Ralph Compton - Bluff City

“Where?”

Train pointed at the stretch of canyon past the cabin. “A back way. So they can escape if the law ever shows up. I overheard them talking about it.”

“The back way it is then.” Clay swung onto the claybank. Flicking the reins, he galloped to the cabin and was about to swing on around when inspiration struck. Suddenly drawing rein, he called out, “Train! Their horses! I’ll take care of the cabin.”

A lantern made the task simple. Clay broke it over the cot and set the cot ablaze. It caught readily and soon flames were climbing the wall.

By then Mr. Train had opened the corral and, with Melanie helping, was driving the horses off. Clay overtook them, and waved his hat and whooped to hurry the horses along. Soon they were past the last of the trees. Five hundred yards more brought them to a narrow trail that wound up a slope dotted with scrub brush to a bench littered with talus. The outlaws had cleared a path through the talus and the trail continued on the other side, into a cleft that soon brought them out in dense timber.

Clay and Mr. Train fired shots into the air and watched the horses gallop off.

Melanie was grinning from ear to ear. “Jesse Stark will be fit to be tied. Too bad we can’t see the look on his face right about now.”

Clay shifted in the saddle. “I want you to go with Mr. Train. Wait for me at Calamity. If I am not there in a week, I never will be.”

“Why aren’t you going with us?” Melanie asked. She glanced at the trail out of the canyon, and started. “Wait. You’re going back, aren’t you? But there is no need.”

“I have to end it.”

“You said there are seven left,” Melanie anxiously mentioned. “Why buck odds like that if you don’t have to?”

“You weren’t listening,” Clay said. “It ends. Here. Today.” He turned to the manhunter. “Take her with you. Tie her and throw her over her horse if need be. But get her out of here.”

“How dare you!” Melanie said. “I refuse to be treated like a child. If he so much as lays a finger on me I will bite it off.”

Clay reined the claybank next to her mare. “How many times must I tell you? This is something I have to do. It is not just what Stark did to me. It is all the killing and stealing. Do you want that to go on?”

“Don’t try appealing to my conscience,” Melanie snapped. “It’s my heart that doesn’t want you to go back. My heart that will break if anything should happen to you.” She took a deep breath and trembled slightly. “There. I’ve admitted it. Now, will you forget Jesse Stark?”

Clay’s reply was a plaintive whisper. “I can’t.”

“Damn you, Neville Baine.”

“Who?” Mr. Train asked.

Melanie gripped Clay’s arm. “Why can’t you let the past go? Bury it deep and get on with your new life.”

Clay pulled loose and raised his reins. “I have no time for this. I’m sorry you can’t understand. But if I don’t do what I have to I will never be able to live with myself. You wouldn’t want half a man, would you?”

“Half a man is better than none.”

“Who is Neville Baine?” Mr. Train asked.

Neither Clay nor Melanie answered. Clay gazed sadly at her, then clucked to the claybank and did not look back. The cleft hemmed him, shrouding him in shadow. Soon he emerged onto the bench, where the bright glare of the sun made him squint. Reining up, he pulled his hat brim low over his eyes and scanned the trail below. There was no sign of the outlaws.

Coils of dark smoke rose above the trees in the near distance. Clay thought he heard shouts but it was too far to be sure. Dismounting, he let the reins dangle and hunkered.

Time crawled. Clay squinted at the sun, which was directly overhead. Moving to a small boulder, he sat down. More minutes piled one on the other, but still no one appeared. When next he squinted at the sun an hour had gone by. Rising, he stretched his arms and legs, then stepped into the stirrups and warily descended to the canyon floor.

Gray tendrils floated amid the trees. The acrid scent of smoke was strong in Clay’s nostrils as he wove among the boles until he could see the cabin. Or, rather, what was left of it: the stone fireplace and a few charred beams. Part of the corral, too, had burned, but most of the flames were out.

Of the outlaws, not a trace.

Clay circled the cabin, seeking fresh sign. The ground was hard. Even the claybank did not leave many tracks. He found enough to determine that Stark and the rest had long since left and were bound who knew where on foot.

Clay headed for the mouth of the canyon. He had gone a short way when he noticed something peculiar. On the way in he had passed a high thicket at the base of the west slope. That thicket had moved.

Clay reined closer.

The thicket was not natural, it was man-made. Brush had been roped together and placed so it hid a natural pocket large enough for several horses. A stake showed where three had been tied.

Jesse Stark’s doing, Clay surmised. Spares kept handy in case Stark needed to make a swift getaway and could not get to other mounts.

Clay trotted on. No sooner did he emerge from the canyon than he spotted figures off in the forest. They were hiking north, their backs to him. He glimpsed what he took to be a man on horseback, too. Quickly reining into cover, Clay waited a suitable interval, then headed after them at a walk. He was in no hurry. They could not get away, not with most of them on foot. He would bide his time and strike when they had their guard down.

The afternoon waxed and then waned. On several occasions Clay caught sight of the last outlaw in the line. When that happened he always drew rein to let them get farther ahead.

The outlaws did not stop. By evening they were well past the lake and traveling an easterly course that would eventually bring them to Calamity.

A glimmer of red and orange warned Clay they had made camp. Stopping, he slid down and wrapped the reins around a tree. He drew his Colt, then stalked forward until he could hear what was being said. The first words set his blood to boiling with frustration.

“—don’t care what you say. It wasn’t right of Stark and those other two to ride off and leave us like they did.”

“Simmer down, Tinsdale. Jesse promised to find horses for us, didn’t he?”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” the man called Tinsdale growled. “You can lick his boots if you want but I will be damned if I will.”

“Better not let Jesse hear you say that,” a third outlaw advised.

“Stark doesn’t scare me,” Tinsdale said.

“He should. So should Gorman and that Mex. All three would shoot their own mothers if there was money in it.”

Clay had digested enough to realize that Stark, Gorman and Bantarro were not there. He gripped the Colt so tightly, his hand hurt. Then, willing himself to relax, he glided forward and confirmed that only four outlaws sat around the fire.

Clay slowly straightened. He slid the Colt into his holster and walked out of the dark into the ring of firelight. They did not hear him.

Tinsdale was still grousing about Stark. He was tall and thin, with a cadaverous face.

Another man reached for the coffeepot and happened to glance up. He gaped at Clay, too astonished, or too afraid, to speak. He was notable for great cow eyes and a big nose.

The third outlaw, who had a belly as big as a keg, noticed his pard’s expression, glanced over his shoulder and sprang erect.

“You!”

“Me,” Clay said.

Tinsdale leaped to his feet but did not go for his revolver. “Where did you come from? Who are you? What do you want?”

“Are you related to Melanie Stanley by any chance?” Clay asked.

“What kind of damn fool question is that? Of course not.” Tinsdale motioned at the man holding the coffee cup, and the man set it down and reluctantly stood.