January, 2010

Issue #4

Windward Rock, Part 2
by Greg Camp

“Sheriff Carver,” Dowland called out. Carver and his men had gathered on the flat land beneath the western side, just as he had invited them to do with his fire and his visible movements. “You have arrived at Windward Rock. I've claimed it in the name of Marcus Brutus, Roland, General Lee, and all other good men. I'd welcome you to it, but I have my doubts as to whether you belong here.”

“Windward Rock, you've named it?” Carver shouted. He stood some one hundred yards from the base of the mesa, just outside the practical range of the Winchester that Dowland held loose in his hands. Their voices carried easily across the hard ground.

“That's right, and I'd hate to be the man who's standing downwind of it.”

“You studying on breaking wind at us?” a man, either Patterson or Oakes, taunted. Dowland swept his rifle up to his shoulder and took aim, and the man dived for the cover behind a large rock.

“Get up, Oakes, you fool,” Carver growled. “He can't hit you from there.”

“So that's Oakes, is it,” Dowland concluded. “So the one next to him with the moustache trying to hide an idiotic face must be Patterson. They would be the two that you sent south the other day.”

Carver turned toward the two and said something.

“While you're lecturing them, put in a bit about how to approach a fire in the dead of night. If they had come any closer to me, I could've swatted their horses on the rumps.”

The sheriff whipped around to look up at the dome, then turned, and stomped over to Patterson.

“Oh, go easy on him. He'd be dead right now if I hadn't needed him to do a job for me.” Carver landed a punch on Patterson's chin, sending the man sprawling.

“I hope he pays you men well,” Dowland called out to the group. “I'm not sure that this kind of work is rewarding enough on its own.”

Carver came closer to the mesa. Dowland held his rifle against his shoulder as the sheriff approached. He did not have enough cartridges to waste on hopeful shots, but with each step, the sheriff became more tempting. He stopped when he was about a seventy yards from the wall, close enough to be a disappointment.

“Listen, stranger,” the sheriff said, apparently trying a new approach, “I don't know you, and I haven't got anything particular against you.”

“You're forgetting about Roberts and Mitchell, then?”

“That's easily done, considering,” Carver answered. Dowland knew too well what he was thinking on that score. “They're already forgotten. But as for you, on the other hand, there's no need for any unpleasantness between us. Come on down from there, and let's talk this out like men.”

“Better men than you have called me a fool, and only one of them is still wandering this earth.”

“And who would that be?”

“Someone of your acquaintance,” Dowland answered, “a man named Morrison. It turned out that when he said that to me, he was right. But you, Sheriff, are a poor judge of character if you rank me with the likes of your men.” He itched to take a shot. Surely just one would not be too much of a loss. He swung the rifle down, lining it up with Carver. The sheriff turned tail and ran. “I haven't seen such fancy running since my last meeting with a Yankee,” he called out. “You ought to hire yourself out for tutoring fawns.”

Carver stopped short and spun around. Fanning the hammer of his Peacemaker, he fired off five shots toward the mesa.

Dowland stood still. He watched the barrel of the revolver dancing about. He had never understood the point of emptying one's gun just to make a lot of noise. “Shall I toss you one of the boxes of cattridges that I borrowed from your jail? Keep up like that, and you'll need them.”

The sheriff stomped back toward his men and fiddled with the Peacemaker, reloading it. The sun was just setting, and several of Carver's men were lighting a fire, at least they were until he ran over and kicked out the flames. That made no sense, as it had already been established that they were out of range, but perhaps he was still smarting from Dowland's taunt at Patterson and Oakes earlier.

His own fire was dying, and he let it go. He needed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The evening sky was clear, and a full moon was rising above the horizon.

The sheriff and his men held a council of war. Dowland was glad that he could not hear what they were saying, figuring that he had no need to listen to idiocy. How long it would take them to realize that the mesa could only be climbed on the eastern half?

The wind blew steadily from that direction along the mesa's length. From his position on the dome, he had a clear shot at the flanks, but the slope was obscured by the junipers. If they did come from that direction, he would see the trees shake as they passed and hear their feet crack the dry limbs lying on the ground.

Two hours after sunset, Carver and his men finally began to move. Half of them went around the northern side, while the other half went southward. They kept themselves out of range, though. Their horses were hobbled and left to themselves.

