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CHAPTER 6 - THE CHASE

When Scott mounted his horse, he was glad to see several of Lancer's best vaqueros armed and ready to ride with him. Rinaldo, despite his apparent timid character, was jockeying for a position in the front of the posse, close to the sheriff.

Scott was impatient to begin the hunt, even though the two men they were going after, Macon and Flanagan, had already proven to be dangerous. After a short discussion, the consensus was that the two men might be making for the rocky ravines just to the north in an attempt to lose any pursuers. But the Gunderson's homestead was sitting right in the way.

Scott fervently hoped that the men they were after had skirted the spread of the hard-working Scandinavian immigrants. "They know they're being pursued and they'll be on the lookout for fresh mounts," he said to the sheriff. "Once they're into those hills, they'll be out of our reach."

"These hard-cases will be in a hurry and they'll most likely be riding the shortest route - right through Gunderson's land," replied the sheriff. "Let's hope they don't look to hole up there, what with his pretty wife and all them kids around. We don't know what they're capable of."

Scott looked back at the hacienda, his expression harsh. "I think we have a good idea of what level they'll stoop to. If they have any sense they will just keep going, but if they don't know the lay of the land, they may stop at the farm."

"Then we'd better not waste any more time jawing," Stillwater said, kicking his large bay into a canter.

When they reached the Lancer gate, the posse members held back their mounts and waited until Scott rode to the front of the posse. He led the way in the direction of Gunderson's. The Lancer vaqueros, men with faces as hard as stone, fell in behind.

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From up on the ridge the Gunderson's white ranch house and large gray barn, surrounded by fields of growing crops, were plain to see. There was no sign of activity below; there was nobody laboring in the fields, no women hanging washing, no children running around in play. The place was deserted, with the barn doors gaping open and only a couple of draft horses standing idly in the small corral.

Scott felt his gut tighten and his senses sharpen, just as they had before skirmishes during the war. He glanced to his left and saw the riders fan out as they picked their way down the hillside. To his right the only man in plain sight was Isidro, who was skillfully guiding his mount down a rough gully.

As Scott urged his horse through the last of the scrubby trees that provided cover and rode onto the open field, a muffled shot rang out from the direction of the house, accompanied by a scream.

The horsemen burst out of the underbrush and spurred their mounts forward, reacting with the speed and precision of a cavalry unit. With abandon they galloped within yards of the house and jumped from their saddles before their horses had even skidded to a halt. Their guns drawn, they rushed to take positions around the building's perimeter. The sheriff ran in a crouch towards to the front door and flattened himself against the wall of the porch, revolver at the ready. "This is Sheriff Stillwater!" he bellowed. "Toss out your guns or we come in shootin'!"

Scott was about to leap off his horse near the open doors of the barn when two riders burst out of the darkness within and lunged straight for him. His horse reared and almost unseated him. In the time it took him to regain control, the men had dashed past. They shot wildly at the posse as they veered across the field, their bullets going wide. Drawing his rifle, Scott steadied his shying animal and took aim at the receding figures. He got off one shot and without waiting to see if he'd hit either of them, he whipped his horse in pursuit. Although the two men had sped past in a blur of flying manes and bullets, Scott had recognized one of their mounts as Barranca.

A glance back at the farmhouse told him that the sheriff was supporting a wounded woman as she collapsed on the porch, and several of the Lancer vaqueros were scrambling for their horses. The image of the woman's crimson-stained dress stayed with Scott as he followed the outlaws. Slapping the horse with its reins, he leaned into its straining neck, riding faster than he'd ever ridden before. His only thought was that he would get those men, catch them and make them pay for what they'd done to his brother and to that woman back at the farmhouse.

The ground underfoot soon became uneven, rough with rocky outcrops, so Scott had to slow his pace or risk breaking his neck, or that of his steed. He could see the backs of the two men he was pursuing now and then, just glimpses through the trees or when he rode heedlessly over a rise. Sure that he was gaining on them, he pushed his horse to its limits, recklessly jumping a wide ditch, pulling the animal's head back up when the horse landed badly. Scott had to use all the horsemanship skills he'd honed while in the cavalry just to stay in the saddle.

At some point he became aware that there was another rider coming up behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him it was Isidro. The vaquero grinned, his teeth bared with the excitement of the chase. There was another rider so far back that he was not recognizable; the rest of the posse was not even in sight.

