Pemberley Ranch - Jack Caldwell [120]
Darcy sang out, “Look sharp, boys! They’re on the move! You see somebody or something, shoot it! Let’s send those sons-of-bitches to hell!”
A Rebel Yell arose from all those assembled—even the Bennets joined in. Darcy and his people bore down to face the final act of what folks in future times would call the Battle of Thompson Crossing.
PYKE AND COLLINS HAD recovered several horses and had placed them in a small corral near the chicken coop. Once the pair returned, Denny judged that it was time to begin getting the men into place, as the sunrise was almost upon them. Pyke was sent to tell the others to prepare to move in; Denny would arrive soon to begin the assault. Whitehead would be in charge of the distraction.
As Whitehead and Denny finalized their plans, Collins half rose from his hiding place, using one hand to block the morning light. “Mr. Whitehead, I think… yes! Someone’s coming! Look!” He pointed into the rising sun with his free hand.
“What?” Whitehead looked up but could see nothing. “Denny?”
The gunfighter had a better angle. “Four… no, five riders comin’ in hard.”
“About time,” Whitehead grumbled. “I told those fools to get over here once they got the papers back from Lucas.”
Denny frowned. “I thought ya sent two men.”
“I did—they must’ve gone back to the B&R for more.”
Denny watched as the men were almost upon them, trying to see who had come, and if they should join in the attack on the barn. All he could see were outlines. He flinched as his eyes caught a glint of light that flashed from the lead rider’s silver hatband…
A black hat with a silver hatband.
Instantly, Denny was scrambling to his feet, pulling at his Colt. Kid Denny was a quick dead shot—one of the few men who could confidently hit someone on horseback ten yards away with a handgun. And he was greased lightning on the draw.
Unfortunately for the gunfighter, the man before him was Richard Fitzwilliam on Jeb Stuart with a Winchester in his hand.
Faster than it took to describe it, Fitz pulled hard on the reins, yanking his faithful steed to his right, dropped his rifle on his upraised left arm, and snapped off a shot. Denny was knocked clear off his feet by the impact of the .44 caliber slug slamming into his chest, exploding his heart, causing his pistol shot to go wide. By the time the body hit the ground, Joshua “Kid” Denny was no more.
Whitehead was stunned at the rapid change of fortune. One moment he was on the verge of victory; now all his plans were as dead as Denny. He cowered in the shadow afforded by the wheelbarrow. Fitz was turning his head every which way, looking for foes. Whitehead was a decent shot, and he stood a chance of hitting Fitzwilliam should he try. But even if he was able to fell the Pemberley foreman, his companions were sure to enact their instant and deadly revenge upon him, and Whitehead had no desire to quit the world anytime soon.
The sound of gunfire caught Fitzwilliam’s attention. He pointed at the barn, yelling for his men to follow. The riders took off, firing upon the remnants of Denny’s gang. This was Whitehead’s chance; he reached over and seized a terrified Collins by the shirt.
“Come on, Billy, my lad. It’s time we made ourselves scarce.” Before Collins could utter a word, Whitehead was running hunched over towards the chicken coop, half-dragging the banker behind.
Will Darcy tried to disregard the growing despair in his belly as he raised his rifle. Sighting down the barrel, squinting in the sun, he noticed something familiar about the horse galloping over the ridge. He slowly tightened his finger on the trigger as he tried to recall. It seemed important.
At the instant, a man stood up from behind an overturned wheelbarrow. Darcy was so surprised he forgot about the horse; his attention instantly shifted to the moving figure, trying to determine