“Now turn them over! And of course, that includes you, stranger!”
After their guns were collected, along with those of the cowpunchers that angrily surrendered them, the weapons were thrown in the wagon, two of Peace Officers went to the barn where the ranch hands had placed the body and retrieved it. The wrapped corpse was placed into the back of the wagon along next to the man with the bone sticking out of his arm who sat huddled in one corner looking to Riker as if he was going into shock. Shortly the wheels began turning as the wagon lurched away accompanied by the riders. Bryant looked back over his shoulder, his mouth twisted in an ugly smirk.
After they disappeared from view, Riker broke the stillness in the air, giving voice to what the others were thinking. "Looks like someone untrustworthy at the meeting has a loose tongue. Word got back to Dalton about the vigilante movement. The man's got to be pretty damn worried to resort to what amounts to martial law."
“He’s worried?” Luther fumed, “If we thought Dalton had his foot on all our throats before, without guns we’ll all be at the mercy of his paid killers! He’s won.”
Callie threw her arms around arms her father and laid her head on his back. "No, Papa! Don't give up!" She let go of him and walked around him to stand before Riker while all the disarmed cowmen murmured angrily amongst themselves. She gave him a pained look as she crossed her arms to hug her own shoulders.
“Riker! When are you going to do something? How could you just let them take our weapons like that? You have the authority!” Choosing to focus on her wide and pleading eyes, he ignored the puzzled looks on the faces of her father and his men. He understood her frustration, but he was a pragmatic man. Bryant and his thugs held all the cards at the moment and the anxious looks on the Peace Officers faces had spelled out they were looking for any excuse to open fire. Defying them would have resulted in the death of the Becketts and their hired hands.
“Last night I told you that I believed in you, that you were the one who would save Dalton’s Creek. I don’t want to believe that I could be wrong!” Her voice was hoarse, choking with emotion.
Drawing close, Riker laid his hand on her shoulder and looked at the men behind her, “Listen to me! What we need to do right now is mount up. Maybe there is time to warn as many of the townspeople as we can!”
“Warn them not to let their guns be taken?” a heavy-set cowhand called out as he stood there with his thumbs jammed into his now empty gun belt.
“No, warn them not to resist! It will be a massacre. You saw how he injured one of his own men and didn’t, forgive me, ma’am, give a shit about it. They won’t hesitate to gun down anyone who tries. Dalton wanted most everyone dead last night in his faked accident as it was! Now, come on! Let’s ride!”
CHAPTER 30
Astride his gray mare Darcy, the Reverend Johann Beckett glanced back at the burro that was tethered to his own mount. The pack animal had a fair share of goods tied on its back that included food, clothing, medicine, and even a few toys. His destination was the old Gibson farm on the outskirts of Dalton’s Creek. Since the death of Mabel Gibson’s husband at the hands of the Peace Officers when they had shown up at his farm to collect a tax bill they claimed was overdue and Pete Gibson had challenged them, times had been hard.
Soon the woman and two small children would be homeless. They had sold nearly everything of value, including even most of their clothing, to attempt to pay the taxes, but it had not been enough. Dalton had ordered the seizure of the farm due to the back taxes and Judge Crockett had signed off on it. Beckett had taken up a collection of the items he was now transporting to try and give them a little comfort during their last days on the farm.
Beckett leaped upward in his saddle, his heart racing, by the sudden blast of gunfire and the braying of his donkey. His hat flew off his head as he spun around in time to see the strap holding the goods for the family seem to break on its own accord and the bundle topple to the ground below.
"Haw! I done told ya I could do it! Bryant thinks he's a good shot! He ain't got nothin' on me! I once dropped a man from one end of the main street to the other in Alamieda, over in the Arizona Territory!" the boast was accompanied by grating, strident laughter. Looking over, he saw two men standing behind some waist high bushes at the side of the road with rifles clutched in their hands. The smoke was still drifting from the rifle barrel of the man on the left
“We put a little scare into you, Padre?” hooted the second man, whose look and accent telegraphed his Mexican heritage. Beckett turned his horse around to face the men directly and made an effort to look relaxed in his saddle.
