Bounty Hunter's Desert Pursuit
The morning sun in the high chaparral didn’t rise so much as it bled across the horizon, painting the jagged peaks of the Laguna Mountains in shades of bruised purple and dried blood. It was May 1870, five years since they had crushed the rebellion and stitched the country back together with rusty needles, but out here in the West, the seams still split wide open.
Clyde Lane sat motionless in his worn leather saddle, a silhouette against the burning dawn. He was a towering, rugged man, standing six feet three inches tall. Years of army rations and long miles as a scout had hardened his medium, whipcord build. Underneath the wide, stiff brim of his black "Boss of the Plains" Stetson hat, his face was a map of hard-lived years. Wavy black hair, thick and untamed, brushed against the collar of his pristine white western shirt. The frontier rarity of his clean-shaven jaw drew attention to the harsh, diagonal scar, pale lightning’s trace across his face’s left side. He received that scar from a knife battle in a remote settlement; this occurred well prior to the initial bombardment at Fort Sumter. It served as a memento that existence proved harsh long prior to hostilities commencing between the Union and Confederacy.
"Easy, boy," Clyde murmured, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that carried the cadence of the California coast mixed with the rough edges of the trail.
Beneath him, Ash shifted his weight. The stallion was a magnificent, pure black Morgan horse, his coat gleaming like polished obsidian under the morning sun, broken only by a stark, striking white stripe that ran perfectly down the center of his face. Ash snorted, the hot steam from his nostrils pluming in the cool mountain air.
At the horse’s flank, Stalker was standing. The Scottish Deerhound was a massive creature; his coat a shaggy, dark blue-gray that blended seamlessly with the shadows of the sagebrush. Around his thick neck sat a heavy black leather collar studded with brutal silver spikes, a warning to any wolf or man who thought about getting too close to his master. Stalker fixed his golden eyes on the valley below, pricking his ears forward.
Clyde adjusted the fit of his tan duster, the heavy canvas coat swirling around his ankles like a desert dust storm. His brown wool vest, buttoned tight beneath the duster, featured a vibrant red bandana knotted loosely around his throat. He reached down, adjusting the twin holsters riding low on his hips. Nestled securely in the leather were two Remington New Model Army Model 1858 revolvers. They were .44 caliber beasts, their blued steel frames meticulously cared for, but their most striking feature was the custom gold-plated handles that caught the morning light like twin sparks of fire. Clyde's hands were never far from those grips; he was a man who lived by the speed of his draw, and those Remingtons had saved his life more times than he cared to count when he was scouting for the Union Army back in '62.
Resting in the leather scabbard attached to his worn brown saddle was his Spencer 1865 Carbine repeater, a devastating weapon that spit heavy .50 caliber lead. Opposite the scabbard, a massive Bowie knife rested in an oiled sheath, its thick steel blade ready for closer, quieter work.
Clyde unhooked the leather-covered water canteen hanging from his saddle horn, took a short, measured sip to clear the desert dust from his throat, and spat into the dirt. He reached into his trouser pocket, his fingers brushing against a small, familiar weight of his Waterville Manufacturing Company pocket knife. Though humble, this implement offered him a connection to his past, before violence and prices were placed upon heads.
He was thirty-three now, the middle boy of four siblings from San Diego. His two older brothers and his younger sister were still down there by the ocean, probably living quiet, respectable lives. His temperament lacked quietness. The war claimed twenty-five years from one man, reducing him to a gold-hunting phantom.
"Well, Stalker," Clyde drawled, looking down at the deerhound. “The marshal in town said that Josey Johnson, a cattle thief, holed up in the canyons near the old boundary line. Let’s go see if he’s ready to pay his debts to the territory.”
With a gentle nudge of his silver spurs against Ash's flanks, Clyde started the descent into the canyon. The iron shoes of the horse clicked against the loose shale, a rhythmic, lonely sound that echoed off the high rock walls.
