Chapter 3: The Ambush

After a hearty breakfast, Lucas, Mark and Micah prepared to leave. Lucas handed Mark the canteens to fill while he loaded a sack of supplies onto his horse.

The morning air still had a bite to it as Rough ambled over to the trio. He had on a plaid flannel shirt and despite the chill in the air already had the sleeves rolled up showing off those hairy beefy forearms. He was carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and something else in the other. "All set?"

Lucas gave everything a double check as Mark returned with the canteens. "Think so. Sure was nice seeing you again Rough."

"Same here Luke. Glad you could stop by Marshal."

Micah nodded. "Same here."

"You'll have to come out to the ranch someday, Rough."

"I just might have to do that. If nothing else, just to see you cleaning out the chicken coup."

"I leave that chore to Mark," Lucas said lightly.

Mark looked up embarrassed. "Oh, Pa." It was no secret that Mark had an intense dislike for some chores especially ones he called "woman's work" which mostly included washing dishes and doing the laundry. But as his father often reminded him, a chore was a chore that needed to get done and it was no use whining about it.

"Oh, almost forgot," Rough said, motioning to Mark. "Come here boy, I've got something for ya."

Mark walked curiously over. The foreman handed him a round rock. Mark looked at it puzzled. It didn't look like anything special except, well a rock. "Uh, thank you," he said hesitantly.

Rough chucked at Mark's expression. "You know what you've got there, don't ya?" Mark shook his head. "A hidden treasure." Mark still didn't understand.

"Come here, I'll show ya." Mark followed Rough over to his work bench where he dug around then picked up a flat edge pick. He struck the rock with several precision taps until it cracked open like an egg. Then he took the two halves and rinsed them out in a bucket of water and handed the pieces to Mark.

Mark looked in amazement. Inside the rock were beautiful purple crystals. He had never seen anything like it. "Jumpin' Jahosaphat!" he exclaimed in awe. He showed his father. Lucas was dually impressed.

"Darnest thing I've come across. Probably not worth much, but they sure are pretty aren't they?"

"All say!" Mark exclaimed. "Thanks a whole lot Mr. Collins. Pa just wait till the kids at school see this."

"I think you've made his day," Lucas chuckled. He gathered the reins of his black horse Razor. "Better mount up son. We've got a long ride ahead of us."

Mark stored the crystal rock inside his saddle bag, then mounted his sorrel pony, Blue Boy and eased up beside his father. Micah rode up alongside the McCains.

"Feel free to come back this way again, Marshal," Rough said.

Micah nodded thanking Rough for the hospitality. Lucas waved goodbye to his friend, and the three set off for home.

After nearly a full day of riding the trio finally made their way through the wooded stands of pine and down along the rocky trail towards the winding river. As they approached the crossing, Lucas reined Razor to a halt. Micah pulled up alongside while Mark waited just behind. Lucas sat high in the saddle as he eyed the river in thought. When they'd crossed a week earlier, it'd been a slow moving creek bed, but recent rains had swollen it into a river several feet deep and twice as wide. The return crossing would be more difficult.

"What do you think, Micah?"

The old marshal sat in his saddle with his left hand resting on the saddle horn, contemplating. "Current seems to have picked up, but looks passable," Micah replied with a slight drawl. "'Course no telling how deep she's gotten over the last couple days." He looked downstream where the water churned heavily. "'Might not find any better place to cross though without cuttin' all the way back to Gibson Crossing. And, that's at least a half day's ride." Lucas agreed.

Mark listened quietly to the exchange, enjoying the cool breeze against his neck. There was somethin' special 'bout being on the back of a horse, the feeling of freedom, being out in the wide open country. The only thing better was sharing it with his father.

Almost distractedly, Mark found himself examining his father as Lucas and Micah talked. He saw his father like always, tall and rugged with sharp distinguishing features, a strong square jaw and narrow lips, which often thinned in thought or displeasure. His light eyes were sharp and intelligent, and always watchful. He saw a proud man, in a quite sort of way, who disliked boastfulness, spoke plain and meant what he said. A man that expected Mark to do no less.

