Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming

by William W. Johnstone

  Gut shot! The two dreaded words screamed inside Bob’s head, and a tremor of increased rage passed through him.

  “My God,” Consuela whispered. With her free hand she made the sign of the cross over her bosom . . .

  * * *

  “Señor Bob?”

  Consuela’s voice—not whispering, not from Texas six years ago, but in the office, in the now—jolted Bob from his reverie. He opened his eyes and sat up straight.

  Consuela stood in front of his desk. He hadn’t heard her come in.

  An impish smile played across her full, lovely lips. “Did I catch you napping on the job?”

  “Of course not.” Bob scowled. “I was lost in deep thought, that’s all.”

  The impishness moved to a twinkle in Consuela’s eyes. “I see. So if Bucky came home from school one day with a note informing you he had fallen asleep in class, but he argued that he was not asleep, only lost in deep thought, you would understand perfectly, no?”

  “No,” Bob said with finality. “Bucky’s a kid. He doesn’t have deep thoughts. Especially not in school. If he did, he’d have better grades. On second thought, if he was trying to figure a way to get out of school, he might put some hard thought into it.”

  Seeing that Bob appeared to be in a tense mood, Consuela put away any attempt to tease him further. “I think you are sometimes too hard on the boy about his schooling. Of course, that is not for me to say. What I will say, however, is that Bucky has certainly heard about everything that went on this morning . . . so when he gets out of school and comes tearing here all excited to hear the firsthand details from his hero father, I hope you can manage to be a little bit accommodating and pleasant.”

  Bob could see that his sour mood had rubbed off on Consuela. “Aw, come on. Cut me a little slack, will you? I’m sorry if I kinda snapped at you when you were just poking a little fun. But I do have a few things on my mind. I hope you can understand that. Especially with that blasted Starbuck carrying on the way he’s decided to.”

  “What’s so bad about that?” Consuela said, genuinely puzzled. “Everybody in town is buzzing about how good a job you and Fred did, how brave you are. What’s wrong with Mr. Starbuck calling in a newspaper reporter and arranging for you to get a little wider recognition for it?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Bob echoed. “Stop and think, Con. You of all people should see the potential risk. Texas may seem like a long way away, but it’s not all that far. A fella they called the Devil’s River Kid got a lot of newspaper coverage once upon a time, along with having his likeness plastered on wanted posters all over creation. A story might be okay, but if it includes some photographs and it gets picked up by other papers, like Starbuck said it might . . .” His voice trailed off. “You see now what’s got me kinda worried?”

  Consuela nipped her lower lip between her even white teeth. “But that was years ago, Señor Bob. The Devil’s River Kid got caught in a blizzard one winter trying to make it back to his hideout. No one has seen him since and everyone believes he must have died somewhere up in the Devil’s River Wilderness that gave him his name.”

  “No body was ever found,” Bob reminded her. “And not everyone is convinced the Kid didn’t make it through that blizzard alive somehow and then gave up his outlaw ways to go off and make a new life somewhere.”

  Neither of them spoke for a minute.

  Then Consuela said, “Texas has many stories. So does Wyoming. There’s no reason to think that one has need to borrow off the other.”

  Bob set his jaw. “Let’s hope not.”

  Chapter 9

  Abruptly, Bob and Consuela showed mutual awareness that she had been standing the whole time holding a straw basket with a cloth over it.

  Bob pointed. “Were you bringing that here? Or are you on your way somewhere else with it?”

  “No, it’s for you,” Consuela said. “I know it’s a little early, but it’s your lunch. All things considered, I doubted you would be coming home to eat. Plus I wanted to check and see how that head wound of yours is.”

  “My head’s okay. Doc Tibbs took good care of it.”

  “How about Fred? How is he?”

  “He got banged up a little worse than me, but he’ll be okay. He went home to take it easy for a while.” Bob grinned. “When you see him again, be prepared. It looks like he’s gonna end up with two black eyes out of that busted nose.”

  Consuela giggled at the mental image. “He will look like a big, cuddly raccoon.”

  “I don’t know about the cuddly part.”

