Black Hills (9781101559116)

by Thompson, Rod

  How did she come to own a spread in Colorado? There was a question looking for an answer, and what happened to the Schwartzes? Well, how she got there was not of any particular importance, nor was her not being able to stand the sight of him. She was there, and she needed help. Cormac Lynch would just have to go see about that.

  He would love to see her again, but could he handle it? Or the withering look that would be in her eyes? Or the words she would say? If she even spoke to him. Maybe he could find out what was going on, take care of it, and leave without her learning it was him, and without having to meet her face to face.

  “Hey, who the hell are you?” asked the rider closest to him when he stepped out of the stall. “What’s the idea of eavesdropping on our conversation? You could have said something to let us know you were there.”

  Both men stepped out of the stalls, hands close to their guns, expecting trouble and not sure what to do about him.

  “I would appreciate it if you boys would just re-saddle your horses and take a little ride with me,” Cormac told them.

  The newcomers looked at each other.

  “What the hell are you talking about, and why would we go anywhere with you? We just got here. We ain’t riding anywhere tonight. We’re going to get a good supper and have a few drinks. And I’ll ask you just one more time, who are you?”

  Cormac ignored the question.

  “You are absolutely right; I did overhear your conversation. And I don’t believe you should be going up to Colorado to help outnumber some lady who just wants to be left alone to run her ranch.”

  They looked at each other again, then grabbed for their guns. Cormac was still wearing both guns as well as the one in his waist that he had been carrying since starting the drive, so he just naturally pulled the two holstered six-guns out, cocked them, and pointed them so each of the men was looking into a bore. They were faster than most, their guns had just cleared their holsters. They decided pulling their guns might not have been as much of a good idea as they had originally thought it to be and froze dead still. Their skin lightened a couple of shades, and one got a sudden case of religion.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed.

  “I do not believe he’s going to help you, friend,” Cormac told him. “Now, just finish taking your guns out of your holsters and drop them carefully into that pile of hay beside you.”

  “Who the hell are you? Everybody knows what Holliday looks like, and Tomlinson from Texas is just a little guy, but as far as that goes, I doubt if even they can get into action that quick, and I’ve never heard of anyone who looks like you so who the hell are you?”

  “Who I am is nothing you need fret about. I’m just an old tater picker. Now, let’s all get saddled up and go for a ride.”

  “Look, mister, I don’t know who you are or what you intend to do here, but we mean you no harm.”

  “No, of course you don’t. You were just taking out your guns to clean them . . . here in the stable. Now, if either of those guns come up any higher, my thumbs are going to slip right off these hammers in fright.” Their guns, that had been slowly rising, stopped rising. Cormac put a smile on his face and took it off again.

  “I won’t tell you again. Throw your guns in the hay . . . carefully. We wouldn’t want one of them to go off and accidentally shoot somebody, now would we?”

  They did as instructed, and then, also as instructed, re-saddled their horses and Lop Ear and put the pack back on Horse. Their horses were not happy about leaving again so soon and registered their disappointment by resisting leaving the stable, but a couple slaps with Cormac’s reins on their backsides convinced them of the folly of that idea. With comments that “he couldn’t get away with this,” they rode quietly out of the stable, Horse trotting behind.

  So now they got me being faster than Doc Holliday, huh? Cormac shook his head. Not hardly . . . but I’m goin’ to have to quit lookin’ in the mirror. I’m liable to scare myself plumb to death.

  CHAPTER 16

  The kid, being too young to be in the saloon, was leaning against an overhang post out in front. Cormac instructed him to have Jake direct the banker to release the men’s money when they were ready to leave town, send his to the First National Bank in Denver, and the rest to the Ocean 3 along with word that he was quittin’.

  The old Carob Place turned out to be a dilapidated barn and aging cabin with eight horses tied behind it, apparently to shield them from the sight of approaching riders, but the only approach to the cabin was by passing over the hill in front of it, which gave all visitors a bird’s-eye view of the entire spread, including the rear of the cabin and any horses tied there. Well, he never did hear anyone say bad guys were smart guys.

