Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming

by William W. Johnstone

  Ordinarily, Fred’s size and strength would never have kept him jammed against the wall for more than a few seconds, but the blow to his forehead had stunned him to a point of dazed weakness.

  Fred raised his hands to push back against the door, but his fingers were spongy, without strength. His gun slipped from his grasp. He was vaguely aware of the sound of the man on the other side of the door, grunting with the effort of keeping it rammed against him . . . and of running feet, coming closer.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of hoofbeats, a running horse closing fast.

  A new voice, a hazily familiar one, called, “Hold it right there, you varmints!”

  Gunshots.

  More curses.

  The force of the door pressing against Fred eased momentarily then slammed back harder than ever.

  Fred’s knees sagged. The last thing he was aware of was the sound of more running feet and additional cracks of gunfire . . .

  Chapter 5

  Bob Hatfield looked on with a mixture of concern and pride as the doctor tended to Fred.

  “There, that ought to do it,” the doc announced as he straightened up from completing the task. At six feet and six inches in height, Dr. Amos Tibbs was frequently stooped over in his work. So much so that, even at the relatively young age of thirty-four, he carried his string-bean frame in a kind of hunched-shoulders manner that made some people think he was considerably older. The premature thinning of his hair and the spectacles perched on the end of his nose didn’t help, even though his face had a contrasting boyish quality, especially when displaying the eagerness he felt for practicing his profession.

  “Well?” Bob said. “How is he?”

  “Oh, he’ll be fine,” Tibbs assured him. “The nose is broken, of course. I’ve stuffed it with cotton to stanch any bleeding and I’ve braced it as best I can with some bandages. The cotton can come out later today, but I’d leave the bandage on through tomorrow at least. He’ll likely sport a couple shiners for a while. He took two hard raps on the noggin, so he can expect a headache for today anyway . . . but that will go away and the nose will heal. So, like I said, he’ll be fine.”

  “You’re right about having a headache,” Fred said from where he sat on a straight-backed chair in the doctor’s examining room. “I hope you’re just as right about it going away pretty soon.”

  “It will,” the doc said. “Try to stay awake throughout the day. Eat a good meal for lunch and another for supper. Maybe a glass of warm milk before you go to bed tonight. Get a good night’s sleep and your head should feel good as new when you wake up. Just be careful not to bump your nose for the next few days. If it should start bleeding and won’t stop, come back and see me.”

  “I’ll see that he does,” Bob said.

  “Speaking of bleeding”—Tibbs looked at the marshal—“how about that cut on the side of your head? You going to slow down long enough to let me take a look at that now?”

  “It’s just a scratch. It’s not even bleeding anymore.”

  “If it was made by a gun barrel clanging off the side of your head, you need to have it taken care of proper,” said Fred, standing up. “Your turn in the chair. Take a seat.”

  Bob scowled at him but nevertheless went over and sat in the chair.

  “Besides,” Tibbs said as he began gently cleaning away the dried blood on the side of Bob’s head, “I want to keep you two around long enough to hear firsthand accounts of all the excitement that took place while I was away. I was out delivering twins for Mr. and Mrs. Nyquist until just before sunup and didn’t get back to town until everything was dying down. Am I to understand that the two events—the raid and fire to the north and the attempted bank robbery here in Old Town—were connected?”

  “They were connected all right,” confirmed Bob. “The raid was staged as a diversionary tactic to pull all or most of our townsmen up into New Town so the robbery could take place without any interference. They’d have got away with it, too, if Fred here hadn’t been on the ball and showed up to knock the hell out of their plan.”

  “I was doing okay,” Fred said, “until I took a pretty good knock of my own from that stupid door. Then another. If you hadn’t come riding to the rescue, Marshal, I would have been a goner.” He paused, scrunching his face into a frown. “I’m still a little fuzzy, though, on how you knew to leave fighting the fire and ride down to where I was in trouble at the bank.”

  “After we put the run on those raiders,” Bob explained, “everybody immediately swarmed the fire. Luckily, the fire hadn’t got too much of a start and we had plenty of men. So, with shovelfuls of dirt and buckets of water, we got the flames under control pretty quick.