  Consuela placed her basket on the desk. “Well, when he comes back there’s a sandwich in here for him, too, if he’s hungry.”

  “We’re talking about Fred. Have you ever known him not to be hungry?”

  “True. If he is not, you had better take him back to the doctor and have him checked for a more serious injury.” Consuela tapped a finger on the basket. “I also put a sandwich in here for your prisoner.”

  Bob frowned. “I don’t know if that skunk deserves decent food.”

  “You’ve had other skunks behind bars and we always fed them. You can hardly let this one starve to death.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Bob pointed a finger at Consuela and scowled for emphasis. “Listen, I don’t know how long we’re going to have Sanders in our jail, but if there’s reason for you to bring his meals here like now, rather send them with me, I don’t want you going back in the cell block to give them to him. You got that? Even if he has to wait, only me or Fred will take them back.”

  Consuela nodded. “Sí. If you say so.”

  “I say so.”

  The front door opened then and Harold Feeney, the town’s telegraph operator, came in. An elderly gent, somewhere between sixty and a hundred, he was black as a pit, with a smooth dome head and an equally smooth face except for the fine crinkles around his eyes. He had cotton white sideburns, a fringe of the same around the back of his head, and thick white eyebrows that were usually tinted green from the opaque green bill of the eyeshade he always had strapped to his head.

  “Mornin’, Marshal. Miss Consuela,” Feeney greeted them, then focused on Bob. “Fred stopped by a little while ago and said you wanted I should come around when I got a chance.”

  “That’s right. I need to get off some telegrams but don’t want to leave the jail unattended. I was hoping I could give you the messages and where I want them to go and you’d send them for me.”

  “Sure, I can do that,” agreed Feeney.

  “Sounds like you’ve got business to tend to, so I’d best be going,” said Consuela. “Don’t forget to eat your lunch. Will you be home for supper tonight?”

  “I plan on it,” Bob told her. “I plan on sleeping here in the back room tonight so I at least want to have a meal at home and spend a little time with Bucky before I have to come back here.”

  “Okay. I’ll plan on it, then.”

  When Consuela had left, Feeney showed a wide, appreciative grin. “There goes one mighty pretty gal.”

  “Yeah, I suppose she is,” said Bob.

  Feeney gave him a look. “You suppose? Even my rheumy ol’ ancient eyes can see it plain. You need lookin’ glasses or something?”

  “No, I don’t need glasses. I need telegrams sent out. Have a seat.”

  Feeney sat down in front of the desk as Bob produced a pad of yellow lined paper and a pencil and pushed them in front of the telegrapher. Feeney hitched his chair closer and got ready to write.

  Twenty minutes later, Feeney had scribbled down a half dozen messages and where to send them. As he got up and started for the door, the marshal thanked him and told him to send his bill to the town council and it would get paid.

  After Feeney was gone, Bob put one of Consuela’s sandwiches on a tin plate and took it back to Sanders, along with a cup of coffee.

  Returning to the office area, he poured himself a cup, took another sandwich out of the basket, and sat back down at the desk. As he ate, h
e pulled a stack of wanted posters from a desk drawer and leafed through them, checking to see if he’d missed any jurisdictions of significance. He had dictated his messages to Feeney from memory as far as jurisdictions where he knew Arlo Sanders and his gang had struck.

  As he ate and leafed through the sheets of paper, Bob couldn’t help thinking about a place and time where wanted posters had been no part of his life. Once again, his mind drifted back . . .

  Texas, six years earlier

  Ramos Diaz died that evening on the ground in front of the house. They hadn’t been able to stop the bleeding until his heart stopped and ended it for them. All they could do then was wrap him in clean linen and carry his body into the house.

  The women wept. The men cursed.

  All except Bob Hammond. He was done cursing. It was time to act.

  When he silently strapped on his gun belt and took his hat from the peg where he’d placed it before supper, the others all stopped their lamentations over the corpse that had been Bob’s lifelong best friend. They directed their attention to Bob as he started for the door, still without saying anything.

  “No, son. That’s not the way,” Rafe said, stopping him.

