Chapter Sixteen
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He knew that they were close. Closer than he would have liked. He could feel their presence, dark and ominous, hovering at his back.
With scant seconds to spare, Doc paused just long enough to chance another glance over his shoulder. He wasn't able to see them yet, but he knew that they were there all the same.
Too soon, he decided, he couldn't allow them to catch up with him just yet.
Grimly determined, he pushed forward. The soles of his shoes crunched against the sparse grass, bending soft, subtle blades back to the earth as he angled his way deeper into the shadow-draped trees.
For the last fifteen minutes he had led them on a chase, making just enough noise and disturbance to keep his pursuers coming, all the while leading them deeper into the grove. He had no idea where he was headed; he had given up on trying to orient himself soon after he had set out to lure Biggs away from Matt. Around him, trees blended in similar patterns no matter what the direction. Shape and bearing became meaningless in the maze of contorted branches.
Suddenly, a sound he had begun to dread more than any other, broke over the thicket again. Biggs' voice.
"Hey, Dillon! why don't you just give it up...I might even make it quick for you!"
The outlaw's voice sidled into Doc's mind like a needle into an exposed wound. Laughter fluttered behind him-the mocking amusement of his pursuers ringing in his ears. Not if I can help it, he thought to himself as he stubbornly plodded on.
He heard the harsh scrape of his shoes against rocks and fallen branches as he rushed along. Debris rolled from beneath his heels, dislodged by the hurried strike of his feet. He heard the rasp of his own breath, eclipsing with the snapping of twigs and crunch of leaves coming from somewhere behind him.
They were moving faster now. He could tell. The doctor sped up his own step.
"Dillon," Biggs' voice sounded again. "I'm startin' to get a little tired of this!"
This time, there was an unmistakable edge of irritation in the outlaw's voice.
Good, Doc thought upon noticing, have a taste of your own medicine, mister. Undeterred, he pressed on. Low-hanging branches snagged his clothing, a bony twig scraped against his cheek, coaxing a string of blood to the surface. It trickled over his skin like the filmy thread of a cobweb brushing over his face, but he barely took notice of it.
His thoughts drifted to Matt. Hang in there, Matt...you just hang in there...it's gonna be all right, he muttered to himself, wishing that the muttering would make it so.
He fleetingly wondered whether Kitty had made it back to Dodge yet, whether help was on its way. Maybe it was too soon, he didn't know. It seemed he had lost all sense of time. All he could do was hope and pray. Hope and pray that he would be able to lead his pursuers far enough away that, in the event they caught him before Chester arrived, they wouldn't be able to find Matt-at least, he hoped, not very quickly.
Behind him the crack of breaking branches grew louder.
Doc forced himself to walk faster, knowing that he couldn't allow those men to catch up with him. Around him, the thicket grew ever denser, ever deeper with underbrush and intertwining trees. His heart thundered in his chest, the air thick and hot, like liquid heat burning in his lungs. He ran a hand across his face to wipe the sweat from it, irritated at the slow, trickling sensation against his skin.
Faster. He had to move faster. His throat felt tight, constricted and his stomach tightened into a thick knot as his feet continued to pound over the uneven, leaf and rubble-strewn ground.
He needed more air. Without stopping, he tugged his string tie loose and opened the first two buttons on his shirt. Suddenly, from behind him a shout erupted, making the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end.
"THERE HE IS!"
Doc swallowed, the sound loud and foreboding in his ears. He knew the game had come to an end.
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"We better go the rest of the way on foot, Chester," suggested Luke Crandall when the two men had reached the crest of the rise a short while later. "Wouldn't want those fellers catch sight of us too soon."
The Marshal's assistant drew his chestnut abreast the buggy and reined him to a halt. Squinting beneath the brim of his battered hat against the bright glare of sunlight, he quickly took stock of his surroundings. He hadn't been out this way in quite some time and it took him a moment to re-familiarize himself with the terrain.
"Yeah," he said agreeing, "maybe we just oughtta leave them horses here."
Luke nodded and began to look around. Cross Creek had been his home for little over a year now and during that time he had managed to become intimately familiar with virtually every tree and rock on his property.
"All right, how about over there?" He pointed to a spot a little ways off to the right where the trees appeared less dense, almost as if they were forming a path into the grove.
It looked like a good spot to Chester. With customary ease, he swung his stiff right leg over the horse's croup and let himself down. He had never felt at a disadvantage on account of his infirmity. It was something he had learned to live with over the years and most of the time didn't even think about it.
Taking one of the reins, he led his mount off the trail and into the shadows of the thicket.
The densely clustered trees offered a welcome shield from prying eyes as well as protection from the midday sun's scorching rays for man and beast.
"Well, now looky there," he suddenly exclaimed surprised when he spotted the familiar form of the Marshal's buckskin grazing peacefully a short distance away. "That's Mister Dillon's horse."
Behind Chester, branches crunched and twigs snapped, yielding under the weight of the buggy's wheels as Luke Crandall lead the doctor's bay into the small clearing.