  Cormac and his two new friends left their horses tied to a bush about forty yards from the cabin, and after cautioning his companions about what he would do if they made any noise, Cormac escorted them to the front door and motioned them to go in first. As they unlatched the door, he gave them a hard shove, crashing them into the room and knocking over the table, and then stepped in behind with a gun in each hand. As they had said, there were eight people waiting: two were lying on bunks, one sitting on a stool in the corner by the stove, one making coffee, and four sitting at the table, two of which had crashed into a pile on the floor, along with the table.

  The bad guy on the stool had his gun apart for cleaning, and the two on the bunks had hung theirs on the bedpost. The coffeemaker threw the pot at him and went for his gun, as did the two that had been sitting at the table and had managed to get to their feet as it crashed. Cormac sidestepped the coffee pot and shot its thrower first; he got the other two as they cleared leather; one with each gun, like in the dime novel about the two-gun kid. Maybe he should write a book, and call it The Two-Gun Kid, The Two-Gun Dakota Kid, The Dakota Two-Gun Kid . . . Aah! . . . Maybe he shouldn’t.

  Three were down and were going to stay down; unlike the storybook gunmen, Cormac didn’t waste time intentionally wounding or trying to shoot guns out of people’s hands. That’s nonsense. If somebody needs shootin’, they need shootin’; do it and get it over with and don’t leave that person around to shoot you later.

  With three down, that left seven. Slowly and carefully, they all got to their feet with their hands in the air, except John. On the ride from town, the one doing all the talking had been called John. Now, John, still clinging to the idea that Cormac couldn’t get away with this, untangled himself from the other arms and legs in the pile and came up with a gun concealed behind him. He should have kept it behind him; when he started to point it at Cormac, Cormac shot him. And then there were six.

  As the sound of gunfire died, he swung his guns at the closest two, cocking them as he turned. It had the desired effect.

  “Wait, mister, please!” the closer of the two exclaimed. “For God’s sake, man! I don’t even know who you are!”

  Cormac had not intended to shoot them unless they did something foolish, but he had to get their attention. Now he had it.

  Making a show of slowly taking a deep breath and exhaling, Cormac looked around the room, also slowly, bringing his eyes back to the two still under his guns. The room was thick with silence and gunsmoke. He just as slowly lowered his guns slightly, still cocked.

  Cormac gave it a slow five count, then said, “You’re right. You don’t know me. Okay. I won’t shoot anyone else right now, if you’ll do as I tell you.”

  There were nods of agreement from all around the room.

  “One at a time, carefully take off your guns and put them in the corner by the stove.”

  Apparently, they had become believers, for they did as they were told. When all were disarmed, he directed them to sit on the floor at the other end of the cabin.

  “I’m going to give you boys a chance to not get killed.” He paused, and then added, “Today.” They looked at him expectantly while he slowly looked at each of them in turn, doing his best to look ferocious. He seemed to be doing everything slowly, but i
t was working, so what the hell . . . never fold a winning hand.

  “I heard tell from John there, that you were all going up to Colorado to help run some lady off her ranch. Now I just don’t believe that to be a good idea. I don’t believe that’s something you ought be doin’. What I think you ought be doing is staying as far away from Colorado as you can. I believe the air in Colorado would be very unhealthful for you. Would any of you care to disagree with that idea?”

  There was a lot of head shaking: so far, so good.

  “Do you fellas suppose if I let you go, you can manage to stay away from Colorado?”

  Six heads were nodding. Cormac looked at each of them again, slowly, of course.

  “All right then. I’m not going to shoot anybody else, but let’s us make sure we understand each other. I’m going to ride up that way, and y’all better be somewheres else. If I run into any of you anywhere in Colorado, I’ll shoot on sight, no questions asked. In town or out on the range, it won’t matter a lick. I’m just going to haul off with this big old Army Colt and start banging away. I may end up in prison or getting hanged for it, but that won’t matter none, you’ll still be dead. Any questions?”

