Shadow of Legends (3 page)

When Todd arrived at the base of Splittail Gulch, he found a Mexican boy sitting cross-legged alongside the road on a rolled-up, green canvas tarp.

“Timateo, did Sheriff Bullock and Daddy Brazos come by here?”

“They just left, Fortuna-hijo.”

Fortune Junior? Is that how I'm known? Thanks, Daddy.
“Which direction did they go?”

The young boy waved his hand to the east. “Up the road, past the mudslide. Are you going to help them?”

“I thought I owed that much to Handsome Harry.”

“I volunteered to help them, too,” the boy reported. “But the sheriff wanted me to stay here with the dead bandit until they return.”

“Where's the bandit?”

The boy pointed to the rolled-up tarp he was sitting on. “In here . . . most of him, anyway.”

“Is there a shortcut I can take to catch up with them?”

“You could ride over the mountain.”

“It looks kind of steep.”

“Mi hermana can do it.”

“How old is your sister?”

“Doce años.”

“I'm a little older than twelve, but I'll give it a try. If they ride back this way without me, tell Fortuna Padre where I've gone.”

A wide smile broke across the boy's face and he nodded.

The main road swung to the north, but Todd cut east through the brush and soon found himself at the base of a steep mountainside. The draws were thick with small pine trees. Most of the rest of the mountain was littered with yellow pine stumps and abandoned test holes of long gone zealous gold seekers.

Todd zig-zagged the white gelding up the loose soil and rock of the mountain. He leaned forward and slid back against the five-inch dished candle of the Texas saddle. The horse responded with each touch of the spurs by lunging on up the embankment.

I trust the west slope is not quite so severe. Must be gradual enough for a twelve-year-old. 'Course, he didn't say if she broke her neck or not. Anyway, it feels good to be riding the hills. Maybe Rebekah's right. Maybe it's time for a change. But not until Robert retires from the cavalry. He and Jamie Sue and little Frank can move to town and help Daddy and Dacee June with the store. Maybe then Rebekah and I will go to Texas and buy a ranch.

Todd reined up. “Take a breather, Boy . . .”
A ranch in Texas? Talk about isolated. She's a city girl, Lord. I knew that when I married her. I don't know if she will ever feel comfortable anywhere west of Chicago.

He laid his large roweled spurs to the horse's flanks and started back up the mountain.

I reckon it doesn't matter. Especially when she throws those arms around me and holds me tight. Lord, I told you this before . . . but when you built Rebekah Jacobson Fortune, you did a fine job. A real fine job.

When he reached the crest of the mountain, he was surprised to find the west slope blanketed with ten- to twelve-foot pines and cottonwoods. The slope was not nearly as severe, but finding a trail through the limbs, downed trees, and six-foot sagebrush proved tedious. He surveyed the mountain ridge on the far side of the gulch and spotted a lightning-scarred pine with a blackened forked trunk.

“We'll aim for that old wishbone tree,” he mumbled to the lathered pony. “The road is someplace between here and there.”
I hope. I surely don't want to turn around and go back down that mountain.

As he descended the mountain slope, the Dakota sun played peek-a-boo with the pines behind him, providing a little shade but not much relief from the heat. He paused by a thicket of cottonwoods, none much larger than a fence post. The water in the leather-clad canteen was lukewarm and stale-tasting. He swished his mouth out, then spat it out on the dry soil.

The white horse pinned his ears back.

Todd leaned forward and patted the horse's neck. “Sorry, Boy . . . didn't mean to . . .”

The horse pawed at the loose dirt and kept its ears pinned.

Todd stood in the stirrups.
What is it, Boy? Are we getting close to the road? Do you hear them coming? At least, you hear someone coming.

Todd sat back down and pulled Dacee June's Colt revolver from his belt. He cocked the hammer back to the safety position. When he spurred the gelding this time, the horse took a slow, reluctant step.

You're mighty worried, Boy. Must be a bear . . . or a wolf. Talk about a wasted afternoon. I should have stayed at the store and got that shipment inventoried. Then I could have sat around tonight and listened to another of Daddy's “me and the boys done whupped 'em” stories. Lord, I have spent my life listening to those. The worst part is . . .
He spurred the horse around a line of short aspen as thick as a brush corral—
they're all true!

