Early morning sun found the G-Man lying prone behind a large boulder, gazing down into an arroyo. He had found his quarry.
After Tamara had left him the afternoon before, he had caught up his horse and continued on after the guns. He hated to let Tamara go, but first things first. He had to trail those weapons. He had relentlessly kept on the trail, heading south westerly. The ground was becoming harder and it was more difficult to trail, especially when nighttime grew near. Once or twice after dusk, he had lost the trail, but eventually picked it up again. The full moon provided light enough to follow the trail late into the evening, but when it became too difficult, he feared he might misjudge the trail or lose it all together.
He made a dry camp and slept for a couple of hours. Then with the graying sky of early dawn, he pushed on. By the time the sun had completely cleared the mountain peaks, Jack had heard horses, men and wagons up the trail. He turned his mount and circled a hill. The steed struggled up the incline and Clayton halted it before reaching the ridge. He ground hitched the horse and keeping low, he clamored the rest of the way on foot until he reached the top and crawled behind a huge boulder. With the rising sun to his back, he would less easily be seen by anyone down below when he peered out from his cover.
Now, down in the arroyo, before him he saw a dozen wagons covered with hoped canvas tops. The three lead wagons each had a turret hitched behind it. This was it. Apparently, they were not worried about pursuit, for obviously they had made camp and stayed the night without being concerned with an early start at dawn.
The camp was now a bustle of activities as teams were being hitched. Camp fires being dowsed and teamsters clamoring to their seats to whip up the horses.
The G-Man spotted the man he had heard called Corbin. He was strutting about the area issuing orders, but this time he wore regular range garb instead of the stolen Cavalry uniform he had worn the last time Clayton saw him. There were many more men with the convoy. They all looked tough and salty; heavily armed with colts and rifles, especially the man he had heard called Palmer. He looked just plain mean and slouched against a wagon wheel watching the other men work.
Another lean, dangerous looking gunnie swaggered over to him. He wore two guns low on his lean thighs. This was Bart Sprague, Clayton surmised.. He conversed with Palmer and the two of them lifted their gazes to the ridge line where Clayton hid behind the rock. Then the two strode away and talked to Corbin.
Had he been seen?" Jack was sure his approach was secret enough to avoid detection, but he had better be on guard.
Then the two gunmen turned away and walked in different directions away from Corbin. What ever they were talking about, didn’t require further action right now. Clayton breathed a small sigh of relief. His brow furrowed deep in thought as he studied the scene before him. These were a lot of men and he was all alone. He had to have a plan. What should he do?" Stop them from reaching their destination?" Unlikely. Follow them to see where they were going?" But, if the weapons were for a special purpose, it might be too late to prevent that use when they got where they were going.
The sun rose higher and the heat beat down on the G-man’s back. It felt good after the chill and dampness of early morning dew and mist that was now fast evaporating away. He pressed his cheek to the boulder, feeling the warmth of the rock, and waited for the caravan to move out. Carefully, he chronicled in his mind, every wagon; its cargo, its position in line, number of drivers and guards on each and where all the outriders were.
Corbin was riding a big grey and patrolled back and forth along the string of wagons, approving or disapproving and issuing orders. The gunmen, carried rifles at the ready and rode at intervals along side the train.
When the last wagon passed out of the arroyo, Clayton could see it loaded with kegs. Gun powder! Lots of it!
The G-Man, with an idea, slinked back from the boulder, mounted his horse, rode on and keeping below the ridge line, he continued west, across the rolling hills., occasionally topping the ridge briefly to monitor the progress of the convoy.
Late morning sun was leaving a staleness in the air when Jack peered over the ridge and seeing the trail start to wind eastward around some high country. The train would wind to the far side of a range of hills.
Clayton hurried back to his mount, circled back the way he came, then turned and urged his horse over the ridge, down onto the trail the caravan had just used, but now out of sight of Jack’s crossing.
Drumming the horse’s ribs with his heels, he pushed him hard up the hill on the other side. This horse was no Regret and his hooves slipped and slid until he could go no further. The G-Man leaped from the saddle and climbed the slope on foot, pulling the reins and guiding the horse to the top.
From here he could see the trail. He was ahead of the wagons now, for they had not yet come into view. He turned his horse back down the slope, they had just traversed.
He tied the reins around the saddle horn, slapped him on the rump and sent him back down the hill. Quickly, Jack clamored down the bank, getting closer to the road. He found cover on a rock ledge just above wagon eye level next to a tree branch reaching out from an outcropping. Here, he waited.
