Chapter Ten

They should be there by now.

Mort's eyes turned toward the southern horizon. How many times had he let his gaze linger that direction in the last ten days? More than he would be willing to tally up, but not as much as if he had been on the hunt for answers before today.

He had been delayed a number of times. At first it was the small stuff that ate up a lawman's hours of work. Dogs chasing cats in the street when a stage was overdue, a customer claiming his tongue was burned on the diner's coffee, a romantic picnic gone sour by a group of a kids with too many shenanigans in the shape of rotten tomatoes stuck up their sleeves, a drunk singing too loudly as he bathed in the nearby stream. The list could actually go on. But it was the barroom brawl that broke out the night before Mort was set to leave that really upended his schedule. Marlow Denny was killed. One man not willing to share the saloon girl on his arm or the affections that came with her and one ill-placed punch and Denny's head fell into the spittoon.

"Neck was snapped," Dr. Sweeney had said at the time of the exam and then the body was handed over to the undertaker.

At least that court case was among the quickest he had attended, but as it was his duty to put the rope around the condemned man's head, Mort had to wait for the gallows to be built.

With a shake of his head, his gaze that seemed forever fixed on the stench that was described as Yuma, was broken. While the lure to the south couldn't be completely cut off, staring with nothing more than an aching heart to guide him wouldn't do Slim and Jess any good. He knew they were depending on him, trusting him to find the answers to release them from prison.

"How long, though?"

Mort could hear Jess just as clearly as the original day he said it. Unfortunately Mort didn't have any answer to throw on the wings of the wind to reach Jess' ears. So far, he had come up with nothing to bring his boys home again.

"I swear I will," said Mort, teeth gritted so tight that it hurt to speak.

Slowing his mount, Mort raised his hand to show his deputy that he should do the same and then came to a complete stop. Aside from a few new tracks marring the roadway, it didn't look any different than when he had gone up and down the path with Jess alongside him. But his focus was different then, searching for a missing man. His eyes were snapping ahead, looking for what might be lying around the next bend, not what might be sitting right underneath him.

Dropping to the ground, Mort immediately gave the road a tap with his foot. Nothing but a solid whack his response, he went further, pounding the earth as if he were angry with how Mother Nature was treating them. But his furious stomp had nothing to do with the sun's temperature or the lack of rain the territory had seen this year.

"What're you looking for, Mort?"

Not even turning to view Wiley standing behind him with confusion arching each brow, Mort kept his stomp going through the road's center. "Jess told me he thought the road was deliberately set up for them to crash. The first day I was out, I saw what looked like a pair of handmade holes where his stage crashed, but unfortunately, I couldn't testify in court what I found on account I couldn't say for positive. But I got to thinking. If there was a planned accident for Jess' coach, shouldn't they have done the same for Slim?"

"But Slim pulled the coach off the road."

"Exactly," Mort said, continuing to tamp his boot heel into dirt that was unwilling to give, making his entire leg start to wiggle with the process. "If there was an ambush set up for Slim's coach, it has to be along here somewhere."

"I'd imagine a lot of horses and wagons have been through here since the robbery. As far as we've heard, there's been no other wreck out this way."

"I know. But for Slim and Jess' sakes I can't give up. I have to keep…"

"Mort!"

The pain toyed at Mort's mouth to create a wince, but satisfaction was proving stronger. He smiled as he cupped his leg with both palms. "It's nothing, Wiley, I just twisted my knee. But I'm not going to complain. This bum knee means I found exactly what I've been looking for."

Following his boss' lead, Wiley tapped the ground with the rear of his rifle until he found the second divot, just as deep and wide as the first. "So this is where Slim was supposed to crash, not over there on the road to the Grayline mine."

"Looks like. Help me out of this hole, Wiley."

His aiding hand to get the sheriff on solid ground again, Wiley gave the broken earth another jab with his own boot and sunk in up to his ankles. "Is this enough evidence for a retrial, Mort?"

"If it were, I'd already be riding to the nearest telegraph office to request it from the judge. Unfortunately these holes could have been dug at anytime, by anyone. And I'm sure the prosecutor would throw it right back in Slim and Jess' faces that they could have been the ones to dig them."

"I wonder what that smug face is doing right now?"

"Probably dragging somebody else's carcass through the mud. More specifically, in Casper."

Wiley tilted his head. "Casper?"

"Yeah. I got a wire yesterday about a robbery in Casper. I was afraid the news was going to hold us up another day, but I think we're capable of doing more than one thing at once."

