The Unflinching Collection

Chapter 19

Mason stopped the wagon and chewed the inside of his cheek. He looked back the way he had come. Once news of Pilcher"s killing reached the vet"s ears, promises and agreements would fly away like paper in the wind. He"d tell, tell them all and Mason didn"t want no posse on his trail, no lynch-mob eager to stretch his neck. Newhart"s neither. He"d made a mistake, should have put kindness and gratitude aside and shot him. The sister, too. Pity, because she was pretty. What the hell, there are plenty more lovely things out on the range! He spat and turned the wagon about.

What the hell, there are plenty more lovely things out on the range!He couldn"t rush, the nag simply did not have the strength to move quicker than a shuffle, but when he arrived back at the surgery, he was relieved to find the surrounding streets empty. The door was open, as it always seemed to be. Mason jumped down and went through into the hallway. He heard a low, pleasant sound of someone singing towards the back of the house. The girl. He smiled and sauntered down the hall.

When she turned from the kitchen sink to see him standing there, her own smile froze on her lips.

Mason"s eyes narrowed. “Where"s your brother?”

“He"s in the surgery. Tending to the one man you didn"t kill.”

Mason nodded, twisting his mouth into something like a smile. “You are a mighty fine woman, has anyone ever told you that?”

“If you"re going to do it, mister, do it. Don"t talk.”

He nodded in agreement, pulled out his g*n, and shot her through the head.

Mason studied her for a moment, a pang of regret playing around his conscience. But he put it aside and was about to stride back down to the other rooms when Ned came blustering out of his surgery door. He gawped in abject horror when he saw Mason and the g*n. His shoulders sagged, face going white.

“I can"t risk you saying something,” said Mason.

Ned nodded, a single tear rolling down his face. “I tried so hard to make a life here, for my sister and me. I thought we"d made something, something to be proud of. For it to end like this…” He put his fingers in his eyes and sobbed.

“I know,” said Mason and fired his g*n, two times.

He stepped over the body, careful not to put his boot into the blood blooming over the floor, and went into the surgery.

The man on the bed strained his neck to stare Mason in the eye. “Bastard,” he managed, before Mason shot him too.

Back at the wagon, Mason sat for a moment, playing with the reins. The death of the sister troubled him. Handsome, tall, face of an angel. She reminded him a little of Elisabeth and the thought of her, the moments they"d spent together, caused his chest to tighten. “Damn it,” he said out loud, flicked the nag into continuing forward, memories stirring of how she"d writhe beneath him. How could she change into the murderous harlot she was, trying to shoot him back at the Mormon ranch? Could it be she was play-acting through it all? He ground his teeth, struggling to beat down the rising anger. He couldn"t afford to go back there to the ranch, not now. Too many people wanted him dead, too many were no doubt already on his trail. No, he"d have to keep going forward, get to the ferry, and try to acquire some money. He needed a new life, a new start. A few more killings, then all would be as he"d always wanted it.

By the time they made camp that first night, any memories of Elisabeth and regrets for Cathy"s death were long gone.

Four riders stood motionless on the distant ridge the following afternoon, like black statues set against a backdrop of unsullied sky. A disturbing image, designed to frighten, intimidate. Mason pulled on the reins and the weary nag shuffled to a halt. He considered the men for a long time. Keeping his eyes locked on the strangers, Mason slowly uncorked his canteen and drank. From this distance, it was impossible to make out who the riders might be, but he guessed they were Utes. He had a vague idea of where he was, but knew if he had wandered too far west, trouble was bound to be waiting. He was also well aware of the many stories of attacks, raids, killing. Why the Mormons back at the ranch fared so well in such a hostile land, he could not imagine. Perhaps they truly were blessed? He pushed the stopper back into the canteen and tossed it into the wagon. Newhart moaned.

He swung down from the buckboard and stretched his limbs. With a quick glance towards the horizon where the sun slowly sank, he decided to make camp for the night. If the Utes came close, he"d kill them. Better to be safe than sorry. Experience had taught him not to take chances with Indians.

He went around to the rear of the wagon, patted the tethered horse, checking its flanks and its hooves. The mare snuffled but otherwise appeared fit and well. Then he took a peep inside.

Newhart lay outstretched on his back, his filthy shirt soaked with sweat, his head lolling from side to side. Blood and pus seeped from his leg. Mason swore, stepped away from the rear opening and spat onto the ground. The coming night would prove to be long, Newhart"s fever about to hit a crescendo. He looked to the far-off ridge and a slight flutter ran through his heart.

The Utes had gone.

Supper was a meagre affair of oatmeal biscuits and salted beef strips, which he gnawed at until his jaw ached and washed it all down with water. He shook the canteen. Not much left. If he didn"t make the river in two more days, he could die from thirst out here. He sat with his back against the rear wheel of the wagon, revolver in his lap, and wished he had a smoke. He wished for lots of things. Mostly, he wished to be at the river and safety. He was growing tired of forever having to watch his back.