The chink of harness and the crunch of wheels in the dirt road grew louder. The G-Man watched them come into view. Watched them come closer. The first wagon went by. There were several people inside the wagon, but he couldn’t see how many. Palmer was riding on the far side of the wagon and another gunman was riding on this side. Clayton could hear them talk, cursing and laughing as they passed by so close he thought he could touch them.
He pressed closer to the rock floor of his hiding spot, sweat dripping from his hair and brow into his eyes with a burning sensation. One by one the wagons passed by. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve….the last wagon was passing by. One driver on the seat. Good. Just pass on by! Almost! Almost!.... Now!
As the back of the wagon went by, Clayton pushed himself upward, grabbed the tree branch above him and swung out and into the rear of the wagon through the canvas opening. He landed, feet straddling a powder keg and leaning over several rows of kegs. He regained his balance, checked forward to see if the driver had noticed. Apparently not. The noise of the caravan and the billowing dust ahead kept him occupied along with whipping up the team.
The G-man drew his Colt, climbed up on the barrels and crawled forward. "Heeah, heeah!" The driver crowed. Closer and closer, Jack crawled. Almost there! Closer! Don’t turn around, driver! Almost! …..Now!
Clayton leaped forward, his left arm around the man’s chest, pulling him backward, stretching the reins back with him so they wouldn’t fall to the ground. The barrel of his Colt whipped the driver’s scull viciously three times before Jack threw him from the wagon, pulling his pistol from his holster as he went over.
Jack quickly took the reins, seated himself, and pulled his hat brim lower. The churning dust should give him cover for a while. He whipped up the team and worked them up to a steady pace that would keep them up with the rest of the train. As the trail once again began to veer westward and the rolling hills started to fall away into a desert plain, Clayton tied off the reins so they wouldn’t fall and crawled back into the wagon. He lowered the tail gate, not quite all the way, keeping a slight upward pitch so the kegs would not roll out easily. He kicked a hole in several kegs and tilted them so powder would spill out in a trail behind the wagon. Then he pushed several kegs onto the drivers seat where he could reach them easier. He climbed behind the seat and squatting low to avoid being a target for gunfire, he whipped the horses hard.
"Heeah! Heeah!’ He shouted whipping the team forward and turning out and to the left of the line of wagons. The sudden burst of speed surprised the outriders. Their horses shied and some reared, snorting with fear as the wagon drove into them sending the riders into a melee of frenzy.
One rider, pulled his mount under control, raised his rifle and fired. The G-Man ducked as the bullet splintered the frame of the wagon bed. "You fool! "Sprague yelled, grabbing
the rider’s bridle. "That wagon’s full of powder. You’ll blow us all to kingdom come. We’ve got to ride him down." He loosed his grip and spurred after the wagon. The others followed suit once they recovered from the surprise. The race was on.
Clayton charged his team straight along the caravan. One man leaped from his saddle and pulled himself up onto the front of the wagon. Another leaped onto the left side lead horse and jerked the reins. The G-Man’s colt roared and the man climbing into the boot pitched off, his face a bloody mass. The Colt roared again and the man on the horse threw up his arms and fell backward into the dust between the teams pounding hooves.
By now, Clayton had passed only four wagons, not quite where he wanted to be, but it would have to do. Bracing his legs against the wagon floor beneath him, he jerked hard on the reins, pulling the frightened team sharply to the left and whipped again.
The team screaming and snorting, shot out away from the train, the wagon slewing and fishtailing as it turned sharply, the wheels digging into the dust as they slid sideways. Jack pushed the kegs from the driver’s seat as they turned, hoping they would roll under the wagon next to him.
As the G-man’s wagon lurched, the rear end, collided with the other wagon. Clayton’s wagon shook and vibrated, lifted over onto its left two wheels, but crashed back down on all fours without overturning. Again he whipped the horses, pulling out and away from the collision, the force of which had jarred the tail gate all the way open and kegs rolled out into a pile.
Clayton was straightening the team out now to head cross country across the meadow, when Bart Sprague spurred his mount close behind, reached out, caught the rim of the wagon box, lifted from his saddle and pulled himself inside the rear of the wagon.
Two riders on each side of the wagon came up close behind the team. Jack poured lead into them, first the ones to the left and then the ones to the right, emptying saddles and releasing the mounts to their own power. But, this had taken his attention and did not see Sprague behind him.
Not wanting to use his gun in the close confines of the wagon, still partially filled with kegs of gunpowder, Sprague had pulled his knife from his boot and crawled forward behind Jack. The blade was held high, slashing down at Clayton’s back. Jack caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, turned sharply. The instant attack was a blur in front of him. His finger automatically squeezed the trigger of his gun. Click! The hammer fell on an empty chamber. The gun was empty!