"What's that, Mort?"

"The marshal there says he doesn't think the men he's got behind bars are the real perpetrators. Oh, they're wanted for something else, all right, but the timeframe doesn't figure right in how the mercantile was hit and these other dudes hit town. We're supposed to be on the lookout down here just in case the marshal's right and there really is another group on the run."

"You think there could be any connection, Mort? I mean, with the fellows that robbed the stage company and there in Casper?"

Mort gave his knee a stretch before he attempted to mount his horse. "I doubt it. Why would anyone that's just picked up one hundred thousand need more in his pocket?"

"What if they didn't put it in their pockets?"

He slowly stepped down, and not because climbing into the saddle made his knee hurt as if a knife had just dug in deep. "What're you thinking?"

"The same thing that the Overland company thought about Slim and Jess. Maybe they hid the big loot, and if they did, then maybe they'd like to lie comfortably on some smaller bills awhile. An outlaw of that caliber's not going to eat on hardtack and beans for long."

"You could have something there, Wiley," Mort said, finally allowing his gaze to land on a different set of sky. "You suppose Mr. Gray's home?"

"All it'll take is a short ride to find out. Need help in the saddle, Mort?"

"No. I think this find is giving me all the boost I need to get upright, and a little more hope to boot. Let's go, Wiley."

They took the ground quickly, acting as if they were on the chase for a visible outlaw instead of someone that had yet to be seen, slowing out of necessity when they approached the mine's entrance, for Curly Gray's shotgun was performing the man's regular, "howdy-do."

Mort raised his hands up, but not so far away from both irons that it made him feel uncomfortable. "It's Sheriff Cory, Mr. Gray. We need to talk to you."

The gun lowering, he gave the men a welcoming wave. "What's this all about, Sheriff? I already gone and testified at that trial a coupla weeks back. Sorry it didn't do any good, though."

"I know. But that's just the thing. It's been a couple of weeks since I've had a chance to talk with you. Have there been any strangers in these parts since the trial?"

Hand going up to his mouth, Curly's fingers spread a little higher as if he was scratching through his memory. "Lemme think. It's not usual to see anyone around here, mind you. Most know I don't take to strange-looking folk coming 'round this way. I reckon that you know it keeps people outta my backyard if I show them the business end of my shotgun enough times."

"I'm sure it does, but suppose there's someone hanging around that doesn't know about the business end of your shotgun?"

"Like you, you mean?" asked Curly, giving his shotgun a teasing rise in Mort's direction.

Mort shrugged. "Lawmen don't turn back when he sees a gun pointing at him. But I was asking about anyone else."

"No. I didn't see anybody, but I mighta heard someone."

"When?"

"Oh, a night or so ago. Heard a horse, all alone, walking that way."

Wiley followed the man's point to the north. "That doesn't mean much, Mort. Not all of the horses were ever found after the wreck. It could be one of them wandering around."

"Yeah, but let's look for tracks anyway."

It didn't take long to find the prints. Whatever kind of horse had gone through, it wasn't in any hurry. There could have been positive reasoning in this find. If it was someone riding a saddled mount, he could have taken slow steps to prevent dust from getting kicked up so that any alert ear couldn't latch onto the fact that someone was passing by, just like any trained outlaw would do.

Now if Mort could find the horse, then he would know what kind of character was riding it. As it would turn out, it wasn't the animal that he saw first, but the exact kind of character he was looking for.

He had told Curly Gray less than an hour ago that lawmen don't shy away from gunpoint. That was about to change right now. "Wiley. Slowly ease down and get into the rocks over there. Don't run, don't act out of fear, just get there."

Waiting until his deputy was no longer in the line of fire, Mort returned his gaze to the hillside above them. Now there were two guns giving him a cold stare. The hard lump unable to be swallowed, Mort dismounted and then stuck both sets of reins in his hand, leading the horses to a stream that raced around the largest boulder and on to parts unknown. When the horses went for a taste, Mort bent his own nose in, praying that his ruse was good enough to stop the bullets from making a strike. If a trigger was pulled at that second or even a few moments later, they would have him cold.

"There still two up there?" Mort asked, giving his chin a wipe.

"That's all I count."

"Good. We have a chance that way. As long as we stay low, anyway."

"When're you gonna show them we know?"

"Once the horses are tied, I'll lift both rifles down. As soon as I do, go flat. That's when they'll know why we're here."

