Stranglehold

by William W. Johnstone

  “’Tis said that he has an army,” McGregor said. “Fifty men or more. Schofield’s Legion, they are calling themselves.”

  “Leftenant Colonel, I am without a deputy. I can nae stand up to an army of fifty men.”

  “Nor would I be for expecting such a thing,” McGregor said. Smiling, he put down the copy of Schofield’s Declaration. “That’s why I’ll be sending for help.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “’Tis someone we both know, ’n hold in the highest regard,” McGregor said without being any more specific.

  Chugwater

  Because Duff could remember having seen Otis at the loading pens in Cheyenne, they were able to establish by telegraph that his name was John Otis. The same telegram said there was good reason to believe that the two men with him were Martin Foley and Edgar Clemmons. They were wanted by the Laramie County sheriff for questioning in the murder of Emile Grant, a store proprietor.

  That information had come from a customer who had arrived just as the shooting took place and had hidden outside the store as the three men were leaving. He was positive as to Otis’s identification because he had once worked with him. He had seen the other two, but didn’t know them by name. He did, however, identify them by photos he was shown in the sheriff’s office.

  The three outlaws were buried in the Chugwater cemetery, the expenses of their burial borne by the county.

  Judge Marshal Craig conducted the hearing related to the shooting that had taken place a week earlier. Because there was neither courthouse nor government building of any kind, the hearing was held in Fiddler’s Green.

  Abner Kilmer, a cowboy from an adjacent ranch, was the first witness. “I was in the Wild Hog, ’n seen them three fellers come in. I hadn’t never seen none of ’em before, so bein’ as I was some curious, I kinda kept an eye on ’em. Two of ’em got to talkin’ and carryin’ on with Jill ’n Cassie, but the other ’n didn’t do nothin’ but stand in front ’n look outside. Then he seen somethin’, ’n he called out for the other two, ’n all three of ’em left.”

  “Mr. Kilmer, are you able to tell the court what the man saw?” Lee Hicks was from the Laramie County prosecutor’s office.

  “Yeah, I know what it is he seen, ’cause I looked out the winder to see what it was. It was Mr. MacCallister ’n Mr. Gleason, the two of ’em ridin’ into town at the time.”

  “Did he make any comment that might be germane to this hearing?” Hicks asked.

  “Did he do what?”

  “Did Otis or either of the others make any comment that you can remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Kilmer smiled, showing two missing teeth in front. “He said, ‘We ain’t goin’ to let the son of a bitch get away from us this time.’ That’s what Otis said.”

  “He didn’t call him by name?”

  “No, sir, he called him a son of a bitch.” Kilmer glanced quickly toward Duff. “Mr. MacCallister, I don’t mean nothin’ by that, exceptin’ that’s what Otis called you. I don’t think you’re a son of a bitch at all. I think you’re a good man.”

  Those present for the hearing laughed.

  Duff did as well. “I appreciate that, Mr. Kilmer.”

  “You may step down, Mr. Kilmer,” Judge Craig said.

  All four eyewitnesses to the shooting testified that when the three men confronted Duff they already had pistols in their hands.

  Duff was the last to testify, and he told how he had been accosted by the three men as he was coming back from Cheyenne. “I disarmed them, and thought that would be the end of it. I must say that ’twas quite a surprise to me when I saw them again.”

  The result of the hearing, to no one’s surprise, was that the shooting was ruled justifiable homicide by reason of self-defense.

  * * *

  Three days after the hearing, Duff MacCallister was standing out in the backyard of his house, drinking coffee and looking at the work being done on one of his wagons. The rear of the wagon was up on stands with the back axle and both wheels removed.

  Elmer Gleason was sitting on the ground with one of the wheels on his lap. “The boys did a good job with them. I’ve inspected every spoke ’n they’re all good ’n tight.”

  “Then you’re sayin’ that we’ll not be having a breakdown with this wagon as we did with the other one?” Duff asked.

  “Duff, you could drive this wagon from here to St. Louis without the slightest bit of worry.”

