Black Hills (9781101559116) (45 page)

Cormac Lynch returned to camp and gave Horse and Lop Ear a thorough rubdown before frying up some bacon to eat along with the last of the biscuits he had picked up at a cafe in Roosterville, washing it all down with three cups of coffee and using the last biscuit to sop up the bacon grease in the pan. Not wanting to sleep in the cave, he fashioned his ground cloth into a lean-to for some protection in case of rain and turned in. There had been a few thunderheads rolling out of the mountains before nightfall. He was betting on rain.

He awoke to find himself unhappily correct; low clouds were keeping the clear blue sky hidden, and rain clouds in the distance were dumping large amounts of water on the side of the next mountain and probably had been doing so most of the night. Before stirring up the coals from the night before, Cormac stacked a goodly amount of firewood in the cave away from the rain, and only then did he give the coals some attention. After stirring them up, he added a few pieces of wood, being rewarded with enough flame to heat the leftover coffee and fry up another bunch of bacon.

Once up and in the saddle, the range that he had yet to check looked to be coverable in a few hours. He rode Lop Ear, and as always, Horse fell in behind. Most of the remaining area had been covered by mid-day. Along the way, Cormac collected a promising lunch consisting of some nuts and a hatful of blueberries.

They rode down off a craggy bluff to see a grassy shelf overlooking the L-Bar below.

“What do you think, Lop Ear? That grass look good enough for lunch? If you don't think so, let me know.” Lop Ear had no response. “Okay, I'll take that as your approval, so be it.”

Cormac dismounted and walked to the edge to look down on the ranch. Yep, Lainey had certainly done well for herself. How in the world she had parlayed a two-bit farm—after seeing the size of most ranches, Cormac had to reluctantly admit that with only thirty acres under the plow, their farm had been a two-bit operation—into a full-sized working ranch was beyond his figurin', but he was glad for her.

From out of a stand of birch trees below rode a large group of riders that split into two, one heading toward the L-Bar and one toward the Sweet River Pass with two boxes tied to a packhorse. Lambert didn't give up easy; he was bound and determined to dynamite that pass.

Behind him, a gun cocked and a voice said, “You hadn't oughta be . . .” This was one of the situations for which Cormac had practiced. Whoever was behind him now most probably thought the click of the hammer would make him stand still; or, if he anticipated any response at all on Cormac's part, would probably expect him to show partiality to a right-hand draw as would most. That being the case, if he were to react at all, it would be expected that he spin to the left, crouch, and draw. However, at the first click of the hammer, Cormac immediately threw himself head first into a dive to the right, drawing and cocking his pistol while twisting in the air to face the gunman behind him.

“. . . sneakin' up on Miss Nayle that way,” the voice was saying.

Cormac's gun was coming up on the speaker's chest, his thumb beginning to slide off the hammer when he heard the part about Miss Nayle. He barely managed to stay the shot and let his gun continue upward, unfired, as he slid to a stop in the dirt.

The jaws of the two men facing him had dropped, their eyes staring at Cormac with a peculiar look on their faces. They said nothing, watching him as he got to his feet, holstered his gun, and dusted off his jeans.

“You oughtened be sneakin' up behind folks either; a man could get kinda dead that way.”

“We didn't,” replied the bowlegged man with a gun in his hand. The second man had been pulling his gun, but stopped midway. “We was here first. We heard you comin' and slipped behind those rocks to see who you was. Who are you anyway? And what are you doing here?”

“I mean you no harm,” Cormac answered, starting toward Lop Ear. “I have to leave right now.”

“If you take one more step without answering my questions, I'm going to put a bullet in you.”

“No, you're not. If you were going to shoot me, you would've already done it. Anyway, if you was the type that goes around shooting people just for the hell of it, you wouldn't be working for the L-Bar. I take it you do ride for the L-Bar. There are some riders below headed to blow up the pass again. I stopped that once, but I've got it to do again.”

He swung up on Lop Ear.

“So you're the one,” the man said, stuffing his pistol back into its holster. “You're right; we do ride for the L-Bar. We'll get our horses and ride with you.”

“No! I think there are others sneakin' up on the ranch. I'm glad you're here. I was plannin' to go after them, but I've seen you boys shoot and you'll do; two of you can protect her better than one of me. So I'll deal with the dynamite, you two go protect the redhead.”

Pulling his hat down tight, Cormac loosened the reins, clucked his tongue twice, and they shot out of there like a bullet. There was an old Indian trail of sorts paralleling the riders; he took it, but since he had to travel the same distance as those he needed to catch, in addition to getting down the mountain to their level, it was going to be a horse race to get to them before they got to the pass. Once into the pass, they would be impossible to stop. He couldn't hope to get to the vantage point he previously had in time to stop them. He had to catch them while they were still in the flat lands.

Lop Ear had his work cut out for him, and Cormac gave him his head to let him do it. Horse was close behind. Cormac would not have bet a dollar to a doughnut on which of the two was the faster. Their speed was something that needed to be experienced to appreciate. He was thoroughly familiar with it; he had experienced it many times, and it never ceased to amaze him. There was running, and then there was running.

