Outlaw's Reckoning Page 3

“And after this, them law dogs and bounty hunters comin’ after us won’t be doin’ nothin’ but chasing their tails and choking on our dust.”

  “Just go get the horses.”

  Tossing Gus a quick wave, Doyle turned and rushed to the hitching post.

  Gus watched him for a second before turning his gaze back to the stagecoach platform. The driver snapped the reins to get the coach’s wheels turning. After a bit of huffing and whining from the team, the coach got moving and the horses fell into an easy gait. When he glanced up and down the street, Gus only saw a few locals watching the stage while the rest just went about their business. A few kids waved to the coach, but one little boy wasn’t distracted by the sight.

  That little boy stood with his feet planted in a ditch, his arms hanging to his sides and his eyes locked upon Gus. It was the same kid who’d been staring at him back at the restaurant.

  Meeting that kid’s stare, Gus wanted to shake loose of it any way he could. Old instincts reared up inside of him, bringing some particularly vicious ideas along with them. Rather than give in to such things, Gus bared his teeth and lunged half a step forward.

  The kid yelped and spun around to scurry off, but his feet were stuck in the mud. He did, however, manage to bump against the man who’d been watching over him before. Gus still didn’t know if the man was the kid’s father, uncle or what, but he was glad when the man grabbed the kid and pulled him from the mud.

  As soon as the stage rolled out of town, Gus and Doyle rode ahead a ways to scout the trail for themselves. Unless the driver intended on trying his luck on rocky terrain that gave way to steep drop-offs, there was only one way for the stage to go. The trail forked several miles ahead, but that didn’t concern Gus in the least. He and Doyle would hit it long before the driver had more than one road to choose from.

  The ride to get ahead of the stagecoach was treacherous and had to be made while the sun was blazing directly in their eyes. Gus and Doyle gripped their reins and hunkered down low over their horses’ necks. To make matters worse, dust billowed in the winds and grit from the trail pelted against their faces. Just when he’d gotten used to the burning of dust in his eyes, Gus had to figure out which way to steer his horse to get around the occasional gorge that appeared in front of them like a mouth trying to swallow both riders whole.

  Things would have been a lot easier if the pair could use the same trail as the stagecoach, but that would have made things too easy for the shotgunner. Surely, the man next to the driver had the skill and the rifle required to pick off any threats from a distance as well as from up close. No, Gus and Doyle needed to blaze a new trail, circle back to the old one and do so with enough time to set up an ambush. The two of them had gone through the motions so many times, they didn’t need to say one word to each other. They could convey directions, angles and all manner of details to each other with nothing more than points and nods.

  This was why Gus hadn’t put a bullet into Doyle a long time ago. Training a replacement would just take too long.

  The rumble of hooves churning against the ground filled Gus’s ears. He looked to his right and caught a glimpse of jagged hills in the distance, a wide crack in the ground and Doyle spurring his horse to build up enough steam to clear it. Once Doyle had jumped over the crack, he turned to meet Gus’s eyes. Gus pointed toward the trail and then held up two fingers.

  He wanted to get back to the trail and hit the stagecoach within the next two miles. Doyle nodded and signaled that they would hit the stage within half a mile after meeting up with the main trail. They tapped their heels against their horses’ sides and gained some extra speed to tear along a stretch of open land.

  Gus had stolen his horse some time ago, so both he and the animal were accustomed to each other. They moved like a single living thing that easily pulled ahead of Doyle. Rather than celebrate winning the race that always seemed to take place between him and his partner, Gus looked around for a good spot to ambush the stage. They’d scouted one or two before, but they’d already passed one and the other was too far away.

  There was a ridge in the distance, but it was too far from the main trail to do him any good. Some hills rose a little ways to the north, so he pointed his horse that way and spurred him on. Sure enough, those hills kept on rising until they overlooked the main trail leading to Tombstone. Gus pulled back on his reins and waited for Doyle to thunder up to his side.

  “That was damn stupid to go so fast over that kind of terrain,” Doyle scolded. “You coulda been tripped up any number of ways.”

