Outlaw Express

by Gillian F. Taylor

‘I want the women across in the bunkhouse. I’ll go with them and send a couple of men back to defend from here, so we have Alcott surrounded.’

  ‘I have a shotgun,’ Hodgeson volunteered, somewhat uncertainly. ‘I use it to hunt duck and geese.’

  ‘Good.’ Alec gestured towards the bedroom as he strode towards his bedroll. ‘I want them moving out as soon as possible.’

  Alec swiftly pulled on boots, vest, jacket and gunbelt, working largely by touch in the near dark. Hodgeson knocked and poked his head through the door, urging the women to hurry. Alec heard his wife’s answer that they were doing the best they could, but it would take a few minutes.

  ‘Light the lamp on the table, but keep it turned low,’ Alec instructed. He picked up his rifle and moved to the window, peeping through the gap in the curtains before heaving the lower part up a few inches and propping it open. Bitter air came swirling in, sharp in his nose. Soft yellow light pooled in the centre of the room as the lamp was lit. Hodgeson stationed himself at the other window, copying Alec’s actions.

  Alec peered sideways between the curtains at the bunkhouse. It was hard to tell in the low light, but he thought that some of the windows were partly open; given the near-freezing temperature, he was sure that men had to be waiting behind them. He settled to wait, alert for any sound or movement, shivering slightly when icy air gusted through the window. Hodgeson kept shifting restlessly, his rapid breathing audible in the quiet. The only other sound was the low murmur of the women’s voices in the other room. As the moments ticked past, Hodgeson cast increasingly anxious glances at Alec, who remained outwardly calm.

  Alec heard voices in the frosty air, just before the group came into sight around the corner of the lumber storage building opposite. He drew back the hammer of his Winchester, focussing on the horses and riders in the poor light. That was the outline of Bill Alcott leading, with O’Leary’s rangy figure flanking and slightly to his rear.

  ‘That’s the place.’

  Alec recognized Hannigan’s voice from one of the shapes just beyond Alcott, and glimpsed the gesture towards the shanty he was in. Hodgeson twitched, tension radiating from his hunched shape. Still and silent, Alec waited until the group of riders was clearly in the space between shanty and bunkhouse.

  ‘Halt!’ he bellowed, in the voice of a parade ground officer. ‘This is Deputy US Marshal Lawson. You’re surrounded. Throw down your weapons and surrender!’

  The group of riders came to a ragged halt, horses throwing up their heads in protest at the sudden pull on the reins. There were exclamations and curses from the outlaws. O’Leary’s voice rose above the others.

  ‘That sounded like Turner. Godammit, that was Turner!’

  ‘Raise yer hands!’ Alec barked.

  ‘I hear him too.’ That was Houston’s drawl.

  One of the horses moved forward slightly: Alec couldn’t see if it was deliberate on the rider’s part. The dim figures shifted, arms moving. There was a flash of light from one of the windows in the bunkhouse and the crack of a shot.

  A ragged series of shots broke out; the crack of rifles and the deeper boom of shotguns as the other miners reacted to that first shot. Men and horses screamed as the group in the centre erupted into a whirl of confusion. Horses shied and plunged, dark shapes scattering and falling. More shots made a jagged drum roll, one or two coming back in return. Alec aimed for Alcott, but the outlaw turned his horse just before he fired and the shot missed. One horse fell, screaming and kicking. Another spun and bucked, tossing the rider, who fell limply and lay moaning.

  ‘For God’s sake, help me!’

  As the outlaws turned and scattered, Alec saw a shape lunging up from beside the fallen horse. He fired, but missed again as the figure, Hannigan, from the voice, ducked aside. O’Leary screamed a mad defiance, firing his pistol rapidly towards Alec’s window, as his horse danced on the spot. Glass shattered, and Alec ducked his head as shards pattered down into his hair and onto his back and shoulders. Hoofs thundered as horses galloped away, gunshots following them. O’Leary had stopped shooting. Alec started to rise, but hissed in pain and stopped, as glass stabbed deeper into the back of his neck. He hadn’t felt it hit in the adrenaline of the moment, but now the sting was sharper and blood was trickling under his collar. A shiver of fear ran down his back at the thought of how close the glass had come to his spine.

