Ballard and McCall 1 Read online

  McCall said, ‘We’d better get the hell out of sight before they start shootin’ then.’

  His words had hardly been spoken when there came the sharp, vicious crack of a rifle from somewhere in the rocks up ahead. Then came the smack of lead against flesh.

  Hodges gave a grunt of pain and began to topple sideways. Blood ran freely from the hole in his chest, making a big stain on the front of his buckskin shirt. Before either of the Texans could move he had slipped from his horse and sprawled face down on the ground.

  Ballard was the first to move. He gave McCall a shove. ‘Get down!’ he yelled. They rolled from their saddles and bellied down onto the hot earth.

  McCall wriggled over to where Ballard lay beside Hodges.

  ‘How is he?’ he asked.

  Ballard shook his head, his mouth a narrow line. Behind almost closed lids his eyes burned like cold hard diamonds.

  ‘The bastards,’ McCall said softly. He glanced at Hodges’ still body. ‘Poor old Dicken. Didn’t have a chance.’

  ‘You can expect that kind of treatment from Temple and his crew. Don’t give the other feller a chance in hell. Wait until he’s got his back to you, then let him have it.’ Ballard drew his Colt and checked the cylinder. ‘Maybe it’s about time he was paid back the same way he’s been dealing.’

  ‘We’d better get some cover first,’ McCall said tightly. ‘With all respect to Dicken, I don’t want to be caught with my pants down.’

  Together they worked their way down to the bottom of the slope until they were safe from any hidden rifleman in the rocks.

  Ballard pulled off his hat and dropped it on the ground beside him. Then he removed his gun belt.

  ‘You planning something?’ McCall inquired.

  Nodding, Ballard removed his Colt from its holster. Then he glanced up. ‘We could spend all day waiting for them to make a move,’ he said. ‘So I’m going to start the show. You keep their attention over here, and I’ll work my way round and come in from their rear.’

  McCall scratched the back of his neck. ‘You quite sure you want to do it this way?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Ballard said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to think maybe I’d let you go and dig your own grave.’

  ‘I know what you mean, Jess,’ Ballard said. ‘This is no wild stunt. I want Temple too much to do anything crazy.’

  ‘Okay. How long do you reckon it’ll take to get round then?’

  ‘Hard to say. One maybe two hours. Reckon you can keep ’em busy that long?’

  ‘I’ll do it if I have to stand up a throw rocks at ’em,’ McCall grinned.

  Ballard shoved his Colt into the top of his pants and began to move along the bottom of the ridge. He intended to get well clear of the rock bed before he made his swing around to the rear.

  Jess McCall watched him go, not moving until Ballard was out of sight. Then he crawled to the top of the ridge again. A sudden movement caused him to snatch for his gun. But it was only one of the horses. The animal had stayed at the top of the ridge when their riders had left then. Remembering the rifles the horses carried, McCall reached up and made a grab for the reins. For a moment his head was showing above the crest of the ridge. As McCall’s fingers curled around the reins there came a sudden outburst of rifle fire. Slugs whipped over his head in a deadly rain. With startled snorts the three horses began a panicked, slithering descent of the slope. McCall was dragged behind then until he let go of the reins. He pulled himself upright and slapped the dust from his clothes. He saw that the horses had come to a nervous stop, standing close together. He closed in and took the two rifles and the big .50 caliber Sharps that Dicken Hodges had put to deadly use back in Gunner Creek. From the pouch in Hodges’ saddlebags he found a box of cartridges for the Sharps. With his collection of weapons McCall made his way back up the slope. This time he was a whole lot more careful. He removed his battered hat before he peered over the top.

  His first inspection of the rock bed revealed nothing. He saw only the sprawling jumble of gray-white boulders which seemed to spread for a long way. There was no movement and, now the shooting had stopped, no sound. He noticed that at once. It was that strange silence that is only found in a vast, empty space such as this. It was a silence so acute that it could almost be heard. And it irritated McCall.

  ‘We can put that right, too,’ he said darkly as he levered a round into the breech of his own Winchester. Raising it to his shoulder he lined it up with a distant boulder and pulled the trigger. The Winchester nudged his shoulder as it spat out the slug. McCall heard the whine of the slug as it slapped the rock and then howled off into the blue. Swinging the muzzle round a little McCall triggered off a couple more shots.

