by W. R. Benton
“I'll give them a try.”
“Now, if you'll sign the ledger, sir, you'll be in room 104. It's on the first floor and down the hall. You're the second room on the right. If you have need of anything, just let me know.”
“Okay and thank you, uh?” Lew asked meeting the man's eyes.
“Franklin, just Franklin will do.”
Nodding and taking the key, Lew made his way to the room. The room was typical of most western hotels, with brown water in the wash basin, two cracked windows, and a sagging mattress. But, the other furniture looked to be in fair repair and it was clean. He quickly went outside for his gear. When he walked in with his guns, Franklin frowned.
As he was leaving to get the last of his supplies, Franklin asked, “I didn't think preachers carried guns.”
His eyes narrowed and Lew said, “I do in Sioux country and always will when riding alone in strange country. The devil has many disciples that work away from towns, preying on the innocent. I, sir, do not wish to be harmed nor robbed of what little I own. Like a soldier in God's army, I am armed and a damned good shot.”
“I fully understand, sir.”
Lew made his way to his room, washed his face and hands, and then changed clothes. He then made his way out of the hotel, ate at Big Mikes, and then entered a saloon to relax a little and to have a couple of drinks. He knew he'd taken to drinking hard, but it was the only way he could sleep at night and not see or hear his wife or kids. If he tried to sleep without drinking, he'd hear them screaming for him to help them.
He had no way of knowing, but his full description was known to all the escapees who'd been at his farm, as well as to the general public, because a dodger had been posted aro und town with his likeness on it and an accurate detailed accounting of his appearance. He was wanted for killing Oaks, the poster said, and there was a $500 reward for him taken alive. He was described as on a vengeance trail after the men who'd raped his wife, little girls, and killed his boys. Most good citizens who saw the poster supported Lew and stated they'd do the same in his shoes. However, it wasn't the average citizen Lew needed to be watchful for.
He walked to a far table, placed his sawed-off Greener on the table top and ordered a good bottle of Kentucky bourbon. When the bottle was brought, he paid the waitress and ignored her breasts when she bent over lower than she needed to pour his drink.
“See anything you like, sugar? I mean, anything at all?”
His eyes moved from her breasts to her f ace and said in a flat voice, “No. Not at all.”
She walked away angry, but he honestly didn't care. He sat and nursed his drink and then noticed three men eyeing him from the bar. He lowered his head and ignored them. He'd just raised his full shot glass toward his lips, when he heard a slight noise, felt a hand slap his and the shot glass flew to the wall, where it shattered. Whiskey was spattered all over Lew's clothing.
He looked up to see the three men at his table and the biggest leaned over, his left hand on the table top, his right near his pistol. Two were dressed in black dusters and the last, a big man, was wearing an old brown homespun shirt. He smelled them before he actually knew they were near. They were sour, with the scent of unwashed bodies.
“Your named Lew Stewart?” the big man asked.
“No, I'm John Stoner out of Springfield, Missouri, why?” As he talked he pulled his big Bowie knife from his boot top. The sharp knife, held in his right hand under the table, gave him a sense of confidence.
“Well, Mister John Stoner out of Springfield, Missouri, I think you're a damned liar.”
“Leave me alone, you've had too much to drink. Go, and I'll forget all about this.”
“I don't think so, Reverend Stewart, because you're worth $500 to me and the boys.”
This is going to turn nasty in a minute, with me outnumbered three to one , Lew thought, but said, “I'll not tell you again to leave me alone.” His voice was loud, so the whole saloon heard him.
Pulling out a sheet of paper, the big man said, “I have a wanted poster with your picture on it and a description below.”
Shit thought Lew, it's come to a fight.
Chapter 8
BACK at camp with his pards, Dutch found both men asleep, and he was glad to see their fevers were down. He didn't see anyone follow him from the saloon, but he'd not put it past the Kid to try to find him. However, he would have to wait a bit, at least until his leg healed, if the bleeding stopped. If it didn't stop, then the young man was no longer a threat.