The Road to Whiskey Creek
As the sun climbed higher, the trail descended into a deep, jagged arroyo, where the heat collected like still water. The vegetation changed from mountain pine to Choya cactus, prickly pear, and gnarled mesquite trees that clawed at Clyde’s duster like the fingers of starving men. The air was thick with the scent of dry dust, baked alkali, and the sweet, resinous tang of creosote.
Clyde rode with a loose, practiced grace, his blue eyes constantly sweeping the ridgelines. A man didn't survive as one of the Union’s top scouts by daydreaming on the trail. He knew how to read the land the way a preacher reads scripture. He noticed the overturned stone, the broken branch of a sagebrush, the way a covey of quail suddenly burst from a thicket half a mile ahead.
As noon approached, the path leveled into a wide valley, and the dilapidated ghost town of Whiskey Creek baked in the sun. It had been a mining camp during the gold rush, but now it was just a collection of sun-bleached skeletons, wooden buildings with sagging roofs and shattered windows, their timbers groaning in the hot wind like old bones.
As Clyde approached the edge of the settlement, Stalker let out a low, vibrating growl from deep in his chest. The dog’s hackles rose, the silver spikes on his collar glinting.
Clyde instantly pulled back on Ash’s reins. The black stallion halted perfectly, his muscles tensing. Clyde didn't move a muscle, but his right hand drifted naturally to the gold-plated grip of his Remington. He scanned the dilapidated street. The wind kicked up a spiral of dust, sending a tumbleweed scratching across the dirt between two abandoned saloons.
"Who’s there?" a voice shouted from the shadows of a collapsing livery stable. The accent was thick with the slow, syrupy drawl of the deep South, likely a disgruntled Confederate veteran who had drifted west after the surrender at Appomattox. "State your business, stranger, 'fore I put a hole through that fancy hat of yours!"
Clyde didn't blink. He sat tall in his saddle, his dry humor cutting through the tension like a sharp blade. "Name’s Clyde Lane. Friend, if you attempt to puncture this hat, ensure your aim is true. Stetsons cost more than your life is likely worth."
A gruff chuckle came from the darkness, followed by the heavy thud of boots on warped wood. A man stepped out into the blinding sunlight, squinting. He was filthy, wearing a ragged gray wool coat that had seen better days a decade ago. A greasy slouch hat sat low on his brow, and he held a rusted double-barreled shotgun leveled right at Clyde’s chest. From the porch of the neighboring boarding house, two additional men emerged. They shared the same characteristics: lean, hungry-looking men with dirt-encrusted beards and the desperate eyes of men who lived on stolen beef and cheap whiskey.
"You've got a mighty big mouth for a man outnumbered three to one," the leader spat, his eyes lingering on the gold handles of Clyde’s pistols. "Those are some mighty fine iron pieces you've got there, mister. Think I might just take 'em off your hands. Along with that fine black horse."
Clyde’s blue eyes turned icy. He spoke fluent Spanish and a dozen tribal dialects, but right now, the only language these men understood was lead. Yet, his voice remained entirely calm, almost conversational.
"I'm looking for Josey Johnson," Clyde replied, ignoring the threat entirely. “Authorities are looking for him concerning 200 stolen cattle from the Miller ranch. I hear he hangs around with low-bellied snakes who don't know when a war is over."
The leader’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. "Josey’s a friend of ours. And you're a long way from California, Yankee scout. Boys, let's show this blue-bellied bastard how we treat bounty hunters in these parts!"
The Dust and the Lead
Moments lingered, flowing like warm syrup. The leader squeezed the trigger of his shotgun, but Clyde was already moving.
To an ordinary man, Clyde’s draw was nothing but a blur, a sudden crack of thunder in the desert stillness. His right hand whipped the Remington from its holster, the gold-plated grip fitting perfectly into his palm. Before the Confederate could level his barrels, Clyde’s pistol roared. A heavy .44 caliber ball tore through the air, striking the leader squarely in the chest. His shotgun went off harmlessly into the sky with a deafening BOOM as the impact knocked the man off his feet and into the dirt.