  Bob turned. “It’s not? Then what is the way, Pa? To do like we’ve been doing? Excuse me, but that don’t seem to have worked so well. We’ve been pushed, prodded, bullied, threatened . . . and now this. I say it ends here. I say it’s time to push back and it starts with Willis Breen.”

  “You can’t go up against Breen.”

  “I can and I will. I can take him.”

  “Bob,” said his mother. “We’re already faced with burying one fine young man whose pride led to tragedy. Don’t make it two.”

  “Plus you’ve got a wife and son to think of,” spoke up Priscilla.

  Bob’s gaze raked all of them. “None of you understand . . . I can’t not do this. Not and live with myself . . . I’m sorry, but that’s all there is to it.”

  Then he was out the door and in the bloody saddle of Ramos’s horse and spurring the animal toward town.

  * * *

  Willis Breen worked for Cameron Bell, the largest rancher in the county, well on his way to becoming what some called a cattle baron. In order to grow and expand the reach of his Liberty Bell brand, Bell needed more land—land currently belonging to Rafe Hammond’s Slash-H brand, and land Hammond wasn’t interested in giving up. Rafe couldn’t be bought, nor could he be bullied or intimidated—not even when Bell hired the likes of Breen and his reputation for being a top gunman. So far, Rafe had stopped short of fighting back. All he did was stand fast and stubborn, believing that Bell would eventually seek out another way to expand his empire.

  Bob Hammond was tired of just standing fast and enduring the slurs and dirty tricks. He would not merely endure what amounted to the murder of his best friend. He was ready to not only fight back but to take the fight directly to Bell’s bullyboy, Willis Breen.

  In the town of Calderone, Bob found him drinking and celebrating inside the Broken Spoke Saloon, right where Curley Danielson had suggested he’d be. Drinking and celebrating how he’d gunned down Ramos in the street out front.

  When Bob walked in, the place went silent.

  Breen watched him closely, all the while wearing a taunting sneer.

  “What’ll it be, Bob?” asked the nervous barkeep.

  “Blood,” Bob answered.

  “W–What?”

  “You heard me. I’m here for blood.” Bob turned and rested his elbows on the bar, raising his voice so everybody could hear. “Namely yours, Breen. You goaded Ramos Diaz into a gunfight earlier tonight and gut-shot him. He died a little while ago. Now I’m here to settle the score. I’m calling you out.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Breen, his sneer widening. “The brave avenger . . . for a lousy damned beaner.”

  “He was my best friend. And he was worth ten of you,” responded Bob.

  “But he wasn’t worth enough to beat me in a fair-and-square draw.”

  “He was no fast gun,” Bob grated. “You knew that going in or you never would’ve braced him, you gutless tub.”

  “And it’s a different story with you?”

  “Let’s step out in the street and find out.”

  Breen chuckled as he swept his eyes around the table at the other Liberty Bell riders sitting with him. “You heard him, boys. He cast asparagus on my honor and challenged me without provocation. I got no choice, right?” He chuckled again. “And I don’t see how Boss Bell will have any choice but to pay me a fat bonus when it’s over. I mean, when I’m done gettin’ rid of two of the Slash-H’s prime young bucks in one night—how can he not?”

  “I hate benefiting Cameron Bell in any way,” said Bob, “but if you’ll get off your ass and quit just talking about what you’re gonna do, I reckon I’ll be saving him that bonus.”

  They made their way outside.

  Breen pointed to a dark spot on the ground. “You want to stand where your buddy was standin’ when he got his? Or do you want to christen a fresh patch of ground with your blood?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Bob told him. “Just pick your own spot to die.”

  Breen was fast. But it wasn’t even close. To a man, those looking on would later claim they never saw Bob’s hand move. One instant it was hovering over his gun, the next it was pointed at Breen, gripping the gun as it roared and spat flame, sending two slugs punching into the gunslinger’s chest. Breen hit the ground with his gun never completely cleared of its holster.

  Bob continued to hold his own smoking weapon at waist level, his eyes scanning the gawkers who stood with their mouths hanging open. “Anybody else?”

  Nobody said anything.