Wanting them to eat the food while it was still hot, he woke both men and watched them trying to eat. Bill ate a chicken leg and a couple of bites of peas, while Sam ate a thigh and about half his biscuit. Together they didn't eat half of what Dutch had for supper, but he knew shot men hurt, were feverish, and needed whiskey more than food. Whiskey meant sleep and sleep led to healing. He put their food away to feed them tomorrow and fed each a cup of alcohol. They were back to sleep in a few minutes.
As Dutch sat by the fire, he began to wonder where his life had gotten so messed up. He was raised in a good home and while not rich, they never lacked anything they seriously needed. He never went to bed hungry, had good clothes, and was expected to take over the family plantation when his pa died or retired. Then along came the war and he returned home, four years later, to find the plantation house burned to the ground. His slaves were all gone, crops rotted in the fields, and back taxes were due o n the old place. Near the house, on a slight hill were six new graves, which held the remains of everyone who'd ever meant anything to him. He'd never known such anger, frustration and hurt in his life.
The last straw for him was selling the old place for about a half dime to a dollar. He had to sell to carpetbaggers, because no one in the South had any money. The Southern economy was in shambles, just like the countryside. The way the damned Yankee gloated as he paid Dutch he still remembered, and it was the first murder he'd ever committed. Sure, he'd killed in the war, but he ambushed the big fat Yankee and his colored gopher, which he called his valet. The black man he'd shot at and run off, then he turned to the fat man. He stripped the man naked and then tied him to a tree. All of Dutch's frustrations, anger and hatred of the war and reconstruction came out through the point of his big skinning knife. An hour later the fat man was dead, sliced to ribbons, and Dutch had stolen everything that belonged to the man. He took well over $3,000 from the carpetbagger an d boarded a train for Saint Louis. He'd never returned.
He discovered after killing once, to kill again and again meant little. Soon he was working from the docks, in a well organized crime racket. Once again he made good money, but like before, he'd used it all up playing cards, on whores, or John Barley Corn. Soon he was broke again. He'd served a few months in the state penitentiary a couple of times and escaping this time was dumb. If he got caught, and he was sure he would be eventually, they'd tack another four years on his time to be served. He laughed, because he had less than a y ear to serve when he escaped this time.
For a smart man, I sure do some dumb things at times , he thought as he tossed another log on the fire. He tried to stay up all night guarding, but realized a little after midnight, that he couldn't. He pulled the horses in close to guard them and then stretched out on his blanket. He was asleep in just a few short minutes.
How long he'd been asleep, he had no idea, but his horse nickered and kept pulling the reins in Dutch's hands, so she could look toward the tracks and the small town. Without moving, he listened and noticed the night sounds were gone. Someone or something big was near their camp. Staying low, he crawled to Bill and whispered a warning to him. A minute later the man crawled into the brush. When he warned Samuel, the man pulled a pistol and cocked it. Dutch crawled to a log near the fire and waited behind it, shotgun loaded and cocked.
Thirty minutes later three dark shapes were seen walking cautiously toward the center of camp. When silhouetted by the skyline for a minute or two, he could see they all had guns pulled.
Suddenly one of the three men yelled, “Wake up you sonofabitch, we have a message for you from the Montana Kid.”
“I ain't asleep.” Dutch replied, and then jerked both triggers on the scatter-gun. Both barrels fired and screams were heard as the men fell to the ground. Listening closely, he only heard two men shrieking, so one was either unhurt or dead.
Dutch moved about twenty feet, listened to the men screaming, then heard a pistol shoot twice and the noise stopped.
“They was makin' more noise than a damned brass band, but they ain't no more.” Sam said, and then added, “They're all dead, but that don't mean we got 'em all. Mighten still be some more in the brush.”
“I'll check.” Dutch replied. He circled the camp twice, saw no one and, pulling hi s right pistol, he entered camp and placed some small wood on the fire. Once the fire was burning well, he called out, “Come back to camp now so w e can look these jaspers over.”