"Look out!" one of the other bushwhackers yelled, drawing a rusty Colt revolver from his belt.
Clyde didn't give them a chance. He threw himself sideways in the saddle, using Ash’s powerful body for cover as he fired his second shot. The second outlaw took a bullet to the shoulder, spinning him around and sending his gun clattering into the rocks.
The third man, a wiry fellow with a wicked scar over his eye, leaped behind a rotting watering trough and began firing wildly. Ash’s hooves were surrounded by dust kicked up by bullets. The black Morgan stallion reared back, neighing loudly, but he was a trained warhorse and didn't bolt.
Stalker was a gray streak of fury. A haunting, fearsome war howl was emitted by the giant deerhound as it powerfully leaped across the ground. He tore into the cover where the wiry outlaw was reloading, his jaws snapping close to the man's throat. The outlaw yelled, waving his arms to prevent the beast with the spiked collar from reaching his face.
Clyde dismounted in one smooth, athletic motion, his silver spurs jingling sharply against the rocks. He walked forward with a measured, lethal calm, both Remingtons drawn now, the gold handles gleaming. The smell of sulfur and burnt black powder hung thick in the stagnant air, a familiar perfume of death.
"Call off your dog! Call him off, goddamnit!" the outlaw behind the trough shrieked, pinned to the ground by Stalker’s immense weight.
"Stalker, heel," Clyde commanded.
His attack halted at once, the deerhound backed away, but his lips remained snarled in a vicious display, a string of saliva falling from his chin.
Clyde approached the trough, observing the terrified man below. He cocked his right Remington with a crisp, metallic click that sounded like a coffin lid closing. He pointed the barrel right between the man's watery eyes.
“Listen here, friend,” Clyde stated, his voice parched like the alkali flats. “Let's try conversing once more. And if you lie to me, I'm gonna let Stalker have his breakfast, and then I'm gonna use what's left of you for target practice. Where is Josey Johnson?"
The man’s gaze flickered between the smoldering gun and the hulking dog, its collar bristling with spikes, as he swallowed convulsively. "He... He is at the old Spanish mission. Five miles farther up the north fork of the creek. He’s got a half-dozen men with him, mister! They're fixing to drive the cattle across the border into Mexico tomorrow night! Please, don't shoot!"
Clyde stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he uncocked the hammer of his revolver and holstered it with a slick, practiced motion. A small silver flask was drawn from his vest; he drank some top-shelf whiskey and felt its heat. He never became intoxicated, yet relished fine spirits following some firearm sport.
"You and your wounded buddy get your friend’s carcass out of the street," Clyde ordered bluntly. “Should our paths cross upon my return, expect me to be less talkative.”
Clyde didn’t wait for a reply; he turned and jumped back onto Ash’s saddle. After patting the horse’s neck and eyeing the Spencer carbine in its scabbard, he whistled for Stalker.
“Come on, boy,” Clyde stated, his gaze directed towards the northern hills concealing the ancient Spanish mission. "We've got a long ride, and I don't like to keep a cattle thief waiting."
With dust hiding the fresh blood, the three abandoned the bleak town, their elongated shadows falling upon the rough 1870 ground.
Into the Lion’s Den
The path beside the northern fork of Whiskey Creek became a narrow groove in the steep canyon wall. The intense sun in the high desert baked the canyon, transforming it into a blazing oven of red clay and distorting heat. Clyde’s silence was punctuated only by the sight of his duster, now covered in a fine white alkali dust, giving him the appearance of a spectral figure emerging from the ground. Beside him, Stalker trotted with an effortless, low-slung gait, his tongue lolling out, though his golden eyes remained as sharp and vigilant as shards of amber.
