley felt his spine ice, and was surprised that his hands trembled.

Wells turned to him, his eyes on fire.

“Who,” he said, his voice hollow, like a whisper from a tomb, “was it?”

“His name is Sam,” Moseley said.

“That’s all? Just Sam?”

“I don’t remember his last name.” Then, to make up for his forgetfulness: “He’s a broken-down puncher who hopes to prosper in the restaurant trade.”

“He will not prosper,” Wells said. The skin of his face was tight, giving it the look of a yellow skull. “His death will be long and painful.”

Up until then, Moseley had been afraid of no man. But the realization came to him that he feared Dan Wells.

“Dan,” he said, “we need to talk about the army payroll. Time is money.”

“There will be no talk of money until my brother is avenged,” Wells said.

He stared at Moseley. “We’ll find Jake and bring him in. He must attend his brother’s burying.” Wells rose to his feet. “Wait. You know this man, this Sam. After Jeptha is laid to rest, you will ride with me and point him out. I’ll kill him wherever he may be.”

Moseley felt a fortune slipping through his fingers. But when he looked at Dan Wells, he saw only death. This was not the time or the place to mention gold again.

“I’ll ride with you,” he said, the words dropping from his lips like lead weights.