The three men were dead, with one almost blown in half and the other two had b een hit hard by shotgun pellets. The ones Sam had shot were dead as hell, with one hit in the center of the chest and the second the head. Dutch put his pistol back in his holster. He put the three dead men on two horses and took them to the saloon, which was closed, and threw them on the boardwalk, blocking the door. He knew the Montana Kid would get the message if no one else did.
Then he returned to camp and slept well until daylight.
The next week was quiet, with no words spoken to Dutch when they w ent to town, except in the saloon, where the bartender talked up a storm, without really saying much. The bodies left at his door never came up during the conversations. He did learn that the Montana Kid had survived and he worked for the railroad pulling security as the men laid rails deep in Indian country. Lately he'd not been able to work, because of his injury, and his funds were running low. Of course, he blamed Dutch for his financial crisis and constantly talked about having his revenge one day, which he openly stated would not be complete until Dutch was killed.
On the eighth day, Dutch and the other two mounted and moved down the railroad tracks heading for Omaha. Bill and Sam each had a quart bottle of whiskey tied to their pommel, next to the spare pistols they carried. At times, they'd unhook a bottle and take a long gulp. Both men knew that getting shot took a lot out of a man and it'd be months before they could move normally again without any pain. Neither had touched the laudanum since the first day they were injured, knowing the painkilling, and powerful, drug was very addictive.
Over the next two days, all it did was rain. It wasn't a heavy rain, but wet enough the three men were never really dry. All Sam did was curse the wetness, while the other two knew when you rode in open country and it rained, you got wet. This night, they made camp about a quarter mile from the tracks, in some stunted trees and brush, and the rain stopped.
All three now pulled guard and they pulled two hour shifts. After a supper of beans and buffalo meat from a cow Dutch shot late in the afternoon, the guard moved into the shadows and the other two went to bed. Through the night the men rotated guarding and sleeping, until about two hours before daylight. Sam was guarding when a slight movement in the bright light of a full moon caught his eyes.
Glancing at the fire-pit, he saw no glowing red eyes from hot coals, so if it was a person moving toward the camp, they'd been watching the camp for a long spell. He noticed the night sounds were gone, as if turned off by the hand of God. Usually at night bugs and small critters made all kinds of noises, as they communicated, fed on less fortunate insects or animals, or hunted a meal. Taking a small pebble from the ground, he tossed it and struck Dutch in the face.
When Dutch sat up, he looked at Samuel to see the man cupping his left hand behind his ear. It was then he realized it was too quiet, so he woke Bill and they both moved to better cover. All three knew if it was Indians, they'd want their horses. And, the horses they would protect at all costs.
Dutch knew an old boy in prison, a few years back, who had once been a mountain man. He explained how an Indian lad could not become a warrior or have a wife, until he counted coup on his enemies and had at least one horse. Counting coup didn't always mean killing, so in times of war, even touching a live armed enemy would count as a coup. It was a complicated system to Dutch, but overall it was simple. To be considered a real man and warrior able to take a wife, a fully trained Indian boy had to count coup and take a horse. Often boys as young as twelve were considered true men, as they'd stolen horses and had a scalp or counted coup, but that was rare.
Samuel, who was near the horses, raised his Sharps, fired once and a horr endous shriek was heard and then it quickly died. Since the big gun was a breech-loading weapon, a fresh round was chambered in no time, and soon a second shot was fired. Another scream filled the air and this one was non-stop.
Suddenly a loud war cry filled the chilly night air and a large group of warriors rushed the camp. A shotgun boomed twice, rifles cracked and pistols banged as the battle started. A dark form ran right for Dutch and he fired twice, heard a loud scream, and watched his target fall in an uncontrolled manner. He quickly shifted his rifle a bit, knocked another target down, and then felt something slap him hard in the left arm. Glancing down, he saw an arrow had skewered his left arm, almost in the middle of the flesh between elbow and shoulder.
Bill began to fire almost continuously with his Henry, and fire put down by his one rifle was considerable. As soon as Dutch broke the arrow-shaft and pulled it from his arm, he spotted dark silhouettes moving against a lighter skyline. He began knocking the attackers down with lead from his rifle. Some fell silently and others screamed, while most were heard kicking and thrashing around the dark.