As the afternoon waned, the canyon walls broke apart, revealing a hidden basin sheltered by towering rimrock. Against the backdrop of the red stone cliffs, the dilapidated remnants of the St. Jude Mission rested. Built by Spanish missionaries a century prior, it was now a decaying fortress. Cracked and peeling like sunburnt skin, its whitewashed adobe walls revealed the decaying structure. The wooden cross from the bell tower, rotted through, fell into the courtyard below many years ago.
Clyde brought Ash to a halt behind a dense patch of scrub oak and got off quietly. The air was heavy with the pungent, unmistakable stench of packed livestock; hundreds of cattle were being held in a makeshift corral constructed of pine boughs and barbed wire just east of the fundamental structure.
He pulled his Spencer from its leather scabbard. The blued steel of the heavy .50 caliber repeater was cool to the touch despite the heat. He levered a round into the chamber with a crisp, mechanical snap, then looked down at his shaggy companion.
"Stay low, Stalker," Clyde whispered, his voice barely a breath against the wind. “It is time to determine the number of wolves protecting this herd.”
Clyde stealthily moved through the sagebrush until he reached a ridge with a view of the mission courtyard. He pulled his Waterville pocketknife from his trousers, using the small blade to clear away a stray twig that blocked his view, before pocketing it again and raising his eyes.
In the center of the courtyard, a substantial campfire blazed, with a black iron coffee pot nestled among the glowing coals. Five men were lounging about on upturned crates and saddles, their loud, coarse laughter echoing off the adobe walls. They spoke with the heavy, unhurried accents of Texas and Arkansas, their clothes filthy and their faces weathered by years on the run.
"I'm tellin' ya, Josey," the man drawled, using a stick to poke at the fire. “We are going to cross the border tomorrow night at midnight, and then we will be in Sonora, drinking premium tequila and sleeping in luxurious beds. San Diego is where Old Man Miller can voice his complaints about, but it won’t help him.”
A large, barrel-chested man stood up from a bench near the chapel doors. He wore a grease-stained leather vest over a checked shirt, and a heavy, low-slung gun belt held a pair of ivory-handled Colts. His face was a brutal mask of greed, framed by a thick, untamed beard. This was Josey Johnson.
“Hank, just keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the cattle,” Josey ordered, his Southern drawl evident. "We ain't across the line yet. I have misgivings regarding the boys we abandoned near the creek. They should've been back by now."
Clyde smiled a cold, humorless smile beneath his Stetson. He emerged from the undergrowth, revealing his entire six-foot-three height, a Spencer carbine dangling casually from his hip.
“Johnson, they’re busy at this very moment,” Clyde shouted, his voice sharp in the desert. Their skill with firearms mirrored their messy camp conditions.
The Speech of Iron
Ice formed in the courtyard. Every head snapped toward the ridge where Clyde stood, a towering figure framed by the blazing afternoon sun, his red bandana a splash of blood against his white shirt.
"Who the hell are you?" Josey Johnson bellowed, his hand instinctively hovering over his ivory grips.
"Clyde Lane," Clyde replied bluntly, stepping down the slope with a measured, lethal stride. "I have a piece of paper in my pocket from the territorial marshal that says you're worth one thousand dollars, Johnson. Preferably breathing, but the territory ain't overly particular."
One outlaw, a lean youngster with a nervous twitch, panicked. He screamed and went for his gun.
The Spencer carbine belonging to Clyde let out a loud noise. The heavy .50 caliber bullet caught the youngster in the chest before his pistol could even clear leather, throwing him backward over the campfire woodpile in a shower of sparks and ash.
"Kill him!" Roaring, Josey took cover behind a robust oak watering trough as the rest of the outlaws dispersed.
The courtyard was suddenly filled with a loud, violent uproar. Bullets tore through the air, whistling like angry hornets. The sound of a Winchester rifle firing came from an outlaw concealed by a fallen adobe wall.
