It was very clear the fire from the four Rangers surprised the bandits, as their attacks dropped off markedly, then flared intensely, much of it aimed at the Rangers. For several long seconds, all three sides hurled bullets, but the Ranger presence on the small battlefield proved to be the deciding factor. The bandit fire diminished, and then ceased completely. Silence soon fell over the old settlement.
Lew Braden leaned around the side of a building ahead and used signals to indicate West and Trahearn should cover up the street.
A few minutes later, two members of the Greater Good squad stepped out of the building from where they had fought. They looked up and down the street and walked to the handcarts.
“On the street. Can you hear me?” Sergeant Tucker yelled. “Don’t fi—”
The two TGG men opened fire in the direction of Tucker’s voice. Sean and Brian fired a handful of shots, dropping one of them immediately and staggering the second before he too fell.
“They’re down,” Sean yelled.
“Thanks,” Sergeant Tucker replied. “Cover the street. We’re going to check the buildings up the way.”
Thirty minutes later, the pair completed their task and knew the quartet of Rangers were the only living occupants of the settlement. They checked the bodies of the dead for anything of intelligence value. The bandits had little worth recording, but The Greater Good squad and their carts were a different matter.
Tucker and Braden recovered the team’s rucksacks while Sean helped Brian up the street. Sean found a chair inside a nearby building for Brian to rest on while he took care of the bullet wound. Braden flipped through maps and papers one member of the Greater Good carried.
Sergeant Tucker watched Sean wrap West’s leg with a bandage.
“You okay, Brian?”
“I’ll live.”
“You don’t listen very well. What did I say?”
“You said ‘don’t get dead.’ I’m not, Sarge.”
“A flesh wound. Round went in and out clean, but you won’t be walking home. Never figured you for a loafer, Brian.”
Sean laughed at Tucker’s comment. “Talk about loafing, he laid around for most of the fight.”
Brian shook his head. “You know, I blame you, Sean.”
“Me? How do you figure?”
“Yes, you. I’ve been out on missions with you twice now, and every time I get hit in the leg.”
“Sounds like your legs might be the problem.”
Tucker watched Sean finish the dressing. “Good work, Sean. Did you guys see the two GGs run from the building during the last exchange?”
Sean and Brian shook their heads.
“Lew and I are pretty sure those two y’all dropped at the last, killed the runners. We looked them over and they were shot in the back all right.”
“They were cart pullers,” Braden said without looking up from the papers he was examining.
“I don’t know what to make of it,” Tucker said.
Braden looked up from his work. “Sarge, you need to see this.” He passed some of the papers he had been examining to Tucker.
The sergeant scanned the front page, then flipped to the second, his expression growing more sour as he went along. “We need to get this back to Geneva, soonest.”
Braden gestured at the carts. He had pulled back the covers and they both held paper-wrapped blocks stamped PETN. “What about all of these explosives?”
“We take the good cart and use it to transport Brian. We set fire to the explosives.”
“Won’t it explode?” Sean said.
Tucker shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, if the miners are right. It’ll burn slow, they say. I’m no expert. Just in case, we’ll make sure we’re well clear before it goes up. We have a long slog home. Let’s get packing.”
. . . . .
Jack left Kings Town in the company of Kay Rush and over a dozen of her fellow salvagers. They rode in wagons transporting goods, food, and other sundry items to Troy, a quarry with a supporting camp. As was common, the wagoners were happy to have more rifles along, especially one operated by a Ranger.
Troy was an odd place. A working stone quarry was the center of activity, but it was also part settlement, part working camp, and part trading post. Much of the business there existed to separate workers and travelers from their money. Gambling, drinking, drugs, and prostitution were chief among these. Situated on an old rail bed that served as a north-south travel route, many salvagers and scavengers conducted trade there. Not officially a part of the Freelands, Rangers nevertheless patrolled through the camp, though the raider issue to the south had curtailed that for some time. Raiders also frequented the place, buying, selling, trading, and enjoying the carnal diversions available.
The salvagers had made prior arrangements with a pair of merchants to accompany them to Mill Creek, the next major stop along the trail. It occurred to Jack that the salvagers didn’t really need him along. He was sure it was Kay’s way of trying to prevent him from feeling beholden to her.
Mill Creek was not a settlement. It was a point where travelers could rest, and according to the merchants, there were nearly always members of their profession conducting business there.
The salvagers passed through, leaving the merchants to ply their trade, the rail bed taking them to the northwest and toward their destination. When they left the rail bed to follow a trail west, Jack insisted on taking the lead. “At least let me feel like I’m doing something helpful,” he said.
The group neared the camp late in the day and found it already had residents, a quartet of their own kind setting up a canvas tent. The salvagers greeted one another, and the group Jack had traveled with began to set up their own shelters. By the time the light began to dim, most of the work was completed and cook fires were going.
As the people there gathered to eat, the subject of raiders came up.
“Any sign of raiders here?” one of Kay’s associates asked.
“No. No sign of anyone being here for quite a while. We peeked west over Ol’ Davis way. There’s raiders there. Not many though.”
“They look whipped,” another salvager offered. “Looks like they’re steering clear of trouble right now instead of starting it.”
