Ralph Compton - Bluff City

Yells broke out in the distance.

“On your horse,” Clay directed Melanie, taking the rifle from her.

“But Mr. Train’s saddle? And our packs?”

“Move!” Clay shoved her. Crackling in the underbrush warned him some of the outlaws were closer than they reckoned. Swinging onto the claybank, he covered Melanie while she mounted and, once she was up, wheeled the claybank and snagged the reins to the pack animal, shoving them at her. He took the reins to Train’s mount himself.

“Which direction?”

“South,” Clay instructed her.

“Why that way?”

“Just do it.”

The forest swallowed them before the outlaws appeared. They brought their horses to a trot, and Clay, after glancing about, exclaimed, “I thought so! We are in luck.”

Melanie looked over her shoulder at him, her eyebrows twin arches.

“They came on foot,” Clay enlightened her. “That canyon Train told us about can’t be far.”

It wasn’t. Less than a quarter of a mile from the lake they came on the canyon mouth. Screened by aspens, no one would guess it was there until they were right on top of it. An ideal sanctuary for those on the wrong side of the law. Clay handed the reins to Train’s horse to Melanie and gigged the claybank past her. “I will go first. Just in case.”

The canyon widened. The shoes of their mounts rang loud on the rocks and echoed off the high slopes.

Then they rounded a bend and discovered five to six acres of trees and grass. A spring situated near a ramshackle cabin explained the greenery. In a large corral attached to the cabin were more than two dozen horses. Smoke wafted from the chimney.

“Quick!” Clay said, and reined back out of sight.

“Someone must be inside,” Melanie mentioned what was already plain. “I didn’t see Mr. Train anywhere. Maybe it is him.”

Dismounting, Clay said, “If I don’t give a holler in the next ten minutes, light a shuck for Bluff City.”

“I will not leave you,” Melanie said.

“Why do you always do this?” Clay placed his hand on her leg. “Listen to me. When Jesse Stark finds our horses gone, he will check to see which direction we went. When he sees we went south, he will guess where we are and come on the run. I figure we have half an hour, maybe less.” Clay paused. “Wait fifteen minutes if you want, but only fifteen minutes so you have time to spare. Then get the hades out of here.”

Melanie opened her mouth to say something but closed it again.

“Good girl.” Clay smiled, drew his Colt and hastened away. A muttered, “I’m not no girl!” trailed after him. As he went around the bend he bent at the knees.

The outlaws had built a cabin. If it had been a settler’s homestead on the bank of the Platte River, the scene would have been idyllic. But it was a nest of human vipers in the dark heart of the remote Rockies, and Clay had to be careful not to be bitten by their leaden fangs.

He hugged the side of the canyon until he was in among the trees. The wind was blowing his scent away from the corral but he did not take for granted that the horses would not give him away. Flat on his belly, he crawled to where he could see the cabin door and window. There was no glass, not even a curtain, and Clay could see someone moving about inside. More than one, as it developed.

Clay crawled nearer. His fifteen minutes were about up. He would rush the cabin, fling open the door and trust to his speed with the Colt to prevail. On the verge of rising, he glanced to the left and bit off an oath of surprise.

A post had been imbedded in the ground. An ordinary corral post, only this one had been put to a far-from-ordinary use.

His arms over his head, Mr. Train had been bound to the post by the wrists and ankles. They had stripped him to the waist first, and every square inch of skin from his neck to his hips was covered with lacerations and welts, a riot of marks ridged with dry blood. Only one thing left marks like that. A bullwhip.

Train’s head hung to his chest and his eyes were closed. He was breathing raggedly and noisily, but he was breathing.

One eye on the cabin, Clay ran over. “Train?” he whispered. Blood had dribbled from the manhunter’s mouth and from one ear. “Train? Can you hear me?”

Train said so weakly he could barely be heard, “Cut me down. Hurry.”

Clay needed no urging. But he did not have a knife; he had lost his back when Stark kidnapped Cavendish and had not bought a new one. “How many of them are in the cabin?”

Mr. Train raised his head. His face had been spared the whip but someone, or several someones, had beat on him with their fists to the point where his lips, cheeks and eyebrows were badly swollen and his entire face was black and blue.

“Three in the cabin,” Mr. Train said. “The rest went after you and Miss Stanley.”

“I’ll be right back with a knife.”

“Wait,” Train said as Clay turned. “You need to hear this.” He sucked in a breath. “They knew I was coming. They knew you were with me.”

“How?” Clay asked. An explanation leaped out at him and he answered his own question. “They must have heard about those men I shot at the mining camp.”

“No,” Train said, talking with an effort. “You don’t understand. Stark knew my name.”

Clay mulled that as he jogged toward a corner of the cabin. Muffled voices reached him, and what might be the clank of a pot or pan. His back to the wall, he sidled to the door. It was open a crack. Inside, someone was grousing.

“I don’t like it, I tell you. Playing nursemaid while the rest are off having a grand time.”

“Quit your griping, Barnes. They were on foot. That’s a long hike. I’m glad Jesse left me behind.”

“They went on foot so they could sneak up on those other two,” Barnes said. “I wanted to go but he made me stay.”

“Your problem is that you are woman crazy. That’s why you are complaining. You are afraid the others will use her up before you get to take a poke.”

“Can you blame me?” Barnes snapped. “It’s not fair, I tell you.”

Clay used his shoulder on the door. He went in fast and low. The three outlaws clawed for their hardware and Clay shot one seated at a table, another over by the fireplace, and the third as the man rose off a cot. He reloaded, grabbed a butcher knife from the counter and was retracing his steps to the door when he saw a gun belt on a peg. In the holster was a Whitney revolver, and in a knife sheath a bowie. “Train’s,” Clay said and, throwing the butcher knife on the table, he raced outdoors with the gun belt.

“Hurry,” Train urged. He was standing upright. “I think I heard shouts down the canyon.”

Two slices of the bowie and the ropes fell. Clay shoved the knife and the gun belt at their owner. “Can you run?”

“Just you watch me.”

They jogged toward the bend, Train buckling on his armory as they went. But they were only halfway there when Melanie trotted into view, her long hair flying, leading their horses.

“Damn her,” Clay said. “She should have been long gone by now. Why can’t women ever listen?”

Melanie brought the horses to a halt and leaned down. “Mr. Train! Are you all right?”

“Forget about me,” Train said. “We have to get out of here before Stark and the rest come back.”

“It’s too late for that,” Melanie replied. “They are coming up the canyon and will be here any minute.”

Chapter 24

“We will make a stand in the cabin,” Clay said. “There are only seven of them left. If we can kill a few more, the rest might decide it’s healthier to skedaddle.”

“We risk Miss Stanley being harmed,” Mr. Train said. “But there is another way out.”