Wiley watched as Mort looped the reins into a knot and then stretched his arm for the rifle that sat next to his saddle. If these were any kind of seasoned outlaws, they would know the moment Mort touched the long iron that this was more than a water stop. They were there to fight. Six-gun in hand, Wiley turned toward the hill and just as Mort lifted the second rifle, his belly hit the earth.

Bullets coming at them like a hailstorm, Mort crawled to the rocky barrier and tossed a rifle into Wiley's clasp. "Still two?"

"That's all."

Firing a rapid return, Mort ducked so that he wasn't about to get chewed on by leaden teeth. "I was suspecting we were on an outlaw trail, all right, but I'm not sure it's who we want."

"You think it's the men outta Capser?"

"Could be. Either way, they're not the surrendering kind. Shoot a bit on the low side, Wiley. See if we can get one of them to show. I'd like to know who we're up against."

There was smoke all around him. With every pull of the trigger was another acrid blast, but Mort's nose began to twitch with a stronger dose of black wisps. Letting the rifle go still, Mort lowered his head to allow his senses to get a better hold of the intrusion. As he slowly inhaled, a description that had been nestled in the back of his mind jumped to the forefront. Whatever it was smelled like a pair of wet, old boots were sizzling over a fire.

His guess needing confirmation, the rim of Mort's hat barely peeked above the rock's edge, and following the circular tendrils, he found the face he was looking for. "It's Spinner. So Slim and Jess were right."

"Spinner?" Wiley stretched high enough to see the same curls of smoke above a familiar head. "But McLaughlin said he was at the Cheyenne depot!"

"I know. He's in this somehow, though. And it's taking just about everything in me to not let his hat dance a fast rhythm on his head."

Wiley's eyes imitated saucers. "You that good of a shot?"

"No. That's why I'm not giving it a try. To clear Slim and Jess, we've got to have those men alive! Be extra careful where you aim, Wiley. Arms, legs, ribs, anything but a killing bullet."

"I'll try," he said, lining his sights up to a shoulder, but before Wiley could touch the trigger, a bullet came close to tagging his own.

The ricochet causing a piece of stone to clip his cheek, Mort spun, firing a pair of rounds to prevent the next bullet from coming even closer. "They're on both sides of us!"

Ducking, Wiley clamped his hat on his head as it started to fly with a leaden wind gust. "I don't know if I can make that safe shot anymore."

"Just do what you can," Mort answered, but as he looked ahead of him, he felt the flutter of his chest go still.

Through a break in the trees, Mort saw the man that was putting the dangerous shots around them. Sitting tall in the saddle, he had a thick, silver band around his hat. But what caught his longest stare was what was doing the fancy artwork on the rocks around them. It was a Sharps, shining brighter than the badge on Mort's chest, for it too was wearing an emblem. While seeing Spinner put the kind of rage in Mort's veins not usually felt in the line of duty, nothing could compare with what was exploding in his core at the sight of the leader.

This was the man that belonged in Yuma prison, not Slim and Jess.

Raising his iron to give the outlaw an eye-to-eye greeting, Mort suddenly realized what was about to happen. Both he and his deputy were about to die, for the man next to the Sharps was holding the same deadly aim on Wiley.

"Quick!" Mort fired the shot, although he knew it was a miss as his body was forced to recoil to not take his own fatal blow. "Get in the creek! We can use both rock walls over there as a shield. It's our only chance!"

Running, then pausing to shoot, and then running again, Mort knew what Slim and Jess had gone through on the stagecoaches. Attacked from all corners, there was little room to run without smacking into a bullet's path. It felt like there was even less room to breathe, but he had to. He had to make it!

Both boots making the splash, Mort heard the slug screaming past him, but before he could release the breath of relief that he wasn't hit, he sucked the air in tight. Wiley's cry meant that the bullet had a lawman's name on it after all. Grabbing Wiley's slumped shoulders, Mort pulled him through the water until there was a solid space between their bodies.

"You'll be all right, Son," he said, but then Mort looked down. The water flowing past his knees had turned red. "Dear God, no! Wiley!"

He held his deputy in his arms long after death's shadow fell upon him and then Mort's gun hand was on the rise. Again and again Mort fired, the shots booming like thunder in his ears. But even when the click of his empty gun sounded, the roar was still there. They were hurrying toward him, firing with such ferocity that even the rocks were beginning to shudder. In a few more seconds they would be directly across from where he stood. And a second after that, well, all Mort had to do was look at Wiley's lifeless face to know what was the answer. Bowing, Mort closed his eyes. There was no cleaning the blood away from his vision, even through a hard wipe, the red remained. Yet there was something else printed there, like his signature. It was the promise he had made to Slim and Jess, and Mort knew what he had to do. He had to get out of there.