  “You’re just sore because I got ahead of you so easy. Take a look over there.”

  Doyle looked where Gus was pointing and quickly spotted the cloud of dust being kicked up to the east. “That’s got to be them. They’re headed this way. How long you think before they get here?”

  Slowly shifting his eyes from the cloud to the sky above it, Gus replied, “Less than half an hour. There ain’t much daylight left, so they must be hauling that coach as fast as they can. How much farther until the next stop?”

  “My guess is they’ll make it there after nightfall. It couldn’t be much farther than that, since I doubt any driver would want to go too far in the dark.”

  “Unless he knows this country well enough,” Doyle said. “But that don’t matter anyhow. I can hear ’em coming.”

  Gus squinted and shifted his head a bit. When he concentrated hard enough, he could finally pick up the sounds of wheels grinding against unforgiving rock. The ground beneath them had turned into a stone plate covered with a light dusting of gravel, which forced the stagecoach to announce their presence long before it could be seen. The sun was dipping low in the western horizon. Its light wasn’t enough to blind anyone, but it could still work in the two men’s favor if they put it to use just right.

  Pointing toward a low ridge, Gus said, “We should wait there. It’s a little ways from the trail, but the sun will be at our backs.”

  Doyle nodded. “I can take the first shot. You sweep in after that and we’ll go from there.” His eyes snapped toward the sound of wagon wheels and a smirk took shape on his face when he caught the first sight of the stagecoach. “Got any last words?”

  “Yeah,” Gus replied. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  With that, both men snapped their reins and raced for the ridge.

  It took less than a minute for Gus to jump down from his saddle and scramble toward the section of the ridge that overlooked the trail. He didn’t have to look to see if Doyle was with him. In fact, when he hunkered down and watched the stagecoach round a bend, he knew where his partner was just like he knew where both of his guns were holstered. Doyle inched toward the edge of the ridge, which placed him perilously close to ruining the entire ambush or getting both of them killed. If they were spotted too soon, anyone on that stagecoach could fire at them like they were in a shooting gallery. If they waited too long, the stage would be even tougher to catch.

  Sensing Doyle’s impatience, Gus stretched out an arm to block the other man’s way. The stage skidded on a bit of loose gravel, causing the driver to slow down to keep the coach upright. Gus squinted at the wobbling stagecoach as if his one good eye was strong enough to see the distraction on the driver’s face. About a second before Gus gave the order, Doyle fired the rifle he’d brought with him.

  Chapter 3

  The shot hit the man beside the driver in the chest. It was difficult to say exactly where Doyle’s bullet had landed, because the man riding shotgun flopped back and then curled up like a dying worm. The driver looked around frantically, but was fighting with the reins too much to really see much of anything. He had to focus on the horses before they got too wound up, which gave Gus plenty of time to race back to his own horse and ride toward the trail.

  Between the low position of the sun in the sky, the dust swirling through the air and the thick scar covering a good portion of his left eye, Gus couldn’t see a whole lot. Fortunately, the wheels of the stagecoach, the h
ollering of its driver and the braying of its horses were more than enough to guide him to the right spot. Gus’s horse did a good job of traversing the uneven terrain leading to the stagecoach and responded well when Gus pulled his reins to come up alongside it.

  The team of horses pulling the stage had been spooked by the gunshot, and the driver seemed spooked by the kicking and flailing of the man beside him. To make things even worse, the horses were slamming against one another in their frenzy to get loose from the stage altogether. Gus rode beside the team of horses and then snapped his reins again to get in front of the team. From there, he worked to slow the whole team down.

  Once it seemed the team was regaining its composure, Gus looked back to the driver of the stagecoach. The man held the team’s reins in a tight grip, but seemed more concerned with the wounded man riding shotgun beside him. The shotgunner was alive and howling in pain. As soon as the driver realized the stage was slowing down, he took up the reins in both hands and prepared to give them a snap.