  “’N would you be for tellin’ me Elmer, my good man, why I would be wanting to go to St. Louis?”

  “Why go to St. Louis? Why, there’s a brewery in just about every block in town, and each one makes a better beer than the other one,” Elmer replied.

  Duff laughed. “I don’t think ’tis possible for each brewery to make a better beer than the other one.”

  “Then you ain’t never been to St. Louis ’n tasted any of the beer, on account of ever’ beer you drink is better than the other beer, ’n that don’t matter none whichever beer it is that you drink,” Elmer said, failing to catch the meaning of Duff’s comment.

  “Perhaps not,” Duff replied with a little laugh.

  “Here comes Wang Chow,” Elmer said, looking up as Wang passed through the gate. “You have to wonder just what kind of trouble that heathen Chinaman has got hisself into, him bein’ gone so long today. More ’n likely he’s been down at Lee Fong’s Chinese Restaurant makin’ eyes at Mai Lin, instead of pickin’ up the new bearings.” Elmer was speaking in fun, as he and Wang Chow were actually very good friends.

  Wang dismounted, then handed two sacks to Elmer, one of paper and one of cloth.

  “I figure the bearings are in the cloth bag, but what’s in the paper bag?” Elmer asked.

  “Mai Lin asked that I bring you some spring rolls. I don’t know why she did this, unless she finds it pleasing to look upon the face of an ugly old man.”

  Elmer laughed. “I’ll be. You are jealous ain’t you? Here, you spend all your time with that pretty little China girl, ’n it’s me she thinks is the good-lookin’ one.”

  Wang removed an envelope from his saddlebag and held it out toward Duff. “I stopped at the post office as you asked, and there is a letter for you.”

  “Thank you, Wang.” Duff took the envelope and examined the return address. “Well, I’ll be,” he said in surprise.

  “What is it?” Elmer asked.

  “’Tis a letter from m’ past, it is.”

  “Trouble, are you thinkin’?” Elmer asked.

  “I’ll nae be knowin’ till I read it,” Duff said as he opened the envelope and removed the letter.

  My dear Captain MacCallister,

  Learning that you, like I, had migrated to this magnificent country of the United States, I began to follow your exploits with the great pride of one in whose command you once served.

  An unfortunate set of circumstances leads me to step out of the position of admiring observer and again interject myself into your life. As I once depended upon you in battle, I find that I am again in need of your help. I would not ask this of you were circumstances not so dire.

  Should you be ready to render such service to an old friend and colleague in arms, you’ll find me in the wee township of Antelope Wells, New Mexico. This borough ’tis in the extreme southwest part of the territory of New Mexico, a part that, like the heel of a boot, projects south into Mexico. And ’tis that, and the machinations of an evil rogue by the name of Ebenezer Schofield, which has brought great trouble upon every citizen of the town.

  You’ll nae have difficulty in locating me, for ’tis the mayor of the village I am.

  Yours, once in service to the Queen

  Charles McGregor

  “Lads, would either of ye be knowin’ anything about New Mexico?” Duff asked.

  “I spent some time in New Mexico,” Elmer said.

  Duff laughed. “’N would ye be for telling me, Elmer, if there be any place ye haven’t been?”

  “I ain’t never been to
New York,” Elmer said. “But I have been to New Mexico.”

  “’N would ye have spent any o’ that time down in the southwest part o’ the territory?”

  Elmer shook his head. “I’m afraid not. My time was mostly in the central part, in Lincoln County. I got caught up in a little fracas there. Tell me, Duff, why are you interested in New Mexico? There ain’t hardly nothin’ there but sand ’n cactus, coyotes ’n mountains, ’n damn little water.”

  “I have a friend who is in a wee bit o’ trouble down there, and ’tis my help he’s asking for.”

  “Is it somebody I know?” Elmer asked.

  “Nae, ’tis a man I was in the army with, my old commander, Leftenant Colonel Charles McGregor. No finer soldier ever served the Queen.”