Dragging him onto the sandy bank, Mort patted Wiley's blood-covered chest. "I'm sorry I have to leave you like this, Son."

Time running so short he could no longer hear it ticking, Mort dove into the stream just as the four men came into sight. The bullets followed him in, adding to the natural swells that lapped around him. He could hear everything when his mouth opened for air. Their profane fury, the blasts, the pounding hooves, and then another splash, louder than any rifle slug could perform. Was someone diving in after him? He couldn't look, couldn't let them catch him.

Mort pumped harder, forcing his lungs to the limit without air before allowing a small puff again, and then suddenly everything grew dimmer. Either his ears had taken on too much water and had deafened the thunder or he was getting farther away from them. So far he knew he wasn't hit. The only pain was in his muscles, not to the depth where a bullet reached. Knowing that could change with the next second, Mort pushed himself even harder through the water. He had to make it out of there alive!

Ten minutes, thirty, an entire hour, it didn't matter how much had passed, Mort was too weary for another pump of both arms and legs and he dared to let his head stay at the surface longer than the necessary breath. Only ripples sloshing against him, he swam into shallow territory and then as his legs buckled, he crawled the remaining distance out. Heaving against the wet ground, Mort's eyes were the only part of his body that had the strength to wander. But this would be enough. He could see that he was alone, that he had beat them back. For now.

Needing to rise, Mort put his palms against the muddy ground and pushed up, coughing what had been swallowed back out. A wobble in each knee, Mort was reluctant to stand, but he forced his boots underneath him. He knew they could be coming. There weren't any raucous shouts, man or iron made, yet no outlaw was going to ride away without knowing which side of life their victim was on. In a haste to make that discovery, they could be right around the stream's bend.

He turned his head, watching, listening, but while no sound of danger made his skin prickle, his chest was still given a wallop. Mort didn't need much of a squint to recognize what he was looking at. It was in the distance now, far enough that the double mounds looked more like pebbles than the boulders they were and the scene sent a shiver throughout his body. There was a man lying dead beside the left one.

"Forgive me, Wiley."

He would return later, to bury, to mourn, and then to ride back home again. Right now he had to survive. It broke Mort's entire being to let one man go, especially because it was a close companion, a trusted friend, a valued deputy. But there were two more that shared a similar description that were begging for Mort to save them. He could almost hear them, calling his name, urging him to carry on, and just as Mort had already professed, he wouldn't let them down.

Turning again, Mort searched for another set of familiar rocks and as this group was closer, he didn't have to look up very far. The Grayline mine was between a mile and two away. Maybe not before dusk could turn to dark, but it was definitely reachable by foot before the day could be called over. He needed Curly Gray, his shotgun and whatever else was in the old man's arsenal, for Mort felt as empty as a poor man's pockets. He lost his rifle when Wiley went down, his pistol, although it had somehow remained inside of his holster through every jostle the stream gave him, was just as useless. His hand went down just in case there was one, but there was none. Every shell wrapped around his belt was gone.

Deep breath taken, Mort walked toward the mine. Step after step became slower, more uncertain that he was heading in the right direction. He had purposely left the main trail to hide his tracks from unfriendly eyes, but Mort didn't think he could have strayed so far to call himself lost. However, something did feel wrong, like he was walking away from hope, walking straight into the kind of darkness that didn't belong to night, that was even too intense for a the depths of a mine.

There would be reason for this.

Coming around a tree that had once been lightning's victim, he was there, looking at the square entry, but then as if the more important view wasn't ahead of him, Mort suddenly looked down. He didn't know for how long, or if the first droplet was right there, but Mort's boots were following a trail of blood. It didn't take him long to guess why. Curly Gray was dead, lying in a bloody puddle a few feet inside of the mine. It was an even shorter guess to realize who had pulled the trigger.

The man with the fancy Sharps stepped across the threshold, and Curly, coming to a stop directly in front of him. "What're you doing out this way, Sheriff?"

"Dodging bullets, mostly," Mort answered as three more men stepped out of the mine, all with guns drawn and readied. "From the looks of all of you, I'd say that every single one of them were yours."

"Could be that you're right."