The blade was coming at him with tremendous force. He dropped the pistol and lashed upward grabbing Sprague’s wrist. He fell backward, Sprague sprawling on top of him, the team still bolting away unmanned. Sprague’s eyes flamed with evil determination and the blade came closer to Jack’s face. Straining, pushing, sweating profusely, the G-Man fought back. The blade came closer. Again he pushed it back, but he felt his strength diminishing. He was losing, the deadly point now close to his throat.
With all the strength he could muster, he rolled a little to the left, freed his right leg somewhat, doubled his knee and kicked viciously into Sprague’s face, sending him sprawling onto his back. Clayton leaped after him, retrieving his empty gun as he went.
He crashed his full weight onto Sprague’s chest and clubbed his head unmercifully several times with the pistol butt. As, he regained his senses, Clayton could feel the team slowing. Spinning around forward he could see riders on each side of the team pulling them under control. With one swift movement, he slid the Colt from Sprague’s holster and shot through the front canvas opening, dropping them both from their saddles. He clamored forward to stand on the wagon seat. He had eliminated riders in front of him, but he needed to check along side. He was right. There were riders on each side of the wagon, two more closing close behind. Flame spat from his pistol once, twice, three times. Three riders fell. The colt thundered again, another rider fell. He stumbled to the rear of the wagon fired twice more eliminating the two behind as they were about to overtake him.
He could see more riders approaching further back. He had to move fast. Dropping Sprague’s empty pistol, he rolled out of the back of the wagon as it sped on, and landed in the dust. Digging into his jeans’ pocket as he rolled toward the line of spilled powder that trailed behind the wagon, he pulled his tin match box out. He flipped it open, pulled a match and struck it. He touched it to the powder trail and rolled to the side out of the way. The powder sputtered into flame and then hissed down the line in both directions, toward the runaway wagon and back toward the train. It hissed with amazing speed and reached the rolling wagon first, since it was closer.
Clayton hugged the earth and covered his head with both arms as the wagon blew with tremendous force, belching flame and spewing wagon parts high into the air to rain down debris all over the parched trail..
The pursuing men pulled their horses up and wheeled them, some riding one direction and others riding the other away from the fiery trail. They circled outward and forward, closing in on the G-Man from both sides as the powder burned on toward the wagon train of weapons. They spurred hard, driving their horses wide from the wagons left behind.
Horses reared and fell, men fell, flying dust filled the air. All hell broke loose as the thunder of the exploding wagons lifted them into the air, heavy cargo and all as the impact shook the ground, black smoke billowing, flame spewing high into the sky. The booming thunder roared again and again, more debris flying, more dust in the air.
Clayton lifted his head and saw the latest explosion, dropped back to the dirt and hugged the ground again. He lay there several seconds, the noise finally dying down. He could now hear the drum of horses hooves approaching ; the chink of bridles and spurs, the creak of leather. He rolled over onto his back. The hot sun streamed into his eyes. He squinted through the slits, looking up at the six riders now surrounding him, their mounts still stamping and snorting as their masters still tried to contain them, their flailing hooves coming close to the G-Man’s body.
Clayton sat up on his haunches and hunched his shoulders in resignation. Gar Corbin sat his sturdy chestnut with ease, his rifle muzzle pointing downward, inches from Jack’s face. "You did us one hell of lot of damage, Mr. G-Man, "he growled ."I ought to kill you right now."
"If you were going to, you’d have done it by now, "Jack sneered. "Why not?"
"I’ve got orders to bring you back. I got some special people for you to meet, "He chuckled. "But orders or no orders I’ll kill you anyways, if you give me any more trouble. "He brandished the rifle in Jack’s face. "Now on your feet."
Just as he came to his feet, he felt it. A lasso settled around his shoulders. He tried to fight it but another loop came from the opposite direction and pulled tight. His shoulders bent toward each other as if caught in the grip of a vice. Then the horsemen who had wielded the ropes, spurred their horses into a run. Jack fought at first but the sudden burst of speed pulled him off his feet. He fell headlong, grasping at the tightening ropes as they dragged him through the dirt, sand and scrub brush, toward the lead wagons which were now further down the trail where they had managed to roll far enough to avoid the explosions. Several of the canvas bonnets still smoldered where flying burning debris had set them on fire, but now had been extinguished before any real damage could be done..
The G-man rolled back and forth, trying to right himself, but couldn’t, then resigned himself to the brutal dragging. He had caused a lot of damage. He had taken out six wagons besides the one he had hijacked. That left five. And now he had to pay.
*****
Chapter Eighteen
Captives