Clyde dropped to one knee, his silver spurs digging into the dirt. He fired the Spencer again, the lever action working with smooth, practiced perfection. The heavy slug punched straight through the rotting wooden door an outlaw was hiding behind, followed by a sharp cry of agony as the man collapsed.
From the brush, Stalker went to work. With a surge of teeth and fury, the dark blue-gray deerhound raced through the smoke, hopped a low wall, and bit down on the arm of a man attempting to reload his firearm. The outlaw shrieked in fear while the spiked-collar beast hauled him to the stones.
Seeing his men falling around him, Josey Johnson blind-fired from behind the trough, a bullet tearing through the sleeve of Clyde’s tan duster, missing his flesh by a mere fraction of an inch.
“You are a tenacious individual, Lane!”Josey yelled over the gunfire. "But you ain't takin' me back to a rope!"
"Saving the territory, the cost of the hemp suits me just fine, Josey!" Clyde shouted back, his dry wit never failing him even in the jaws of death.
A Reckoning in the Courtyard
Clyde discarded the empty Spencer, letting it hang by its leather sling, and in a movement that was nothing short of miraculous, his hands blurred to his hips. The twin revolvers cleared their holsters, the gold-plated handles catching the flashing light of the gun smoke.
The remaining free outlaw stepped out from behind a pillar, leveling a shot at Clyde's chest. Clyde didn't flinch. He fired both Remingtons simultaneously. The .44 caliber pistols fired twice, their thunderous booms reverberating within the old mission. Both bullets struck the outlaw true, spinning him like a top before he crashed hard into the dirt, face-first.
A hush descended upon the courtyard, punctuated solely by Stalker’s labored breathing as he loomed over his captive, who lay unconscious and bleeding, and the sound of the dying campfire. The air was thick and gray, smelling of sulfur, sweat, and impending doom.
The last one left, Josey Johnson, remained pinned behind the sturdy oak trough. He realized his enemies outmatched him, yet he felt like a cornered rat that had no escape.
"Come on out, Josey," Clyde said, his voice entirely steady as he reloaded his Remingtons with practiced ease, the metallic clicks echoing in the quiet basin. "The scenery out here isn't getting any prettier, and I've got a long ride back to San Diego to see my family after I collect your bounty."
A snarling sound emerged from beyond the trough. Josey Johnson lunged outward, firing his final rounds wildly. Clyde didn't move an inch. He raised his right Remington, took a breath that lasted half a heartbeat, and squeezed the trigger.
The bullet struck Josey precisely in his right shoulder, shattering the bone and sending his ivory-handled Colt flying across the dirt. Josey cried out, collapsing against the adobe wall, clutching his bloody arm, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Clyde walked over, his black cowboy boots crunching on the gravel, the silver spurs jingling like a funeral knell. He looked down at the bleeding cattle thief, his blue eyes cold and unyielding beneath his Stetson. He pulled out his silver flask, took a measured sip of whiskey, and let out a slow breath.
Clyde drawled, his gaze sweeping over the ruined mission and the dispersed outlaws, “Well, Josey.” "Looks like your trip to Mexico just got canceled."
The Long Trail to Justice
Clyde had Josey Johnson completely restrained by the time the afternoon heat had transformed the red canyon walls into a furnace. He had used a length of braided rawhide from his saddlebag, tying the outlaw’s thick wrists behind his back with the tight, unforgiving knots he’d learned during his days scouting for the cavalry. Josey sat on a crumbling adobe bench, groaning as the makeshift bandage Clyde had tied around his shattered shoulder bloomed with fresh crimson.
Deceased or too shattered to resist, the remaining outlaws could offer no fight. The one Stalker had pinned was nursing a severely torn forearm, weeping softly into the dirt. Lying perfectly still beneath a woolen blanket, the man Clyde shot through the door remained motionless.
Clyde walked over to the makeshift corral, his black cowboy boots sinking slightly into the churned earth. He surveyed the herd of two hundred Hereford and Shorthorn cattle. The wind was restless, blowing hard and raising a dusty cloud that settled in the still air like a golden veil. He checked the brands on their flanks, a crisp M with a bar underneath. Old Man Miller’s mark, clear as day.