  Suddenly there came an answering shot from amongst the rocks. The slug nicked the left sleeve of McCall’s shirt.

  ‘Thanks, friend,’ McCall said, for he had seen the puff of powder smoke from the rifle.

  Now he began to concentrate his fire on that particular spot.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Heat, dust, and the slow crablike crawl he was forced to employ made Chet Ballard’s journey nerve-wracking and unpleasant. The back of his shirt stuck to his sweating flesh and his whole body itched violently. The palms of his hands were raw from sliding against the rough, sharp rocks. The fact that the sun was making the rocks almost untouchable didn’t help any.

  After endless minutes of painful progress Ballard stopped and rolled into the shade of the nearest rock. In the distance he could hear the sound of gunshots. McCall had opened up within a short time of Ballard’s departure and had kept up a steady rate of fire ever since.

  Reluctantly, Ballard pushed away from the rock and resumed his slow circling of the rock-bed. It was a monotonous tack made that much more depressing by the thought that if Temple and his companions realized that they were being fired at by only one man, they would catch on very quickly. And when he, Ballard, arrived expecting to surprise them, he would find he was on the receiving end of a lead-filled welcome.

  Time was his enemy at the moment. It was time he needed, but knew he didn’t have.

  Ballard reckoned he had been moving for well over an hour when he slid onto the top of a tall boulder. It had been a struggle but he had finally managed to get there. Now he lay flat on his stomach and gazed thankfully down on the scene he’d been hoping to see.

  Three hundred yards ahead he could see his goal. Behind a large boulder stood three weary horses, their heads low. A few yards to one side were three men. One was spread out on top of a high rock while the other two were positioned behind a lower but broader slab of rock. All three men were firing spasmodically towards the spot where Jess McCall lay.

  Ballard’s job now was to get as close to the three men as was possible in the shortest time he could make. He saw there was ample cover, and the slight amount of noise he might make would be drowned by the sound of the firing guns. As he slid down off his rock, Ballard cautioned himself to keep low in case a stray slug should come his way.

  He drew his .45 from his pants and checked the chamber again. Six shots and the element of surprise might just do the trick, he thought. It’ll be the last-post for this Texas boy if it goes wrong.

  Ballard began to move forward. He kept his eyes on the figures of the three men up ahead, his gun ready for use if one should turn and spot him before he was close enough to spring his trap.

  ‘Keep them busy a few more minutes, Jess,’ he said softly.

  Hal Weston swore loudly as a rifle slug howled off the rock close to his face. Sharp stone chips stung his cheek.

  ‘One of them bastards has got me in his sights,’ he yelled, wiping at the blood coursing down his face.

  ‘Move then,’ Dutch called from his own position.

  ‘Like hell,’ Weston snapped. ‘I ain’t puttin’ my head anywhere it can be shot off.’

  Rifle slugs howled overhead at regular intervals, chipping away at the surrounding rocks. Dutch did most of th
e return fire, being in the best position. He had taken himself to a higher spot, allowing him to shoot down on McCall’s position.

  ‘We can’t stay here too long,’ Temple said. ‘We’re already low on water and it isn’t going to get any better.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Dutch said. He lowered his rifle. ‘We need to give the horses time to rest up. Then we can slip out the back way after dark.’

  He rolled on his back and checked out the stretch of rocks that lay behind them. He spent some time checking this section out.

  Without warning he froze, the expression on his face turning to one of anger. Then he made a grab for his rifle.

  ‘Behind us. It’s Ballard!’

  Temple and Weston spun round.

  On a flat boulder no more than twenty feet away stood Chet Ballard. He was caked in dust, hatless, and in his right hand was a raised Colt.

  Wade Temple stared at the tall figure, disbelief in his eyes.

  ‘Get him!’ he screamed wildly. ‘I want that bastard dead!’ And as he uttered the words he swung up his rifle and started shooting.

  McCall was down to his last few rounds. In the past hour he had steadily exhausted his supply. The constant stream of fire he had been maintaining had finally brought him down to three cartridges for the .50 caliber Sharps.

