Dr. Allenby would never have believed that people would try to kill him, no matter how valuable the treasure he carried.
He'd dedicated his life to facing tough facts, though, and the shots echoing across the cold Montana badlands told him he and his companions were about to be murdered.
One rider was directly behind Allenby's wagon, with another on his left. So far they were only shooting into the air, but that was enough to spook both horses pulling the wagon, sending them out of control across the broken, rock-strewn ground. Pull as he might on the reins, the horses refused to slow. It was all Allenby could do to keep from being bounced off his seat as he futilely attempted to steer the beasts around the largest of the obstacles ahead.
The scout Allenby had hired, William Jones, had already proven himself useless. At the first sign of trouble, he'd quickly drawn his revolver--then fallen off his horse as it reared at the sound of gunfire.
Arthur Heath, the teacher sitting to Allenby's right, was yelping in fear, and a quick glance back into the wagon's uncovered bed revealed that the cook (named, inevitably, "Cookie,") was desperately trying to restrain their precious cargo. Cookie was succeeding, though, only in being thrown helplessly around the rickety prairie schooner's bed, as if he were himself cargo rather than a passenger.
Allenby saw the big boulder ahead, and pulled on the reins with all his strength.
To no effect. The left front wheel splintered. Allenby was tossed out of the wagon. He hit the ground and tumbled. The rushing hooves of one rider's horse almost bashed in his head. He looked up just in time to see Heath jump out of the wagon seconds before it flipped over. The boxes containing their cargo spilled across the hard winter landscape, some bursting open. Allenby raised himself up on hands and knees, but couldn't see what became of Cookie in the mishap.
The horses' energy seemed to be spent--it was too difficult for them to drag the wagon, now lying on its side. They calmed, shaking their heads and huffing.
One of the riders circled the wagon, pointing his gun at Heath, who struggled to his feet, tried to raise his hands, then fell back to the ground. Allenby couldn't spare a thought for the teacher, or for Cookie now, though--the other rider was reining in his horse just inches from him, throwing a shower of dust and rock into his face. Allenby covered his eyes with the back of one hand, his other hand quivering from exertion and fear.
To Allenby, this man was of a type he'd seen too often since coming to Montana from back east. Dirty, unshaven, far too enamored of the power of his revolver--hatred warred with fear as his dominant emotion.
The rider spoke in a husky growl that combined equal parts humor and contempt. "I reckon I don't hafta kill you, Doc. You think a bullet in both knees might get the idea across?"
When the expected shot came, though, it was from behind Allenby, and the rider dropped his gun and grabbed his shoulder, staring in disbelief at the blood flowing between his fingers. Had the scout Jones caught up with them?
He hadn't. It was an unfamiliar voice who shouted, "That'll be enough!" Allenby turned to see a tall grizzled man, fiftyish, who'd ridden up unnoticed. Though the newcomer wore no badge, Allenby felt he had the demeanor of a lawman--someone confident in his own abilities and in the force of the law to back him up.
The other rider was already showing his true mettle; he was hightailing it for the horizon, abandoning his partner. The newcomer addressed the wounded man. "You'd best be at his heels, friend. I'm of no mind to deal with a prisoner. Take this as a lesson well learned."
The wounded man spat through gritted teeth, grasped the reins with his good hand, and spurred his horse onward.
The newcomer dismounted. "You okay, mister?" he asked, taking Allenby's elbow and helping his to his feet.
"I'm not sure," Allenby said. "I've barely had a chance to give it a thought. Nothing serious, I believe. Just badly bruised." Allenby hoped, though, that no one noticed his knees still quaked and that he fought to keep his voice steady. Such violence! How dare those men try to harm them, possibly kill them, for the sake of science! He wished he'd been armed himself, had been able to see those men in his own gunsights--and those feelings disturbed him.
)
Paleontology in the Old West? The Ghost Horses was inspired by the real "bone hunters" who competed with one another in the 1880's. They would destroy magnificent finds of dinosaur bones rather than allow a competitor to make off with them. Dr. George Allenby finds himself in the middle of an old-fashionsed wild west shootout as he pursues his dream of discovery.