  Not until Sheriff Tom Garwood and his deputy, Sam Ramsey, came running up. The sheriff had his handgun drawn, and Ramsey was brandishing a shotgun.

  Some men were bending over the still form of Breen.

  “Is he dead?” asked Sheriff Garwood.

  “Don’t get no deader,” came the reply.

  The sheriff and his deputy swung their guns, aiming them at Bob.

  “Drop that hogleg and raise your hands, Bob,” Garwood said. “You’re under arrest for murder.”

  Chapter 10

  Fred returned to the marshal’s office a little before five that evening. Except for the deep purple circles around his eyes, he actually looked considerably better than when he’d left. The color in his face—apart from the eyes—was good, his expression wasn’t so hangdog, and he even had some spring in his step.

  “Well now,” said Bob. “You look like you healed up right smart.”

  “I finally got rid of that doggone headache,” Fred replied. “Man, was that a skull buster. Then you know what? Walking over here, you wouldn’t believe how many folks came up to me and congratulated me again on how I dealt with those bank robbers. Not once did anybody even make fun of my black eyes.”

  “That’s because those are like battle scars, man. Badges of honor. They’re evidence for everybody to see how hard you fought to save the bank money. They darn well shouldn’t be made fun of.”

  “I guess. I expected to get some ribbing over them anyway.” Fred twisted his mouth wryly. “I’m starting to think now that I’ll be sorry to see ’em fade away.”

  “Don’t push it,” Bob advised him. “There’s still plenty of time for you to get some ribbing over them. Consuela, for instance, hasn’t even seen you yet, but she said she expects you’ll look like a big, cuddly raccoon.”

  Fred lifted his eyebrows. “That ain’t so bad. At least she said cuddly.”

  “She brought you a sandwich, too,” Bob said, pointing at the basket still on the corner of his desk. “That was at lunchtime, though, so it might be a little dry. If you don’t want it, we’ll give it to Sanders. It’ll be good enough for him, no matter how dry it is.”

  “No, I’ll still take it,” Fred was quick to say. “Mrs. Nyby made me some soup that was okay, but it didn’t
stick to the ribs much. I’m sure one of Consuela’s sandwiches will go down real good.”

  “Speaking of eating, now that you’re here I’m going to go home for some supper. I might put my feet up and relax for a little bit while I’m there, but I’ll be back before too long. I’ll bring back some supper for the prisoner before I head out on my rounds. You stick close and don’t let Sanders pull any funny business on you, okay?”

  “Not a chance. Say, if Consuela makes any extra for supper, maybe you could bring back some for me, too?”

  Bob arched a brow. “I thought you were fond of the grub at that Mexican food stand up on Gold Avenue. I thought you were taking all your suppers there lately.”

  Fred made a ghastly face. “You don’t want to know the story on that. Believe me, you don’t.”

  * * *

  Bob returned from his supper break an hour and a half later, bearing plates of food for Fred and the prisoner. While Fred was digging eagerly into his, Bob took the other meal back to a sullen, unappreciative Sanders, spent a few minutes chin-wagging with Fred, then headed out to make his usual evening rounds of Rattlesnake Wells.

  Everything seemed nice and quiet as if the town was weary after all its morning excitement. As he strolled along, the marshal appreciated that . . . then he remembered how exceptionally calm it had been at the outset of the day and thought wryly that he hoped the end-of-the-day calm didn’t take the same kind of sudden turn.

  The train making the special run to pick up the horses for the Army had done a quick turnaround, its crew not remaining in town for an overnight stay. And, as Bucky had predicted, the Double Bar J wranglers delivering the horses were an older, quieter bunch who posed nary a hint of the kind of “friskiness” that might result in trouble.

  Bob paid visits to the three men who’d answered the call of the emergency bell and had ended up getting wounded in the skirmish with the raiders. Each was in good spirits, their wounds relatively minor, and none expressed any remorse for their participation. On the contrary, all three stated pride in playing their part to rout the outlaws and, in a roundabout way, helping to prevent a bank robbery. The marshal came away feeling a swell of pride for the kind of citizens it was his job to wear a badge for.