Then he thought about what Rough had told him last night and remembered the many emotions that had crossed his father's face. He knew his father hadn't had an easy past and there were things his father still refused to talk about, but at last he understood the sometimes very complex emotions he saw in his father. Anger, love, hate, sadness, they were all mix in together. It's what made his father who he was and Mark couldn't have been any prouder.

Mark's eyes shifted to Micah. The old marshal, a good bit shorter and more stoutly built was one of his father's closest friends. They'd met Micah shortly after moving to North Fork. At least twenty years his father's senior, Micah's features were craggy, worn and weathered like a piece of leather left out too long in the rain. Despite his years though, his eyes remained sharp as any experienced lawman that lived.

A gunfight several years back had left Micah's right arm crippled, which tended to hang stiffly at his side. Though Micah could still use a pistol, he could no longer draw. Instead, he learned to use his left hand. And, nowadays, found the end of a double barrel shotgun made a mighty fine impression on any that would choose to cross the old marshal's path.

"Yeah, I was afraid of that," said Lucas. "Why don't we scout up a ways in both directions a spell."

Micah agreed.

Lucas turned to Mark. "Come on boy."

Mark kneed the sorrel forward and eagerly followed his father upstream, while Micah headed down.

The hills around them were still green; the grasslands wouldn't turn wheat colored until late summer. The sky was a bright blue with occasional patches of large white clouds drifting through the vast openness. The day had warmed up nicely. But now, as the afternoon began to wane, a cooler breeze was coming in from the north.

In the distance ahead lay the Gila, (pronounced Hila), and Black mountain ranges. They were an ominous wilderness barrier to the northern part of New Mexico Territory.

With much to do at the ranch, Lucas wanted to be back in North Fork before noon the next day. They had fences to mend and yearlings to round up. He also wanted to stop at the general store and see if Hattie had received the plow blade that had been on order for over a month.

Lucas took a cigar out of his pocket and cupped his hand against the breeze to light it. Soon the familiar robust aroma drifted over to Mark.

As they rode along side by side, Mark started talking in his usual excited way. Lucas was always amused by his son's youthful enthusiasm. This time it happened to be over the upcoming rodeo in North Fork at the end of the week. It was part of the town's Founder's Day Celebration and anything involving a horse sparked his son's interest.

"Just ya wait Pa, I'll show that Matt Barton what calf rop'ins all about!"

"Thought Matt was one of your best friends?"

Mark looked over at Lucas. "Well he is….But…dang burn it Pa, his been mouthing off at the jaw something awful lately, ever since his uncle brought him that Black Blaze. He acts like he's too good for any body else's boots."

"Well it is a mighty fine piece of horse flesh son." Lucas smiled with a light twinkle in his eye.

Mark's mouth compressed with McCain pride and he looked straight ahead. "I know. But I still don't think he can match up to Blue Boy."

"We'll see. That sorrel of yours is still pretty young and ancy."

"But ya said yourself Pa that Blue Boy's got a natural instinct to be a good cutting horse."

Lucas took the cigar out of his mouth, pretending to exam it. There was amusement on his face as he listened to his son's defense of the pony. "So I did." They rode a little further. Lucas scanned the river as they talked.

"Say Pa?" Mark continued.

"Hmmm." Lucas said, drawing in on the cigar.

"You know I heard first prize in the calf roping might be a brand new .22," he said hopefully.

Lucas glanced over at his son, one eye narrowing slightly. He had a feeling where the conversation was heading. "You know my feelings on the .22, Mark."

"I know, but Matt's Pa said he was old enough for a rifle."

"I'm not Matt's Pa."

"But I'd just keep it on the ranch. I wouldn't even load it, honest. 'Sides you said yourself you were pretty young when you got your first gun."

"I was young all right, but not that young. A boy your age has no business messing with such things. They're not toys. When you're older and I think you're good and ready we'll see about it, but not before, understand?" Lucas said sternly.

