“That’s right, yes sir,” repeated Boles. “They knocked us down and peed on us and said we had to take it cuz of you, sir. they said you was gonna be dead soon anyway and so we got out of there afore it got worse, yes sir.”
Porter frowned at them.
Zeke piped up. “We got the wagon, team, and almost all the whiskey back for you though. They took the wagon only as far as Stoney’s place and they all were carousing and drinking and smoking in there.”
Porter raised his eyebrows in surprise. That the two near-do-wells even had the guts to follow the thieves and find out where they had taken the team was a pleasant surprise.
“We followed them to a big tent where the nine of ‘em were drinking. Stoney himself was sitting on a big chair, smoking his cigar. He was holding some strange copper thing in his hands. It reminded me of a lady’s fan, but I ain’t never seen a fan like that before.”
“Me neither, yes sir,” added Boles. “Never seen anything like it.”
The mention of the golden fan caught Porter’s interest. “How big would you say it was? And how big around did the pieces look?”
Zeke scratched at his neck. “I guess about yea big.” He held his hands out in a size eerily reminiscent of the size of the book when Porter had swung it open on its access point. Zeke continued, “And it looked like it was so big around it was almost a circle.”
Porter nodded. Pieces were coming together. “Go on,” he urged.
“Well we had a plan of sorts. We first went and got some gloves from Carlyle’s, and then we got some poison oak and smeared it all over their saddles and reins and threw a clump of it among their gear on the outside of the tent. Didn’t know if any of that would work, but figured it was worth a shot. Just to put some hurt on them after what they done, kicking mud in our eyes.”
“And peeing on us, yes sir,” added Boles.
“Yeah, that was most unpleasant,” griped Zeke.
“Yes sir,” broke in Boles, “then we wanted to make them mad and chase us, so we went and stood our front of their tent where they could see us at the edge of the firelight.”
Porter asked, “Didn’t you think they would shoot you?”
“Yes sir, there was a good chance of that, but we wanted to fool ‘em into thinking they could just beat us again instead.”
Porter raised his brows, utterly surprised at their bold inventiveness.
“So, we had pulled a rope real tight across the way at shin level, and then standing outside of that in the dark, we came up to their tent and started singing and carrying on ourselves.”
“Yep, we sang about Stoney his self. We sang a song we made up on the spot, calling it about ‘Stoner the Boner’, and we did a dance and stuck our bare asses out at them.”
Boles laughed. “Yes sir. And they made like they were going to charge us and I remember Cleve said that he would fornicate us to death, but then Stoney, he held ‘em back a moment and let us continue doing our song a minute longer, it was downright uncomfortable it dragging on like that. We didn’t expect him to let us finish. He was just a staring at us all cold-like. That was the part that started to scared me the most, but then he finally puffed on his cigar again and says, ‘Get ‘em!’”
Porter looked at the two of them, and after a spell of silence, he asked exasperatedly, “And?”
“We ran! We ran like hell, thinking they was gonna kill us. I tell you I never ran so hard in my life. They run out and tripped on the rope we waylaid them with and then some went to get the horses and got the poison oak all over their hands and arms. And funny thing is, we got mixed up and thought we were heading to the right place, we thought we would hide out at the Halfway House but then when we got there, we realized things only looked familiar, but we was backwards we weren’t at the Halfway House at all, we went to the wrong building all the way across the range. It was even white-washed the same and had a well dug out front that matched, so we were fooled in our panic.”
“Saved our backsides, I tell you what, because the way we meant to come well they thought they were heading us off up by the crossroads, but our mistake saved our skins. So, we back trailed away from them, then waited till almost morning and then took our sweet time being extra careful sneaking past the whole of Buckeye Flats to get here soon as we could.”
“But you lost the pack and team?”
“Yes sir,” said Boles. “But only for a few hours on account of they was gonna kill us.”
“We double-backed an hour or two later when they was still out hunting all over for us in the dark. So, we got the pack and team and most all of the whiskey. They only unloaded and drank a couple cases.”