  “Some of the men, thinking it was a bigger deal than it was, ran back to get the water wagon. That’s when they spotted you trying to flush those rascals out of the bank. After one of ’em ran back to tell me, I grabbed the saddled horse of one of the dead raiders and hightailed it down to find out what was what. I was just in time to see two gang members boiling into the alley with you pinned unconscious behind that door. When they saw me coming up the alley behind ’em on a horse, they got a lot more interested in reaching their own horses for a getaway than in sticking around to finish you or finish trying to rob the bank.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Either one.”

  “It sounds like stuff straight out of a dime novel,” said Tibbs, excitement showing on his boyish face as he applied a bandage to Bob’s gashed head. “Raiders, robbers, shoot-outs, fires, a daring ride to execute a last-second rescue. It’s got all the elements of a crackerjack yarn.”

  “Well, let me tell you,” said Fred. “It’s a lot more fun to read about that kind of stuff than it is to go through it.”

  Bob nodded. “That’s especially true for the men who died or got wounded—bullet wounds, I’m talking about. A lot more serious than these scratches of ours.”

  “That’s why I took care of them first. At your insistence,” Tibbs reminded him. “Fortunately, none of them were all that bad. Including—and I don’t know if you’d call this fortunate or not—the one you put in that robber you managed to capture.”

  “It sure wasn’t fortunate that I let the other two get away,” Bob muttered bitterly.

  Tibbs gave a little laugh. “I wouldn’t beat yourself up over it. I can assure you that your grateful public is finding no shortfall in your performance, not based on what I heard while I was tending the wounded men. And that goes for both of you. You drove back a band of menacing raiders, put out a threatening fire, and prevented a bank robbery. Not to mention suffering wounds in the process. And . . . the robber you did manage to capture is only Arlo Sanders, one of the most wanted desperadoes on the Western frontier. I’d say that’s a pretty fair morning’s work for a pair of small-town lawmen.”

  Bob looked at Fred and grinned crookedly. “You hear that, Fred? We’re a couple of ripsnortin’ heroes.”

  Fred managed a grin, too. “Remind me again when my head quits hurting. I’m sure I’ll appreciate it more then.”

  Once again Tibbs stepped back from his handiwork, saying to Bob, “There. That should do it. I probably should’ve put a couple stitches in that cut, but that would’ve meant shaving away some of your hair, and I didn’t figure you’d hold still for that. Don’t be in a hurry to pull that bandage off. It will yank some hair when you do.”

  “Heck, that won’t bother me, Doc,” said Bob, rising to his feet. “Us heroes eat pain for breakfast and dine on danger all through the rest of the day. Ain’t that right, Fred?”

  Fred didn’t look so chipper about things. “If we’ve got Arlo Sanders in our jail, we’ll be getting a daily dose of danger, that’s for sure, just from having that snake close by.”

  “Well, that’s where he is,” Bob said. “Mike Bullock and a couple of his boys are looking after him while we’re away. We’d better get down there and spell them.”

  The two lawmen thanked Tibbs for his services.

  As they started f
or the door, Bob paused and said, “Send your bill to Mike and he’ll see to it the town council gets you paid, Doc.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Bob lingered a moment longer. “By the way, Doc . . . can you think of a country that starts with the letter Q?”

  Chapter 6

  Bob and Fred emerged from the doctor’s office and found a throng of still-excited citizens milling about, waiting for them. Most of the faces were familiar but, while the lawmen had a cordial enough relationship with the majority of them, they weren’t at all used to the way the people were looking at them. Their expressions seemed to be . . . awestruck, adoring. Those were the only words Bob could think of. Accurate or not, it made him feel uncomfortable as hell. Creepy, even.

  Among the faces Bob took particular note of was Consuela’s. Any way she chose to look at him, he was okay with. He gave her a little smile to let her know everything was okay. Next his gaze came to rest on Curtis Pardee and his three nephews—the Macy boys, Peter, Vern, and Lee. Bob owed them a big debt, especially Vern. He meant to make that fact well known, but for the time being, he simply acknowledged them with a nod.