The horse jerked his head back, and Todd found himself at the top of a sheer twenty-foot bluff staring straight down at the rutted trail of Boulder Creek Road.

He patted the horse's neck.
Well, I'm glad you didn't want to go barreling through the sage, but empty roads don't pin ears back. Is there someone down there?

Todd surveyed the road for a mile in each direction and spotted no signs of movement. He was examining the embankment in front of him for a more likely descent when he observed dust rising up to the north.

Well, someone's barreling down the road. It's the chasers or the chased. Either way, I don't aim to be sitting up here like a moose in a meadow.

He turned the horse south and worked his way along the rim of the bluff, fighting his way through sage as tall as the horse. The rim of the gulch never dipped.

There was a flash of reflection from the boulders across the road. The horse pinned his ears back. Todd slid out of the saddle, pistol in hand, landing in a scrawny sage.

Someone's over there. Someone with a '66 Winchester glistening in the sun.

On the western slope where he stood, shadows from the mountain behind him wrapped him in a cloak of concealment, but the boulders on the far side of the road basked in direct sunlight. With the reins dropped straight from the horse's curb bit, Todd hunkered down on his haunches. He waddled forward to find a peek hole through the sage.

Somebody's waiting for someone. Either Daddy and the boys stationed a trap for the outlaws . . . or . . . the other way around.

Daddy's packing his .50-caliber Sharp's carbine, and it's so tarnished it couldn't reflect the glory of the Lord on judgment day. Sheriff Bullock still totes that iron frame Winchester. And the Jims? They don't like rimfires, so they wouldn't have a '66. Unless the posse expanded, it must be the stagecoach bandits in the boulders.

Of course, there's a possibility it's just a nervous hardware manager spying a broken beer bottle reflecting in the sun.

Todd strained his eyes across the road. For a moment the scene was as flat and still as a painted stage curtain. Then, between distant boulders he witnessed a black horse's tail swish into sight and then disappear.

Back and forth.

Hide-and-seek.

That-a-boy. Thanks for the signal. Lord, maybe there is some purpose for horseflies. Someone's cached in the rocks, but I still don't know who.

Hoofbeats rumbled and raced the cloud of dust down the road from the north.

If I spotted them, they surely could have observed me. Maybe not. They didn't shoot at me. 'Course, if they were waiting in ambush they couldn't shoot or they'd give away their position.

I've got to coyote around behind them and keep them from retreating down the road. But if I mount up, they'll spy me and open fire. 'Course, if they do that, the riders on the trail will be warned. But I'd like to be more than just bait.

Todd steered his long-legged horse through the brush to the south. He reached a grove of scrub pines that bordered the road south of the boulders, six feet above the roadway. He spied a saddled bay horse tied off at a tree but didn't see any others.

I surmise it's the posse plowing that dust. I surmise it's the stagecoach hold-up men in the boulders. I surmise I can cut off their retreat without getting myself shot. Lord, that surely is a lot of surmising. And it's about time to let the party begin.

The moment the galloping horses crested the rise in the road that led to the boulders, Todd fired a .45-caliber ball of lead into the tree trunk where the horse was tied. Splinters flew as the horse jerked free and bolted down the hillside.

The horsemen from the north reined. Several shots exploded in Todd's direction from gunmen cloaked in the boulders. He crouched in the safety of the trees and studied the horsemen up the road as they scrambled to safe positions. The first man off his horse wore a round, floppy black felt hat, a thick gray drooping mustache and chin almost as pointed as his long hawklike nose. An iron gray, bulky carbine was in his right hand.

Alright, Daddy Brazos, you're leading the posse. Now, let's pin these boys down without any of us getting hurt.

Todd emptied a couple more shots in the direction of the boulders.
I can't hit you back here, Boys, but I can keep the back door closed.

Gunshots blasted from up the trail, and the outlaws in the boulders returned fire, ignoring Todd. He scooped several cartridges from his suit coat pocket and reloaded the cylinder as he waited for the gunman to flee up the trail.