“Cases?”
“Sorry boss, take it out of my pay.”
Porter shook his head. “Naw, you got the team and wagon back and that’s something. I shot half of his other boys yesterday and now it looks like I’m gonna have to clean house on what’s left.”
“What are we gonna do?”
“How many are there?” asked Porter.
Zeke and Boles counted between each other, naming off the gang as they knew them. “Well there’s Stoney his self, Cleve his second, Donaldson, Harry Reed, Glasgow Red, Spicer, the Tartar, Arch, and one more, Leeds I think.”
“It’s Leeds,” affirmed Boles. “He’s got horrible teeth. Big snaggly things like a boar.”
“So, nine total?” asked Porter.
“Yes, sir,” said Boles.
Porter took the shotgun from the table and handed it to Boles. “We are gonna stay vigilant and put some lead into them soon as we see ‘em.”
Zeke looked over his shoulder worriedly. “But they might come here after dark.”
Porter nodded. “I expect they will if we stay put and just let them come.”
“But a tent ain’t no place to be stopping lead.”
“I didn’t say we were gonna wait for them polecats. I only said we would put some lead into them. Now let’s get ready to go find them. This war is gonna have to end fast before it gets too bloody for our side.”
Boles nodded. “Well, that’s a plan then ain’t it? Yes, sir.”
Lead is the Hungriest Metal
Porter made sure someone kept an eye open out front while the rest of them prepared for war. It would be a small enough war numerically, but deadly serious to everyone involved. Porter cursed himself that he had ignored the trouble with the Mountain Hounds gang this long. There hadn’t been anyone else willing to put their life on the line against those desperadoes and he should have known it would come down to him. They had pushed their weight around at the mining camps long enough.
Porter loaded multiple cylinders and put them into several different pockets in his vest, jacket, and pants. He then took a spade and went and dug not twenty feet away out back. It wasn’t deep, and Mary wondered at what he was doing.
“Are you digging a grave before you kill them?”
Porter chuckled. “Naw, a couple weeks before you came here to work I had buried this as a safety net.”
“Money?”
“No, something better for the pickle we’re in.”
His spade struck something solid and he cleared away the earth on one side, then prying the shovel beneath it, he levered and brought the edge of the trunk up. He then grasped a leather handle on one side and pulled. It was stuck. He wedged the shovel in again and despite the grime, won the box free. He tore off a deerskin that had been placed over the whole of it and then unlatched it.
Inside, he had back up ammunition and arms. There was another pair of pistols, numerous knives, a tomahawk, several black powder tins, three Sharps rifles and a whole lotta lead. “I’m just glad that greasy deerskin kept everything dry. I was a little worried.”
Bloody Creek Mary nodded in satisfaction at the buried armory. “Do I get one?”
“Sure, you do. But being as you don’t have a lot of skill shooting yet, I suggest you keep the scattergun and plenty of shells. But I can sure teach you how to load and shoot
one of these, too.” He handed her one of the Sharps rifles.
Jack said, “I was wondering where you had those.”
“I was saving them for a rainy day,” said Porter.
“Looks like rain now,” admitted Jack.
“The boys about ready?”
“Ready as they’ll ever be, I reckon. They ain’t never gone to a fight like this.”
“Few folks have second chances. If they want to bail out, they’re free to, but they ought to know their skins won’t be worth spit if we fail.”
Zeke and Boles came around the corner. “We’re with you.”
Bloody Creek Mary nodded, a smile almost showing on her stoic face as she handled the Sharps.
“Then let’s take this score to their house instead of ours,” said Porter. “Time to go Dawg.”
Dawg leapt up, waggling his butt like he still had a tail.
Dusk wasn’t far away, and they thundered down the road. It wouldn’t be too far a ride for good horses between there and Coloma and Stoney’s hideaway.
The road wound around the hills and through thick pines where sunlight dashed against them making tiger stripes on the forest floor.
They rounded a bend and came head on against a like-minded group of riders. Stoney’s men, the Mountain Hounds.