“Alright, Stalker,” Clyde announced, returning to Ash’s position beneath the mesquite’s shade. “We have secured both the man and the beef. Now comes the part that tests a man's patience."
He detached the canteen, wrapped in leather, from his saddle’s horn. After a lengthy, refreshing drink of water, he poured a bit for the large gray deerhound. Stalker lapped at the water gratefully, the silver spikes on his collar rattling. Clyde then reached into his vest, pulled out a fresh cheroot, and struck a match against the brass buckle of his gun belt. He ignited it, and the fragrant blue smoke ascended into the high-desert sky.
"You ain't gonna get these beeves back to San Diego by yerself, Lane," Josey Johnson spat, his Southern drawl dripping with venom and pain. "The desert’s gonna swallow ya whole, and the crows'll be pickin' at them pretty blue eyes of yers 'fore you ever see the coast."
Clyde exhaled a slow stream of smoke, looking down at the outlaw with an expression of supreme indifference. "I’ve tracked Apache through the Jornada del Muerto and led a vanguard through the swamps of Louisiana, Josey. A couple hundred tame cows and one whining thief ain't exactly what I'd call a challenge. Besides, I ain't taking them all the way to San Diego. There’s a line camp belonging to Miller twenty miles north of here, located at Oak Creek. We're going there."
He walked over to Josey, hoisted the heavy man up by his good arm with a strength that belied his medium build, and forced him onto the back of a scrawny dun horse that belonged to one of the dead outlaws. He tied Josey’s boots to the stirrups, ensuring the thief wouldn't be making any sudden leaps for freedom.
The air became cool when the sun went down, and the desert’s heat dissipated. Clyde mounted Ash once he opened the corral gate. With a sharp whistle and a wave of his black Stetson, he and Stalker began the grueling task of moving the herd.
The Night on the Range
Driving cattle at night was an exercise in absolute vigilance. Like a shining silver coin, the moon ascended early, stretching elongated, warped shadows over the undulating plains. It was an alien landscape in the desert under the moon, a place of breathtaking beauty and lethal peril. The sagebrush looked like frozen waves of a gray sea, and the distant howling of a coyote pack echoed like the laughter of ghosts.
Clyde positioned Ash at the back of the group, his duster clutched close to ward off the night’s unexpected cold. To shield himself from the suffocating dust generated by the eight hundred pounding hooves, he raised his bandana over his nose and mouth. Stalker worked the flanks, a dark blue-gray blur that kept the stray heifers from wandering off into the treacherous arroyos.
Josey Johnson rode in front of Clyde, his head sagging with exhaustion and the lingering shock of his wound. The outlaw cursed at every trail bump, yet Clyde remained unsympathetic. Folks here got just deserts for their actions.
Around midnight, Clyde called a halt in a wide, grassy basin surrounded by low hills. The cattle, exhausted from the pace, quickly settled down, chewing their cud in the moonlight. Peace pervaded the moment, a misleading calm within existence typically marked by conflict.
Clyde dismounted, keeping his ears tuned to the darkness. He walked Josey over to a large boulder, untying his legs but leaving his hands bound tight. Clyde then built a small, smokeless fire using dried ironwood branches. To avoid a massive blaze visible for miles, he took precautions.
He sat down across from the outlaw, leaning his back against a smooth rock. He pulled his Spencer rifle close to his side and rested his hand near the gold-plated grip of his pistol. Out of his pocket came his Waterville pocketknife and a small cedar piece from the trail. He began to whittle, his long, scarred face illuminated by the amber glow of the fire.
“Lane, do you have kinfolk remaining in California?” Josey inquired, his tone hushed by the desert’s nighttime silence.
"I do," Clyde answered bluntly, his blue eyes never leaving the darkness beyond the firelight. "Two brothers, a sister, and parents who pray I'll eventually find a respectable line of work."