At the noise, the buckskin snorted and side-stepped nervously, his ears flicking back and forth, but the sound of Chester's familiar voice quickly calmed him, and he greeted his two stable mates with a soft nicker.
Luke took a quick look around. "Well, I reckon this is as good a spot as any," he said as he dragged a hand though the thick graying hair butted against his collar.
Chester couldn't agree more. He wasted no more time and quickly looped the reins loosely on a low-hanging branch. Then he pulled his rifle from the scabbard and made his way back towards the edge of the thicket.
Luke followed suit and pulled the buggy up on the other side of the buckskin where he removed the anchor weight from the floorboard and secured it to the horse's bridle. He retrieved his own rifle from the seat and moved to join Chester who was already busy scrutinizing the homestead below from behind a dense cluster of shrubs. He came up alongside him and crouched down on his haunches. "See anythin' down there?" he wondered.
Using the barrel of his Winchester, Chester parted the tangle of leafy branches some more. "Well, I sure can't make out too much from up here," he said, craning his neck some more. "But there's a couple of horses in the corral. They're yours, Crandall? Keeping the branches parted with his rifle, he invited Luke to take a look himself.
The homesteader moved up closer and took a quick glance to confirm what he already knew. "No, Chester, they sure ain't mine. That team you saw's the only ones I got."
Luke's words didn't really come as too much of a surprise to Chester. He already had a pretty good idea whose mounts they were. "That means they're still down there somewhere," he concluded as he continued to let his intent gaze roam about the yard. "You think they could still be inside?"
Luke didn't answer immediately, his own eyes still lingering on his homestead below. The notion that these men might be inside his house didn't sit too well with him, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. He scratched behind his ear and turned.
"It sure's possible," he conceded, "but we don't know that for sure unless we go down there. For all we know, they could've taken Marshal Dillon an' your doc somewhere out back to take care-" Luke fell silent when he realized what he was about to say. But it was too late. The stricken expression on Chester's face was testament to that.
The young man stared at him and swallowed hard, suddenly remembering the many shots that had echoed across the prairie earlier. "You don't think they already...I mean-" he broke off weakly, unable to finish speaking out the terrifying thought that was racing through his mind.
Luke drew back and straightened. He removed his worn slouch hat to mop the sweat from his brow. Then he lifted his gaze, his alert steel-gray eyes contemplating Chester thoughtfully. "No, Chester, I don't think so," he said with a slow shake of his head. "I know their kind, they're in no hurry. They're probably feelin' mighty safe right now, knowin' how long it's gonna take to get from here to Dodge. They're not expectin' anyone for at least several more hours. If we can get down there without them seein' us, I think we'll stand a good chance at catchin' those fellas off guard."
Luke knew what he was speaking of. Too many times had he crossed paths with men like Biggs; unpredictable like a cornered bear, but predictable when they felt that they held all the aces. He knew that at the moment, Biggs thought he held all four aces clenched tightly in his hand and a king as well.
Chester regarded him, his expression curious. He had figured from the very beginning that there was a lot more to Luke Crandall than what the man had been willing to let on. But the way he was talking now, he almost sounded a little like Mister Dillon.
His gaze dropped and he cast a slightly wary glance at the big .58 caliber Swiss rifle in Luke's callused hands. That gun was certainly big enough to blast a hole the size of Kansas into any buffalo. He hated to think what it would do to a man. One thing was for certain-homesteaders and sodbusters didn't carry that type of a weapon.
Chester's concentrated stare was not lost on Luke. His own eyes dipped to the gun in his hands. "Like it?"
Chester shifted uncomfortably. "Well, to tell ya the truth, Luke, it ain't so much whether I like it," he hedged, not quite sure how to put it. "It's just...ya know, I ain't seen too many men carryin' around a rifle like that...'cept maybe for some ole buffalo hunter that is."
A flicker of a smile curved underneath Luke's droopy mustache as he cast another wistful glance at the rifle in his hands. "Well, let me tell ya, I sure hunted my share with it. But it wasn't buffalo I was after."
"It wasn't?" asked Chester, clearly puzzled.
Luke smiled, but it was a rather grim smile. "No, it was men like your Dan Biggs down there. For twenty-four years I chased after the likes of him."
A bounty hunter. It was as simple as that. Luke Crandall was nothing more but a bounty hunter.
A scowl darkened Chester's features. He considered bounty hunters the lowest form of man there was.
Scum. Nothing more. About as useful as a frothy dog. It was a crying shame; Luke Crandall had struck him as such a nice fella. "You mean you was a bounty hunter?" he said out loud, his disappointment apparent in his voice.
Luke's eyes swept over him, mildly amused, and he couldn't help but chuckle softly at the crestfallen expression on the younger man's face. "No, I was no bounty hunter. Never cared much for 'em myself. But as Sheriff I had to deal with them more often than I cared for."
Chester's expression lightened considerably. "You was a lawman?" he said.