  The shooting died down as the outlaws fled, a few shots and curses hurled after them. Alec lowered his rifle to the floor, careful not to move his head.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Hodgeson called.

  ‘Glass in my neck.’

  ‘Oh, wait.’ Hodgeson hurried to the table for the lamp and turned it up, before bringing it over to where Alec waited. ‘There’s glass in your hair. Let me get that too before you move,’ he said.

  Alec winced as the glass was pulled from the back of his neck, then waited as patiently as he could while Hodgeson plucked out fragments of glass from his thick hair. He could hear voices outside, and what he thought were the low groans of the injured horse.

  ‘I think that’s about. . . .’

  Alec rose, scattering glass from his jacket, before Hodgeson finished speaking, and took a couple of steps away before stopping to shake his head vigorously. With no more thought about the glass, he went outside.

  A couple of lanterns cast pools of yellow light into the grey and white scene. The injured horse was Hannigan’s black and white pinto, which blended with the patches of blood-dark snow on the ground. One man was crouched by its neck, another by its head. As Alec approached, there was the crack of a pistol shot. The horse shuddered once and ceased to move, its groans of pain silenced. Close by, another lantern shone warm light over Chuck Manford, sprawled limply. Alec joined the men who were gathered around the outlaw.

  Manford was unconscious, blood from his mouth gleaming darkly in his beard, and a larger patch of blood soaking the front of his coat. His breathing was ragged, bubbles of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I don’t reckon he’s gonna make it,’ said one of the miners. He sounded as though he wasn’t sure if this was good.

  ‘That’s Chuck Manford,’ Alec said. He straightened up, addressing the men outdoors and the shapes visible in the windows of the bunkhouse. ‘Wanted in connection with fifteen armed robberies, of stores, banks, trains and stagecoaches, and also for kidnapping. Alcott and his men have injured seven men, and killed two.’

  ‘Guess he ain’t gonna be no loss to no one,’ someone said, and there were sounds of agreement from others.

  ‘Take him inside and find a bed for him,’ Alec instructed. ‘He probably won’t make it, but we should give him a chance.’

  ‘America’s a civilized country,’ the man next to Alec said dryly. ‘We don’t leave even outlaws to die out in the snow.’

  ‘There’s women in that there shanty,’ someone else said, indicating the Hodgesons’ place. ‘We don’t want them looking out the windows and seeing a man dying out front. It might give them the vapours.’

  There were grunts of amusement from the listeners. Two men picked Manford up and carried him into the bunkhouse. Alec got someone to help him free Hannigan’s saddle-bags from the pinto’s body, and carried them back to the shanty, after thanking the miners for helping him fight off the outlaws.

  The women had managed to loosely fix a blanket over the broken window, and Mrs Hodgeson was sweeping up the shattered glass.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Alec said, dumping the saddle bags on the table.

  ‘Was anybody hurt?’ asked Lacey, approaching him. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, holding a hand towards his neck, but pulling it back before she touched him.

  ‘That’s nae but a scratch,’ Alec told her. ‘I think it’s the worst injury any of us got. One of the outlaws is badly injured; I don’t reckon as he’ll make it through the day.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Lacey tore her eyes away from the congealing blood on his neck.

  ‘Manford. The
tracker, who rode the brown.’ He turned to Hodgeson. ‘Send someone to the barn to unsaddle our horses, please. We’ll not be leaving for a while yet; it’s scarce dawn now, and we can all stand a little more sleep.’ He opened the nearer saddle-bag and started to pull out the contents.

  ‘You should have that cut seen to first,’ Lacey said. She turned to Mrs Hodgeson for support. ‘It should be cleaned at least, I’m sure. It could get infected.’

  Alec saw the sense in her argument, and suffered to sit while the blood was cleaned away by Mrs Hodgeson, and a few neat stitches put in. By the time it was done, and everything tidied up, the excitement of the outlaws’ visit had died down. They returned to the beds, and to Lacey’s surprise, all fell asleep again.

  It was close to mid-morning by the time breakfast was finished. Gubson, the mine manager appeared, and Alec thanked him for his support. Gubson accepted a mug of coffee gratefully, for the room was cold, even though the stove was well stoked and hot. The manager glanced at the flapping blanket over the window.

