Ride Tall, Hang High Page 16

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  The last figure to lift up from behind a horse and move with the consent of the oudaws back out of range, limped on a bruised right leg, and tenderly held his left arm. A bullet had shattered his shoulder and the pain was debilitating. He struggled to the ditch and slumped there, looking at the other men.

  Two more had been killed. How many wounded? Suddenly he didn’t want to know. He just wanted vengeance.

  Michael Handshoe pushed his hand into the front of his shirt to support his arm while he fashioned a sling from his neckerchief. Pain clouded his mind as he worked. Everything took three times as long.

  First he had to decide what to do, consciously. Then he had to order his arm to move. At last he had the wounded left arm firmly in place. His revolver had remained in his holster when he had been shot out of his saddle.

  In ten years of chasing outlaws he had never been shot before. First time for everything, he decided. Except dying. That was a one time affair.

  He saw two of his men run to catch horses. He had no idea where his was. Handshoe called to one of the men to bring him a horse, but the man shrugged, grabbed the nearest mount and rode away, back toward town.

  Two more men left the ditch, walking toward town. Three horses were dead. Two had been ridden off. There had to be some more around, but he couldn’t see them. He probably couldn’t catch one if he found it.

  One of the new men rode up and looked at Handshoe.

  "I’m leaving, too. You didn’t say this was gonna be an all out war. Hell, I was in one of them once. Didn’t like it. " He turned and rode away.

  Handshoe tried to call after him, but the man quickly rode out of sight. The bounty hunter sat up and looked around. No more horses, no men to help him.

  "Goddamn, Pm gonna get him, or get some of them. Damn them!"

  He struggled to his feet and stumbled for the first few steps. Then he got his balance and stared ahead at the brushline and walked toward it. They would bed down before long. He could track them and when they were sleeping he would slip up and knife the whole crew!

  The fantasy kept him moving. At the brush he went through to the river and cupped his hand and lifted water to his mouth. When he had his fill he washed some of the blood off his arm. He figured the bleeding had stopped on his shoulder. If it didn’t he’d die from loss of blood in two hours.

  He found the tracks of the outlaws’ horses and started following them. It might take him all night but he would find them.

  He figured it was only a little after midday; no, before that. They had hit the hotel at about 7:30, that couldn’t have been more than two hours ago. Lots of time before dark. Now if the outlaws only felt safe and stopped early to do some cooking or just resting.

  Handshoe kept walking. Twice he fell and the jolting of his shoulder brought a cry of pain from him. He struggled up, found a stick to use as a walking cane, and moved on. The prints showed that the outlaws were not riding fast. They were walking their mounts, moving away from the engagement. Sure of their safety.

  His grin turned into a hatred-smile as he dreamed what he would do the bastards.

  It was a little after five o’clock that afternoon when he smelled the smoke. He was downwind of them. Yes! They had stopped just as he figured they would. He had learned a lot about the outlaw mind after chasing so many for so long.

  Handshoe worked downstream carefully, making sure of his steps now, watching for any sign of the camp ahead. He took detours around open spots along the river bank to stay in his cover. Twice he sat down and rested.

  He checked his revolver and pushed in a sixth round. He had his favorite 1860 army percussion revolver that he had converted to solid cartridges. He loved the eight- inch barrel. Made it much more accurate than the four or six-inch models. Of course, it was not a fast draw weapon.

  He felt on his gunbelt and found all the loops full. He had twenty more rounds. Good. He moved again.

  It was still broad daylight when he had his first glimpse of the camp. It was in an open spot by the river near a sandy shore line. They had built a cooking fire, and rolled out their blankets already. He could see three of them.

  He was surprised to find Gunner Johnson there. The bastards! They had sent a man circling back to the hotel to rescue his prisoner! He hated to be out-thought as well as out-gunned. It firmed his resolve even more. He knew he would be no match for them in a shootout. Not at five to one and he with only a revolver. But come night he could move in and use his knife. Yes, the knife.

  Another three hours and it would be dark. Then he would work his will on them. As many as he could. If one screamed or made too much noise, he would slip away in the darkness. Not even the Indian could track him in the middle of the night.

  Horse! Yes, he would steal one of their horses and have him set at a particular spot where he would retreat to. Then he’d be away and riding for town. He’d report this new outrage to the sheriff.

  He couldn’t remember it ever getting dark so slowly. Handshoe had moved up on the camp. Now he was in brush 30 yards away from the closest man. He could hear snatches of their talks. They did lots of laughing. None of them seemed injured or wounded. That would change damn fast!

  Handshoe felt wetness on his arm. He looked at his shoulder. It was bleeding again. There was a small pool of blood below his elbow where the red stuff had dripped onto the ground. He stared at it for a minute before he realized he had to do something about it. He was bleeding to death.

  He could run into their camp and ask the outlaws to bind up his shoulder and save his life. Handshoe snorted. Not a chance in hell he would do that.

  He could move closer and open fire and shoot it out with them from behind good cover. He should be able to get three or four of them, maybe enough so they wouldn’t follow him. Then he could steal a horse and get back to the doctor at Lamed.

  Maybe. Hell, it was his best option.

  He wanted to hurt them bad, make them regret they tangled with him.

  A wave of dizziness hit him and Handshoe had to lean against a walnut tree to keep his balance. When the spell passed, he set his jaw grimly. He had no option. If he waited any longer he could pass out. He leaned forward and began crawling forward using one hand.

  Yes! It wasn’t as hard as he thought it might be. Once he felt a black cloud drop over him and he sighed and fell on his stomach on the soft mulch of the brushline. He came to quickly and shook his head. He had seen a log just ahead. It looked like a hickory tree that had dropped years ago, but would absorb a lot of pistol and rifle fire. It was two feet thick and offered him a good firing point.

  He got to it and saw he was only 20 yards from the camp, and the brush had thinned here, so he could count on most of his shots running true without skipping off branches and small trees.

  He sat a moment resting, then Handshoe took out his old Colt and thumbed back the hammer pressing it against his chest to soften the click.

  He rested the long barrel on the log and picked out a target. Willy Boy was to one side behind one of the other men. He saw the small Mexican working over the fire. Best target. He leveled in the six-gun and sighted at the Mexican’s chest.

  Sweat beaded his forehead. Michael Handshoe paused for just a moment, then he firmed his jaw and squeezed the trigger. Handshoe didn’t see where the round hit. Quickly he thumbed back the hammer, aimed at another man and fired. He got off four shots before any return fire came. Then the blue smoke gave away his position.

  He ducked as the first rain of lead came from the outlaws. When it paused, he lifted up and fired twice more. Then he pushed out the casings and loaded six more rounds. It was harder than he thought. He had never reloaded with just one hand before.

  Now rifle fire peppered the log. He wanted to move but he wasn’t sure he could. Handshoe lifted up and fired again. This time he had no target, just into the area around the campfire. They all had found something to hide behind.

  He cocked the hammer again and looked for a
target. A bullet hit him in his right shoulder, slamming him backward. He lost the six-gun. The pain was unbearable. He screeched in agony, then bit off the sound and found his weapon. He cocked it and pushed it over the log and fired, not looking at the camp.

  He fired all six rounds and tried to reload. His right hand didn’t do exactly what he wanted it to do. He pushed out the rounds and fumbled for new ones.

  Rounds kept zapping over the top of the log as he lay behind it reloading. He pushed his revolver over the log without lifting up and squeezed the trigger. Then he brought it down, cocked it and pushed it over the log again. Three rifle rounds blasted and one of them hit the 1860 converted army percussion revolver, spun it out of his hand and broke two of his fingers.