The Unflinching Collection

Chapter 10

From his vantage point, Simms watched their progress through a pair of army-issue binoculars and waited, his breathing low and easy. Nevertheless, he felt disappointed. He had hoped against hope the posse would never have managed to come to fruition. Of course, if he thought about it hard enough, he knew, deep down, they had to come. They would have laughed at his note, probably shared the payment between themselves, and decided on killing him regardless. His chief surprise, however, lay in their ability to track him. Or maybe it was simple luck. There were few routes west towards Bridger, they just happened to have picked the right one.

He checked his carbine and squinted down the barrel. There were three of them. Another few minutes, there would be two. The others might then give it up and retreat to their homes and loved ones. He hoped so. Killing was his trade, but he was meant to be an investigator, not an assassin. What was it Sandy called him, a regulator? He"d heard the term before, used for hired gunmen to help in disputes, range wars, all sorts of troubles between individuals or groups as the Territories expanded west at the end of the Mexican War. Some of these disagreements would result in a much wider conflict, he felt sure, but he hoped this was still some years away. He needed to turn his back on this business, find someone to settle down with, enjoy what remained of his life. Money, or the lack of it, was the problem, and a good enough reason to hunt Newhart and Mason down. Not just for the good general"s sake, but for his own. Two hundred dollars would serve well, allow him to put down a grubstake, build a place. Farm.

regulatorHe spat into the dirt, and wiped the sweat from his eyebrow with the back of his hand. Farm. What did he know about farming? He"d never so much as picked up a shovel, except to bury his comrades in arms. That was not what farming was about. He"d need to read a book, study, perhaps set up with someone who knew what they were doing. A woman would be good, but how many single women were there out here in this hellhole? Women who were not as thick-set as a grizzled gold-miner, whose hands were not calloused, whose bodies were slim, yielding. He closed his mind for a moment allowing the fantasy to develop, of him with a young, slim blonde, living a life under an empty sky, with a warm bed waiting at the end of the day.

“s**t,” he said, snapping open his eyes to find his quarry out of sight, slipping behind a large, imposing boulder. He would have to wait until they emerged on the other side. His hillside vantage point was strewn with rocks and scrub and the approach afforded any would-be attacker fine cover. He"d need to wait, until they were close enough for him to bring the Dragoon to bear. The carbine was an excellent weapon, but if he missed… He should have taken another rifle from Norwich"s store, damn his fat hide. And more cartridges too.

He stretched his legs, lowered the carbine, and waited.

“I don"t think I can take much more of this,” said Rogers, draped over the neck of his horse. “We need water. Rest. Maybe we should turn back.”

“Quit your moaning,” growled Parks. “All you"ve done since the moment we left town is moan, moan, f*****g moan! Ride on back if you want to, but I"m not stopping until that bastard is tethered across the back of his horse, dead.”

“He has a point though,” said Stolen, as they moved into the shade of a massive outcrop of rock. He reined in his horse, took out his canteen and shook it. “I ain"t got more than a drop or two left to drink, Parks. Let"s stay here for a while, out of the sun. We"re pushing too damned hard.”

Parks stopped, bowed his head. He needed to admit it, they were lost, out of water and if they didn"t come across a homestead or town soon, they"d die out here. Just like Dean told them. He twisted in his saddle. “You think we should go back too?”

“It"s a consideration. I believe we took the wrong trail. I reckon he went south, not south west. We should have picked him up by now.”

“We can"t go back,” said Parks. “We"re too far gone. We"d never make it.”

Stolen blew out his breath. “Well s**t, Parks, then I say we camp here, get us some rest, then start out again tomorrow.”

“Or later tonight,” said Rogers. “It would be better travelling at night. Out of the sun. We"d not sweat as much, not need as much water. Let"s rest here until the sun goes down, then continue.”

Parks nodded. “That"s the most sense you"ve made since you were born, I reckon.” He squinted skywards. “Beats me why it doesn"t rain. How long has it been now, a month? Six weeks? Feels like forever. Anyways, this is a good spot. If that bastard is around here, it might be better to move through these hills in the dark. He might even be watching us now.”

“You think so?” Rogers, bolt upright, edged towards the far end of the boulder and peeped out. He turned his feverish gaze to the top of the hill, but immediately turned away, dazzled by the sun, which hung low in the sky behind the crest. “Holy Mother, I can"t get a good enough look – what if he is there, waiting?”