Deciding against lighting a fire, he gathered a threadbare blanket around his shoulders and tried to make himself comfortable. Behind him, on the other side of the canvas, Newhart"s moans grew louder. Mason did his best to block them out, pulled his hat down hard over his face and closed his eyes.

If he slept, it could not have been for long. He awoke with a start, body tense, hand automatically bringing up his Navy Colt. Night had settled over the camp, the sky a glittering sprinkle of stars, the air colder than at any other time. He eased back the hammer as slow as he could manage. He listened and waited. For a moment, his own heartbeat was the only sound, then the tiniest of footfalls stirred him and he sat rigid and silent as stone, readying himself.

Perhaps a breath, a wheeze, a snuffle. Whatever the sound, it betrayed the close proximity of another human being. And not Newhart. His moans were less now, the rattle in his chest different to this other noise.

The horse whinnied and shuffled its hooves. Over by some withered trees, the nag, hobbled, resting, also gave out a strange, strangulated neigh. Both animals reacting to something – or someone – very close.

He caught sight of a shadow from the corner of his eye, nothing more than a flicker of grey in the blackness of the night. He remained rigid, mouth open, senses alert.

It came from out of the night at a run, a rushing thing, no scream, only the pounding of its feet on the stony ground. A man. Mason half-rose and caught him around the throat, wrestled him to the ground, the barrel of his g*n jabbing into the flesh of his assailant"s hard stomach. He writhed and kicked, a hand raised, filled with the glint of a blade. Mason pulled his hand from the throat, caught the wrist, squeezed the trigger and the night"s silence splintered with the blast.

And the others.

They attacked from three sides, wild demons erupting out of the blackness. Mason, on his feet, fanned his g*n"s hammer and shot the first one charging forward with a spear held in both hands. He crumpled to the ground, body riddled with the bullets, his forward momentum propelling him across the dirt to stop inches from Mason"s feet.

Mason whirled and clubbed the second with the revolver, all bullets spent. The native pitched forward, dropping to his knees and Mason hit him a second time across the top of the skull. But the third gave him no time to prepare. Mason fell with the weight of his assailant, his lithe body, slick with sweat, wrapping around him. Desperate, Mason lashed out with fists, saw the flash of steel, managed to grab the descending arm and wrestled him to the side. He swung up his knee, felt the man"s body go limp, a tiny moan gurgling from deep inside and Mason ripped the knife from his grip and plunged it into his attacker"s throat, not once, but three, four times. The blood flooded over his hand, thick, hot, gushing like a fountain. He threw the knife away, disgusted.

It was over.

Mason stood, breathing hard, half expecting another Ute to attack. But there was nothing, only the horrible chasm of the night"s blackness swallowing everything up. Not far off, the horses were wild, kicking, screaming, and the entire wagon rocked from side to side. Newhart roused, calling out, “Oh Christ, Mama, they"re here. They"re here, Mama!”

Mason lowered his breathing. The second fallen Indian at his feet was groaning. Mason"s blow to the top of the Ute"s head may well have shattered the skull. Perhaps he would die, perhaps not. Feverishly, Mason reloaded his g*n, but his actions were careless, precious powder spilling onto the ground. He cursed, eyes flickering this way and that, sure there were more of them. Finally, with the last cap fitted onto the n****e, he twirled the cylinder, coked the hammer and peered out into the darkness.

Then he heard it. The hasty retreat of a horse"s hooves, pounding across the prairie, disappearing into the night.

He allowed himself a long sigh, ran a hand across his brow. The surviving Indian groaned again and Mason, holstering his revolver, went to the fallen spear of the first dead Indian, returned and sank its point deep into the wounded Ute"s neck. Mason felt the man wriggle and writhe, heard the sound of bubbling blood, and pressed ever deeper until the body went slack. Leaving the spear sticking out from the body, he staggered over to the horse, and ran gentle caresses across its neck. When at last it grew quieter, he drank from his canteen, draining it, no longer caring it was the last of the water. He held onto the tailgate, put his head down, and waited for the trembling to stop.

The next day, Newhart sat up, the fever broken, his eyes alert, curious. Mason sat down beside him in the back of the wagon and grinned. “Good to have you back, old friend.”

“I heard things,” said Newhart, “or dreamed them, I know not which. I saw my dear old mother shaking and a-screaming, telling me the Lord"s justice would come.” He ran both hands through his lank hair. “It was awful, Mason. I"ve never had such dreams before. And shooting, there was shooting.”

“That was me. We were attacked.”

“Attacked? What the hell?”

“Utes. They came at me in the night, no doubt after the horses, our supplies. The poor miserable bastards must be starving. But I killed them, saved us once again.”

“You"re a good man,” breathed Newhart, and gripped his friend"s arm. “And a damn fine friend.”

“Well, thank-ee, Newhart, but I"m afraid one of them savages got away, which means…” He took in a long breath. “They"ll be coming back, and then some. We have to get out of here, as quick as we can.”

Newhart rolled his shoulders and gingerly touched his leg. “Damn if those fine people didn"t patch me up good.”

“Yes, they did. Fine people, as you say.” And Mason looked away, not wanting Newhart to catch any hint in his eyes as to what had befallen his saviors.