“If any of you heathens attended my services, you would know me better than that. A man who has the Lord riding shotgun with him along an honest path fears no man.”
“That right?” said the taller of the two men that had shot the strap holding the bundle. The man’s buck teeth and three days’ worth of stubble Beckett found distracting, but he drew his mouth into a tight grimace.
"You could have killed my burrow with your trick shooting."
“I wouldn’t be worried about some donkey, Padre-”
“It’s reverend.”
“I don’t care if you’re the pope of your whole damn church!” the Mexican man hissed as Beckett fought to contain his disgust at the man’s ignorance when it came to the different divisions of the Christian faith.
The other man laid his shotgun over his shoulder and began to kick about the scattered items on the ground, “What my friend is tryin’ to say to ya is that there’s a new ordinance in town! Ya best not be carryin’ any guns among this here stuff. Guns are outlawed now, and if ya have one the next flock you’ll be preaching to is your fellow lawbreakers in the stockade.”
Beckett slipped down off his horse, trying to absorb the news. If guns had now been banned from Dalton's Creek, then that could only mean Dalton knew of the vigilante unit the stranger Riker was trying to organize. The force had been crushed before it even began.
“Just grub, clothes, and some sick medicine is all, Bowler,” the Mexican mused as he squatted down on his haunches and began going through the scattered items.
“They’re for the Gibson family. The little girl’s in poor health. No wonder, though, what with the cardinal sin of murder committed against her father.”
"This for her, too?" the dark-eyed man asked as he straightened up holding a stuffed bear old Mrs. Barrett who clerked at the mercantile had donated. Beckett nodded and then the crack shot named Bowler took out is lighter and after the Mexican man handed him his rifle, he accepted Bowler's lighter and lit the bear on fire. Tossing the burning stuffed animal over his shoulder, the Mexican turned and faced the reverend, both men laughing.
"Okay, amigo. Gather up the rest of this junk and be on your way," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the road heading towards the Gibson’s homestead.
“And when you get there make sure you tell the widow Gibson to be out of there by this time next week … or we’ll come and get her out!” Bowler finished. The Mexican man picked up the bottle of liquid and waved it in front of the reverend.
"And I'll be keeping this. I know a hombre over in Pepper Hill who's got a taste for laudanum. He'll pay a pretty penny for this."
Beckett gave them a steely-eyed stare before he knelt and collected the items. Jerry-rigging the strap back together, he turned with the now secured cargo and silently made his way down the road. A warm gust of wind blew into his face and his thoughts turned solemn as his grip on the reins tightened.
After he had finished making the delivery to the subdued Gibson family, Beckett departed, haunted by the hollow look in the eyes of the mother and children. He'd promised to do his best to replace the laudanum that had been intended for the little girl to help her through her illness. Before he left, they had all held hands in a circle on the front porch of the house and prayed.
As he made his way along the roadway, with the furious water of Dalton's Creek flowing by h
im on his left, he found his attention drawn skyward. A half mile ahead rising above the pines that swayed gently from the wind sweeping down from the Sierra Nevada, a column of black smoke rose into the sky. Beckett leaped off his horse and quickly tied his pack animal to a tree before mounting up and digging in his heels to carry him towards the smoke. Knowing the lay of the land, he was certain it was coming from Avery Dixon's homestead.
When he arrived, his nostrils were assaulted by the stench of the smoke that even now was beginning to dissipate as there was nothing left to burn. The home had been reduced to little more than a charred ruin, the only thing standing was the stone chimney. He was relieved to see the figures of Avery and his wife standing off to the side by a wagon. Whatever happened here, at least they were safe. Drawing close he now heard Mrs. Dixon’s gentle sobbing as Avery stood there, his arms hanging at his side. As Beckett rode up to him, the man lifted his head staring at him with vacant eyes that resembled the Gibson family’s.