It was past dusk, yet a dawning ray of light smacked Mort across the head. "I know you. You're Buck Brooks."

"Of the Brooks and Meadows gang, although as I'm sure you're aware, Sheriff, that bunch has been put to rest. All but me, anyway."

He wasn't prone to having a chill, but it was impossible not to shiver. "You're supposed to be in Yuma prison."

"I snuck out the backdoor when no one was looking a month or so ago. I couldn't stand it there. It was like living on a dragon's tongue. Yuma. Even saying the name again makes me wanna vomit its fire!"

The chill was quick to turn to heat. "I had to send two of my good friends there!"

"I know. Kinda ironic, wouldn't you think?"

"You wouldn't want to know what I'm thinking right now. And you!" Mort's finger rose, taking a jab in Spinner's direction. "I'd forget my oath just to get my hands on you!"

"You hear that, Spinner? The sheriff wants to rip you to pieces, but he can't, because he's a slick-as-you-please badge-toter." Coming close, Buck gave Mort's star a pat. "I wonder what would happen if it wasn't there?"

"Take it and find out."

The grin spreading far enough to emit a rumble of laughter, Buck plucked the badge from Mort's vest. "Now you just look like a regular man. And a whole lot easier to kill, too."

Mort didn't flinch, not even his lashes chose that moment to land. He knew from the moment he saw Curly Gray's body that they would kill him too. They had gone too far to get what they wanted, and that meant they would never let him go.

It was awful, for at that moment Mort's eyes did close, and again he saw the image that had put him inside the stream and out of reach of the earlier bullets. He had promised Slim and Jess. And then everything in his mind's sight went black. Could the vow have really been wiped clean, just like that? Mort almost shook his head. No, not that quickly. But soon. They were certainly going to kill him.

"Who gets the pleasure, Buck?"

Mort flicked his eyes to Spinner. "Quit salivating, Spinner. I doubt you've got a high enough rank for that kind of job."

"That does it, let me take his head off!"

Buck's hand up, his palm caught Spinner in the chest. "You know something, Spinner? He's right. A sheriff's too important for the likes of you."

"You took the badge off!" Spinner argued, reaching for the piece of tin that he would never get to hold. "He's no different than anyone else, so let me do him in. What do you say, Buck?"

"No. The head man gets to kill the head man. You don't like that, then get out."

Spinner's stare at Buck would have lasted longer if there wasn't so much money between them. Walking out now would be the same as throwing his share away. Head down, Spinner backed up, allowing his boss the right to kill another man of a similar caliber.

"There," Buck said. "It's just you and me, Sheriff."

He eyed the gun and then bore into the man behind it. "Just answer me one question."

Buck's finger played with the holes where the prongs had sat. "Go ahead."

"Where's the hundred thousand?"

"Why do you want to know? Dead men can't spend a dime."

"I know," Mort answered without a blink, without any kind of waver. "Remember that when you go to dig it up."

"How'd you know it was buried?"

"I'm a lawman. I've been around."

"So you have. But so have I, and that means I'm not gonna give the tiniest hint to a lawman, dead or alive. And in case you're wondering, Sheriff, you're time's up."

Mort expected the trigger to get squeezed, but the clop with the gun butt over his skull was going to be just as severe. Falling, Mort landed into a pair of outstretched arms. While pain shoved him back and forth between light and dark, Mort wondered if they had already dug a grave for him. He was being carried somewhere, into darkness, into deep darkness.

His lashes fluttering upward, he forced them wider. They were taking him into the mine, but while Mort tried to dismiss the thought that he was being buried alive, he couldn't let it completely go. There was reason. Deeper and deeper they took him, until there was nothing left but an abyss. While a candle's glow could only stretch so far into that kind of ink, Mort could see the square lines that made up the downward shaft. They really were going to lower him down, and since they had left him without a bullet, they wanted him to know every part of his burial. With some laughter mixed in with a pair of heave-ho's, Mort was tossed in.

He was surprised that he felt the jostle against his hip when he struck something hard on the way down to the bottom. Maybe even the gash in his head should have dissolved into nothingness, for the kind of pain that Mort was really experiencing was internal, in a place that outer hands could never touch. His heart, his core, his soul. He really was going to die, and succumbing today, tomorrow or any of the others ahead of him the results were exactly the same. He had failed them, and that was the kind of pain that would take Mort all the way through eternity.

Slim and Jess would never see light outside of Yuma prison, for the last of Mort's light had just died.