Matt Starr had little luck in trying to find a place to hole up. The rain and the wind came up faster than he expected and he was caught out in the open, with no form of cover nearby. The trail had taken him into a low valley that spread out into a dry meadow of sparse grass and weeds.
He pulled his slicker tighter around his neck and kept his head bent low, putting the crown and brim of his hat into wind, taking the brunt of the battering storm. The sorrel, stepping into the tremendous force of wind and rain, faltered occasionally and his gait was reduced to a labored walk. The gallant horse would often toss his head high; its white mane blowing outstretched in the wind. He would snort and whinny shrilly in protest of the violent storm. Starr held firmly to the reins, but let the sorrel have his head as much as possible.
Rain dripped down the nape of Matt’s neck, and slid down his back, beneath his shirt. It was icy cold and soon his shirt was completely soaked through as was the makeshift bandage on his side. It soon became sodden and started to slip loose, exposing his wound. Matt couldn’t tell if the wound was bleeding free again or if it was only rain sliding along his skin.
He suspected that the wound was leaking again for he was feeling weaker and light headed. He could feel the fever coming on. He had to get to cover as soon as possible before he fell out of the saddle.
There were trees along way off to the right. If he could just hold on until he got there, he might find some refuge from the storm’s onslaught. He pulled tight on the reins and prodded the horse to turn off the trail. The wind caught them catty corner as they went, but the force had diminished as they veered away from its full wrath. The horse felt the slight reprieve and stepped livelier until he managed to gain a full stride.
Cyclone and The Reverend stepped away from the foot of the ladder and into the tunnel. Cyclone held the lantern high in his left hand. His pistol was out, clutched in his right fist and pushed forward out in front of him.
“Henry! Arapahoe!” The preacher called out. “Can you hear us?”
“Shhhhhhh!” Cyclone shushed. “You want those jaspers to hear us?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the preacher said in almost a whisper, but still too loud for Cyclone’s liking. “I didn’t think.”
“Just you let me do the thinkin’,” Cyclone whispered, demonstrating the only level of sound he would tolerate.
“Pick up your step,” Cyclone instructed, “Rap and Henry have had time to get a fur piece and those other jaspers are probably close to them already.
Cyclone stepped forward quickly; a spry gait for a man of his age, the parson thought to himself, as they hustled on through the tunnel for several minutes,
Rap and Henry must have gotten farther away than he had expected. No light was in sight far beyond the illumination of their own light and the seemingly endless darkness ahead.
“Look!” Butch shouted with sudden surprise. Although he had expected to see light sometime, the anticipation had been so great that the first sight of light up ahead was startling, and it came from much farther away than he had expected.
As one, Ace Dugan and Butch Lowry squeezed triggers and flame spat in the darkness, followed by the echoing thunder of their pistols as they fired several times, hoping one or more of their bullets hit home. But in the split second instance of flashing light from their pistols, they suddenly realized that something was wrong. There had been two moving shadows only a few feet in front of them and they seemed to slant sideways toward each side of the tunnel.
At the first shooting, The Cyclone Kid, far down the tunnel, saw the first muzzle flashes. Instinctively he pushed Reverend Lynch sideways to the far side wall of the tunnel, while he himself, pressed up against the wall on his side and returned fire toward the muzzle flashes. A man yelped in pain and the guns went silent, but there was the sound of scuffling up ahead.
Rap and Chief Henry had been just few feet ahead of Butch and Ace when the firing started. The first two bullets whistled between and past them. They both threw themselves toward the ground and rolled up against opposite walls.
As muzzle flashes continued, they each catapulted themselves to their feet and dived low under the flames. They each caught a man beneath his knees and drove him to the ground. Cyclone’s bullet passed over their heads as they all fell into a tangled heap on the floor. Rap had cried out in pain as a booted foot kicked him in the jaw. Mad as hell, Rap laid into the melee with a vengeance.
Fists were flying and feet were kicking randomly in the darkened huddle.
By the time Cyclone and Lynch got there: the light of the lantern bringing the scene into visibility, two men lay sprawled on the rock floor. Two other men were standing and flailing away with their fists. It was Rap and Henry.
“Hey!” Cyclone shouted. “Stop it right now! Look at what you’re doing!”
Rap halted in mid punch. With his left hand, he was holding Chief Henry by the front of his shirt. His right arm was pulled back and cocked to deliver a blow. Henry was shrinking on bent knees. They stared at each other’s eyes. Then they both began to laugh.
Rap let go of his friend’s shirt and dropped his hand. Then he began to smooth out Henry’s collar and shirt.
“If you ain’t the dangdest pair,” Cy said, nodding his head back and forth in amazement. Then turning his attention to the two men on the floor. They were both out cold, but other than that they were not the worse for wear. “Now,” Cyclone murmured. “What do we do with these Two?”
****
Chapter Twenty Four