“Dalton’s Peace Officers,” he managed to croak as he shook his head from side to side. “They were here and demanded our guns. I done gave them all of them, but they insisted on searching the house. In the attic, they found an old powder horn rifle that belonged to Betsy here’s father. I forgot it was even there, Reverend. They were going to arrest me, but Betsy begged them not to. They said they believed it was an honest mistake, but it couldn’t go unpunished. They burned us out! Our home of thirty years and everything we owned gone! Something’s got to be done, Reverend! Something’s got to be done!”
Unable to keep it together any longer, Dixon joined his wife in tears of sorrow for all that they had lost. A quiet, unyielding anger seemed to envelop the reverend’s soul.
“Don’t worry, my friends. This will not stand. Something will be done,” he said, not sure if he was saying it for them or to try and convince himself. After leaving his distraught parishioners to continue his journey with the pack animal, he felt his teeth clenching together. He knew now he had been wrong to have reservations about Riker’s militia. He had been a man of peace his whole life, but these men he encountered were the scum of the earth. Unless the Lord decided to step in with divine intervention, such men could only be brought to heel by equally armed and organized men like Riker had proposed. Now with the guns being stripped from the town, all seemed to be lost. His lips worked in a silent prayer for the people of Dalton’s Creek.
CHAPTER 31
PEPPER HILL
When the group arrived in the silver mining enclave, they had noticed few people out on the streets, and those that were out and about didn't stop and converse with people they passed by. McKenna had little doubt people were fearful of whatever fever was circulating through the community. The main street of the town ended at its namesake, Pepper Hill itself, and in an orderly fashion were a cluster of buildings that made up the Cape Girardeau mining operation.
One of the buildings appeared to be somewhat better constructed than the others and she was not surprised as they drew closer to read a sign driven into the ground on a spike proclaiming it the manager’s office. The manager himself was standing outside the front door with his hands on his hips and an anxious look plastered on his face.
As the introductions were made, McKenna studied the man. Carlton Corday appeared to be in his late thirties and was a tall man. His black hair, while starting to prematurely gray at the temples, had a pleasing wavy look to it and he looked out onto the world with pale blue eyes. The final detail she noted was his dark green suit looked tailor-made and easily would have been more at home on the thoroughfares of San Francisco or any other major city than on the dusty streets of the little mining community.
After Markham asked Butler to help some of Corday’s men to unload the supplies, Corday guided them into his office. As he slid into his seat, he offered McKenna to take a seat. As there was only one chair in front of the desk, McKenna begged off and remained standing next to Markham. The freight hauler quickly filled the man in on the dire news of the events of the last twenty-four hours. With graveness in his eyes, the mine manager looked up at McKenna.
"I have to say, and forgive my language, but that was damn fine work of yours, Deputy Riker. Saving that wagon was a godsend. The situation here is severe. If that wagon with the supplies hadn't got through, we wouldn't have been able to provision the company store, and we would have had to close down for a while. This mine is making money for the company, but it's the least profitable. The owners are negotiating to buy a silver mine in Colorado even as we speak. Given all the troubles here and the fact they need extra capital to close the deal, they'd be willing to shut this place down and sell it."
The business dealings he had just relayed to her were clearly a source for great stress for the man as he pulled out a colorful, red silk handkerchief and mopped his brow with it before shoving it partially back into the breast pocket from which he had plucked it from.
"If that happens, I'm likely to be recalled to the home office in St. Louis back to a desk job there, that's if I don't lose my position with the company altogether. I'll tell you one thing—my wife would not want to go back to the city. We love the mountains here ever since they sent me west to run mining operations for them." She smiled in understanding, knowing that big cities couldn't hold a candle to the beautiful and mostly unsettled lands that made up a significant part of America.
