For the next several hours there was relative quiet between the two outlaws and Marty, which was just as he preferred it. He had no desire to chum it up with either of the two. Instead, he thought about his next move in his search for Alva Hulett and Sanchez, the two remaining killers of his family that were still alive.
From time to time he glanced back at his cargo, but the two killers were sitting quietly, morosely watching the scenery past by, sitting on their bedrolls and leaning against the sides of the wagon bed, bouncing and rocking with the wagon as it traversed the rocky, rutted roadway.
Marty’s bottom was not used to the wooden seat of the wagon, so he stopped and put his bedroll under him as a cushion. As they started up again, he sighed and looked at Graham. “Your idea was a good one. This bedroll makes a decent cushion for sitting.”
McNeal spoke up for the first time since they left the jail at Reno. “I need to water the lizards and I’m gittin’ hungry. We gonna stop soon?”
“Just as soon as we reach that stand of trees up ahead. Hold your horses till then.”
As soon as they entered the shade of the towering pines, Marty stopped the wagon. He unlocked McNeal and allowed him to relieve himself before chaining him to one of the spokes of the rear wheel. Graham whined about his own needs the entire time, but Marty was careful to expose himself to only one risk at a time. Graham remained chained to the wagon bed until the stocky McNeal was secured to the wagon’s rear wheel. Then he allowed Graham his turn. As soon as he had Graham chained to the front wheel, he made a quick meal of fried pork and bread slices, gave each man a long drink, allowed each one more stop in the trees, and then resumed his journey.
During the noontime break, Marty devoted the majority of his time rubbing Pacer’s leg, grateful that the big horse seemed to have recovered from his leg injury. McNeal spoke up as soon as they were under way again.
“Your horse got a bad leg?”
“I hope had is a better word. Got it chasin’ you down to Reno from Utah. The smithy in Reno seems to have fixed him up right proper.”
“He’s too nice a hoss to have to put down. I’m glad. I only ran ’cause I heerd you always kilt yur man once you catched him.”
“Not true. I always try to take my man alive. Like ole Luke here. I coulda shot him deader’n a stomped polecat, but I didn’t. He certainly tried to do that to me.”
“Well, you got my word I ain’t gonna cause ya no trouble twix here and Carson City,” McNeal announced.
“That’s right, McNeal, you aren’t. But you’re gonna ride the whole way chained to that ringbolt anyway, so don’t get your hopes up. Your word doesn’t mean much since you killed that man in Utah and stole his horse.”
McNeal slumped back and stared at the mountains to the west, silently cursing his fate. Luke Graham wisely stayed silent, content to wait for his friends to spring the trap that would free him and McNeal. If the bounty hunter was still alive when he got free, he’d have his revenge then. He pictured himself wearing the fancy Colt pistols that Marty had slung on his hips. He also planned to be riding the fancy horse docilely walking behind the wagon, and for good measure he would kick dirt in Marty’s dead face if he could not have the pleasure of killing him personally.
The afternoon was a repeat of the morning, hard riding on a bumpy road with very little conversation between Marty and his two prisoners. The sun was halfway down the western horizon when the wagon and its human cargo reached the cut made by spring runoffs across the road. Up in the trees, carefully spaced so they could cover any contingency, Joaquin, Charlie, and Slim waited for the opportune time to spring their deadly ambush. The trees grew almost to the roadside and the hill sloped up from the road, so they had the high ground advantage and good cover. Keller did not stand a chance, in the eyes of all three killers.
“You fellas wait till I open up,” Charlie instructed as they picked their ambush positions. “I wanna git him just as the wagon slows to cross the stream. If I miss, which I won’t, you two blast him offa the wagon. If for some reason he ain’t kilt right off, take care of Luke and the other guy. Got it?”
“Sí,” Joaquin answered. “I weel have a bead on him from the moment I see him. I weel fire as soon as you do. One of us is certain to git heem.”
The three killers waited in the shade of the tall pines, each engrossed with his own thoughts, contemplating how he would spend the bonus Vern would give them for freeing or killing Luke Graham.
As their target came into view, each man settled behind his chosen spot, carefully aiming at the driver of the wagon. A feral grin crossed the hardened face of Joaquin. He was about to make some easy money.