  “And he’s askin’ you to come near a thousand miles to help him?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is he a man of honor?” Wang Chow asked.

  “Aye, he is one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known.”

  “Then you must do what honor demands,” Wang Chow answered.

  “’Tis my thinking as well.”

  “I see no reason why we can’t leave on tomorrow’s train,” Elmer said.

  “’Tis my obligation to an old friend ’n commander,” Duff said. “I cannae in good conscience ask the two of ye to come with me, for who knows what may lie ahead?”

  “That’s a hell of thing for you to say to us, Duff,” Elmer said. “Most especially seein’ as we was just talkin’ ’bout honor ’n all. If you’re goin’ down to New Mexico, me ’n Wang is goin’ with you. Besides, like I said, I been down there before, ’n the last time there was near ’bout as much shootin’ goin’ on, as I seen durin’ the war.

  “The onliest way me ‘n Wang won’t be a-goin’ is if you’re just so selfish that you don’t want nothin’ to do with us.”

  Duff laughed. “Well now, Elmer, since ye’ve made such an elegant and tender supplication to be included, I would nae be a friend if I turned you down, would I? It will be an honor to have the two of ye make the journey with me.”

  The three men worked hard to get the wagon ready and put everything in shape so that Sky Meadow could be left in the care of the ranch hands without worry.

  Chapter Four

  Antelope Wells

  George Gilmore was the only lawyer in the town, and C. D. Matthews owned the Bank of Antelope Wells. Because of the positions they held, they were two of the leading citizens of the town. At the moment, the two men were in Mayor McGregor’s office.

  “Sixty-four men! Sixty-four killed in Hachita. Fifty-one of them buried alive!” Matthews said.

  “Aye, ’twas indeed a tragedy,” McGregor agreed.

  “What are we going to do about this? You don’t really think Schofield is going to stop with Hachita, do you?” Gilmore asked, holding up one of the Declarations of Autonomy. “If he has no intention of going any further why would he issue such a document as this?”

  “I admit that ’tis a thing of some concern,” McGregor said. “But unlike Hachita, we have no silver mine. There is little here, I think, that would entice such a man.”

  “We are the biggest town in all the Bootheel, and we are right on the Mexican border,” Matthews said. “If this person really does have the grandiose idea of forming a new country, it would be of paramount importance to him to control the gateway city to another country.”

  “Aye, there may be something to what ye say,” McGregor said. “But I dinnae see this as an immediate worry.”

  “And so you plan to do nothing?” Gilmore asked.

  “Oh, now, I dinnae say that. As a matter of fact I’ve already sent a letter to someone I trust to come take a hand in our situation. He is a man of proven and rather remarkable abilities.”

  “One man?” Matthews asked. “From what we have learned, this man Schofield has a veritable army, and you are putting the faith of our entire town in the hands of one man?”

  “He is a man in whom I have absolute confidence,” McGregor said.

  “Do you think he will respond to your request?” Gilmore asked.

  “Aye, I’ve nae doubt but that he will.”

  “All right. Let’s hope that he does, and let’s hope that he is all that you say he is,” Gilmore said. “But C.D. and I have discussed this situation and we’ve come up with an idea that might be the solution to our problem. That is, if you are amenable to a suggestion.”

  “Of course, I’m open to any suggestion,” McGregor said.

  “We think you should ask the army to send troops down here to help us,” Gilmore said.

  “If the army comes, we won’t be needing this man you have sent for,” Matthews said.

  “Perhaps that is so, but ye’ve nae objections to him coming, do ye?”

  “No, none at all,” Matthews replied. “To be honest with you, Mayor, I think we might soon find ourselves in a situation where we would welcome any help we can get, whether it’s the army or your friend. By the way, what’s your friend’s name?”

  “MacCallister. Duff MacCallister.”

  “MacCallister? Would this be the man who broke up the Kingdom Come Gang in Texas?” Gilmore asked.

  McGregor smiled. “Aye, ’tis the same man.”