  ‘I’ll send you a tarp from stores,’ he promised Hodgeson. ‘You nail that down good and it should keep the wind out until we can get more glass brought in from Vail, iffen there’s any in the stores there.’

  ‘Will Georgetown not be better stocked?’ Alec asked. ‘It’s on the railroad.’

  Gubson shook his head. ‘The railroad’s been blocked by snow for months. There might be glass but it’s no more certain than Vail. Besides, it looks like them outlaws went that way.’

  Alec bit back a curse; he’d been aiming for Georgetown and the railroad, to deliver himself and Lacey quickly and comfortably to the safety of Denver. If the train couldn’t get through the mountains, it would be a tough and dangerous ride on horseback. He sipped the strong, sweet coffee as he thought. East, to Georgetown, was nigh on impassable, and too risky, if Alcott had gone that way. Back west, to Vail, was pointless. South was Leadville, a large town, on the railroad, and Lacey’s original destination. The outlaws might have started east, but there was nothing to stop them from swinging southwards, towards Leadville, and lying in wait at some point. Now they knew he was a lawman, it seemed reasonable for them to expect that he would head for the large town and its railroad. It was the logical thing to do, but it meant riding through country that Alcott knew far better than he did himself.

  If he went north, he would be in his own county in a couple of days. He would have the advantage there, knowing it so well, and Alec couldn’t think of any reason why the outlaws would expect him to head north, rather than south.

  It took just a couple of minutes for Alec to weigh up his options and come to a decision. North it would be, the least obvious direction for him to choose, and therefore assuredly the safest.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Chuck was gone. The way he’d fallen from his horse told Alcott that he wasn’t going to get up again soon, if ever. He was gone and that hurt. Seven years they’d ridden together. They’d worked it out back on New Year’s Day, while sharing a cigarette between them because money had been low. Chuck hadn’t beefed about that; he’d just smiled and got on with it, like he always did. They stuck together through the times they’d been so broke they’d re-used coffee grounds, and the times they’d had enough money to buy themselves the best whores in Leadville. It had been good to know that Chuck was there, steady and sensible; Alcott felt as though a rock had been taken away from beneath him.

  In a moment he knew that losing Chuck hurt more than losing his own brother had, and that knowledge was followed by a surge of guilt. Alcott unthinkingly pressed his heels into his horse’s sides, as though trying to outrun the guilt.

  ‘Alcott, hey, Alcott! We gotta stop.’

  The shout broke through Bill Alcott’s self-absorption and the dark thoughts circling around in his mind. He leaned back in his saddle and tightened the reins. His liver chestnut dropped quickly from its brisk, smooth lope to a walk, stretching out its neck and swelling its sides with a sigh. Alcott looked at the other three men with him: three, when, what was just about a week back, there had been six. One dead, one lost, probably dead, and one a traitor.

  Hannigan was sitting awkwardly in his saddle, his swarthy face pale and strained. That wasn’t even his own saddle; he was riding Chuck’s brown. Houston was riding Jacob’s bay mare and at first glance, Alcott thought it was unusually dark with sweat. Then he realized that the dark patch on its side was blood, both its own, and Houston’s as they had been peppered with buckshot. The packhorse he was leading was going lame on its near fore. O’Leary’s arm was still bandaged after being shot by Lawson four days back, but he was sitting with his head up and alert, apparently refreshed by the fight and the gallop.

  A look back along the valley reassured Alcott that they weren’t being followed. He indicated a clump of pines not too far away.

  ‘We’ll make a halt there,’ he said.

  Though Hannigan and Houston were injured, the horses were seen to first. As soon as he could be spared, Alcott told Houston to find some wood and start a fire.

  ‘Fix plenty of hot water,’ he said. ‘Make sure there’s enough for coffee as well as fixing up wounds.’

  The packhorse had sprained a tendon; it needed days or weeks of rest to recover. Alcott stripped its gear off and let it loose. When they were ready to leave he’d scare it away with a couple of shots and let it take its chances on the range. The buckshot hadn’t hit Jacob’s bay too deeply but it was weakened and stood with its head drooping as Alcott carefully cleaned the blood away and did his best to care for it.

