Chapter 5 - BLOOD ON THE RIDGEThe attack came at dawn, just as the first pale sliver of sunlight pierced the grey mist over the eastern peaks.
The sharp, sudden crack of a rifle shot shattered the morning silence. A lead ball smashed through the pine shutter of the cabin, showering wood splinters across the wooden floor.
“Get down!” James roared, instantly shoving Priscilla behind the heavy oak dining table he had overturned against the front wall.
He was already moving, grabbing the Sharps rifle, racking a heavy cartridge into the chamber with a crisp, metallic snap. He kicked open the heavy oak door just enough to use the heavy frame as cover.
Outside, shadowy figures were moving through the fog among the pine trees. Four men, spread out in a ragged skirmish line, advancing up the slope. Leading them was Arthur Pendleton, holding a revolver in one hand and shouting encouragement to the hired thugs.
“Cartwright!” Pendleton yelled from behind the trunk of a massive spruce. “Give up the girl and nobody else has to die! The sheriff is two hours behind us with a warrant! You can’t fight the whole territory!”
James didn't waste breath shouting back.
He sighted down the long barrel of the buffalo rifle, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger. The deafening roar of the Sharps shook the cabin walls. Across the clearing, the spruce tree bark exploded in a shower of white splinters, and one of Pendleton’s hired guns dropped his carbine with a curse, clutching a shattered shoulder.
“Covering fire!” Pendleton shrieked, panic cracking his smooth veneer. “Flush him out!”
Bullets began hammering into the logs of the cabin. Chunks of wood flew through the air. A ricochet whined past Priscilla’s ear, sticking deep into the back wall.
Priscilla didn't freeze. Remembering her training over the last week, she scrambled to the box of ammunition on the floor, grabbed a handful of paper-wrapped cartridges, and slid them across the planks to James as he worked the lever of his rifle with terrifying efficiency.
“How many?” she shouted over the din of gunfire.
“Four!” James fired again, kicking up dirt and snow at the feet of another gunman scrambling behind a rock. “They think they can take what isn't theirs!”
Suddenly, one of the thugs broke cover to the left, sprinting low through the brush toward the side of the cabin, carrying a small tin can of coal oil and a burning rag. If he reached the dry shingles of the roof, the whole cabin would go up in flames within minutes.
Priscilla didn't hesitate. She lunged for the spare pistol James had laid on the workbench—a heavy Colt Navy revolver she had helped clean the night before.
She dropped to one knee, pushing the heavy oak shutter wider with her left hand, exposing herself to the freezing morning air. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Don't think about the saloon. Don't think about Jebediah. Just aim.
She raised the heavy iron barrel, lined the front sight up against the running figure’s chest, and squeezed the trigger.
The recoil slammed into her shoulder with a bone-rattling kick that nearly knocked her off balance. The deafening blast filled her ears with the smell of sulfur and burnt powder.
Ten yards away, the gunman dropped the tin of coal oil, spun half around in the snow, and collapsed into a drift, clutching his thigh with a sharp cry of pain.
James glanced back, a flash of pure astonishment and fierce, blazing pride cutting across his scarred face.
“Hell of a shot,” he barked over the gunfire.
He turned back to the tree line, leveled his rifle one last time, and fired directly over Pendleton’s head, bringing down a massive pine bough that crashed down directly in front of the saloon keeper’s boots.
“Tell the sheriff to bring a bigger army next time!” James roared, his voice echoing off the canyon walls like thunder.
Pendleton looked at his wounded man, looked at the burning oil tin sizzling out in the snow, and looked at the cold, immovable death staring down the barrel of James’s rifle.
“Fall back!” Pendleton screamed, his voice cracking with terror. “Fall back, damn you!”
May you like
Within seconds, the attackers were scrambling backward down the switchback trail, half-carrying their wounded companion, disappearing into the grey mists of the lower timberline as fast as their boots could carry them.
Silence descended upon Whispering Ridge once more—a silence broken only by the crackle of melting snow and the heavy, ragged breathing of the two people standing over the empty clearing.