When a hard rain falls, who was hit with the first drop? Impossible to say, but the thunder certainly sounded. Pistols and rifles were drawn and fired. Horses and men screamed as they careened together, an avalanche of flesh and lead.
They were so close that as each party rode into one another, the lines merged making it near impossible to tell in that first moment who was who.
Stoney flew past him. Porter drew his pistol and fired hoping to hit the lead robber but instead got one of Stoney’s men, Arch, who took the bullet in the chest and head, and fell from his horse with a terrible cry upon his lips. Porter drew back on his reins and narrowly avoided getting shot from behind by a long mustachioed man called the Tartar.
Mary hit the Tartar and his horse equally with the blast from her shotgun. The horse reeled over, knocking the Tartar from the saddle. She dismounted and ran for cover in the trees along the steep side of the road as several of the Mountain Hounds drew guns, and one or two shot at her.
Someone ran into Jack’s horse and he was thrown to the ground. His opponent tried to trample him, but Jack shot the horse. Man and beast tumbled down together.
Zeke and Boles had been riding a little farther behind the other three and were thusly in a better position to stop and fire at their antagonists.
Dawg wasted no time in recognizing the scent of his enemies, tearing a man from the saddle, then going after a second.
The man on the ground, Glasgow Red, was dazed, but hatred burned in his eyes and he drew a gun to shoot the dog.
Porter ended his plans with a well-placed shot between the eyes.
The Tartar was wounded but not nearly so bad as he looked, he reared up and lunged at Porter with a long Khyber knife. Reloading, Porter gave the long mustachioed man his boot.
Knocked back, the Tartar wiped blood from his nose and mouth and cried out, charging again with his blade held high for a killing stroke.
Porter leaned hard on the saddle just as his horse jerked away from the oncoming attack. He was flung to the ground and his horse galloped away. Nearly breathless, Porter lay on his back like a turtle under the blazing sun.
The Tartar screamed and slammed his blade at Porter’s head burying it in the hard-packed ground a hairsbreadth from Porter’s neck.
Porter dodged away and kicked, fumbling to get his cylinder to seat properly in his dragoon. The Tartar came again with his flashing blade. The cylinder sat and Porter cocked the hammer, letting it rain flame and flying death across the Tartar’s frame.
The snarling white dog in their midst made several of the Mountain Hounds horses panic and throw their riders along with the crazed fury of black powder and lead.
Stoney wheeled his horse about to face Porter but glanced at the foes behind him. He dismounted and stepped to the low side of the road for cover amongst the trees. He fired at the two men farther away before turning back to look for Porter.
“I’ll kill you, Brown!” cried Stoney.
Mary took a shot at him but missed.
Porter shot a man before him and the other leapt from his horse to gain cover from the beasts, but Dawg had other ideas.
A bullet whizzed angrily past Porter’s head like a wasp. It came from Stoney, not more than fifty paces away, nestled beside a thick pine. He fired at Stoney, but the big man ducked back into the thick brush.
Mary hit a snaggle-toothed man in the leg, he cried out and fell from his horse.
Zeke and Boles took careful aim, both shooting at Stoney who they recognized as the architect of their woes. But as he had for Porter, Stoney vanished back into the greenery.
Jack found himself face to face with the snaggle-toothed Leeds, both men had been thrown from their horses and were wrestling with pistols drawn. The snaggle-toothed man fired several times towards Jack’s head, but his aim was off, hitting the dirt next to Jack. A ricochet from the ground wrenched into Jack’s shoulder. But the gun firing beside his head seemed worse. The explosion of black powder beside his ear made Jack scream in pain until he was deaf, but he never ceased his grip with the foe. He wrenched the man over and finally struck him in the mouth with the butt of his own gun, ending the struggle.
Cleve, the second in command to Stoney, was the last of the Mountain Hounds still on his horse. He fired wildly and tried to break from the close melee and gain a new position.
Mary shot at him with the Sharps but missed.
