Chapter Twenty
Carlos Silva had the perfect spot for his ambush. He was on top of a two-hundred-foot-high butte with a perfect view of the big log house called Frewen Castle. Anyone leaving the house or either one of the bunkhouses to go out onto the range where Frewen’s cattle were would have to pass right under this butte. He had come here before dawn, and now as the rising sun turned the Powder River into a gleaming stream of gold, he was able to observe the activity at the ranch. He saw the cook step out of the cook shack and toss out a pan of water. He watched cowboys going to and coming from the four outhouses that were lined up behind the two bunkhouses. He observed for nearly an hour as the ranch hands went into the cookhouse for their breakfast, then came out and started about their daily duties.
Then he saw Matt Jensen. Jensen stepped out of the cookhouse, still holding a biscuit. He ate the last of it just before he went into the stable, and a few minutes later Jensen led his horse out, mounted, then rode off. He was coming this way, and would pass right under the butte.
The first thing Silva had done when the sun rose this morning was to establish his range and field of fire. He located a boulder that was about waist-high, and he aimed at it to get the range. He figured it at just under five hundred yards, and he set his telescopic sight accordingly.
As Jensen started toward him, Silva picked up some sand and dropped it to measure the windage. Now he waited as Jensen came riding slowly up the road. Then, just before he reached the boulder that Silva had established as his firing point, he raised the rifle to his shoulder. Peering through the scope, he placed the crosshairs so that the center point was just in front of Jensen’s ear; then he moved forward about two inches, all the lead he required at the rate Jensen was moving. He adjusted the set trigger, then moved his finger back to the firing trigger. All he had to do now was just touch it. He felt the rush.
A wasp landed on Spirit’s neck, and Matt leaned forward to brush it away. As he did so he felt the concussion of the bullet taking off his hat. Had he not leaned forward at that exact moment, the bullet would have gone through his head instead of his hat. An instant later he heard the boom, much louder than any ordinary gunshot.
Because the gunshot was so loud, Matt knew that it wasn’t a repeating rifle. It had to be a buffalo gun, which meant that the shooter would have to reload before he could shoot a second time. Matt slapped his legs against Spirit, and the horse burst forth like a cannon shot. As he was galloping away, Matt turned to look back up on the top of the Butte and saw that the shooter, confident that he was out of range of any return fire, was standing upright, leisurely reloading his rifle.
Matt continued to gallop away, opening distance between himself and the shooter.
“Damn!” Silva said out loud. “How did the son of a bitch know exactly when to duck?”
With his rifle reloaded, Silva raised it to his shoulders and sighted a second time. By now the range had opened up to at least half a mile. Silva had made shots this far before, so he was confident he could do it again. He set the trigger, then touched it, the recoil rocking him back.
This bullet passed so close to Matt that for brief second the concussion of its passing made him think he had actually been hit. Again he heard the roar of the rifle, followed by the rolling echo as it bounced off the distant hills. Obviously distance wasn’t enough protection from this shooter, so Matt pulled his rifle out, dismounted, then sent Spirit out of the way. He figured he had about eight seconds before the next shot, and he used the time to run across the road where he was able to squat behind a boulder. He wanted to go all the way over to the edge of the butte, but if he did so, he would be exposed for too long a time, so the rock would have to do for now.
Unfortunately, the boulder wasn’t very large, and it was all he could do to get behind it. A third shot knocked off a chip of rock as large as an apple, and the chip struck Matt in his right shoulder. The impact felt like someone had hit him with a hammer and he felt a tingling all the way down his right arm to the tips of his fingers. But that gave him another eight-second opening, and he improved his position, this time actually making it to a coulee that reached back into the very butte on which he had spotted the shooter. Once there, he started climbing.
Silva saw him running from behind the boulder, and if his rifle had been loaded, he would have gotten him. He had to admit that Jensen was pretty smart, figuring out just how much time he had between the shots. But he also knew that Jensen couldn’t stay there as long as Silva could stay here. Silva had enough water and jerky to stay for two days if he had to. Silva saw that Jensen was carrying a rifle with him. He was too far away to see what kind of rifle it was, but he imagined it was either a Winchester or a Henry. It didn’t matter; neither model could come close to this one in range. He was in the perfect standoff position. Jensen would be in kill range long before he could get close enough to use his own rifle.
Silva pulled out a piece of cloth, opened it up, and selected a piece of jerky. He took a bite of it, then returned it to the cloth and put the cloth back in his pocket. He chewed the jerky for a moment, then he took a swallow of water from his canteen, and wondered where Jensen was.
Matt climbed the butte. Then, staying just below the crest, he worked his way around behind where he thought the shooter was. Carefully, he moved up almost to the top, got down on his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way up. Once there, he raised up to look over the edge.
He saw Silva about two hundred yards away.
Matt pulled his pistol and shot it in the air, just to get the shooter’s attention. The shooter spun toward Matt, then raised his rifle. The shooter was good, Matt knew that. But he also knew that someone who prided himself on his marksmanship would not hurry his shot. Matt did hurry his shot, firing, cocking the rifle and firing again, the second shot following so quickly on the first that it joined with the echo of the first shot.
Matt saw the shooter react to being hit. He fired, but because he had been hit just as he was pulling the trigger, his shot went wild. He dropped his rifle, then slapped his hand over his wound. He walked forward in a few staggering steps, then fell to his knees. Dropping his own rifle, Matt pulled his pistol and hurried across the flat top of the butte to the man he had just shot.
By the time he got there, the shooter had fallen forward on his stomach. Kneeling beside him, Matt turned him over. He was still alive, but barely so, and he was gasping audibly for breath.
“Who are you?” Matt asked.
“Silva. Carlos Silva.”
“Why were you shooting at me, Silva?”
“It’s what I do for a living,” Silva said. He tried to laugh, a coughing, wheezing kind of laugh, and as he did so, blood bubbled from his mouth. Ironically, his face was so red that the blood wasn’t immediately noticeable.
“You won’t be doing it anymore,” Matt said.
Silva didn’t hear him, because Silva was dead.
“Just before he died, he