Marty chucked the reins as the team faltered at the bottom of the cut across the roadway. “Come on now, horses, pull together.” He leaned forward to check the roadway below the wheels for soft sand or deep mud. Just at that moment, a chunk of hot lead blew his hat off his head, clipping a lock of dark hair along with it. Marty did not hear the report of the rifle, but he threw himself from the seat of the wagon, on the far side from where the shot had come, as instinctively as jumping back from a coiled rattlesnake.
He pulled his six-gun and peered up the wooded slope. Two other bullets cut air beside his head, while another punched through the side of the wagon seat like a hot knife through butter. Marty dropped to his belly and crawled under the wagon to the edge of the cut and risked another quick glance. Seeing movement upslope about forty yards away, he snapped two quick shots with his .44 in the general direction and scooted to Pacer, still tied to the rear of the wagon. Marty needed his rifle to stand off the men shooting at him. He stayed low, but worked his Winchester repeater out of its saddle holster. Knowing he would make himself a target if he tried to get the big Sharps on the far side of the horse, he scooted back to the edge of the roadway and poked his rifle over the top.
Two bullets kicked up dirt beside his head, so he dropped low and moved a few feet to the right. Peering through a clump of bunchgrass, he spotted movement and quickly fired at the target, knocking bark off the side of a big ponderosa pine next to Charlie’s head. The outlaw leader ducked back behind the thick trunk of the tree, cursing his bad luck at firing at the lawman just as he dropped his head. He chided himself for not taking a body shot instead of trying to punch one through the target’s skull.
“Joaquin, Slim,” he shouted. “Take ’em out, the lawman’s got cover and a rifle now. He’s pinned me down.”
The two outlaws quickly aimed at the two men chained to the wagon. Graham was sitting with his back to the hill, twisting his head over his shoulder to see what was happening. McNeal was facing the hill and his chest was exposed to the deadly fire from above the wagon’s location. Joaquin’s shot hit the back of Luke Graham’s head, snapping it forward and spraying McNeal with blood and tissue. Almost simultaneously, Slim’s shot hit McNeal squarely in the chest, just above a button. A dark stain quickly spread over the mortally wounded man’s chest, and he slumped over.
Marty saw the smoke from Joaquin’s rifle and spaced three quick shots at the tree behind which the outlaw was hiding. One was lucky, judging from a sudden scream of pain. A bullet had cut skin and muscle just under Joaquin’s armpit. That was enough for Charlie. “Let’s go, boys,” he called, and slipped back farther into the trees without waiting to see if they heard or needed his assistance.
Marty snapped a hurried shot at one of the retreating outlaws, but the man dodged so quickly into a cluster of trees that he doubted that he hit him. He waited a few tense moments but saw nothing else. He faintly heard the hoofbeats of galloping horses. Slowly, he rose and carefully scanned the area. He saw nothing suspicious. He quickly checked to ensure that Pacer was not injured by the flying lead, then crawled into the back of the wagon.
Luke was long gone from this earth, but McNeal was laboriously breathing, bright blood still seeping out of his wound, staining the dried wood of the wagon a dark crimson. Marty took his kerchief and pushed it against the wound.
“Damn,” he muttered. “If this jasper was as dead as he’s gonna be soon, I could follow those yahoos, maybe pay them back for their little surprise.” He looked wistfully up the slope of the hill toward where the men had disappeared. “Later,” he vowed, and returned his attention to the wounded McNeal. Tying the blood-soaked kerchief to the wound with a strip of blanket he cut from McNeal’s bedroll, he made the unconscious outlaw as comfortable as possible. Climbing back on the wagon seat, his rifle resting on his thighs, he whipped the team of horses, determined to reach Mormon Station as quickly as the horses could make it. Perhaps he could turn over the wounded man there and get back to the trail of the ambushers before dark.
Even pushing the tired horses as fast as he dared, Marty took an hour to reach the little trading post/way station that was Mormon Station. He slid the wagon to a dust-cloud stop right in front of the door to the low-roofed, wood and stone building. A young boy of about fifteen opened the door and peered at Marty, a questioning look on his freckled face. “What’s the hurry, Mister?”
“I’ve got a wounded man here. Your pa or ma around?”
“Nope. They rode into Carson City this mornin’. Won’t be back till tomorrow. I’m in charge. Maybe I can help ya.”
“Help me carry this man inside. He’s taken a bullet in the chest and is bleedin’ bad. We’ve got to get it stopped.”
Together they got the wounded McNeal on a low cot in a small bedroom just off the main storeroom of the station. Marty carefully took the compression bandage away from the bullet hole to inspect the wound. “What’s your name?” he asked the wide-eyed boy standing beside him.