  There weren’t.

  An empty burlap gunnysack on the floor by the woodpile was handy, so he filled it with their guns and gathered their rifles, all the while keeping a close eye for any shenanigans. He needn’t have worried; they were being good little boys and girl. Girl? He looked again. Darned if one wasn’t. It hadn’t consciously registered in his mind, but even the oversize loose shirt couldn’t completely hide the fact that one was most definitely a girl.

  An average-sized woman of about twenty with average looks, not unappealing, wearing a fringed loose buckskin shirt, neither tall, nor short, nor attractive, nor repelling. Cormac had heard that girls sometimes rode with outlaw gangs wanting to be equals, or getting paid for their pleasures, but this was his first experience with it. It took him by surprise.

  He motioned at her with his Colt. “Who are you?”

  “What do you care?”

  The Colt clicked as Cormac eared back the hammer.

  “Okay, okay, Martha Jane Cannary Burke, from Missoura by way of Montana.” She wasn’t frightened, just commonsensical. Her voice was even and pleasant enough.

  That’s who he had thought she was. Cormac had just recently heard about her, and something about her description was familiar. He smiled at her. “Are you riding with this bunch?”

  “Not now. I was plannin’ on it; I had the invitation. But I didn’t know what the job was. Johnny there on the floor just said it was in Colorado, and since I was kinda partial to him and never been up to Colorado, I decided it was a good chance to go see it. I heard they got themselves some real mountains up there, and I didn’t have anything else more excitin’ to do in Deadwood, what with Bill Hickok bein’ dead and all. But now you told us what’s goin’ on, I’ll pass. Who might you be?”

  “Mack Lynch. You can call me Mack.”

  “Damn!” The one who said he didn’t know who Cormac was did then. “You mean to tell me I been in a shoot-out with Mack Lynch and lived?”

  Cormac turned his head slowly to look at the speaker. He was having a little fun with the being-slow idea.

  “Well now, you weren’t really in the shoot-out, and you didn’t have a gun in your hand, did you? . . . And, I haven’t left yet, have I?”

  The man swallowed hard and shook his head.

  Cormac continued. “I’m going to trust that y’all understand me,” he said as he put the sack down to get a better grip. “I’m going to run off your horses, but they probably won’t go far. With a little walkin’ you should be able to round up most of them, and the walkin’ will give you time to think about what I told you. I’ll leave your guns about a mile up the road.”

  With the rifles under his arm, totin’ the gunnysack full of hardware while keeping them covered was quite a trick, but Cormac pulled it off and made it to the door.

  He glared at each of them in turn one more time for effect, and then put on what he hoped was a threatening face.

  “Remember,” he said gruffly before he closed the door. “Don’t be damn fools! Stay out of Colorado!” Would he shoot them if he saw them? Who the hell knew? It would depend on the circumstances . . . he might.

  “Good day, Martha Jane Cannary Burke from Missoura by way of Montana,” he said to her with a smile as he tipped his hat with one gun-filled hand and backed out of the door. Her face lit up, and she returned the smile.

  “Good day to you, sir,” she called. With a smile to brighten her face, a young Calamity Jane was more than a little attractive.

  Stopping that bunch would buy some time to get there. Lambert was waiting for someone to come that wasn’t coming, but he wouldn’t wait forever. Now Cormac had to get there. He pointed Lop Ear’s nose northwest and urged him up to an all-day-runnin’, ground-eatin’ kinda lope. Dodge City would just have to get along without Cormac Lynch and company.

  Alternating between Lop Ear and Horse, they made good time. They had covered approximately two hundred and fifty miles in four days with few stops but to change horses. He stocked up on supplies in Roosterville; a town started, like many others, by accident, he learned from an old man chair-sittin’ on the walk in front of the barbershop.