“Good enough for’em. Course you know they’ll be back to their old tricks before you know it.”
“Sure, but enjoy the moment.”
Shortly after supper, the gathering broke up and everyone went to sleep. Jack was somewhat concerned about a lack of sentries, but salvagers were known for their ability to assess threats. Their lives depended upon it, so he trusted their judgment.
Just after the sun began to rise, Jack awakened. He gathered his gear and made ready for an early start. Most of the salvagers were up as well, and after a quick breakfast, Jack said his goodbyes.
Kay stopped him before he left. “You have everything?”
Jack smiled. “I’m set.”
“Go slow and cautious. No ‘ride boldly ride,’ okay?”
“I plan on being a ghost. Slip in, slip out.”
“Good. If you can find the nav points I gave you, you should be able to find what you’re after without much difficulty.”
Jack smiled again. “Got it. If you don’t stop being a mother hen, I’ll never get out of here.”
She laughed. “All right, just remember, it’s a world of hazards out there.”
“I know. It killed my father. Thanks, and don’t think you’re off the hook for what you’ve done.”
Kay gave him a dirty look and then smiled. “Go.”
Jack took the same trail from the camp that brought him in. He rejoined the route that followed the rail bed north, hoping to make it to a large salvager camp near Old Ada before dark.
Somewhere between Mill Creek and Old Ada lay a place called Fitzhugh. Much like Troy save for the quarry, Fitzhugh existed to provide a place of rest and resupply for travelers and had numerous temptations and pastimes to part them from their money.
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Several miles south of Fitzhugh, a group of travelers Jack had been gaining on most of the morning stopped along the trail. Jack stopped as well.
“We got two people down,” a man said from his perch up on a wagon. He pointed to the edge of the tree line some fifty feet distant.
Jack joined with a group of people and walked to the point the wagoner indicated. They found there were three people lying beside one another in the leaf litter just inside the woods, their clothes obviously rifled for valuables.
“Anyone know these people?” Jack said.
No one said anything, though most shook their heads.
One man looked at Jack. “You a Ranger?”
Jack nodded and pulled his star partially out of his pocket.
“Freelands?”
A woman standing next to Jack snorted. “There any other kind?”
The man from the wagon joined the group. “I ain’t no tracker, but I think the prints on the trail coming from the north are these folk.”
“Maybe someone in Fitzhugh knows them?” Jack said.
“We can take them with us,” the wagoner said. “Decency says we ought to.”
“Let’s get’em on board then. We got miles to cover,” said another man in the group.
“Hang on,” Jack said. “Let me check a couple of things.”
“This gonna take long? They’re dead, what more you need to know?”
Jack glanced at the man, but said nothing.
“You in such a hurry, you could head on to Fitzhugh by yourself,” the wagoner said.
The impatient man glared. “I’ll wait. If folks are getting waylaid I’d just a’soon be in a group.”
“This won’t take long,” Jack said. He knelt next to the nearest body, a middle-aged man resting on his right side. Jack leaned over and touched the man, looking closely. He could tell the man had not been dead for very long. Jack guessed a little less than an hour had passed since he’d died since lividity was barely visible and there was no sign of rigor mortis yet. He shifted position and saw a pair of bloodstained exit wounds high on the man’s back, and an entry wound in the left side of the man’s skull. The head wound was the result of a pistol shot fired at very close range, indicated by the powder residue around the wound. Jack slowly rolled the man onto his back. The man had two bullet wounds in the chest. Based on the nature of the damage, Jack was fairly sure the wounds were caused by pistol bullets.
He looked at the other two bodies and found gunfire felled them as well. One, a middle-aged woman stared sightlessly at the trees, shot twice in the chest with a small caliber rifle, while the other was a younger man, shot in the back by several small caliber rifle bullets and a pair of pistol rounds. The young man’s body had been dragged from farther in the woods and left beside the other two.
Jack found six brass .38 Special casings under the younger man’s legs.
“Why’d someone leave those?” asked the wagoner. “Only an idiot leaves brass when they don’t have to.”
“Maybe this is why?” said the woman who had been standing beside Jack. In her hand was an empty brown cardboard pistol ammunition box.
“Thirty-eight?” Jack asked.
She handed him the box. It was new and unweathered. On one flap, written in pencil lead, was, .38 Spl. 158gr. 50 count. “Found it just over there in the leaves.”
“The killer traded six rounds for fifty then,” the wagoner said.
Jack stood and walked to a spot not far away where the leaves had been kicked back and forth several times as if someone was looking for something. He found a well-worn rifle casing and picked it up. Imprinted around the base was the script .223 Remington. A sniff told Jack it was recently fired. The sour smell made him grimace unwittingly. Beat up brass. Crap powder. It’s a low quality reload, he thought. They were looking for the expended casings, at least the rifle shooter was.
“Two killers,” Jack said. “One with a thirty-eight and another with a five-five-six millimeter.” He walked back to the bodies. The middle-aged man had an empty and long-serving revolver holster on his right hip. Hand-stamped into the worn leather was the word CHILI. The holster was the only thing of value left on the three.
The impatient man glared at Jack. “Y’all about done?”