"Then why do this?" Josey gestured with his chin toward Clyde’s pistols. "Hunting men for blood money. This existence is no way for someone to live.”
Clyde stopped whittling for a fraction of a second, his thumb resting against the sharp steel blade of his pocketknife. A smile that was dry and humorless appeared on his lips. "The war broke a lot of things, Josey. Certain men returned home tending soil, others pursued ministry. I learned my unique talent lay in locating the unfindable. The Union compensated me for three years’ work on this project. The territory pays me now. This is accurate, except for the ink color in the ledger.”
With a sharp snap, he closed the pocketknife and put it in his pocket. Despite his distaste for the outlaw’s crimes, he reached into his saddlebag, pulled out a tin of hardtack and a piece of salted pork, and shared a small portion. He took a small, lone drink from his whiskey flask, the alcohol heating his insides, and prepared himself for the extended vigil. He wouldn't sleep tonight. The bounty hunter’s rest led them to become an inhabitant of an unmarked grave.
Dry Creek Ambush
The dawn brought no relief, only a pale, hazy light that promised another scorching day. Mid-morning saw the herd getting close to the dry crossing of Oak Creek.
Stalker halted at the edge of the wash, his shaggy ears pricking forward. Beneath his spiked collar, his hackles rose, and a low, menacing rumble began in his chest.
Survival instincts, honed by Clyde’s experience with ambushes in Virginia’s brush and the West’s canyons, screamed a warning. A stillness settled upon the willow thicket’s birds, indicating something concealed nearby.
“Hold it right there, Josey,” Clyde barked, jerking Ash to a standstill.
Before the words had completely left his mouth, a voice shouted from the thicket. "Now, boys! Take the scout and save Josey!"
The outlaw, gaunt and bearing a scar above his eye, was the same man Clyde had previously shown mercy to in Whiskey Creek’s abandoned town. He hadn't fled; he had gathered the remaining remnants of Johnson’s gang, circled around through the hills, and set a desperate trap at the creek crossing.
Three rifles erupted from the greenery, the smoke puffing out like white blossoms. A bullet struck the horn of Clyde’s saddle, tearing a chunk of leather away and showering his hand with debris. Another slug pierced the flesh of Josey Johnson's horse, sending the animal into a panicked, screaming rear. His horse bucked Josey off, and he landed with a thud in the dry wash’s sand.
Clyde reacted with the lethal precision of a striking rattlesnake. He didn't dismount; instead; he spurred Ash forward, driving the powerful black stallion directly into the shallow slope of the wash to seek what little cover the sandy bank could provide.
As he moved, he drew his Spencer with his left hand while his right pulled one of the gold-handled Remingtons. Black hair, a canvas in motion, and the sound of gunfire – he was a storm about to turn the dry creek bed into a scene of carnage.
The Thunder of the Remingtons
A crucible of fire and dust was formed in the dry wash. Lead chewed through the willow branches, raining shredded green leaves down upon the sand like premature autumn. Clyde, like a stroke of midnight poetry, used the stallion’s motion to foil the ambushers’ aim, keeping Ash in constant motion.
An outlaw stepped into the open from behind a massive cottonwood trunk, leveling a heavy Sharps rifle. Clyde didn't give him the seconds required to find the sights. He raised the Remington in his right hand, the gold-plated grip firmly wedged in his palm, and fired. The .44 caliber slug went through the throat. He dropped the rifle, clutching his neck as he collapsed backward into the brush.
Emerging from the left, the wiry ambush leader revealed a face twisted with desperation. He fired a shot that clipped the silver spur on Clyde’s left boot; the metal ringing out like a tiny bell.
Clyde swung the Spencer with his left hand, firing from the hip. The wiry man experienced a forceful impact to his gut from the substantial .50 caliber bullet, sending him airborne into the dry creek. He groaned once, his hands clutching the sand, before falling still.