"Yes, sir," Mark said a little dejectedly. Lucas heard the tone in his son's voice, but chose to ignore it.

The trail had narrowed as they entered a stand of woodlands. Mark was forced to ride single file behind his father, occasionally dipping his head under low hanging branches. In the shade it was quite cool.

Mark had been after his Pa for quite a while to let him get his own rifle. But Lucas always held back. It wasn't that his father ever let him hold a gun. As a matter of fact Lucas made sure Mark was well familiar with them. He wanted no mishaps when it came to a loaded weapon. He'd taught Mark to respect them and never take their use lightly.

But Lucas had strong feelings when it came to guns. He considered the rifle no more than a useful tool though deadly when placed in the hands of someone too foolish or too cocky for his own good. He preferred the rifle over a handgun he told Mark for its practicality on the wide open range. But Lucas also knew the West was still a wild frontier and guns were a necessary means of survival and protection.

Mark remembered his father once telling him that whenever a man had to use a gun, he'd somehow failed. No pleasure or good ever was gained in taking another's life. But until the land was settled there were times when a man may be left with little choice. He thought of what Rough said about Trent and his pa being friends once. He suspected his father's reserve had something to do with what happened between them. Mark also knew his father wouldn't budge on the .22 so he let the subject drop.

They'd ridden about fifteen minutes or so before Mark called out. "Hold up, Pa, I think my cinch is loose." Jumping, he tried to make the necessary adjustments.

Lucas dismounted and ambled over to his son with long easy strides. Standing, Lucas was well over six three, but carried himself with remarkable ease. Mark stood up, barely coming chest-high to his father.

Lucas took the cigar from his mouth and examined the cinch. The braiding was frayed causing the cinch to slip loose. "Looks like you're going to need to do a little repair on that strap when we get back to the ranch," he said. Mark finished re-tightening the cinch and Lucas checked it to make sure it was secure, seeming satisfied.

"Just make sure you take care of this soon as we get back home or you might find yourself flying off that saddle one day," Lucas said, tapping his son lightly on his hat.

Mark smiled at the light banter and remounted. "I will, Pa."

Lucas walked over and examined the river. Jagged outcroppings of rocks and pockets of whitewater made crossing impossible for the horses. He returned and gathered his reins. With one fluid movement he easily remounted Razor. Turning the horse about, he looked at Mark. "Doesn't look favorable, son. Let's see if Micah's had better luck." Lucas urged the Black forward. Mark followed.

Micah was waitin' for them back at the cross point. "River cuts downhill just round the bend," he reported. "Awful choppy, Lucas boy."

"And, too many rocks upstream for the horses to get across safely."

"Well, I guess we ain't got much of a choice."

Lucas nodded. Studying the section of river before them, he pointed off to the right. The river looked calmer, the current not as rapid, but Lucas was still uncertain of its depth. The two men finally decided to cross, but Lucas wanted to go first to make sure it was safe for Mark.

Lucas turned in his saddle. "Wait here, Mark, 'till I get across." Mark shifted his weight in the saddle and nodded in obedience.

Lucas nudged Razor forward then down along the muddy bank and into the water. Moving forward cautiously, he examined the current and veered off slightly to the right. The horse waded deeper until the water came level to his belly. Mark watched anxiously. Lucas moved slow, but steady until at last emerging safely onto the far side. He reined Razor around and signaled for Micah and Mark to proceed, but indicating they should stay to the right.

Micah nodded and headed down the embankment with Mark closely following in his path. As Blue Boy splashed though the water, Mark kept a tight rein on the pony to keep him in check. The water rose quickly and Mark could feel the sorrel's muscles tightening against the current, but the horse continued forward at a steady even pace.

Lucas watched from the opposing bank. Micah followed the same path Lucas had taken. Mark was about a horse length behind.

They were midway across when Lucas thought he saw movement in the rocky hillside above. As he turned his attention upward he saw a shinny glint of metal followed by the quick movement of a dark figure.