  Quite surprising, the most prominent and vocal of those gathered was none other than Abraham Starbuck, the banker. Normally a gruff, standoffish sort who never mingled much with common folks or exchanged pleasantries with hardly anyone, the recent situation found him acting like another person.

  “Here they are now!” he pronounced at the sight of Bob and Fred. “Our city’s finest—the brave badge-wearers who led the way to saving the day for all of Rattlesnake Wells. Join me in raising three cheers. Make it loud and make it proud!”

  “Hip-hip, hooray! . . . Hip-hip, hooray! . . . Hip-hip, hooray!”

  Bob could feel himself blushing furiously. Fred was, too, although Bob could tell he was also soaking up the positive outpouring. While Bob considered Fred a fully competent deputy, his weight and some of the predicaments he’d gotten himself into over the years had made him the brunt of more than a little unkind ribbing and some cruel remarks from certain rude jackasses. Bob told himself any discomfort he felt at the moment was worth enduring for the sake of Fred’s enjoyment of it.

  Pointing and laying it on even thicker, Starbuck said, “Had it not been for Deputy Fred’s brave confrontation with the bank robbers—totally without assistance, mind you—not only would our bank have been robbed, it would have been blown to smithereens.”

  Starbuck had earlier revealed that the man Fred had first seen ducking back into the bank was returning from the horses, where he’d gone to fetch some dynamite in order to blow the bank safe because Starbuck, even after being beaten, would not reveal the combination.

  Said dynamite had since been confiscated and was being held at the sheriff’s office.

  “And the Lord only knows what fate I would have suffered beyond these bruises and fractures you now see in evidence,” Starbuck went on, raising his arms like a fire-and-brimstone preacher calling down the thunder. “But I was saved by the quick action and bravery of Deputy Fred . . . with a last-minute assist from our stalwart Marshal Hatfield, who had already fought a gun battle and helped extinguish a fire in the north part of our town.

  “I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, has a citizenry ever been represented by two finer individuals?”

  In response, the crowd murmured and stirred and shouted out affirmations.

  Bob decided he didn’t want to go through another round of hip-hooraying, no matter how good it might make Fred feel. He stepped forward, raising his hand to quell the crowd and prevent Starbuck from continuing. “Thank you, Mr. Starbuck. Thank you very much for all the kind words.” Looking out at the crowd, he added, “And thanks for the showing from all of you folks. Me and Fred really appreciate it. But, and I know I speak for Fred too when I say this, we want to remind you that we’re just a couple fellas doing our jobs. It’s what we get paid for. So, again, thank you for this showing of appreciation, but now we’ve got other things to attend to as part of our duties . . . just as I’m sure you fine folks have got other things to do . . . so how about we break this up and all go about our business?”

  The crowd began to disperse as suggested, but Abe Starbuck wasn’t finished yet. Stepping in between the lawmen, he clapped them each on the back, saying, “Yet another example of devotion to duty. Not that I would expect anything less. And that’s exactly the kind of thing I want to broadcast to a greater audience. That’s why I sent a telegram to the Cheyenne Gazette and gave them a brief account of what went on here today. They’re sending a reporter and a photographer on the next train to get the full story. You brave boys—and, indeed, our whole brave little town—deserve the recognition.”

  The reaction from Fred and Bob was in sharp contrast.

  Fred’s chest puffed up and he beamed like a kid with a new puppy. “Wow. You mean we’ll be wrote about and read about all the way to Cheyenne?”

  “Maybe farther,” said Starbuck. “Maybe some other newspapers will pick up the story and your names and deeds will be read about as far away as New York and Boston.”

  “Wow,” Fred said again.

  “What’s the matter, Marshal?” Starbuck asked. “You don’t look so pleased at such a prospect.”

  “Like I said before,” replied a frowning Bob. “I appreciate the appreciation . . . but some things are better off not played up too big.”