  “It was named,” the old man had said, in a raspy voice, “after its founder—a man answering to the name of Rooster. You want to hear about it?”

  “You bet I do, old-timer,” Cormac answered, wanting to learn about the area and about what was going on there.

  On the way to the meeting at the old Carob Place, John had told him that the L-Bar N was northwest of Roosterville and another traveler, with whom he shared his smoking tobacco, had given him directions on how to get to Roosterville. Now he needed information, and anything he could learn would be helpful. He still held the idea of sneaking in and taking care of whoever was giving Lainey a bad time and then getting gone again without having to face her.

  The old man’s face brightened; he hadn’t expected that. He’d been expectant of Cormac walking on by, as most folks probably did, but Cormac was wishful of learning about the area, and this old man was wishful of someone with whom to talk.

  “Well, sir,” he began happily, wriggling himself a little deeper into his chair, getting more comfortable. Cormac smiled. The old man reminded him a little of his pa sittin’ around the cracker barrel in the general store in town with some of his friends, getting wound up to tell one of his stories. This was lookin’ like it might take a while. Pushing his hat back on his head, Cormac stepped around an old dog sleeping in the sun, and into the street, seating himself on the edge of the walk and leaning back against a post that was supporting the roof. The dog opened his eyes and looked at Cormac, made a feeble attempt to wag his tail, thought better of it, and went back to sleep.

  “Well, sir,” the old man began, “story goes that, after wandering for a lot of years, this Rooster fella camped late one night on the east bank of the Sweet River, which by the way, gets its name for the taste of the water where it originally runs out of the ground way up on that mountain, there. It’s crisp, cold, and almighty pure.”

  The old man stretched a crooked arm and pointed at a peak rising in the mountain range, taller than those surrounding it. The motion pulled up his sleeve, exposing two bullet scars. There was probably a story for that, too, but Cormac didn’t want to pry. If the old man wanted him to know about it, he’d tell him.

  “When Rooster got up the next morning, he had been overwhelmed by the natural beauty surrounding him—that’s what it says in the town history book the barber is writin’. He used to work for a newspaper back east somewhere and writes real pretty. I’ve read it and heard it read so many times, I practically know the whole thing by heart.”

  Yep, this was going to take a while. Cormac took out his bag of makin’s and rolled a quirlie with one hand while reaching for a match with the other. Striking the w
ooden match on the wood of the walkway, he lit it while his eyes caught sight of an advertisement in the barbershop window behind the old man.

  The sign displayed a picture of a little white round tag on a yellow string dangling from a white bag of Bull Durham smoking tobacco with a package of cigarette papers glued to its side just like his, sticking partially out of a cowhand’s shirt pocket just like his, with the message proudly stating the nickel treat to be the “Cheapest Luxury in the World.”

  Not far wrong, Cormac thought as he exhaled the smoke from his first drag. Not far wrong.

  “According to Curly’s book,” the old man was saying, “it had been in the fall with the mountains rising majestically in the distance, the lower portion of which was still covered with Golden Rod flowers and Aspen trees with their wind-sculpted peaks hidden under a new snowy blanket. Grassy slopes and millions of tall pine trees were filling the expanse between them and the Sweet River. Rooster had never seen a sight more beautiful and decided right then and there his wandering days were over. After many years of searching, without knowing what he had been searching for, he had finally found it. He set himself up a camp and began building a cabin. Before he had it finished, some other folks traveling through bought the hindquarter of a fresh-killed deer and some jerky from him, along with some wild onions.” The old man paused to spit a tobacco stream at a lizard that had just crawled out from under the porch to lie in the sun. He missed close.

  “The location,” the old man went on, “turned out to be on a well-used route, and Rooster began selling and trading meat, onions, and some nuts from a tree he had found to others. After trading for some seeds and books—books that he later traded for a plowshare—he planted a garden, and it wasn’t long till his cabin had a sign in front that read ROOSTER’S TRADING POST—GOOD EATIN AVAILABLE.