Ralph Compton - Bluff City

Clay pushed to his feet. The fight had left him winded but he could not rest. He unbuckled the man’s gun belt and was strapping it around his waist when footfalls pattered and out of the greenery rushed Melanie and Cavendish. Clay frowned. “I told you to stay put.”

“We heard the shot,” Melanie said. “We were worried.”

“One of us was, anyhow,” Cavendish said.

“I was hoping to take them quietly,” Clay mentioned. “That shot will bring others.” He examined the revolver, a standard single-action, long-barreled Colt Army model. “Catch their horses while I finish here.”

“Finish?” Melanie said.

“Come on, girl,” Cavendish prodded. “Now’s not the time to be asking questions. We have to light a shuck or we won’t see the morning sun.”

Clay replaced the spent cartridge in the Colt. He spun the cylinder, then thumbed back the hammer and pointed the Colt at the outlaw who was still alive. All it would take was a slight squeeze. Clay stood there pointing the Colt for over a minute; then he slowly lowered it, let down the hammer, and shoved it into the holster, saying softly, “Not like this or it will all be for nothing.”

A whinny drew Clay to where Sam Cavendish had hold of the reins to one of the mounts and was seeking to calm the skittish animal. “Where did Melanie get to?” Clay asked.

“Over yonder,” Cavendish said, with a vague gesture to the southwest. “After the other horse.”

“Wait here.” Clay ran in a zigzag pattern to cover more ground. He expected to come on her any moment but he went twenty to thirty yards and no Melanie. He cupped a hand to his mouth to shout but lowered it.

A short jog brought Clay to a clearing. In the center, struggling to hold onto the reins of a spirited dun, was the object of his concern. Hurrying to help her, he snatched at the bridle just as the dun pranced from her grasp. Inadvertently, his hand brushed Melanie’s body. “Sorry.”

“For what? Touching me? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Throwing an arm over the animal’s neck, Clay grasped the bridle and held on tight. “I was being polite.”

Melanie faced him. “How do you intend to explain yourself?”

“It was an accident. I bumped you.”

“Don’t play the innocent,” Melanie said. “I wasn’t referring to that. I have seen a new side to you tonight, Clay Adams.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You pulled a gun on Jesse Stark, of all people. The way your hand was shaking, I figured you were scared. But then you went and bested two badmen all by your lonesome. Now I don’t know what to think.”

“They weren’t much as badmen go.”

Melanie’s skepticism was transparent. “Don’t give me that. You can handle a six-shooter. You can handle a knife. Strange skills for a would-be journalist.”

At that juncture the brush crackled and into the clearing rode Sam Cavendish. “Why is it the young never use the brains God gave them? The Stark gang is after us and you stand around jawing!”

Clay swung onto the dun and lowered his arm to Melanie. “We’ll have to ride double. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“I can’t very well walk back to the mine, now, can I?” Melanie allowed him to swing her up, then wrapped her arms tight around his middle. “Ride like the dickens. And don’t worry about me. I’m not fragile.”

Clay was not wearing spurs but his heels sufficed. He rode faster than was prudent but not so fast as to endanger the dun. To lose a horse now increased the chances of being recaptured. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let him get his hands on us again,” he thought out loud.

“What was that?” Melanie asked in his ear. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

“Nothing,” Clay said. He prevented her from asking more questions by bending forward so she had to shout to be heard above the drum of hooves, and she would not shout when there was a chance the outlaws would hear.

After half an hour of riding Clay drew rein to let the horses rest, and to listen. He did not dismount, and when Cavendish went to do so, he said, “Stay in the saddle. There’s no telling how close they are.”

“I haven’t ridden this blamed hard in a coon’s age,” the older man said. “I’ve got aches in places I’ve never ached before.”

“I don’t do much riding, either,” Melanie said, “but I’ve noticed that our friend, here, is right at home in the saddle.”

“I noticed that, too,” Cavendish said to Clay. “You ride like a Comanche, son. And you can see in the dark almost as good as they can.”

“I have good eyes,” Clay said.

Sam Cavendish snorted. “Sonny, when word gets out that you outwitted Jesse Stark, you’ll be the talk of the territory.”

“In that case,” Clay said, “I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything, son,” Cavendish said. “You saved my bacon, so whatever you want is yours.”

“I would be obliged if you and Miss Stanley would keep this to yourselves,” Clay requested.

“That’s a mite peculiar.”

“It’s more than that,” Melanie said. “Why do you want us to keep quiet? If the eastern papers pick up the story, and a kidnapping is always big news, you will be halfway famous, like Stark wants to be.”

“I’m not Jesse Stark,” Clay said curtly.

“No, but you just helped us escape from him. That in itself is newsworthy. I have a responsibility to my uncle and to the Courier’s readers to report everything that has happened.”

“You couldn’t just say we escaped together?”

“It wouldn’t be the truth,” Melanie said. “We couldn’t have done it without you. Whether you like it or not, you are a hero.”

“Hush!” Sam Cavendish abruptly raised a hand.

Clay rose in the stirrups. To the south a considerable piece hoofbeats rumbled like thunder. “They are still after us.”

“Then what are we twiddling our thumbs for?”

It soon became apparent that the countryside was crawling with outlaws. They heard riders to the north, to the east, and to the west. Once they thought they heard Gorman shout and Bantarro answer.

Again and again Clay stopped to probe the night for enemies. When Melanie complained that they should simply press on, he retorted with, “Would you rather enjoy Jesse Stark’s hospitality again?”

“He’s right, girl,” Cavendish came to Clay’s defense. “The closer we get to my mine, the more of those owlhoots there are. We have to be like mice in a barn full of cats.”

“Stark sent most of his men on ahead to cut us off,” Clay said. “He expects us to strike straight for the mine. So I propose we swing to the northwest and come up on it from above the mine shaft.”

“It will take a lot longer,” Cavendish noted.

“But be a lot safer,” Clay responded, with a flick of his eyes at Melanie that only Cavendish noticed.

Time crawled. Every moment was spent in tense expectation of being discovered. They never knew but that they might blunder on hidden outlaws and be forced to fight their way through.

The position of the North Star was as reliable as a timepiece. By Clay’s reckoning it was past one in the morning when they drew rein on a slope that overlooked the Cavendish mine. The buildings were ablaze with lamp and lantern light. Miners milled near the office, evidently awaiting word.

“You did it, son,” Sam Cavendish said. “We’re almost there.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Stark to have riflemen ready to pick us off as soon as we break cover,” Clay said. “I’ll go first by myself. If I don’t draw fire, it should be safe for the two of you to follow.”

“Nonsense,” Melanie said. “We have come this far together. We will stick with you the rest of the way.”