As Good as Dead - A Fort Smith Tale

CHAPTER ONE

Eldridge sat up in the saddle and glared at the distant horizon.

He could see two figures on horseback on a ridge at the edge of his vision.

At least he hoped that’s what they were.

He had made that mistake with a grove of trees a few hours ago.

Nope.

He was right this time.

They weren’t trees. They were moving.

It had to be the Brown boys. Gus and Pete Brown. Two faces on a wanted flyer in the pocket of his long leather duster.

Black hearted killers and robbers.

Soon to be dead men if he could only catch them.

The two had ridden through the day, cutting back and forth across the pine covered valley and wind scrubbed shale ridges.

Eldridge had kept them in sight.

Most of the time.

“They spotted us,” he told his horse.

Those were his first words aloud since leaving Fort Smith almost a week prior.

He had no more words since then, no need for them.

He didn’t think he would need them once he caught up with the miscreants.

Eldridge planned to shoot the two men.

The warrant in his pocket read Dead or Alive.

He figured two bodies strapped over the backs of a couple of horses wouldn’t cause a lot of fuss.

No one fussed much when the law killed baby killers.

He took out his Henry repeating rifle and sighted along the barrel.

Too far.

The shadow outlines were little more than blurs.

He could take a shot.

Maybe hit one of them. Maybe not.

Eldridge rested the rifle across his long legs and kicked his heels into his horse, spurring it onward.

If he got closer, he could be sure the shot counted.

The path in front of him was little more than a game trail. The ground was churned and broken from the passage of the first two horses.

He clucked his tongue and urged his mount forward. They slipped between the trees and topped the slippery slope.

Eldridge ducked under a low hanging branch when it hit him. He heard the crack of the rifle as he fell.

He hit the ground hard.

Shale disintegrated and broke loose under him as the Henry twirled into the underbrush.

Eldridge slid down the ridge in a rolling tumble of shattered rock and grunted curses.

He slammed against the bole of a small tree that arrested his fall and watched his spooked horse gallop down the hill and disappear further up the narrow dale.

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed, unsure if he was speaking of the animal or his predicament.

Both, he decided.

Hot slick blood coated one aching shoulder in a crimson sticky mess that burned like a poker straight from the fire.

His side hurt from the fall and he felt a sharp pain where he hit the tree when he tried to take a breath.

It took three tries to roll himself upright and rest his back against the tree, and another few moments to wait for his breath to catch up.

The sound of hoof beats echoed down from the top of the ridge and he spied his quarry coming back to check the results of their ambush.

They weren’t alone.

Two turned into six and doubled again. A gang of outlaws, miscreants and ne’r do wells.

He rolled back to his side and tried to put a few trees between him and the men on the ridge.

Eldridge crawled.

He could only use one arm and even that was a struggle.

The mangy curs that took a pot shot at him didn’t have the damned courtesy to make sure the wound in his shoulder and the busted rib were on the same side.

He dug the tips of his boots against the dirt and shoved his battered body between the trees.

It was slow going.

Every effort was agony. The movement sent waves of pain that cascaded down his side.

He could feel the warm wet drizzle of blood coursing out of the hole in his shoulder.

Hoof beats clattered on the game trail a dozen yards behind him.

Eldridge slithered behind a fallen log. He could hear the voices of the men hunting him.

“Where did the son of a bitch go?”

“Did you get him, Earl?” said another. “I thought you said you shot him.”

“I did,” Earl answered. “Got him clean.”

“Then where is he?”

“His horse went that way.”

“He wasn’t on his horse,” one said. “Else we would have seen him.”

“Then where is he?” the other one repeated.

“Lot of churn right here. Maybe he got dragged off with his horse. You boys spread out and look further down.”

Breathing hurt.

He tried to keep his breath shallow, not only to stay quiet but to stop the pain.

It didn’t help much.

He wanted to pack the wound in his shoulder, staunch the flow of blood.

Movement would only betray his position.

Movement was the enemy.

Even as the men hunting him moved away, he knew one or two of them might be smart.

The quiet ones, probably.

The war taught them that.

Look for the lines, things that seemed out of place.

Shoot it.

He remembered that training well.

Hours spend on the ass end of a long gun, buried under branches and leaves and natural cover.

Days spent waiting for just the right moment.

Just the right second.

Just the right shot.

He had taken fifty six of them.

Enough to earn a reputation. Enough to be a legend.

A legend under a log, he almost laughed and caught himself just in time.

Laughing would make him move.

Movement would get him caught.

Movement would get him killed.

If only he could take a breath, a full breath, he could clear his head and think.

Think his way out.

Eldridge closed his eyes and drifted away.

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