"Micah, look out!"

A second later, the quiet stillness was suddenly broken by the resounding crack of gunfire. The bullet entered the water with a splash a few yards shy of Micah.

"Mark! Take cover!"

Lucas drew his rifle from its scabbard, cocked it in one fluid movement and took aim. Three bullets shot out in rapid succession. They ricochet off the rocks in a cloud of dust, striking within inches of the gunman. The unknown assailant was forced to dive quickly for cover. A second gunman nearby returned fire. Micah drew his pistol and fired back.

Mark had pulled back on the reins instinctively as he heard his father's shouts confused by the play of bullets and not sure which direction to turn. Blue Boy reared back in the commotion and he tightened his grip to steady the horse, but as the pony came down, his front foreleg buckled. Before Mark could react, he felt his saddle and horse falling from underneath him and a second later he hit the water.

The sudden shocking coldness made Mark gasp, drawing in the bitterly cold water as his head went under. Blue Boy's hoofs barely missed striking him in the head as the horse tried frantically to regain its footing.

From the far bank Lucas watched in horror as his son toppled over into the swift moving water. An instant later though another bullet whizzed past his head, this time coming in from the left. It struck the tree next to him forcing him to duck for cover.

A third figure moved quickly among the rocks and scrub brush just downriver and he realized they were caught in a cross fire. As the assailant rose to take aim again, Lucas swung the rifle about. The gunman never had a chance as Lucas fired. This time the bullet hit its mark.

By now Micah had cleared the water and shot his horse up the bank. Dismounting quickly, he sought cover behind a large boulder. He was returning fire in the direction of the mysterious gunmen.

"Mark!" Lucas shouted scanning the water with rapid eye movements. Riding low, Lucas drove his horse back into the water, shouting over his shoulder, "Cover me, Micah."

The Marshall sent several rounds up into the rocks. From his vantage point he thought he saw several men take to their horses and head quickly up the hillside on the far side of the river.

Blue Boy had regained his footing by now and was running at full gallop up the embankment, saddle still on, but askew.

When Mark's head broke the surface of the water the first thing he saw was Lucas on top of the Black. Mark kicked frantically towards him, trying to grab a hold of the slippery rocks, but the current was pulling him downstream, his now waterlogged jacket and boots dragging him under like lead weights. Coughing and gasping, he cried out. "Help, Pa, Help!"

Lucas heard Mark's frantic cries and saw his son thrashing about in the water a little further downstream. Urging Razor further into the river he could feel the flanks of the horse straining against the fast moving current and had to fight the reins to keep Razor upright.

Suddenly, Mark felt his whole body being twisted under the cold water and quickly gulped a breath of air before disappearing into the swirling current.

Lucas watched his son going under for the second time as the water channeled downward between two large boulders before he lost sight of him completely.

When Razor nearly lost his footing almost unsaddling Lucas as well, he was forced to withdraw back to the embankment, loosing valuable time. Quickly he dismounted with rifle in hand and ran along the rocky shoreline. Staying low, he kept his eyes fixed on the last spot he'd seen his son before Mark went under.

With long powerful legs, Lucas leapt across the water and onto a large boulder in the middle of the churning water in hopes of seeing his son resurface. "Mark!" he shouted anxiously.

The gunfire had ceased, and soon after, Micah approached quickly on foot from the rear, his gun still drawn in vigil readiness.

"Mark! Answer me!" Lucas bellowed. Crouching low, he jumped across another set of rocks, searching frantically between the boulders and shadows. Although he felt a wave of intense fear in his gut he knew he couldn't give into it. It would do no good to loose his wits. He had to keep focused.

"I'll head down this way," Micah shouted, moving down to the opposing side about ten yards from Lucas' current track.

The glare from the late afternoon sun was making it difficult for Lucas to see. He put a gloved hand up to block the rays, vainly searching. But Mark was no where to be seen. Except for the sound of rushing water, nothing else was heard. The gunmen and his son had vanished.