Dowland glared at the rifle cartridges in the cardboard box, wishing that they had multiplied like loaves and fishes while he was not looking, but miracles were something more often read about than received. The rifle held fifteen, and in the box, moonlight glinted off twenty brass disks.

He had loaded his Navys and the Peacemaker with six shots apiece, deciding that eighteen was better than fifteen for now, and had pocketed the rolled up funeral money from each of the sixth chambers. He was impressed with the ease of loading the Peacemaker, and again he wanted to shoot it, even while knowing that such a test would come only at a desperate last stand.

Carver had gone to the northern side. He gathered his men around him and gave what must be final instructions. Dowland looked south and saw a similar talk being led by a tall fellow with a lengthy moustache flying away from both sides of his face. Porterhouse, as Dowland dubbed him, was more animated in giving his orders, and from the general effect of his movements, Dowland could tell that a group of five men were to climb up the southern flank. Carver was likely giving the same order on the northern side.

The first assault began, and he felt a moment of sorrow for the men moving toward him. Carver and Porterhouse stood conspicuously out of range. He lay down on the dome with his feet pointed westward and his arms resting on its high point. He aimed first at the northern group. They had gone with Carver, and shooting them felt something like a mercy.

Dowland waited until the men were a quarter of the way up before he took his first shot. He fired once and worked the lever. The leading man stopped and fell backward. Dowland fired at the second. Both now tumbled, shoving the other three off their feet and sending the lot of them, the quick and the dead, sliding.

He swung his rifle over toward the southern flank, but the men climbing that side had already turned tail and were running and falling and running again. They were almost too far away already, and their haphazard progress made a predictable shot increasingly difficult.

The discussions that ensued on both sides of the mesa were more lively than the previous ones. The men showed an altogether uncooperative attitude toward a second attempt. The shrugged their shoulders and waved their arms toward the mesa, all the while inching away. In a fury, Carver slapped the two of them who were in reach.

Porterhouse, on the other hand, must have realized that he had just obeyed Carver's order and would not be able to follow another without going around the mesa to hear it. He looked to be forming his own plan, one that seemed to be arising from some intelligence. Four of his men had rifles, and he motioned for them to go to the southern flank. He then pointed first at the eastern slope and then at four other men, presumably armed only with revolvers.

Dowland shot a glance at Carver, wondering if the sheriff would send his men on another attempt. If he did, he would be facing an approach from all three sides. While he waited, he pulled two cartridges out of the box and loaded them into his rifle.

He covered the southern approach first, as Carver's men were already spooked, and the men with rifles were the greatest danger for the moment.

They moved toward the mesa cautiously. When they reached the flank, they crouched low and stayed on the eastern side of the flying buttress of rock that worked its way up to the top. They stopped about halfway up.

The other four made their way to the eastern slope and up into the trees. They began their climb, and the four on the southern flank fired. Shots whistled above him, and two struck the dome only a couple of feet away from his head. He lay flat for a moment, listening to the pattern. The riflemen were firing slowly. Their job was to keep his head down while the men with revolvers moved closer.

Dowland felt the rhythm of the rifle shots, and once he had felt enough, he lifted up slightly during a pause and returned two of his own. One connected. A rifle clattered down the side of the mesa, its owner lying dead.

A rapid series of cracks drew his attention toward the trees. The four men among them fired wildly, hitting the trees mostly, but a few bullets broke through to burn past Dowland. He saw a flash in the branches and rose a bit to take a shot. He dropped down just before three bullets from the rifles passed through the point where his head had been. The blood pounded in his ears, but as his heart calmed, he heard a man groaning among the trees and three separate rustling noises hurrying down the slope. The rifles had also stopped firing. He rose up again, hoping to get another shot at the riflemen, but they were already down the side and too far away.

A bullet glanced off the rock and passed him so close that he felt the air parting over his head. The shot had come from the northern side. He flattened against the dome and waited a moment before rising up again and taking another shot. This one missed, but it was close enough to send those men scrambling back down the way that they had come.

Dowland sat up and contemplated his situation. Seventeen men remained on the flat land surrounding the mesa. They grouped together around Carver or Porterhouse and looked to be at a loss as to what to do. They must have realized that they were at a stalemate. Several of the men in each group lighted fires and settled in. This time, the sheriff made no objection.