  Chapter 7

  As the two lawmen walked toward the marshal’s office and jail, Fred kept casting sidelong glances over at his boss before finally asking, “What’s wrong, Marshal? You seemed to be in pretty good humor in the doctor’s office, but now you all of a sudden look like you want to bite somebody’s head off. Did I do or say something wrong?”

  Fred’s question and its revelation of his typical low opinion of himself, especially coming so quick on the heels of the way he’d been so pumped up with pride only moments ago, made Bob instantly regret the sour mood he’d slipped into and was doing nothing to hide. He drew to an abrupt halt in the middle of the boardwalk, causing Fred to stop, too.

  Facing his deputy and looking him square in the eye, Bob said, “No, Fred, you didn’t do a darn thing wrong. Why would you ask that? In fact, let me parrot Starbuck’s words and say again, in case I haven’t made it clear enough, I’ve never been prouder of you. Yeah, me and some of the other fellas fought the raiders and the fire and I might have showed up at the last minute to lend you a hand with those robbers, but you are the one who saved the day as far as that robbery goes. You not only kept the money from being taken, you also saved old man Starbuck’s life. You got every right to be proud of that. So do it, and quit fretting and asking fool doggone questions about if you did anything wrong.”

  “Okay, Marshal, but I can’t help noticing how you’ve taken on a bad mood. Yeah, I was able to do some good by interfering with those robbers, but it was only because I was running so late in answering the fire bell.”

  “Well, if you can have as good a luck as you did by running late once in a while, then in this case, I’d say the good outweighed the bad. So go with that,” Bob told him. “As far as my mood, I reckon that’s my business. Ain’t got nothing to do with you. Let’s just say I got some things on my mind and leave it at that, okay?”

  “Sure, Marshal. Whatever you say,” Fred replied.

  Bob clapped him on the shoulder. “All right. Now let’s get down to the jail so we can take over for Bullock and start spending some time of our own with Arlo Sanders.”

  * * *

  At the marshal’s office, they found Mike Bullock and Angus McTeague waiting for them as they kept an eye on the new prisoner. Actually, Sanders wasn’t just the new prisoner, he was the only prisoner. The two men seated out in the office weren’t really keeping an eye on him inasmuch as he was locked up back in the cell block. The heavy door to the cell block was propped open so anything the gang leader had to say or any movement he made was easily heard.

  Bullock was sitting by the pot
bellied stove, sipping from a cup of coffee. McTeague was seated behind the marshal’s desk lighting up one of the cheap, smelly black cigars he favored even though he could afford the finest on the market.

  Bob was surprised to see McTeague present. He remembered calling for someone to fetch the man when he first went running into New Town but never recalled seeing him after that, not during the shoot-out with the raiders or fighting the fire.

  “Make him yourself at home,” Bob greeted, as he removed his hat and hung it on the hat rack just inside the door.

  McTeague smiled and puffed his stinky cigar. He was a beefy individual, thick through the chest and shoulders, with hands the size of shovels and fingers as thick as wagon spokes. His face was broad and fleshy, heavily jowled, framed by coal black sideburns. He’d been one of the first to strike gold in the Prophecies and had parlayed that into a total of three mines—the McT #1, #2, and #3—that he operated with the sweat and labor of others who worked for him. From all reports, he was a tough but fair boss. He got wealthy and he paid his men good. He’d also parlayed his wealth and success into becoming the head of the New Town miners’ council, which basically kept order in Rattlesnake Wells’ boom wing. They requested minimal help from Marshal Hatfield but were generally cooperative when he felt the need to intervene.

  All that prompted McTeague to say, “Understand you did some mighty good work up in my neck of the woods this mornin’. I was up at McT number three overnight and just got in a little bit ago. Thought I’d come by and extend my gratitude and appreciation. Not only for takin’ the lead on runnin’ off those raiders but also for stoppin’ the bank robbery. So happens I got a fair chunk of money in Starbuck’s joint.”

  “A lot of people do,” Bob said, then jabbed a thumb toward Fred. “As far as stopping the bank robbers, that was mainly Fred’s doing. You can thank him.”