  ‘If you’re going to make your play, Chet, make it soon,’ he said out loud.

  He slid one of the cartridges into the breech of the Sharps and notched back the hammer.

  McCall noticed that the firing from Temple’s position had ceased. He found out why in the same breath.

  A shout from the distant position made McCall search the jumble of rocks. He recognized the tall figure of Chet Ballard outlined against the skyline. It was McCall’s cue to act. He pushed to his feet and made a dash for the first scatterings of small stones that marked the beginnings of the sprawling rock formation.

  Before he had gone many yards he heard gunshots rip the heavy, heat-laden air.

  When Ballard rose upright on the rock, he had been almost ready to congratulate himself on pulling off his plan. Then without warning Dutch Canfield had turned his head and spotted Ballard. Dutch’s yell had brought Temple and Weston from lower down.

  Wade Temple’s face had lost its color completely. It was white, and wet with sweat. The eyes had burned with hate and fear as Temple had stared at Ballard. Temple’s wild cry had been followed by a burst of firing from his jerking rifle.

  And even as Temple was triggering his rifle, Ballard saw the figure of Jess McCall appear over the top of the rise, behind which he had lain for the past hour, and come running towards the rocks, a rifle in his hands.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Out of five shots that Temple fired only one touched the Texan, Ballard felt it burn a furrow across his left hip. He had the presence of mind to drop to one knee, hoping to make as small a target as possible for the guns that were being turned on him.

  Hal Weston had his rifle leveled when Ballard’s Colt roared twice. Weston gave a hoarse scream and threw his weapon from him. Hi clasped his hands to his face, blood spurting between his fingers. The force of the heavy slugs knocked him back and he stumbled, fell. He lay on the rock, his body twitching violently, animal like sounds coming from deep in his throat.

  A gun fired and the slug ripped a long scar in the rock by the heel of Ballard’s left boot. The Texan looked up at Dutch Canfield who was half-standing on his high rock. Ballard snapped off a quick shot that missed. He slapped back the hammer and pulled the trigger again. The Colt didn’t fire. It gave only a dull click as the hammer fell on a dud shell.

  Dutch was in the act of pulling the trigger of his rifle when a gun went off. It wasn’t Ballard’s. The Texan recognized it as the big .50 caliber Sharps. The slug hit Dutch in the back and tore its way through his thick body, leaving a gaping hole in his chest. Dutch’s body was tossed off the rock like a rag doll. He fell in a curving arc and slammed face down onto the rocks below.

  The rattling echo of the Sharps was still being tossed back and forth among the boulders when Ballard spun around towards the spot where he had last seen Wade Temple. Temple was gone. All Ballard saw was the still-jerking body of Hal Weston and the ugly splashes of blood on the smooth rock.

  Then off to his left Ballard heard a horse snort impatiently. He turned, coming to his feet. As he rose he cocked the Colt, hoping for a live cartridge under the hammer this time.

  In the shadow of a tall boulder, Wade Temple was mounted on one of the three horses, a pair of bulging saddlebags in his free hand. He was kicking the horse’s sides violently as he attempted to get it to move. The horse, though, was nervous after all the shooting, and was near exhaustion too. It pawed the rock frantically, its eyes rolling up until the whites showed.

  As Ballard started forward Temple turned his head and saw him, flinging the saddlebags aside. Temple made an even greater effort to get his mount moving. The horse strained and lunged forward, its hooves sliding on the hard surface. It reared up on its hind legs, almost unseating Temple. With only a few feet between them, Ballard threw his gun aside and made a lunge for Temple. His arms circled Temple’s waist and dragged him from the saddle. The two men sprawled on the rock in a thrashing heap.

  Ballard got his feet under him and as he rose he dragged Temple upright. Temple had been winded by the fall and he leaned heavily on the Texan’s arm. Temple’s hair was plastered over his face which was a mask of dust and sweat and stubble.

  For a moment Ballard held onto Temple. Then abruptly he swung his huge right fist into Temple’s face. Temple was hurled back by the blow and he staggered drunkenly before he fell. Ballard moved in and pulled Temple to his feet again, then once more he slammed his fist at the men’s face. As Temple went down again Ballard moved after him.

