Ralph Compton Rusted Tin by Ralph Compton

Author:Ralph Compton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2010-07-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Sam had worked a lot faster than Wolpert had expected, gathering several locals from stores near the bank or the street who’d witnessed the robbery. The entire group converged upon the Third Street Hotel like a mob and assaulted the sheriff with their accounts of the day’s events. After hearing their frenzied reports, Wolpert could delay no longer. He pulled on his coat and hat, collected his horse from the small stable next to the hotel and rode out of town.

Every story but one said the robbers had headed west while making their getaway. The one account of the robbers riding north was either a mistake or a lie, because Wolpert had told Juan to lead the other two westward. A few of the more enterprising locals volunteered to ride along with him, but Wolpert refused on account of it being too dangerous. On his way out of town, he took several glances over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

Fortunately, those volunteers weren’t as tenacious as he’d feared.

If Juan led the others to the proper spot, Wolpert figured he should catch up to them in under an hour. Then again, judging by the gunshots that popped in the distance, he might catch up a lot quicker than he’d planned. Wolpert snapped his reins and leaned down low over his horse’s back. The gelding tore across the landscape with a vengeance after having been cooped up in town. Even the staccato crackle of gunshots wasn’t enough to slow him down.

Knowing the terrain well enough to navigate the uneven slopes, Wolpert rode beside a little creek that trickled toward Chimney Lake. His horse’s steps thumped against the cold, packed dirt with more than enough force to send jagged cracks through the layers of ice on top of the water. When he caught sight of smoke hanging in the air like mud smeared upon a chilled windowpane, the sheriff steered his horse in that direction, cleared the creek in one jump and tapped his heels against the animal’s sides.

In no time at all, he closed in on the source of the gunshots. There was a small cabin near a thin stream, its warped, neglected walls sagging beneath the weight of a partially collapsed roof. From a distance, Wolpert could see three horses clustered near the back of the cabin. As more shots were fired, he traced the puffs of smoke to two sources. The men were shooting at the cabin from different angles. One had sought refuge behind a stand of trees and the other was lying on his belly in the snow. As Wolpert drew closer, the man in the trees fired a shot over his head.

“Do that again, Mike, and I’ll return fire!” Wolpert shouted.

The man on his belly rolled onto his side to get a better look at the approaching horse. “That you, Sheriff?”

“It is. Mind telling me what the hell you’re shooting at?”

Mike was a tall, lean man in his late twenties with a face that was hardened by a combination of scar tissue and harsh prairie sun.

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