The fleeing men, Macon and Flanagan, were now visible. They had slowed a little as they whipped their horses up a steep trail that cut between rocky outcrops. The man riding Barranca was in the lead. Scott was surprised that the palomino hadn't thrown the unfamiliar rider, as he was a handful and usually tolerated only Johnny on his back. His own experiences riding Barranca had given him a respect for the willful animal as well as for anyone who could ride him.

Concentrating on the unsure footing, Scott picked the best path up the trail for his flagging animal. Isidro yelled from behind, "Look out!" A bullet whined past Scott's ear, then lead slammed into the rock face. A sliver hit his cheek with a sharp sting. He ducked his head close to his horse's neck but kept going, pulling out his holstered revolver. Fearful his brother's attackers would get away, Scott let off two shots in quick succession. There was a cry from one of the men as the two riders disappeared over the top of the ridge.

"The trail narrows up ahead," called Isidro from close on his heels. "Dangerous."

Scott looked over his shoulder and for a fleeting second met the eyes of his father's segundo. There was no doubt from the broad grin that the man was enjoying the pursuit. "It missed your eye?" Isidro pointed to Scott's face.

Slapping his hand to his cheek, Scott discovered he was bleeding from the chunk of flying stone. "Didn't feel a thing," he said, and smiled grimly in return. He kicked his horse up the last bit of slope, keeping his gun at the ready in case the men ahead were planning to bushwhack them.

When he cautiously led the way over the rise, Scott clearly made out the two men riding in single file, not fifty yards ahead on the narrow trail. There was a steep wall of rock rising up to their left and a boulder-strewn drop to their right. Both the quarry and the pursuers had to cautiously pick their way along the treacherous track. With a haul on the reins, Scott brought his horse to a stop. He holstered his revolver, then quickly reached down and pulled his father's Sharps rifle out of its scabbard. He took careful aim and bellowed, "Halt or I will shoot!"

The man taking up the rear, riding a rangy roan, let off a shot at his pursuers, missing by a wide margin.

"Last chance," Scott yelled. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Isidro alongside him, pulling his own rifle from its sheath and to his shoulder in one smooth action. The trail was so narrow there was barely enough room for the two horses side by side, and their shoulders jostled each other, threatening to push Scott over the edge. Oblivious to the nervous shifting of the horse under him, Scott drew a bead on one of the men and let off a round at the same time Isidro fired. The sound was deafening and echoed off the walls of the ravine. Scott had to use his spurs to prevent his skittish horse from backing off the trail.

The man at the rear took at least one bullet and fell off his horse, arms flying in the air as he hit the dust. There wasn't enough room for his frightened, riderless horse to get past Barranca, but it tried anyway, lunging forward. Disaster loomed as the horses collided. Barranca whinnied, kicked out with his hind legs when the horse crowded him from behind, then spilled off his unwanted rider. The man fell hard, tumbling out of sight down the steep ravine, accompanied by a slew of dislodged rocks. There was a scream, cut off abruptly, then silence except for the clattering of loose gravel.

Isidro dismounted and ran past the loose roan to the still figure lying on the trail. He briskly removed the man's weapons before he checked for signs of life. "Dead," he said. Glancing back, he was alarmed to see Scott poised at the top of the ravine. As he opened his mouth to call out a warning to stay away from the edge, Scott dropped out of sight. Isidro rushed to look over the precipice. He saw the top of Scott's blond head as the young man recklessly scrambled down the steep slope.

Scott wasn't about to listen to him, but Isidro shouted, "You break your neck and your old man will have my cajones for supper." Barranca turned his head at the familiar voices and allowed Isidro to take up his loose reins.

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Though barely able to stay on his feet, his boot heels slipping on the loose gravel, Scott made for the man who lay wedged between some boulders halfway down the hill. He slowed down his perilous descent by grasping rocks and the few stunted trees that somehow survived on this rocky slope. He didn't know whether this one was Macon or Flanagan. All he cared about was that he had been successful at running him down. He skidded the last few feet and grabbed the trunk of a small tree to come to a halt beside the man he'd been pursuing.

Breathing hard from exertion, Scott looked down at the man who had been riding Barranca. Surprisingly, the man was alive and squinting up at him. "It appears," said Scott, "that you have met your match."

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