Cleve charged headlong toward Zeke and Boles, and still firing, struck Zeke square in the chest. The bullet ripped out his back.
Zeke looked confused as a wash of bubbling crimson ran down his chest. “Hey. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” He pitched over on his face, dead.
Boles stood fast and fired within only a few feet but missed his quarry, who fired back and got him in the shoulder. Boles cried out in pain, dropped his gun, and scrambled to escape, crawling on his hands and knees back behind a pine.
Emboldened by his killer success even though his pistol was out of ammunition, Cleve kicked his horse after Boles, urging the stallion to trample the little man who crawled fast like a dog around the tree, crying out for help.
Reed had been pulled from the saddle by Dawg and knocked senseless for a moment. That had saved his life as Dawg paid him no more attention once he no longer struggled. Once he awoke, he was shooting again, though without any degree of accuracy.
Porter finished Reed with a well-placed shot, then focused back on Stoney and Cleve far back toward Boles and Zeke.
“They killed Zeke,” shouted Mary, as she took another shot, but missed again. “I’ll use my knife!” she cried as she ran toward Cleve with her bowie knife.
Cleve was well aware of Mary’s bloody reputation with a knife, she had killed at least four mestizos with it. He quickly reloaded a cylinder in his own gun.
Stoney sprang from his cover and shot at Mary, and she narrowly dodged away, taking cover on the other side of the road once more.
Cleve took a moment from pursuing Boles and shot back toward Mary, making her dive behind another tree for cover.
Spicer had been another victim of Dawg, and though he had a bloody leg, his falling horse had chased the animal away and left him to recover his wits and get back in the fight. He shot at Porter, forcing him to dismount and take cover beside a fallen horse. Behind him, a panicked horse whinnied and ran back toward Coloma.
Porter tried to get a bead on the man but was unable. Dawg, however, remembered his foe and crept up from behind and took care of Spicer by the jugular.
Cleve renewed his interest in killing Boles and charged after the man who had run away twenty paces to another tree before tripping in the underbrush and tumbling to the ground.
Boles got up
in a panic. His shoulder wound had already soaked half of his shirt with blood. He tried to escape in another direction, hiding beside a thick pine that had most of its lower branches sheared off, but Cleve rode around the other way cutting him off with a devilish grin.
“Time to die, Bart,” said Cleve with terrible finality as he brought his pistol to bear and fired. Bark exploded from the tree just a few inches from Boles face. “I’m gonna piss on you again when you’re dead.”
“No, sir!” said Boles, though it came out more like a shriek. “I’ll piss on you! You fine haired sons of bitches!”
Cleve shot but missed as Boles ducked away. Cleve urged his horse on after the small man.
Boles jumped back the opposite way and Cleve wheeled his horse about, intent on killing the seemingly helpless foe. As Cleve reined hard to the left, his horse reared against the soft ground and sent Cleve’s chest into a broken branch. The jagged end sheared right through his ribcage and Cleve was snagged from off his horse’s back. Pinned to the tree, the branch pierced his lung. He hung there with his boots kicking at empty air, surely the longest three seconds of his life, until the dry branch snapped, and he hit the ground, drowning in his own blood-filled lung.
If there was any life left in Cleve at that point, Boles kicked it out of him. Then Boles kept his word and dropped his trousers to give the dying man an inglorious taste of urine. “Yes sir, you tell them Black Bart Boles sent you to hell with a mouthful of piss!”
Porter glanced at Jack. “You all right?”
“What?” called Jack. “I can’t hear anything.”
Porter nodded to him. “Dawg!” he called, and Dawg came loping toward him, fresh red across his muzzle. He was still hurt and couldn’t run as fast as he used to, but his dedication to Porter was undaunted.
Mary pointed toward Boles who was standing over the dead body of Cleve. “That’s all of them except Stoney.”
They could hear a light racket of a man running away through the thickets. “Sounds like he is making a run for it back to Coloma through the mud.”
Let Sleeping Gods Lie Page 7