By the moon, he saw that it was past midnight. It was quiet, all but for the groans of the man lying among the trees. Dowland thought about going down to help him, but he knew that if he left the dome, Carver would immediately send a new assault. He stood up.

“Sheriff Carver,” he called out, “you have a man down here in the trees. He's still alive, if that matters to you.”

“And I suppose you're offering us safe passage on your mountain,” Carver shouted back. “Why don't you just bring him to us? That would make things easier for all concerned.”

“That's the second time that you've made me out to be a fool. Don't plan on a third. On your head be your man's life.”

Dowland watched Carver's men and saw the discontent that he was trying to brew.

The night settled into a weary passage. Carver shouted for a while, then paced between two large rocks on the far side of his men. Eventually he gathered up Patterson and Oakes from beside the fire and shoved them forward. Dowland wondered if they were going to try their own assault until he realized that the sheriff was heading for Porterhouse.

The five remaining on the northern side were slow to appreciate their new circumstances. They poked at the fire and drank coffee. One of them smoked. Carver and company had reached Porterhouse by the time the five realized that they were alone. Dowland contemplated offering them some leaden encouragement, but there was no need, as furtively and one by one, the men sneaked away. There were now only twelve to his one.

Or was it thirteen? The man in the trees continued to groan. He was no threat, but he was an irritation. Dowland was on the edge of going to him, but he looked again toward Carver and saw the sheriff standing with Porterhouse several yards from his men. The sheriff reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigar, and lighted it. From the glow of the fire that the men were sitting around, Dowland could see the smoke rising a bit before being carried away westward by the wind that blew gently across the flat land.

Porterhouse had been speaking, but as he looked at the cigar, his mouth stopped moving, and he stared. He must have realized something, for he began stabbing his finger back and forth between the eastern slope of the mesa and the sheriff.

Carver finally understood what Porterhouse was saying to him. He ran over to his men, and after kicking two of them, got them into motion. The lot of them collected their weapons and hurried toward the slope.

Dowland did not know what they were about to do, but he moved down to the bottom of the dome and a little into the trees. There was one place on the edge where he had a good shot at anyone who came close enough from the southern side.

He waited, barely breathing, his rifle aimed steadily at the base of the mesa. He caught glimpses of movement out of the corner of his right eye, but he did not turn his head or move his gaze. Quiet had fallen on the dome. The man in the trees was no longer groaning. The only sound was the susurration of the trees in the wind.

Carver and his men came into the line of sight. Dowland held until enough of them were visible. At this range, he needed several targets for his bullets to connect. Finally, he fired five rapid shots.

Two bodies lay on the ground. He was now opposed by just ten foes, and he laughed for a moment. If this handful was the total number of his enemies, he had become altogether too well liked.

He climbed to the top of the dome to see what Carver was trying now, and his cheerful humor drained. The scent of wood smoke sharpened the air, and flashes of light pierced through the branches. Porterhouse had set fires.

A blaze grew and swept forward across the mesa. He ran from one side of the dome to the other, but a fringe of stubby junipers surrounded the bare rock, and the tonsure would not be enough to save him. He had one chance: the shelf on the western edge.

But before he could move, shots burst out from the trees, and his right arm went numb. A sheen of red grew along the sleeve and sparkled in the moonlight. His rifle dropped to the ground. With his left hand, he pulled the Peacemaker and fired into the advancing wall of flame. After four rounds, then cursed himself for being a fool. He was shooting at a dead man's gun.

He ran across the dome, heading for the shelf, but the loose rock gave way, and his feet flew out from under him. He slid down the rock and through the brush, steering himself as best he could. The sky spread out before him.

Grasping at what little remained, he reached out his left arm and hooked it around one of the trees clinging to the edge. He stopped short, but the Peacemaker flew on.

Dowland hung on the edge of the mesa's wall. The shelf was five irksome yards to his right. His left arm was only sore, though, not broken or dislocated. His right had begun to ache. He pulled himself upward by bracing his feet against the tree and pulling on another with his left hand. He wanted to rest, but the flames racing around the dome and the air thickening with smoke refused him the time for that.

Going from tree to tree, he worked his way over toward the shelf, then dropped down onto it and huddled against the wall as the fire engulfed the mesa. The wind roared overhead, shooting gusts of flame outward and carrying blazing masses of sticks and leaves into open air. He was chilled by the updraft that mounted the wall to inspire the conflagration.