  Gus drew his .44, which was modified to be fired with a minimum of movements while also being balanced to sit just right in his hand. That way, the weapon felt more like an extension of his arm. In fact, he felt more off balance when the gun wasn’t in his grasp. “Stop right there!” he barked. “Try to snap those reins and my partners will burn you down.”

  The driver looked around frantically for the other men Gus had mentioned. Even though he only spotted Doyle riding down the ridge, he wasn’t about to call Gus’s bluff.

  “Settle your team,” Gus ordered. When the driver didn’t move fast enough for his liking, Gus thumbed back the hammer of his pistol and added, “Be real quick about it.”

  Pulling back on his reins, the driver muttered to his wounded shotgunner. As the stagecoach rattled to a halt, Gus maintained his position beside the front of the team until the animals no longer seemed ready to bolt. He reached out to pat the closest horse’s ear while keeping a good grip on his .44 with his other hand.

  Doyle approached the stagecoach with a smile on his face and a Spencer rifle propped against his hip. Turning his head toward the ridge, he shouted, “Set your sights on both drivers, but be ready to pick off anyone who tries to climb out of the coach as well.” Shifting his eyes toward the petrified faces staring out from the coach, he added, “You’d best stay put, now.”

  Gus never liked the way Doyle played up to their nonexistent partners. It was enough to get folks to believe there were more gunmen lurking about, but it wouldn’t do to have those same folks look too hard for whoever else was supposed to be out there. Sooner or later, someone would realize Gus and Doyle were the only ones they needed to worry about. After that, the driver, shotgunner and passengers would figure out they outnumbered the robbers enough to make a run at them. Before he thought too far ahead, Gus sighted along the barrel of his .44 to aim at a spot between the driver’s eyes. “Pick up the shotgun, rifle and whatever other guns you keep up there and toss them over yonder.”

  The driver picked up a fairly new Sharps rifle and started to throw it to the patch of ground Gus had nodded to.

  “Toss that one over here,” Doyle said.

  Only after he saw a nod from Gus did the driver shift his arm to toss the Sharps to Doyle. As the rifle flew through the air, Gus narrowed his eyes and tensed the muscles in his gun arm. The driver sensed the subtle change in Gus the way an animal could sense a predator getting ready to lunge.

  Doyle caught the Sharps and looked it over with an approving nod. He dropped it into the boot of his saddle and kept his own Spencer at the ready.

  “And the shotgun,” Gus ordered.

  The driver shook his head. “That’s all we got, mister.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  No threat was needed. Wincing with a bit of shame, the driver lowered his head and reached under the seat for a double-barreled shotgun. He held it toward Doyle, who refused it with a shake of his head, and then tossed it to the previously mentioned patch of ground away from the stagecoach.

  By now the passengers inside the coach were getting restless. Doyle put a stop to that by shifting his rifle so its barrel rested on top of his left forearm and fired a shot that blazed through the window of the coach’s door and sped straight through the one on the opposite side.

  “Sit tight,” Doyle said.

  With those two words, the passengers leaned back into their seats and kept their mouths shut. Gus knew the situation wouldn’t remain in his favor forever, so he pressed his advantage while he still had one.

  “We come for all your valuables,” Gus said. Fixing his eyes on the driver, he added, “I want you to climb up top there and throw down whatever you got that’s worth anything.”

  “We’re just carrying passengers,” the driver protested.

  “Don’t lie to me!” Doyle snapped.

  The sharpness of Doyle’s voice caused nearly all the passengers to jump. The driver winced but maintained his composure.

  “I ain’t lying to you, mister,” the driver said to Gus. “Just passengers.”

  “Then why the shotgunner?”

  “He always rides with me.”

  Gus cocked his head to one side and brought his gun up just enough to better align it with his good eye. The motions barely taxed a muscle, but got some good results.

  “All right, don’t shoot,” the driver spat. “There’s a lockbox where we keep ticket money and some more to cover expenses and such.”

  “Throw it here,” Gus said. When he saw the driver’s reluctance to leave the wounded man beside him, Gus announced, “He’ll be the luckier of you two if you don’t get moving.”