  ‘Houston, you’ll have to ride the packhorse a whiles,’ Alcott said. ‘Least till we get to a town. This’n can take the packs for a couple a days.’

  ‘Right.’ Houston simply agreed, lacking the energy for anything more.

  When the coffee was ready, Alcott produced a small bottle of whiskey and poured a generous splash into each mug. By the time Hannigan and Houston had been tended to, and the coffee drunk, morale had picked up a little.

  ‘Turner,’ muttered O’Leary. ‘That was son-of-a-bitching Turner.’ His voice began to rise. ‘Deputy US Marshal, he called hisself!’

  ‘Two-faced, low down bastard, is what he is,’ Hannigan spat. ‘He rode with us, and he’s gone and killed Jacob and Chuck.’ He winced at a stab of pain from cracked ribs.

  ‘And took the girl,’ O’Leary added, his pale blue eyes brilliant in the cold light.

  Hannigan threw Alcott a challenging look. ‘You reckon he’s a lawman for real?’

  Alcott nodded. ‘The bastard’s been playing us all along. Remember how he wanted us to go after a train on the Central Colorado Railroad? I just bet that was a set up to get the jump on us. He was flashing his badge to get the storekeepers to help him in that town we visited, and I bet he did the same at that mine. He owes us big time,’ he added emphatically. He wanted the others to blame Lawson for their current situation, rather than thinking of his own mistake in letting the lawman join them.

  ‘I want to see him bleed,’ Houston said quietly, resting his hand on his blood stained trousers.

  ‘I lost my good hoss and my kit,’ Hannigan snarled, bunching his fists.

  ‘Are we gonna ride back to the mine and get him?’ O’Leary asked, gathering himself as though ready to jump to his feet.

  Alcott shook his head. ‘Ain’t you got the brains God gave a flea?’ he retorted. ‘If we go back an’ he’s still there, we’ll end up deader than beef. He’s heading north, and we’ve gotta go that way too iffen we want to find him and pay him back.’

  ‘Why north?’ Hannigan asked.

  ‘When he joined us, he told us he knew the area around Estes Park an’ he weren’t joshing us. Tur . . . Lawson’s the sheriff of Dereham County. Iffen he was aiming for Leadville, he’d have turned south afore now; he’s gotta be going back to his own territory. We can catch him before he gets there – cut off his balls and slit his throat, then take the woman.’

  ‘Cut off his balls
and hang him from a tree. Watch him dance whiles we take turns with the girl,’ Hannigan said spitefully.

  ‘I wanna see the girl dance too, once we’ve had her!’ O’Leary cried, thumping the ground beside himself in his excitement. ‘I ain’t never seen a woman hang; I bet her titties surely do bounce while she’s wriggling at the end of the rope.’

  Alcott kept his face still, not registering his feelings at O’Leary’s talk. But while the others were thinking about what they wanted to do to Lawson and the girl, they weren’t asking how Alcott knew that Lawson was the Dereham County sheriff, and when he’d found out.

  ‘We’ll rest up here a while,’ he announced, making the decision so naturally that the others didn’t think to question him. ‘We’ll redistribute the goods from the lame packhorse so Manny’s horse won’t have to carry much, and eat something afore we leave.’

  The others nodded. Hannigan and Houston lay back on their bedrolls, O’Leary started poking the small fire with a twig, and Alcott fell back into guilty thoughts about Chuck and Jacob.

  Alec and Lacey left the mine about three hours after dawn. Chuck Manford had died a few minutes before they rode away from the noise and smells of the machinery, and the bustle of the mine. Lacey had been cheerful earlier, her spirits buoyed up by the small comforts of the shanty and the presence of female company. She stopped chattering at the news of Manford’s death, and remained quiet. Alec looked at her now and again but couldn’t think of anything to say. He headed for the river, following it east through the mountains in the same direction the outlaws had gone earlier. He was watching the traces of their trail carefully, keeping to cover where possible and halting now and again to scan the land ahead.

  Once through the pass, Alec was relieved to see the outlaws’ trail continued on along this valley, heading eastwards. He didn’t know if they would attempt to cross the mountains to Georgetown, or head southwards towards Leadville. Either was fine by him, as he planned to head north along the Blue River, and then north-east to Lucasville. After a short search, he found a section of the river that was narrow enough.