The older man gave a clipped nod. "Yessir. I was the Sheriff over in Lamar, Colorader. For twenty-four years, Chester. Twenty-four long years..." His voice trailed off, almost as if he was afraid that he had revealed too much already. His face closed and he drew himself up straight, his desire to change the subject obvious. "Come on," he said firmly, focusing his attention back to the pressing matter at hand. "We'd better figure out a way to get down there without them seein' us."
Parting the branches again, he indicated the right side of the house with a nod. "I say we try circlin' around this way. There ain't no windows on this side an' chances are they won't even notice us."
Chester followed his gaze and was about to reply, but his words got lost in the sharp crack of a rifle shot.
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Matt came awake with a jerk, thrust back into a world crippled by pain. Returning consciousness brought a new influx of agony, the brutal torment ripping through his shoulder and back with merciless abandon.
He groaned. Blinking away the muddy haze of unconsciousness, he struggled to sort through the knot in his stomach, the torturous fire consuming his shoulder, the dull ache that seemed to hold his head in its vice. He forced his eyes to open. Right away, the sky spun overhead, a dizzying kaleidoscope of white and blue, so vast and unsettled, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
Nauseated, he tried to rise but was immediately brought up short by pain so intense and forge-hot that his breath caught and he cried aloud. He crumbled back against the log, drawing deep, steadying breaths until the pain retreated to a more manageable level.
'Bulletwound,' he thought dimly as the memory of how Biggs had shot him in the shoulder at close range began to resurface from the depths of his pain-racked mind.
Slowly, carefully, he turned his head a little and managed to crack an eyelid open enough to glance at his injury. Right away, his face contorted, the movement of damaged muscles provoking raw sensation in his shoulder.
Warm, slick blood was still seeping from beneath a once-white scrap of cloth that bound the injury and continued to saturate the coarse fabric of his shirt. He could feel a trickle of blood against his chest-a thin ribbon, nothing more, hot and slick as the sun-baked skin of a snake.
Not good. Definitely not good, he thought disheartened as his eyes drifted shut again against his will.
The warm sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees, speckling the ground around him with vibrant color. But despite the heat, Matt was shivering uncontrollably. Dazed, he lay still for a long moment, breathing shallowly through his nose as he attempted to collect his muddled thoughts.
Kitty...the Crandall-children...Biggs...Doc... Doc. Matt tried to remember, thoughts moving through his mind like paste, each one slower than the next. What about Doc? The sudden memory hit him like a bolt of lighting. That fool of a doctor had placed his own life in danger by luring Biggs away from him.
Dammit. He couldn't allow this to happen.
Bracing himself on his good arm, he dug his heels into the ground. Using his legs for leverage, he pushed back against the log, at the same time twisting himself to get on his knees.
Immediately, the world reeled above his head again in a swirl of broken images, his vision see-sawing with each shuddering moment. Grinding his teeth together against the searing fire that flared in his shoulder, he stubbornly continued to push up. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his surroundings and he quickly realized he wasn't going to make it.
What little strength he had left spent, his right arm suddenly yielded beneath him and he crumbled to the ground, sweaty and trembling.
The sharpness of gravel and small stones grazed through the skin on his cheek, tearing into his flesh, but Matt barely noticed it. All he could focus on was the sudden shout that rose above the thicket, triumphant and ominous all at the same time.
It was followed seconds later by the sharp report of a rifle shot.
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"THERE HE IS!"
Kiley pointed excitedly at the glimpse of a shadowed figure that was just ducking out of sight behind a dense cluster of trees about twenty yards up the slope.
Biggs spat and ran a grubby hand across his mouth. "He's mine," he growled. He shot Kiley a sharp, warning glance.
The other rubbed his sweaty neck. Then he shrugged with a nonchalant lift of his shoulders. "Sure...like you said...he's yours."
He lowered his rifle and watched with glittering resentment bright in his eyes as Biggs brought the Marshal's Winchester around and raised it. "Say your prayer, Dillon," he muttered as he pressed the rifle butt firmly against his shoulder. Then he sighted along the barrel, took aim and squeezed the trigger.
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Doc's mouth went abruptly dry. The short-cropped hairs on the back of his neck all stood up on end.
The next thing he knew, a sharp crack broke the surrounding silence, offering only a split second of warning before a bullet whined over his head and ripped into the tree a foot or so above his head.
The doctor dropped to his haunches even as chunks of bark splintered off the trunk, raining down onto his head. With a dull thunk, the slug embedded itself in the tree. He rubbed a hand across his ashen face to wipe the gritty sweat away and found that his hand was shaking. His mind was operating on a different level now, racing ahead faster than his body could operate.
He had only one thought. It was too soon...he had to keep moving for Matt's sake...he couldn't allow himself to be caught up with just yet.
Swallowing the dry knot that had formed inside his throat, his eyes searched around desperately and then darted up the slope. He gauged the distance to a clump of trees that clustered away a little to the left. How far was it? thirty yards, maybe forty?
Gathering his courage, the doctor pushed away from the cottonwood and lurched forward.
He was within a few yards of it, when the sound of Biggs' rifle exploded behind him again.
to be continued...