  To his credit, the driver waited to see the shotgunner’s face before he left him. The second man in the driver’s seat kept his hand pressed against a blood-soaked section of his vest that was an inch or two in from his right side. Gus estimated Doyle’s bullet had caught him in a rib. Any worse than that and the man would be either dead or making a whole lot bigger of a fuss.

  “While you’re up there,” Doyle said, “hand down that black case.”

  The driver had one foot propped against the edge of the bracket that prevented the luggage from sliding off the coach’s roof. A dusty tarp covered the luggage, which the driver was just starting to pull aside.

  Doyle’s eyes suddenly took on a cold steely glint. “And don’t look to Gus no more. I gave the order and you’ll do it. You got an objection?”

  Slowly, the driver shook his head but was a bit too slow for Doyle.

  Firing a shot from his Spencer that hissed through the air a few inches from the driver’s head, Doyle barked, “Now! We ain’t got all day.”

  After that, the driver moved as if he was being whipped. His feet scrambled to find purchase atop the stage, even though he could probably climb on it with his eyes shut under normal circumstances. His hands shook so hard that Gus could see the quaking from where he sat.

  The first thing the driver found was the black case. Gus recognized it as the one Eddie had shown him back on the platform and knew Doyle was practically drooling at the sight of it. “Throw it to him,” Gus said.

  The driver complied by gently tossing the case. Catching it without letting his rifle falter in the slightest, Doyle allowed his grin to slip back into place.

  “Now for the money,” Gus said. “Throw it all to me.”

  Leaning over to look into the coach, Doyle said, “That goes the same for all of you. Gather up any money or valuables you got and hand ’em over.”

  It didn’t take long for their orders to be carried out. Even so, Gus grew more and more uncomfortable as every second ticked by. He felt as if his skin was shrinking around him, wrapping him up tightly within a constrictive net. A dented iron container about the size of a cigar box was tossed to him by the driver. A few seconds later, a pair of trembling hands emerged from the coach to hand a bundle over to Doyle.

  “Wh-what now?” the driver asked.

  “I’ll tell you what
now,” Doyle replied. Aiming his rifle into the coach, he said, “That man right there is comin’ out here with us. The rest of you can rot in hell for all I care.”

  “What he means,” Gus quickly added, “is that you can all move along. And if anyone so much as throws a rock at us, we’ll come back and fill that coach full of blood—you hear me? We caught you once, we can do it again.”

  The side door of the coach swung open and the man who’d been called Mason leaned outside. He held both hands in front of him. In one hand was his hat and in the other was a pearl-handled .32.

  “I forgot I had this,” Mason explained.

  Doyle smirked and aimed his rifle at him. “Sure you did,” he grumbled as he snatched the pistol away and pulled Mason outside. Although the well-dressed man stumbled, he managed to catch himself before falling out of the coach and landing on his face. Once upright again, he quickly dusted himself off.

  “You know who we are?” Gus asked the driver, who promptly shook his head. “We’re the men that robbed the train bound for San Francisco. The one where all those souls were lost in that fire.”

  That hadn’t been one of Gus’s favorite jobs, but it was the most famous.

  The driver’s eyes widened as if he’d suddenly realized he was gazing into the soulless face of a demon.

  “I see you heard of us,” Gus said. “That’s good, because I won’t need to tell you what could happen if you decide to do anything but get the hell out of here once I give the word.”

  The shotgunner flopped over and pulled himself up. “We can get rich by bringing these murderers in! Just get their guns away from—”

  “Shut up, will you!” the driver snapped. “I don’t wanna die and you’re already close enough.” To Gus, he said, “He’s just delirious, is all.”

  Gus nodded, feeling his grip on the stagecoach loosening despite the fear that kept almost everyone in check. Mason stood outside of the coach with his arms raised up over his head. He looked to be somewhere close to Gus’s age, but didn’t have nearly the amount of hard lines etched into his face. Side by side, the two men were like two roads: one well tended and smooth, while the other was crooked and nearly too rough to use any longer.