  From somewhere, Temple summoned a reserve of strength that enabled him to roll aside as Ballard bent to grab him. Temple came to his feet and stood watching Ballard. Blood streaked the lower part of Temple’s face and his breathing was ragged.

  ‘Just you and me, Temple,’ Ballard said softly. ‘There’s nobody left to do your fighting this time.’

  The Texan came at Temple slowly, his hands clenched into huge and deadly fists. Temple looked right and left as if seeking some way of escape. But there was none. Then he remembered the holstered gun he wore and his hand darted for it. But Ballard was on him before the weapon was halfway free of the leather. He chopped at Temple’s wrist and the gun dropped from numbed fingers.

  Temple gave a ragged moan and lashed out with his left arm. His fist hit Ballard in the mouth, splitting his lips. Again Temple swung, this time his clenched fist slammed into the Texan’s stomach. As Ballard reeled back from this sudden and unexpected attack, Temple’s fists hammered home some telling pinches. Ballard stumbled and fell to his knees. The heel of Temple’s boot buried itself into his stomach and Ballard gagged, pain sweeping up his body in a blinding wave.

  Ballard knew he had to get to his feet fast, or he would be dead. Temple was crazed with fear, and it was this fear that was giving him his strength. He was like some wild animal fighting for its life, using every means at it. disposal. Through the pain that fogged his brain, Ballard concentrated every fiber of his being in an effort to get to his feet. He ignored the powerful blows that rained down on his head and shoulders. With a concerted thrust Ballard rose and hurled himself at Temple.

  Temple slithered back a few feet, then came forward again. A hard fist smacked into his face and Temple felt blood streaming from his shattered nose. Temple stepped in close and swung a right that stung over Ballard’s right eye. Ballard returned with two swift blows to Temple’s heart. Temple stepped back with a pained expression. Ballard followed him closely and swung his left fist at Temple’s face. Temple knocked the arm aside and swung one of his own, opening a gash over Ballard’s right eye.

  Jess McCall suddenly appeared around the boulder from which Dutch Canfield had fallen. He took in the sprawled
bodies, then turned to the two men who were locked in a violent and brutal fight that had only one outcome.

  I

  Ballard and Temple traded savage, crippling blows with vicious power, neither of them giving or taking an inch. Their faces were almost hidden beneath masks of blood. As McCall watched he realized that this was something between two men who hated each other to the extreme.

  A punch to the stomach bent Ballard forward. Temple slammed his fist down hard across the back of his Ballard’s neck, pitching him forward onto his face.

  At this point McCall started forward, raising his rifle. Then he remembered that the weapon was empty. He threw it aside.

  Temple moved even faster. Flung himself into the saddle of his horse the moment Ballard went down. His face was taut with fear and rage. With a savage curse he wrenched the horse’s head round, kicking hard with his boots. The startled animal, squealing loudly, rolled its eyes and leapt forward. Its hooves skidded and slithered on the rock. Then it regained its balance and sprang forward.

  McCall saw the horse move off and leapt towards it, hoping to be able to grab hold of Temple. As the rearing bulk of the horse loomed close he made a lunge. His fingers caught hold of Temple’s left boot. But then the horse’s side slanted into him, knocking him aside. McCall l fell hard, the breath forced from his body.

  Temple triumphantly urged the horse onwards. Stones rattled from beneath the clattering hooves.

  As the horse and rider vanished from sight behind an outcropping of rock Ballard shoved himself upright. He shook his head violently, trying to dispel the roaring sensation that threatened to split his skull wide open. He began to push himself to his feet, even though his entire body was demanding to be allowed to lie down. When he finally did stand upright he felt sick and giddy. He knew he had to get himself across to one of the horses and mount up. Every second he delayed gave Temple a better chance of escape. After all he’d gone through, and for all the people who’d suffered, he couldn’t allow the man to escape. He had come too far and gone through too much to let it end this way. He forced his unsteady legs to carry him across the rock towards the horses. As he reached the nearest one he grabbed the saddle horn. Ballard hung there for a while until his strength built up enough so he could haul himself onto the horse’s back.