“Don't move yet and let 'em bleed a mite! Sound off with your name and condition.” Dutch called out after the attackers pulled back. He'd spent years in the army, during the war, so he'd unknowingly reverted back to being a soldier.
“It's me, Samuel, and I'm fine. The horses are safe too.”
“Bill, and I caught a bullet in the side, but it only burned me and it's not much of a wound.”
Dutch said, “I took an arrow through the left arm, only it ain't hurtin' me much. Now, we wait until daylight, and then we'll see what we have on our hands.”
“We won't find many bodies, because Injuns usually take all their dead and injured with them, if they can.”
“Hobble your lip and remain quiet until daylight.” Dutch said as he cut the tail off his shirt and bandaged his arm to stop the loss of blood. It was a crude bandage job, only it'd work until first light.
When the sun rose, the clouds turned bloody red, bright yellow and vibrant orange. None of the white men noticed the beautiful skies, because their attention was on the ground. Sam added some tinder to the ash covered coals and blew gently. As the sticks caught fire, he added slightly larger wood over time, until the fire was burning well.
“I'll check some of the dead warriors.” Dutch said.
“Just one dead here by the fire and he was hit by the Sharps. That big-ass bullet blew part of his spine away and he must have died quick-like.” Sam said.
“I only see three bodies and I know we killed more than that.” Bill said, removed his hat and then scratched his filthy unwashed scalp.
“The Injuns took them, boys. I ma ke these warriors to be Sioux and they're usually friendly with white men, but the bartender back at the small town we spent some time in said they're pissed over us taking their lands from them.” Dutch said.
“Dutch, these are little more than boys here. I think we were attacked by some young men, hopin' to count coup and steal some horses.” Bill said, and then added, “How about one of y'all pourin' some whiskey on my bullet furrow and wrappin' me up good. I don't need it to turn green on me.”
“I'll do it.” Sam said, as he picked up a bottle near the fire
and moved toward the man.
Minutes later, Bill was cleaned, wrapped, and sipping whiskey again. He gave a goofy grin and said, “I'll only drink a mite to take the edge off my pain.”
“Don't get roostered on us, because you'll ride t his morning. Those boys might go back to the village and bring some warriors out here.” Dutch replied, and then took a long pull from a whiskey bottle in his right hand. “Now, I need one of ya to doctor me up a bit. This arrow hurts. Those young Sioux are a tough bunch.”
“I don't think grown men could have been any tougher. ” Sam said, and then put the coffee pot on the flames to heat up. He then moved to Dutch and began working on his arrow wound.
“Don't think the young warriors ain't tough, because they are. The only difference between them and a real warrior is a coup and a horse. They've all been trained and the only things tougher than a Sioux warrior, in my opinion, is a Blackfoot or a Sioux that's participated in a S un Dance. Any man you see with big scars on his chest is a real bad-ass. He's a warrior to be reckoned with, but don't think any Injun brave is less than a total fighter, or you're dead.” Dutch said and then added, “Pour that coffee from the pot and let's make tracks, as soon as you get me wrapped up.”
“Got an uneasy feeling, do ya?” Sam asked.
“Yep, and my feelings kept me alive often enough in the war. Let's move, boys.”
Shortly after their stop at noon, Bill dropped back to ride beside Dutch and he asked, “Any more towns between here and Omaha?”
“There's one down this way, oh, I think we'll hit in about three hours. It's got a hotel, eatin' place, saloon, bank, and even a sheriff. I'm pretty sure the bartender back there said it was called, uh, Shiloh.”
“By damn,” Sam said from behind them, “I hope they have a nice town. The last time I was in a place called Shiloh, I almost got killed. I was serving under General Albert Sidney Johnston at the time and I still ain't got much love for Tennessee. I was hit hard at the Hornet's Nest, which was a sunken road the Yankees had, and for some reason we wanted the place. I was hit twice in the head with a gun-butt and bayoneted once as I lay on the ground of that road. I was knocked out, but when I woke up, I was in the woods. Some of my boys fetched me back to our lines.”