Knowing it was time, McKenna shared with him her theory that someone was targeting the freight company as a means to accomplish the very goal of getting the mine to be shuttered. Point blank she asked him if he could think of anyone who would gain from it. The man leaned back in his swivel chair and spun around, his gaze looking up at the ceiling. Finally, he sighed and looked back at the pair.
“The only person that possibly comes to mind is Francis Drew. He was a partner in the company, but the other partners forced him to sell out to them last year. Turns out Francis was knowingly buying inferior timber on the cheap to shore up a mine shaft for an operation we have in Nevada. The wood buckled, men died in the cave-in. They threw him out. Maybe he wants revenge. His father was one of the founding members of the company.”
McKenna considered this. Revenge was a powerful motive, but then again, if the man had been bought out, it wasn't like he was left penniless and fueling revenge that now included attempted murder. Also, why target this particular mine? Still, it was a lead she needed to look into. When they got back to Pine Bluff and the telegraph office there, she would reach out to her contacts in St. Louis to look into Francis Drew. Right now, their immediate problem was the fear of another attack.
“When’s the next shipment again, Matt?” she asked.
“Wheels roll tomorrow morning.”
Corday slammed his fist down on the desk in front of him, rustling the stack of papers on it. "That shipment has got to get here safely! It's carrying fresh food and most importantly, medical supplies. There's that fever going on around here and it hit the women and children of the miners pretty hard. Their menfolk are up in a dander over it, and I don't know how much longer I can keep them in check and reporting to work."
Almost as if to emphasize the point, the door to the office suddenly swung open and one of the men she had seen Corday order to unload the wagon with Butler stepped across the threshold and walked up to the desk. Corday, visibly perturbed at the intrusion without knocking, rose to his feet and glared at the man.
“Is there some problem, Clayton?”
The heavyset, bearded man jerked his thumb in the direction of the mine.
“I’ll say there is, Mr. Corday. The Davis brothers and Slim Holloway are packing up their wagons right now. They say they’re quitting and getting out of here before their families get sick too.” Corday looked crestfallen as he leaned on his knuckles and then looked up, waiting for the man called Clayton to continue.
“They say it’s not worth the risk sticking around here. They’re heading someplace where there is no sickness, and they can get plen
ty of grub. Folks are plum fed up with the rationing going on around here because you can’t keep the store supplied. You best talk to the other men, or you’re going to find yourself with a silver mine fresh out of miners!”
“I appreciate your candor, Clayton, now get back to work. We need to get the canned goods that came in on the shelves as soon as possible. That will be a sign to everyone that the company is trying.”
“Yes, sir, but it may be a little too little, a little too late,” he said before clomping back out the door.
“Who was that hombre, Corday? He had Texas-size cajones to be talking to his employer like that,” Markham asked.
“That’s Ned Clayton, one of my best workers, and he’s just frustrated is all. We all are, as I know you are too. Now if you will excuse me, I best go talk to the men like he said.”
“Understood. We should get back Pine Bluff. I promise you we will get that next wagon through no matter what they might try and throw at us,” Markham vowed, and McKenna silently agreed she would see that promise kept.
As Corday came around his desk and moved towards the door at the same time as Markham, the two men bumped into each other, and Corday’s handkerchief fell to the floor. As the two men exchanged apologies, McKenna bent down and scooped it up to hand it to him.
“You don’t want to lose this. That’s right fine silk,” she said, feeling its richness in her hand.
The woman she had shared a room with at art school had been nearly obsessed with silk clothing since she had come from old money and could afford plenty of garments made from the stuff. McKenna smiled at the thought of how she was always picking the woman’s clothes up around their small room and tossing them back on to her bed. As he took it, her thumb slid across some embroidery she hadn’t noticed before, it appeared to be names and some type of date.
Six-Guns Or Surrender (Lincoln's Lawman Book 1) Page 19