Black powder explosions.

Puffs of gunsmoke.

Muffled shouts.

Whinnies of horses.

They won't come out of those boulders until they run out of bullets. You've got them pinned, Daddy Brazos, but you don't have them captured.

Sweat rolled down Todd's face and melted into the starch of his stiff shirt collar. His right wrist cramped as he trained the gunsights on the back of the boulders.

Then the gunshots stopped.

Someone shouted from the protection of the trees up the trail.

It was a familiar voice.

“Boys, toss out those guns and come walkin' out slow. I've got a stick of dynamite here, and I reckon I'll just toss it in those boulders if you don't come out real quick.”

Todd allowed his revolver to slump in front of him.
Not the old dynamite trick, Daddy Brazos.

“You ain't got no dynamite,” someone from the rock screamed.

Todd yanked the revolver up and took aim at the boulders.
You're right about that, Mister. I presume you'll try to make your break this way.

“Look out here. What do you see?” Todd heard his father shout.

More than likely they see a straight stick and a string. Daddy, that old bluff won't work again.

Two shots blasted from the rocks.

They aren't buyin' it, Daddy.

“You boys intend on being buried in the same grave, I take it. Won't be enough attached to tell which parts belongs to who. We'll jist pile you all up together in a common hole.”

“You cain't bluff us!” a voice screamed, and a couple more shots were fired.

This time a deeper voice hollered back. “Boys, this is Sheriff Seth Bullock. I trust you know that it's Brazos Fortune holdin' the dynamite.”

“Ol' Man Fortune?”

“It ain't Junior!” Bullock shouted.

“We thought the old man was dead!”

“You thought wrong, Boys,” the sheriff yelled. “And I can't help you now.”

An object flew through the air toward the huge boulders.

“Run fer it, Boys, he done tossed it!” the sheriff screamed.

Two men dove into the dirt of the roadway, throwing their guns out in front of them. Hands wrapped around their heads, they waited for an explosion.

Todd gazed up the trail. His father, Sheriff Bullock, and the Jims emerged from behind the trees.

The dark-headed, small unshaven man in the road sat up and screamed. “I told you he didn't have any dynamite!”

“Boys, Boys, Boys . . .” Brazos shouted as he approached with his Sharp's carbine. “You are just too gullible to be hold-up men.”

The big, blond-headed man sat up and brushed off his shirt. “You're supposed to be a church-goin' man, Fortune. How come you was to lie to us like that?”

“Just to save your lives, Boys. With the Lord as my witness, I ­didn't want you to get yourself all shot up,” Brazos said. “You don't want to go to prison wounded.”

“We ain't goin' to prison at all,” the dark-haired man sneered.

Todd stood and revealed his position.

Brazos showed no sign of surprise. “Glad to see you blocked the trail, Son,” he shouted. “Where's that third one?”

“He's either in the rocks or dead. He didn't come this way,” Todd hollered.

Brazos Fortune threw his .50-caliber carbine to his shoulder and pointed it straight at Todd.

Todd dove off the embankment head first. The dirt ground into his wool suit as the single-shot Sharp's roared. The five-hundred-grain lead bullet tore through his recently vacated position.

His face slapped into the dirt of the roadway, Todd heard a scream from the cliff behind him. He struggled to his feet, picking dry pine needles and pebbles out of his hands and hair.

“There's the third one,” Brazos announced.

“You done killed Patrick!” the blond outlaw screamed. “I'll get even with you for that, Brazos Fortune!”

“There's plenty of room in Hades, if you're in a hurry to get there,” Sheriff Bullock said. He and Yapper Jim snapped wrist irons on the two men sprawled in the roadway.

Todd Fortune glanced down at the nearly ruined suit.
The third one did sneak by. One more minute and he would have shot me in the back!

Brazos and Quiet Jim sauntered toward Todd.

“I thought you was aimin' at your own boy,” Quiet Jim mumbled.

“I knew he would drop when the gun was pointed. I taught them all that when they were young,” Brazos said.