“All the more reason to sit,” said Stolen and eased himself out of his saddle. He patted his horse and set about hobbling it.

Rogers watched him and chewed away at his bottom lip. “Okay, let"s wait here, Parks, yeah? You agree?”

“I agree,” said Parks. “This trail leads all the way down to Bridger. If that is where he"s heading, that is where we"ll find him. Whether today, tomorrow or next week, it doesn"t much matter, I guess. His days are numbered, that I swear.”

Simms lay waiting amongst the rocks for a long time, growing more restless, thinking perhaps they"d double-backed, flanked him, were about to come pouring down the hillside behind him. He needed to act, to flush them out, bring the fight to them. He rolled over, squeezing fingers into his eyes. He took a mouthful of water from his canteen, checked his carbine again and set off, bent double, skirting around the large rocky outcrop to his left. Constantly checking the rock, he scrambled across a mound of shale, feet slipping out from under him, and got down amongst some bushes. The thorns and knotted twigs bit into the exposed flesh of his hands and cheeks. He winced, but kept any sound to a minimum. He measured his breathing and slithered across the remaining distance like a snake, eyes ahead, belly stabbed and jabbed by the stony ground.

He saw them, flattened himself. They were perhaps twenty paces ahead, the thin aged guy closest, back to the giant boulder, asleep. The other two were digging a small pit in the rocky ground. This might be an attempt to fashion a sort of natural cooking oven, but Simms wasn"t sure. He"d seen Indians in Mexico doing something similar, slow cooking prairie dogs or buck rabbits over hot stones, the pit covered with bracken and leaves. But there were no leaves here. A lot of bracken, mind you, so maybe this was a variation on a theme. Perhaps he should try it.

One of the men, with his back to him, stood up and pulled off his coat. He threw it to the ground and stretched out his limbs.

Simms rose up from his cover like the dark avenger, and shot the man between the shoulder blades with the carbine. He immediately raced forward, covering the twenty or so paces at a charge, dropping the carbine, exchanging it for the Colt Dragoon.

The remaining man by the pit fumbled for his own g*n, managed to get it out before Simms put three bullets into him and dumped him on his back.

The old wizened guy was screaming, standing with his fists in his mouth. Simms sauntered up to him and put the muzzle of his g*n against the man"s temple. “Do you remember me?” The old man shook his head, body quivering. Simms glared. “You sent me over to your friend, Norwich. Well, you won"t be doing that again, you son of a bitch.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” moaned the old guy, emptying his bladder and sphincter in one. The stench rose up and Simms tottered backwards. “Oh sweet Jesus!”

Simms gagged, turning away, covering his mouth. The man he"d previously shot in the back groaned, giving Simms an excuse to move further downwind of the smell.

He prodded the stricken man with the toe of his boot. The man moaned again, and Simms put his foot under the man"s ribcage and hauled him over onto his back.

“You heartless bastard,” the man managed.

Across the scree, the old man moved. It may have been an attempt to escape, or more likely make a wild grab for a g*n. Either way, Simms was past caring. He swung, crouched low, fanned the hammer of his Dragoon and sent two heavy slugs into the man"s body, blowing him apart. He put the last bullet through the head of the man on the ground.

The boom of the shots echoed across the prairie, signaling the gruesome event to anyone within a few miles. Soon the buzzards would circle. When Simms moved on, they would feast on the exposed bodies of the dead, all remaining evidence to the killing gone forever. He liked that and took in a deep breath.

Simms took a few careful moments to reload his Dragoon, clearing out each cylinder before priming them with powder, ball and cap. He then moved over to the horses. Hobbled, they couldn"t run off, but they were well spooked. It took him some time to calm them before he checked saddlebags, searching for ammunition. He found none. Relief came when he discovered half a canteen of water. He took a mouthful, found it tainted but swallowed it anyway. Out here, in this stricken land, decisions were simple. Water, any water, was the most precious commodity of all. There were no choices.

He unburdened the horses of their saddles. He kept the best of the animals, let the other two run free and he stood and watched them gallop off across the prairie, great clouds of dust in their wake.

He sat in the shade of the boulder, the flies already settling on the wounds of the dead. Simms watched them for a long time before he leaned back against the rock, tipped his hat over his eyes and slept, the first occasion for some time he"d rested without fear of attack.