Ralph Compton - Bluff City

Quickly, Clay darted behind the boulder. Removing his hat, he peeked out. The grizzly was looking in his direction. His palms grew sweaty as he waited for the bear to decide what it was going to do.

With another of those rumbling grunts, the bear wheeled and made for the woods. It did not look back. Amazingly, it melted into the vegetation with no more than a whisper of sound.

Clay jammed his hat back on but stayed where he was. Melanie did not move, either, for a considerable while. Then she took a step forward and stared into the timber. Clay did the right thing and backed behind the boulder, but not before he had seen her, seen a vision so incredibly lovely it stunned him. He tried to put the image from his mind but could not. He was still seeing it, shimmering in the air like a desert mirage, when a shadow fell across him and someone coughed.

“I am ready to go back if you are,” Melanie said.

Clay nodded and fell into step next to her.

“Why do you have your pistol in your hand?”

Startled, Clay replaced it in his holster. “The bear,” he said simply.

“Wasn’t he magnificent?”

“Magnificent,” Clay said, but he was not thinking of the bear.

Their camp was as they had left it. Clay hunkered by the fire, which had burned low. He broke a few tree limbs he had gathered the night before and fed them to the flames. “There’s some coffee left if you want it.”

“Clay?” Melanie said, an unusual lilt to her voice.

“Want me to fill your cup?”

“Clay?” Melanie said again.

Shifting on his heels, Clay looked up, and every ounce of blood in his body turned to ice. For standing at the edge of the clearing, smirking at them, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, was Jesse Stark.

Chapter 23

“If it isn’t the pretty filly from the newspaper.” Jesse Stark grinned. “Fancy meeting you again.”

Raw bloodlust spiked through Clay. He was behind Melanie, his hand poised to swoop to his Colt when the shadows on all sides disgorged other members of the Stark gang. Nine, ten, eleven counting Jesse Stark. About half had rifles, but only one had his leveled. All wore six-shooters, but only two had drawn theirs. They were too sure of themselves.

Bantarro and Gorman came up on either side, and the latter said to Melanie, “Some people just don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

“Agreed, amigo,” Bantarro echoed. “Or perhaps the pretty senorita missed us and could not stay away?”

“What’s this?” Jesse Stark had taken a step and was staring at Clay. He looked at Clay’s hat and buckskins, at Clay’s pearl-handled Colt. Shock registered, to be replaced by disbelief. “Those clothes! I knew a man who wore those clothes!”

“What is wrong, amigo?” Bantarro asked.

“How can this be?” Stark practically screeched.

All eyes, even Melanie’s, were on the outlaw leader. Stark’s men were stunned by his reaction. The moment was ready-made for Clay. He drew and shot an outlaw pointing a rifle at him, pivoted and shot another outlaw holding a cocked Colt. Instantly he spun to shoot Jesse Stark, but Melanie had turned and was directly between them, and if Clay shot he would hit her. Grabbing her wrist, Clay backpedaled, firing as he went. He shot a man training a revolver on them, then shot an outlaw about to work the lever of a rifle. Then they were in the pines and Clay whirled and fled, pulling Melanie after him.

“After them!” Stark raged. “I want that bastard in the black hat dead! Do you hear me?”

The woods were thick but the undergrowth sparse. Clay ran smoothly, pacing himself so Melanie could keep up.

“He recognized you,” she remarked as they skirted a log.

“Took him long enough.” Clay hunched low and bore to the north, avoiding a thicket. “Keep down,” he advised.

“How did they find us? Where do you suppose Mr. Train got to? What do we do now?”

“The only one of those I can answer is the last,” Clay said. “We need horses. So we will do the last thing Stark expects.” He angled even more to the right. “We will work our way back to the clearing.”

The outlaws were making quite a racket. They had spread out and were barreling in the direction they thought Clay and Melanie had gone, crashing through the brush like so many mad bulls.

“Where are they?” one shouted.

“I don’t see them!”

“Watch out for the one in buckskins! He’s greased lightning!”

Clay smiled grimly at that. He slowed and dropped lower, so that he was almost on his knees, and cat-footed forward until he was a few yards from the north edge of the clearing. It was empty.

“What are we waiting for?” Melanie whispered. “The horses are right there.”

“I haven’t had a chance to reload,” Clay said, and as he quickly did so, he asked, “Can you ride bareback?”

“I have never done it before but it can’t be all that hard,” Melanie replied.

“Stay close.” Clay dashed to their saddles. Yanking his Winchester from the scabbard, he jacked the lever and thrust the rifle at her. “Shoot anything that moves.” He holstered the Colt, grabbed both his saddle blanket and hers, and hurried to their horses.

“What are you doing?” Melanie whispered. “I thought you said we would ride bareback.”

“Only if they catch us before we’re ready.” Clay threw his on the claybank and hers on the mare and ran to their saddles. Shouts to the west confirmed the outlaws were still after them.

“Listen to them. They sound confused. They don’t know where we got to,” Melanie said, and giggled.

“They will figure it out soon enough,” Clay predicted. He got her saddle on, and his, faster than he had ever put saddles on. Then he scooped up his saddlebags.

“What about Mr. Train’s horse and the pack animal?”

“What about them?”

“He will need his mount and we can use the supplies.”

Clay tilted his head to listen. The sounds of pursuit were faint. “We are taking a god-awful chance,” he said, but he bent to Train’s saddle and saddle blanket.

“We can’t leave without finding out what happened to him,” Melanie said. “We owe him that much.”

“Keep your eyes on those trees,” Clay said. He was half expecting a slug in the back so he was not all that surprised when a gun hammer clicked.

“Hold it right there.”

His hands filled with Train’s saddle, Clay did not move except for his head, which he slowly turned until he saw one of the four outlaws he had shot. He had not paid much attention to them. He had assumed they were dead. But this one was very much alive, a crimson stain high on the left side of his shirt. Wounded though he was, the outlaw held his revolver steady enough.

“Where did everyone get to?” the man asked, and coughed. He was of medium height and medium build and distinguished only by a cleft chin.

“Your pards ran off,” Clay said.

“Liar. Jesse never deserts his own.” The man looked at his three fallen companions. “Damn. You sure are a hellion, mister.” He extended his six-gun. “Give my regards to my pards when you get to hell.”

Melanie gave him pause by asking, “What about me? Don’t you have any compunctions about shooting women?”

“I don’t know what that word means, lady,” the outlaw said, and coughed some more. “But I’ve killed women before. Four, I think. Or is it five? I can’t rightly recollect.”

“You never feel any regret? Any remorse?”

“Why should I? Killing is killing. You do it and you forget about it.” The outlaw pointed his revolver at her. “How about if I make you number six? Your jabbering annoys the hell out of me.”

“Try me instead.” Clay dropped Train’s saddle and drew his pearl-handled Colt. He cleared leather as the outlaw snapped off a shot at him. The man missed. Clay did not, and this time he put the slug between the man’s eyes.