She could see Checker and Rule below, setting up the barrage of guns below her to add to the appearance of a larger force. It was Rule’s idea. On the other side of the road, lower down, she could make out Emmett and Rikor setting up a similar fake barrage. She wanted to call out to the tall Ranger, to tell him to come and see her again. To hold her and kiss her. That was foolish, she told herself. All of them could be dead when the night was over.
This wasn’t the time; Checker had said that earlier. Still…
A sound behind John Checker! He spun with his cocked rifle in his hands. Standing twenty feet away was a calf. The wobbly animal looked at him and started bawling. From the darkness, the mother cow appeared and nudged her infant away, giving the Ranger a scornful look as she did.
“Well, I think you just got told off.” Rule laughed.
Checker smiled. “You take him on home, mother.”
He returned his attention to the trail. At least they had time to set up Rule’s idea.
He left his Winchester and a box of cartridges on a flattened area where he would return when finished. Rule had already begun work on the fake gun barrage. A lariat, Sharps carbine, shotgun, four pistols and leather strings lay on the hillside where he worked. In this crook of a broken rock slab angling skyward like a giant arrowhead, Rule had wedged the Sharps snugly into place. It had been A. J. Bartlett’s gun. A separate boulder was pushed against the gun butt to keep it from sliding backward when fired. The gun was aimed at a dark ridge guarding the far edge of the open trail.
About ten feet away, he found another rock holster for one of his backup pistols. Checker joined him in the placement of the guns. A few feet away was another small crevice for a Smith & Wesson revolver that had been Bartlett’s and another long-barreled Colt. The Ranger packed both in place with heavy supporting rocks. Rule inserted a fourth handgun a few feet away. These smaller weapons would be the most likely to pop loose when the triggers were pulled from a distance. Both checked the gun arrangement again, adding more rocks.
After a second review of the terrain, they decided the shotgun would fit nicely in the cradle of a small wiry bush, another four feet from the pistols. Tying the weapon with one of the leather strings ensured a steady placement.
Nervous sweat on the foreheads of both men told of battle anticipation more than of hard work. Rule laid out the rope two feet behind the row of guns and more or less in the middle of the row. Holding the loop itself, he tossed the other end uphill toward a half-burned mesquite tree with three wild-looking branches searching for the sky. Each trigger was now tightly knotted with a separate leather thong; his spittle on the knot would shrink the closure farther. The strings in turn were tied to the loop hole in the rope.
Checker told him to stop, as if hearing something in the distance. No. His imagination.
“Nothing. Just my nerves.”
“Yeah. I know the feeling.”
Across the way, Checker saw Emmett and Rikor creating a similar rig with extra guns collected from the group and from the Peale Ranch. There was a second Sharps, Emmett’s, and a shotgun Fiss carried regularly.
Wrapping the rope around the base of the tree would give them the leverage necessary to fire all of the guns at once when the rope was pulled. Or at least it should.
With the tiedowns in place, they retraced their steps to cock each weapon. They would leave slack in the rope for now to avoid a premature firing. The concept could easily fail, but if it did work, Holt’s men might think there was a small army of men shooting at them from ambush.
Guttural was the sound of the heavy Sharps carbine being readied for firing as Rule cocked it.
Checker moved on to the first pistol; it had belonged to Bartlett. As he stepped back from locking the hammer of the pistol in place, a rock slab under his feet slid down the incline. The Ranger stumbled, fiercely grabbing at the larger boulder to keep from falling. His wounded leg gave way as his momentum took him to the ground, in spite of his attempt to hold himself away from pulling the trigger.
In the tranquil night air, the click of a hammer on an empty cylinder was pure music to his ears. Checker lay on the ground for minutes, not moving. Not even attemping to climb up. Instead, he tried to recapture some of the energy and confidence driven from him in the last maddening moment. Only five bullets were in the gun. His late Ranger friend usually kept just five in his handgun as a safety precaution, and Checker was thankful he did. A shot going off now would warn anyone within miles of the valley, as well as confuse his friends waiting for his signal.
Looking down from the gun area, Rule asked, “You all right?”
“Yeah. Just embarrassed. A.J.’s gun. Kept five beans in the wheel. Said it would keep him from shooting himself. Glad he did,” he said, and finally returned to his task.
“Glad you weren’t hurt. Morgan would never forgive me.” Rule grinned.
Waving off the teasing, Checker added a flat rock underneath the pistol barrel to ensure that it wouldn’t point toward their friends on the other side of the road when the rope was jerked. Hammers were readied on the second pistol and the shotgun.
Like two generals, they discussed the stages of their ambush. The Holt gang would enter the valley through the tree-lined opening and stay on the trail paralleling the creek. They would be too far from the Peale Ranch to be alert. Their first position fifteen feet down from the battery would provide an excellent field of fire. They would announce their attention to the gang from there and open fire over their heads with Winchesters. Three or four shots. Morgan, Emmett and Rikor would also begin shooting.
After an opening salvo from his rifle, Checker would run uphill five or six strides to the end of the rope lying on the ground, pull it and keep on scrambling to a second position. Farther to the right and higher than the battery, behind a man-sized, hawk-nosed boulder. Rule would cover his movement from his site, above and left of the gun placement. Once at his second position, Checker would shoot again with his Winchester while Rule followed; then both would head for the horses, making certain Morgan had already left.
“ ‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of Death rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns! He said; into the valley of Death rode the six hundred. Forward the Light Brigade! Was there a man…’ ”
Checker stopped. It was all he could remember. “They’re going to pay, A.J.”
“Yes, they are,” Rule added.
Across the road, Emmett and Rikor waved to signal their completion as well. Both returned the wave; then Checker couldn’t resist waving at Morgan. She stood and waved back.
Satisfied, they picked up their rifles and started back down the slope to their planned first firing sites, easing down the steep incline. From a clump of tall grass to their left came a small lark. It flew in front of them, startled from its sleep by their advance.
“Sorry, little brother. We didn’t mean to bother you,” Rule said.
Checker smiled and patted Rule on the back.
“Our Comanche friends would like this place for an ambush,” Rule said.
“Not without a little peyote to see ahead. To see their enemies.” Checker grinned and continued. “My old friend told me they used it as a war medicine. To see ahead.”
“You ever take off that pouch?” Rule said, walking around a struggling chaparral.
Checker touched the pouch under his shirt with his free left hand, holding the Winchester at his side in his right fist.
“No, not really. Figured it gave me luck. Didn’t want to challenge something I didn’t really know,” he answered. “How about you?”