Luck's Wild. G. Russell Peterman

for more and more debris litters the trail. Finally, forced to wait for moonlight, they stop in the littered trail beside a discarded fancy old four-drawer dresser with a big brass bed frame leaning against it.

      “Some family's heirlooms,” Collin thinks aloud.

      Hansel whispers for sound travels easily in the dark. "Quiet. We’ll wait here for the moon." His hand pulls back on the reins, Cain stands still while Hansel dismounts. Collin joins his father. Waiting quietly they squat holding their mule's reins and Hansel trades his heavy shotgun for the lighter rifle.

      About an hour later the overcast sky brightens just enough so that they can see to twist and turn avoiding scattered debris. Through the dim night they hurry in that same trot and walk pace. When they have too, they stop to rest briefly and water the mules. Both are uneasy about carrying gold. The strain of trying to listen and trying to watch every direction at the same time grows heavier by the hour. About two in the morning, a light mist starts and slowly in an hour changes into a drizzle. A few minutes after three it changes to rain, gradually increases into a brief desert downpour, and distant lightning flashes. With the first sign of mist Gun barrels are capped and frizzens and pans leather-wrapped and checked. Then, the Dymonds ride northeast again hoping to keep their powder dry.

      Just before the hour of darkness before dawn, while the dim eastern sky slowly darkens, Hansel whispers. "There son!" and he points at a dark shadowy snake-like line in the sand ahead that has to be the Humbolt River.

      As his son's head turns so his eyes can follow his father’s point, a sudden downpour starts. It is falls like dumping water out of a boot. The dark line that is the Humbolt disappears. Collin starts to smile that they have made it across Forty Mile Desert as drumming hooves rush quickly at them out of the driving rain. "Pa," he shouts aloud but his father is already lifting his rifle high near his right cheek un-wrapping the hammer, frizzen, and pan and trying to keep that part of the weapon dry under his hat brim. Hansel’s rifle barrel points downward. Collin does that on the shotgun too as they both turn their mules a quarter turn left toward the rapidly growing sound. Rain beats against their faces. When his father lifts the rifle upward, yanks off the barrel-cap keeping the firing mechanism dry up under the brim of his hat, and waits barrel slightly down. Collin does too. From the front drumming sounds of hooves increases, suddenly yelling raiders, and both sounds pound against their ears. Two sets of eyes searched for shapes. For a long moment there is nothing. Suddenly in a blink of an eye, a new drumming of hooves to their left, four different closer rider-shapes burst up and out of the downpour in a line on their left side. Both men turn to point weapons and aim at this new loud pounding noise and four shadowy shapes. Suddenly, three dark closer riders on horses charge out of a fold in the ground on their right. Now, all three groups of riders pound leather straight at them. In the dark and rain the closes group appears to be the one to the right. Attackers on three sides gallop at them shouting. A loud first shot whines off a rock to Collin’s left, and it is quickly followed by a volley of a dozen shots from three directions.

      Hansel shouts, “Wait.”

      Suddenly, Able goes down and Collin kicks free, rolling, and hears his father’s rifle crack. A raider slide off his horse and standing Collin points the double barrels at the left closing group and touches off the left barrel with a boom. His eyes sees another dark shadow fly backward off a horse on the left, the horse turns away, and bumps into two other horses and riders. A tangle of riders and horses stops the left threat and Collin turns toward the front. In the middle of the noise he hears attackers curse. Collin hears his father reloading, pouring, ramrod tamping, and sees the barrel lifting.

      A voice in the tangle of attackers yells, "Get him Garwood."

      Quickly following the shout, a second shot flames and cracks from his father’s rifle and another dark shape on the right slides backward off his horse. Behind that shot, a second ragged volley of shots pound and buzz at them.

      As Collin lifts his shotgun to his shoulder to fire off the other barrel at the front group while his father reloads. The hammer clicks against the frizzen but nothing happens. It is a misfire from wet powder, he instantly knows. Even as Collin lowers the barrel to sweep the wet powder away and reload the frizzen pan with dry powder, his ears hears a loud grunt from his father. Collin knows his father has been hit; his finger points the barrel at the rider in the center of the line again wondering how badly his father’s hit. Collin’s finger pulls the trigger a second time and hears another click. Quickly, his lips blow the water away from the flint and frizzen as his fingers sweep soggy powder from the pan. The sodden mess is removed and dry powder dashed in the pan from a shake of his powder horn. His arms start to lift the shotgun to aim. Something slams into his body. Even as he hears his own grunt, his arms tries to lift the shotgun barrel, fails, and a streak of bright light flashes behind his eyes. Everything suddenly goes black.