  Gilmore nodded. “Well, if it’s the same MacCallister, I agree that it would be good to have him here.”

  “The Kingdom Come Gang? I’ve never heard of them,” Matthews said.

  “It was a group of murdering outlaws led by a man named Jaco,” Gilmore said. “I was a lawyer in the small Texas town of Runnels when Jaco and his gang came through, murdering people and burning buildings. This man, Duff MacCallister, broke up the gang. He would be a good man to have with us, that’s for sure.”

  Matthews sighed. “Well, if we’re going to be putting all our hope in him, I’m glad he’s as good as you say.”

  Chugwater

  On the evening before Duff, Elmer, and Wang were to leave for New Mexico, they crossed the creek Chugwater was named for and rode into the town on which it was built to say good-bye to people who were particularly important to them.

  In Duff’s case, that was Meagan Parker. She owned Meagan’s Dress Emporium, and because she was not only an excellent seamstress but a good businesswoman, her business was one of the most successful commercial establishments in town.

  In the early days of building his ranch, when Duff needed a loan, Meagan had talked him into letting her buy an interest in the herd. As a result, she continued her position and since that time, continued to own some of the cattle on Sky Meadow.

  In addition to their business connection, Duff and Meagan were, as the wags of the town liked to say, “keeping company,” and were so often diners at the City Café that the proprietor, Kathy Nelson, had a table on permanent reserve for them. Over dinner that evening Duff showed Meagan the letter he had received from Charles McGregor.

  “Charles McGregor,” Meagan said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you speak of him.”

  “Leftenant Colonel Sir Charles McGregor, Baron by Writ of Summons from Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and, during the Battle of Amoaful, my battalion commander.”

  “You’re going to help him,” Meagan said. It wasn’t a question. It was a declarative statement.

  “Aye, for I cannae refuse such a request from an old friend, and a brother in arms. ’Twas Wang who pointed out the need to be true to honor, though I needed no reminder from him. By the way, as it turns out, Leftenant Colonel Charles McGregor is also a writer.”

  “A writer? What kind of writer?” Meagan asked, perking up at the announcement.

  “He is a novelist, and quite good, I’m told. At least Charles Dickens seemed to think so.”

  “Oh, how interesting.”

  “I have two of his books if ye would like to read them.”

  “Oh, yes, I would very much like to. What is this battle you mentioned, that you and you friend fought? The battle of . . . ?”

  “Amoaful,” Du
ff answered. “’Tis a wee village in West Africa.”

  Meagan reached across the table and put her hand on Duff’s arm. “Tell me about the battle. I know that you fought battles in places that I never heard of, but you very rarely ever talk about them. Perhaps if you would speak of this particular battle I would have a better understanding of why you feel such an obligation to go to the aid of this man who was once your commanding officer.”

  “All right.” Though Duff had become an avid coffee drinker since arriving in America, he still enjoyed tea, and he finished his cup before he began the story.

  “The battle happened in January of 1874, and with the music of the pipes playing, the 42nd Foot of the Black Watch led the way into the village. We were under fire for the whole way from the Ashanti defenders.”

  As Duff told the story, he told it with such intensity and imagery that Meagan could almost believe that she was there, witnessing the battle, rather than just hearing about it.

  It was many years ago, but Duff remembered it like it was yesterday.

  Reaching the village, the battalion commanded by Leftenant Colonel Sir Charles McGregor formed a square.

  “Captain MacCallister!” McGregor called.

  “Aye, sir?”

  McGregor pointed to a group of small huts built of bamboo and straw. “We cannae advance farther until the heathens are driven from their stronghold there, ’n musketry alone will nae do the trick. Have ye’ any ideas?”

  “Perhaps a bayonet charge will dislodge them,” Duff MacCallister offered.

  “Aye, lad, that’s an excellent recommendation, ’n ’twas hoping I was, that ye would have a suggestion as to how we might deal with this wee problem,” McGregor replied.

  “I’ll form the company.”

  “Ye are nae going to lead the charge yourself, are ye?”