“Yes. I’m finished.”
“Good. Let’s go then. I got money to spend and Fitzhugh is the place for me.”
While the others carried the bodies to the wagon, Jack walked up the trail and looked for tracks. Two sets of boot prints entered the trail and went north, transgressing the southbound tracks of the three victims.
Jack walked alongside the wagon with the other people to Fitzhugh. “We’ll go to Floyt’s Trading when we get there,” the wagoner said. “If they don’t know who these folks are, someone else might.”
Fitzhugh had very few permanent structures, and of those, Floyt’s Trading was by far the most substantial. The wagon stopped in front Floyt’s and within seconds there were half a dozen people eyeing the bodies with more coming to look.
The wagoner tapped Jack on the shoulder. “C’mon, we’ll go talk to Floyt.”
Jack followed him up the steps and through the front doors. A white-haired man walked toward them wiping his hands on a towel. He slowed when he saw the wagoner.
“Hey, Chet, been awhile. What’s the kerfuffle out front?”
“Found three dead people a few miles south of here, Mr. Floyt. Don’t know’em. Brought’em in on the wagon. Nothing to say who they are.”
“One of them had a revolver holster that had the word ‘chili’ stamped on it,” Jack said. He pulled the flattened ammo box out of a pocket. “Probably for a thirty-eight if this belonged to him.”
Floyt took the box from him. “Chili? A man my age?”
“Thereabouts.”
“Gotta be Chili Willis. Used to be a cook with the Maris outfit back in aught-nine and ten.” The way Floyt spoke made Jack feel as if he should be familiar with the group, but he had never heard of it. “He was here this morning. Carries an S and W Combat Masterpiece.” Floyt looked to the back of the store and shouted, “Terry. Mind the counter.”
A voice from the back mumbled an acknowledgement.
Floyt threw the towel onto an empty shelf and said, “You two stay here,” to Chet and Jack as he passed them and walked outside. The two men saw Floyt look at the bodies, then disappear up the street.
A few minutes later, Floyt led a pair of men to the wagon. They looked at the bodies briefly, then stalked off in the direction from which they originated. Floyt stepped inside.
“Let’s move to the back until it’s done.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Chet said as they followed Floyt.
“Hell’s getting ready to break loose, that’s what. That’s Chili Willis on your wagon all right. His wife and associate too. He traded some parts over at Bruno’s for three hundred rounds of Thirty-eight Special. Chili had pals, and some of them pals are here. They’re going over to Bruno’s to see if the box came from there or find out if anyone’s trying to sell a Smith Wesson. Word is some men came in an hour or so back looking to a swap revolver for a roll over at Maudy’s, but it’s strictly money over there. If it’s Chili’s gun and ammo, well—”
Just then, a flurry of shots erupted from outside. Within a few seconds they stopped. Jack swept his rifle from his shoulder in a practiced move and he walked to the front of the building.
“Don’t get in the middle of something,” Floyt said as he followed.
Jack stepped outside and saw four men on the ground. A man holding a revolver stood in the midst of them with several more armed men nearby.
“This is for Chili!” the revolver man yelled. He fired a round into the head of one of the downed men, and then repeated the process with two others, leaving the fourth alone.
Jack threw his AKM over his left shoulder and walked up the street. The man with the revolver knelt next to the only body he had not shot in the head. The group of
men holstered or slung their weapons, then picked up the body and carried it away.
Jack joined with several others looking at the three dead men that lie in the dirt and gravel. Many more looked on from the large tents and ramshackle structures that edged the street. Beside one of the dead men lay a Mini-14 rifle, a semiautomatic capable of firing the .223 round. The man apparently fired but a single shot in the brief fracas. Jack picked up the still warm expended brass from the ground some distance away. He examined it and sniffed. It’s not proof positive, but I’d bet it’s the same low quality powder as the casing from down south, he thought.
“Fucking raiders,” said someone in the group.
“Anyone know their names?” Jack asked as he fished the wanted list from his pocket.
“That one’s Johnny Mitchell,” a man said pointing at one of them.
“That guy was Elmer Brazelton,” another man said with a gesture. “I think the other one was called Gus Casper.”
“Yeah, Augustus Casper,” said another. “Not a bad guy, ‘less he was drunk.”
Brazelton and Casper were on the list. The .223 rifle belonged to Casper. Jack noted their deaths and the triple murder on the trail, then walked back to Floyt’s. He saw Chet overseeing the removal of the bodies from his wagon.
“Just another day in Fitzhugh,” Floyt said as Jack came up the stairs. “They friends of yours or do you have some kind of fascination with the dead?”
“Their no friends of mine. The only fascination they hold for me is if they have warrants on them.”
“Ah, I see. A Freelander. Staying or passing through?”
“Passing through.”
“You’ll need water, and we’ve got the best you’ll find.”
Jack knew a sales pitch when he heard one. “And it will only cost me a—”
“Not a thing if you buy something.”
“What’s so special about your water? Special healing powers?”
Floyt laughed. “It’s filtered, that’s all. Through particulates, ceramics, and activated charcoal. Clean as it gets.”
The Blastlands Saga Page 39