Ralph Compton - Down on Gila River

Hannah sighed her frustration. “All right, then, Sam, I’ll see this Jake Wells thing through with you.”

Sam shook his head. “No, Hannah, you’ve saved my life twice and that’s enough for any man. Get on the hoss and ride away from here.” He smiled. “A tinhorn like Jake Wells ain’t gonna get the drop on me.”

“I’m going with you, and that’s final,” Hannah said. She saw the man’s hesitancy. “And don’t you dare argue with me, Sam Sawyer.”

Sam thought about holding out, but the determination blazing in Hannah’s eyes convinced him otherwise.

“All right,” he said, “let’s go finish it.”

Sam swung his leg over the saddle. He helped Hannah get up behind him.

“I don’t have the voice for it,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Can you howl like a wolf?”

Hannah’s surprise registered in her voice. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“You’ve heard a wolf howl, though, huh?”

“Of course, many times.”

“Then let me hear you.”

Hannah tipped back her head and let out a loud, plaintive wail.

Sam grinned. “Damn it, that was close enough. Now we have a way to get an edge on Jake Wells.”

Chapter 44

Jake Wells bit back pain as he crawled across the saloon floor, his broken leg dragging behind him.

He had to reach his gun. If the breed wasn’t lying and Dan was really dead, Sawyer would come after him.

Cursing his helplessness, Jake told himself with every shocking pain that lanced through his leg that he should’ve skinned Sawyer when he had the chance instead of trying to make the man’s agony last.

Down here on the floor, he was at eye level with the rats and he hated them for their ability to run around when he could not. After he found his gun, he’d shoot a few, just to see their bodies explode.

No, Jake, he thought, save your bullets for Sawyer. A couple in the belly would slow him down all right, and the buzzard would scream for hours just as Moseley did.

He wormed forward, an inch at a time, his mouth gaping, fighting for breath.

He’d thought about Moseley. Now he considered his woman.

Had he lost her?

Jake had so badly wanted to break her until she willingly did whatever he wanted. Now that opportunity was gone.

Wait! Maybe she’d come here with Sawyer.

Despite his pain and exhaustion, the man grinned.

There was still hope. Kill Sawyer and the woman would give up, surrender to him.

Yeehaa!—he’d have her yet. He’d—

What was that?

Suddenly all thoughts vanished from Jake’s head.

There it was again. The howl of a hunting wolf.

Santos was back!

Sobbing deep in his chest, Jake redoubled his efforts. He crawled faster and fear filled his mouth with saliva.

Ignore the pain . . . get to the gun . . .

The wolf howled again, a primal threat as old as mankind that still had the power to kindle ancient fears.

Jake stopped. He turned his head and looked toward the door.

“Santos, you buzzard, I’m gonna kill you,” he screamed. “I got my gun back and I’ll tack your pelt to the saloon wall.”

He crawled again, making a strange “nuh-nuh-nuh” sound, as he bellied closer to the corner.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour of struggle, Jake found his Colt and his hand clasped gratefully around the walnut handle.

He fetched his back against the rock wall of the saloon and yelled, “I’m ready for you, Santos! Come and get me!”

The wolf howled and Jake threw back his head and laughed.

“I ain’t scared of a wolf, Santos. I’ve killed and skun hundreds of lobos, just like you. You hear me, Santos, just like you.”

Jake’s laugh was spiked with hysteria that choked off as the saloon door burst open, splintering away from its top hinge.

He fanned two fast shots into the doorway, expecting a man—or a wolf—to charge through.

But all he saw was a rectangle of emptiness, a sunlit view of aspen and pine in the far distance.

Jake cursed himself. Two rounds gone and only four left in the cylinder. But they would get the job done if Santos was man enough to show himself.

“Come on in, Santos, have a drink,” he yelled, around a laugh. “I’m thirsty.”

“Drink your blood, Jake, and your thirst will pass!”

That wasn’t Santos’s voice!

“Sawyer, is that you?” Jake hollered. “Are you out there with Moseley’s woman?”

“You scared, Jake? You sound scared. The wolf gettin’ to you, huh?”

“I’m gonna kill you, Sawyer, and then take your woman. I’m gonna skin—”

Jake abruptly shut up. The dawning realization that Sawyer wanted to keep him talking to fix his position inside the saloon silenced the words in his throat.

He grinned to himself. There was only one way into the saloon—through the door. All he had to do was keep calm and bide his time.

Sawyer would come to him, by and by. . . .

Chapter 45

There was only one way Sam Sawyer could get inside the saloon—through the door. But Sam Sawyer didn’t have the inclination to walk into Jake Wells’s gun.

“The wolf howls didn’t work, Sam,” Hannah said, “and neither did kicking in the door. Jake didn’t come out, and now he can’t get at you, and you can’t get at him.”

“Seems like,” Sam said, his eyes moved from the door to the window and back again. “He has more sand than I expected and he’s got me corralled.”

The listless day was heavy with heat and there was no breeze. Beads of perspiration clung to Hannah’s temples like tiny bubbles.

“Sam, let’s put some git between us and Jake,” she said. “He’s no danger to us now.”

“He’s got to come out of there eventually,” Sam said. “And he’ll find me waiting for him.”

“Suppose he doesn’t? Come out, I mean.”

“Then I’ll go in after him.”

“You’ll get your fool head blown off.”

Sam said nothing, but Hannah pushed it.

“If you charge in there you won’t even be able to see him.”

“I can see well enough. Anyhow, Jake is a big target.” Sam rubbed his dry lips. “Dang, I wish I had the makings.”

“You’re irritable, Sam,” Hannah said. “An irritable man doesn’t think straight.”

“No kiddin’?”

“Jake Wells is wearing on you.”

“The heck he is, woman. It’s the tobacco hunger that’s wearing on me.”

Sam lapsed into silence, remembering something.

Vic Moseley had been a smoking man.

And that thought led to another . . .

And another . . .

Sam smiled to himself.

Good ol’ Moseley would help him kill Jake Wells.

* * *

“Stay right where you’re at, Hannah, here in the trees,” Sam said. “But keep an eye on the door and if Jake comes out, holler.”

“What are you planning, Sam?” Hannah said, her face worried.

“I’m going to get Vic Moseley to help me.”

“Sam, he’s dead.”

“I know, and that will make him a right obliging feller.”

“But, Sam—”

“Stay here and watch what happens.” He laid a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “If I don’t make it, git out of here, understand?”

“But, Sam—”

Hannah was talking to empty space. Sam was already running toward the women’s cabin.

* * *

In life, Vic Moseley had used expensive cologne and English hair pomade and he always smelled good. In death, he smelled pretty bad.

Sam wrinkled his nose as he approached the body.

As far as he could see, the man had two wounds. One was just above his gun belt buckle, still sticky with blood and covered in heaving flies. The second, neater, was right between his eyes, the wound surrounded by a black powder burn, the result of Dan Wells’s close-up shot.