Pressing against the rock, he checked his right arm. The bullet had missed the bone. The ragged wound was shallow. It would need sewing up, but that had to wait. He took out his knife and cut away the sleeve for a bandage. He wrapped his arm, tying a loose knot that he tightened with the aid of his teeth, and lowered himself to rest.

At his waist were his two friends, Alpha and Omega. He turned around and pushed himself out to the end of the shelf, then lay back facing the dome. The top was just visible. His mind wandered back to the night that his dormitory burned during his senior year at the College of William and Mary. He had been cold then too, standing in the winter air in his night shirt and watching the tongues of fire outshine the stars.

Dowland rested Omega in his left hand across his stomach and pondered the strange beauty of the fire that burned above him, filling the sky with light.

He awoke to see a new light above him. The sun was rising, and its rays shimmered through the swirling smoke. His left arm ached, and his right arm had a dull soreness, but he was alive, and pain was the price of living.

He heard movement and voices above him. Two men were picking their way through the burned trees toward the dome.

“Here's what's left of his rifle,” one of them said.

“But nothing of him,” Carver answered.

Dowland stood and aimed Omega toward the top of the dome. He would get one shot. The first voice must belong to Porterhouse, and he wondered if he ought to take his shot at the brains of the operation or its evil heart.

Fate brought Porterhouse to the top first. Dowland hesitated, wanting the sheriff, but Porterhouse saw him and swung his rifle around toward the shelf. Dowland fired true, and Porterhouse shot wildly as he fell dead.

“So here we are,” Carver called out from beyond the top of the dome. “You're still trapped on this mesa, and from the looks of the ashes up here, you have no food and no water. My men and I can wait. How long do you have?”

“Long enough, Carver,” Dowland shouted back. “Whether by my bullets or your folly, you keep losing men. Give it a few hours, and there will just be the two of us.”

A shower of rocks fell at Dowland, and he dived for cover against the wall.

“I have enough to make your life unpleasant,” Carver yelled. More rocks came down.

“You do that yourself.”

Carver said nothing in return, but Dowland heard several men straining on the dome. Wondering what new torment Carver was working, he heard a series of crashes. A boulder then slammed into the shelf and teetered for a moment before falling off. There was a crack beneath his feet.

Dowland shoved Omega back into his belt and clung to the rock face. Another boulder plummeted down. On impact, it took the shelf with it. He pressed his face against the rock, not wanting to see the shelf hit the ground a hundred feet below. It struck with a heavy thud.

He looked up to see Carver standing on the edge looking down at him. Carver jumped back for a moment, but then reappeared.

“So you've been shot, I see. Interesting choice before you—hold on for your life or shoot me as you fall.” Carver stepped back. “Men, go fetch that barrel of powder and some rope. We've got a prairie dog to blast out.”

Dowland heard the men making their way through the burned trees down the mesa's slope. Carver's suggestion seemed a fitting end to this battle, and he studied the idea of pushing himself away from the cliff wall, pulling out Omega, and firing, all done rapidly enough to hit the sheriff, but the sound of someone coming back up the slope shifted his attention.

Carver heard the sound as well. He did not turn to look, but instead stood at the edge, staring down. “Here come my men,” he said smugly. “Have you decided?”

“Not your men,” a voice called out from the top of the dome. It was Morrison.

Carver tensed, then slumped forward, and fell.

This time Dowland watched the falling body's path to the bottom, and as he did so, his ears registered the shot.

“Can you climb up?” Morrison asked, now standing where the sheriff had been.

“I'll tell you when I've done it.” He inched his way up by lifting himself with his legs and steadying himself with his left hand and elbow. When he was high enough, Morrison reached down and helped him the rest of the way. “What about the sheriff's men?” Dowland asked once safely on the mesa.

“They saw me coming and ran.”

“And there's Carver, shot in the back and splayed out on the ground below us,” Dowland said.

“A fitting end,” Morrison replied.

“Perhaps, but at such a cost.”

“At least I can bury my wife in peace now, thanks to you, and my boy's safe.”

“Oh, yes, young Henry,” Dowland said as the two of them climbed the dome. “Take me to see my namesake.”

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