North of Laramie. William W. Johnstone

picked up his pace, fighting his horse to keep moving despite the stench of burnt flesh that hung heavy in the air. “Not a one. Think whoever did this took them?”

      “Most assuredly,” Hagen said, then called out. “Buck, one’s still alive! Keep an eye out for anything coming our way!”

      Trammel jerked his horse around to go back the way he had come. Even he knew a man on horseback was an inviting target. He didn’t want to make himself any easier to hit by riding around in a predictable circle.

      He saw Hagen cradle a man’s head in his hands. Trammel could see the bullet wounds in his legs and arms were still bleeding. His skin had been burned, but he managed to somehow move his hand as he talked into Hagen’s ear.

      That same hand trembled, its fingers becoming rigid, before they went limp. Hagen slowly lowered the man’s head back to the burnt ground and laid the dead man’s blackened hands across his chest. Trammel couldn’t swear to it, but he thought he heard the gambler praying.

      “Better get in here,” Hagen called out to him, “and bring the horses with you. Theys who did this hit the train only a few minutes ago and they’re still around.”

      Trammel changed direction again and doubled back the way he’d just ridden. “You sure about that? Maybe we should just get the hell out of here?”

      A rifle shot echoed as a bullet struck the ground about ten yards in front of Trammel’s horse.

      “You were saying?” Hagen said.

      Trammel rode his own horse through the narrow gap between two burnt wagons and ran to bring the rest of the animals into the makeshift fort. Sometimes, he hated it when Hagen was right.

      * * *

      Trammel tossed Hagen his Winchester and a box of cartridges from the pack mule. He took his own Winchester and coach shotgun from the saddle and laid them against a wagon on the other side of the circle. Hagen would guard the eastern side and Trammel would take the west. Since they had come from the south, he figured that side was clear.

      “How many are we looking at?” Trammel asked as he made sure there were two cartridges in the shotgun.

      “The dead man told me ten or so.” Hagen already had his Winchester at his shoulder, scanning the horizon for anything to shoot at. “Said they rode off when one of their lookouts spotted us. Five of them took the women in a wagon they’d brought with them. A couple stayed behind to scalp the survivors.”

      “Scalpers?” Trammel aimed the Winchester at a copse of trees in front of him. If an attack came, he figured it would come from there. “So it’s Indians, then.”

      “No,” Hagen said. “White men. That makes it worse.”

      Trammel gagged on the odor of charred death all around him. “Can’t see as how it could be any worse.”

      “Indians would most likely ride on after they got what they were after,” Hagen explained. “White men who’d do this will double back for our supplies, figuring there’s more to be had. That shot they took at you was to find their range, probably hoping they’d hit you or the horse and cut down the odds even further in their favor.”

      Trammel scanned the horizon nervously. “Maybe if we ride like hell, we could get clear of them.”

      “They’d only run us down on the trail eventually, probably before nightfall. And in open country no less. No, there’s a fight coming regardless, and I’d rather it happen here where we have cover.”