The third man, seeing his companions cut down in a matter of heartbeats, lost his nerve. He broke cover, scrambling up the loose shale of the opposite bank to reach his tethered horse.
"Stalker, take him!" Clyde shouted.
Like an arrow released from a bow, the deerhound flew over the sand. As he reached the bank at full speed, his heavy spiked collar caught the sunlight. With a grab of the fleeing outlaw’s boot heel, he yanked him backward down the gravel slope, creating a small avalanche of dust and terrified shrieks. The man lost his grip on his pistol, waving his arms wildly as Stalker stood over him, his jaws snapping inches from the man's nose until he froze, entirely defeated.
Ash, breathing hard and slick with sweat, was brought under control by Clyde, yet the black stallion remained firmly on his feet. The smell of burnt powder lingered in the hot air, mixing with the sharp scent of crushed sage and fresh blood. Clyde holstered his smoking pistol, swung his leg over the saddle, and slid down to the ground, his boots crunching lightly on the sand.
He went over to Josey Johnson, who was squirming in the dirt after being thrown from his horse. Covered in alkali dust, the cattle thief’s face grew pale from his pain and the stark realization that his rescue had been a complete failure.
Clyde, his dry wit unbothered by the gunfight, told Josey, “Your friends really have the worst timing.” After removing his silver flask, he drank a measured amount of whiskey to clean his mouth of grit and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "And even worse aim."
Ascending the bank, he removed Stalker from the quivering outlaw and fastened the man’s hands with the last leather thongs from his saddlebag. In under an hour, the deceased were cleared, the surviving attackers were detained, and the herd was once again traversing the dry streambed.
The Ledger’s End and Oak Creek
After the rolling plains, the vibrant landscape of Oak Creek emerged by the late afternoon of the following day. Nestled against a grove of towering sycamores was the Miller ranch line camp, a sturdy log cabin surrounded by heavy timber corrals.
Three-line riders, alerted by the lowing of the approaching herd, rode out to meet them, their rifles held across their saddles. Seeing the M bar brand on the cattle and the massive bounty hunter in charge made them stare in disbelief.
"Lord almighty," the head rider drawled, his thick Texas accent full of disbelief. "You actually got 'em back. All of 'em. And you got Johnson to boot!"
"The herd's all here," Clyde said bluntly, pulling Ash to a stop. "And Josey brought a couple of his friends along to help decorate your jailhouse. I believe old man Miller left a draft with the marshal for the reward."
"He did indeed, Mr. Lane," the rider said, tipping his hat with newfound respect. "Every cent of that thousand dollars is waiting for ya in town."
Clyde delivered the prisoners to the line riders, who quickly secured them in the stout tool shed behind the cabin. Clyde first made sure that the camp’s kitchen provided a large bone for Stalker to gnaw on, and that Ash received a healthy ration of oats and water after being rubbed down, before he finally took care of himself.
He checked into the small, spare bunkroom the riders kept for guests. Old wool and cedar gave the room a pleasant aroma, a welcome relief from the trail. He unbuckled his heavy gun belt, placing the twin gold-handled Remingtons carefully on the nightstand within arm's reach. After taking off his duster and his red bandana, which was covered in dust, he sat down heavily on the mattress’s edge.
He pulled his pocketknife from his pocket, opened its diminutive blade, and painstakingly scraped away desert sand from under his fingernails, his eyes mirroring the fading sunlight that sifted through the ordinary window. Despite physical exhaustion from the long journey and avoiding bullets, his mind remained alert. The hunt was over; the ledger was balanced, and tomorrow he would collect his gold.
With the pocket knife closed and a final, slow sip of whiskey taken, he lifted his eyes to the wooden ceiling as the shadows in the room stretched. He’d rest tonight under a real roof, but he knew the peace wouldn't last. The West was still wild; the year was 1870, and there would always be another man running from the law, and another bounty waiting for Clyde Lane to find him.
The End
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