Somehow, Lop Ear seemed to sense the urgency, almost as if he knew he was running for Lainey, and today he was doing some plain and fancy running. This time it was belly-whomping, muscle-stretching, and flat-out, mile-eating running. He settled low to the ground with a singular drive and focus. They rounded corners, jumped dead logs and gullies, clambered over a recent small landslide, and cleared a couple of mountain streams, each at least ten or twelve feet wide with Horse replicating his every jump.

Cormac leaned far forward in the saddle for better balance and to reduce wind resistance. His hat was blown back as always and hanging by the neck cord with tree branches smacking his face, his eyes tearing and blurring from the speed. He could feel the bunching-up of the powerful muscles and the following explosive release catapulting them over whatever obstacle arose. Cormac could only hang on and shift his weight when needed to help on the jumps.

Cormac wondered about an Arab country that could produce such a horse, but Horse's Mustang heritage kept her right in there. Both horses soon became white with sweat. When the trail reached a point even with the entrance to the pass, it turned downward; the threesome turned with it, sliding and bouncing and scraping down the side of the mountain, eventually coming out through a small stand of trees at the bottom that masked their arrival onto the valley floor. The riders with the dynamite were coming from Cormac's right, an equal distance from the pass entrance that was on his left. Like an inverted
V
, the riders on the right side, Cormac on the left, they would come together at the entrance to the pass.

The three of them were out of the trees and halfway across the flat land separating them before they were seen and the riders started galloping for the pass. Lop Ear was beginning to falter. Horse had covered the same distance at the same speed but without carrying any weight. Cormac crammed a handful of cartridges from the saddlebag into his pockets and his third gun into his waist belt. Motioning Horse up beside them, he made the jump onto her back. Without even a bridle, he was now riding bareback, normally not a problem; this time, however, Horse was covered in sweat. He had to grab a handful of mane to keep from sliding off the other side.

He could count six of them and see he was correct about it being dynamite tied on the packhorse. Although they began firing before they were in range, he held his fire until he was close enough to do some good. An occasional bullet whistled passed his head a little too close for comfort but most weren't anywhere near.

Shooting a pistol from the back of a running horse was a chancy thing at best; only an unusually high amount of luck would score a hit from that distance. Cormac was hoping they were not lucky folks. In fact, it was his intention to make them just the opposite, although it was looking like he was going to need a bucketful his own self.

He could feel Horse beginning to weaken. “Hang on, girl,” he screamed against the wind. “We're almost there.”

And then they were. When they were less than fifty feet away he began firing. Being so close, he had to be careful not to hit the explosives. He felt a jolt high in his chest followed quickly by another to his shoulder. He emptied two saddles before hitting the middle of them. Then Horse ran one down, and Cormac shot another in the face, and something hit him in the back, hard.

The man Horse ran down got to his feet and fired as Cormac spun Horse toward him. Cormac felt a blow from the front, and at the same time, one from the back before he shot the man point blank. Something hit Cormac on the side of the head, and he began to get dizzy and sick to his stomach. He jammed a gun into the ribs of a closing rider and pulled the trigger. His legs seemed to be giving out on him; it was getting hard to squeeze them tight enough to stay on top of a spinning, sweating Horse. He wheeled her around to face the last rider and found him sitting dead still on his mount off to one side, pointing his rifle at Cormac, but not firing. His positioning seemed to be saying that if Cormac wouldn't shoot him, he would return the favor. That was fine with Cormac. He figured he probably already had enough holes in him to do him for a while anyway.

The situation somehow seemed familiar, but Cormac had no time to think about it right then. He was going to have to trust somebody . . . he was beginning to feel mighty strange, and the world was going all topsy-turvy. Squeezing Horse for all he was worth, he caught up the reins of the dynamite laden packhorse and led it to the rider, asking him to please take it to Lainey Nayle at the L-Bar and rode away. He hoped the rider could be trusted; he had no choice. Cormac Lynch was not goin' to make it, and that's just all there was to it.

It was dark when Shank returned to the cabin. Lainey Nayle watched him ride into the makeshift corral and went out to greet him.

“Where's Candy? Did you lose him someplace?” Lainey immediately regretted her choice of words when she saw the look on Shank's face.

“Oh, God no!” she said, before he could respond. “What happened?”

Shank knew that Candy was one of her favorites and hated what he had to tell her.

“That's exactly what happened, ma'am. I lost him.” Shank finished unsaddling his horse and poured some oats into its feed bag before he continued. He sighed disgustedly as he leaned against a fence post and began building a smoke.

“We met a stranger who told us he thought some of Lambert's men might be headed this way, and we were hightailin' for home when we spotted them in front of us. We took a shortcut Candy knew about and managed to get in front of them, trying to get home in time to set up a trap for them. There were ten or twelve of them and only two of us. They spotted us, and then it was a horse race. We made it to some fallen trees where they couldn't get behind us. Me'n Candy make a pretty darn good pair; we did better than hold our own. He was right handy with that rifle of his.

“We got four or five of them good'n solid and dusted a couple more. They finally gave it up as a bad job and lit out for parts unknown, but Candy had already taken a hard belly hit. He said if he was going to die, he wanted to die on the L-Bar. He said I should bring him home. We was on the other side of the Sweet, and it was runnin' full and then some, musta been some rain up in the mountains.”