“Ezekiel,” the boy answered. “I will pray to God this man will live, but it don’t look likely. He’s shot real bad.” The boy touched Marty’s arm. “Who are you, Mister?”
“A deputy out of Reno. Call me Marty. I was taking this fella and another to Carson City for trial when we were ambushed back the trail a ways.” He wiped the fresh blood from the angry-looking entry hole in McNeal’s chest. The bullet had not exited the man, so it needed to be extracted, if he were to live. “Zeke, you need to make me a pot of boiling water, right away.”
“Yessir, Marty. I’ll get right on it.”
Marty held the wad of blanket against the wound until Ezekiel returned with a cast-iron pot of hot water. He washed McNeal’s wound and his right hand, gritting his teeth at the pain of the hot water. Carefully, he pushed his forefinger into the wound, feeling for the bullet, although he had no idea what he would use to pull it out when he found it.
“Damn,” he muttered, “I don’t feel it. It musta hit a bone or something and bounced away. Well, Zeke, all we can do is bind him up and get him on to Carson City. A doctor will have to finish the job, I can’t do it.”
Together they tightly wrapped a fresh bandage over the wound and carried McNeal back out to the wagon. Zeke made a bed out of both bedrolls, cushioning McNeal to protect him from the inevitable jouncing as best they could. Marty considered McNeal lucky that he was still unconscious. The trip into Carson City would be an agonizing one if he were to regain consciousness. He scarcely glanced at the wrapped form of Luke. The cowardly murderer was past helping anyway.
After McNeal was settled, Marty walked back into the store and bought himself a new sombrero. His old one lay in the dust by the road at the ambush site, ruined by the bullet that had punched through it. “Thanks for your help, Zeke. You’re man enough to take care of this place anytime, by my reckoning.”
Marty pushed his team hard and they rode into Carson City just before midnight. He called out to the first man he passed, “Where’s the doc’s office?”
The man pointed down the road. “Down there about two blocks. Doc Jenkins.”
“Thanks,” Marty answered. He snapped the reins and drove quickly to the small home and office. He hammered on the door until an elderly man in spectacles opened it, holding a burning lamp in an arthritic hand.
“What’s the ruckus?”
“Gunshot, Doc. He’s bleedin’ bad. Happened about five hours ago, just before Mormon Station.”
“Give me a hand and we’ll git him to the examining table inside. I can’t do nothin’ out here in the dark.”
As he helped the doctor lift McNeal out of the wagon to carry him inside the examining room, the prisoner shuddered and breathed his last. They laid the body on the doctor’s examining table. The old physician listened for a heartbeat with a scarred wooden ear horn. “Not a peep. He’s a goner, I’m afraid.”
“Damn, damn, damn,” Marty grumbled. “All for nothing. And now, if that’s rain I smell in the air, the tracks will be gone tomorrow. I think I’ll stay out of Nevada for a spell. There’s nothing here for me.” He sighed and climbed into the wagon. He now had to find the livery and get out of the rain. “Just be my luck that it’ll snow on me next,” he grumbled as he chucked the reins. “First, check in with the sheriff, then get to the stable.”
Chapter 10
The Dude from Cincinnati
Marty stepped out of the sheriff’s office into a steadily falling rain. He had spent an hour giving the crusty old law dog his story of the ambush for the second time. “Dang it, not a prayer of finding any tracks now.”
He turned to the sheriff, who had followed Marty to the door, savoring the cool breeze of damp air. “Sheriff, any idea when I can pick up the reward on Graham? I’d like to get going as quickly as possible.”
Sheriff Schrader shook his head, the curly white hairs nearly brushing the collar of his sweat-stained shirt. “Nope. Malcolm O’Brian, owner of the local cartage company, put it up. I’ll check with him tomorrow and tell him you got the man named in the wanted poster. I reckon it’ll take a day or two. He’s had a run of bad luck lately, holdups and the destruction of several of his stagecoaches and freight wagons. I’ll let ya know. After readin’ Jesse’s letter, I suppose I’d best let ya hang out a spell in Carson City, much as I dislike most bounty hunters.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. You’re all heart. Suppose I can find a room at the hotel this late at night?”
“Come on, I’ll walk ya over. Harry, the night clerk, won’t say no to ya iffen I’m along.”
Schrader was as good as his word. Marty was quickly issued a room key and deposited at the foot of the stairs by the sheriff, who shook his hand, perhaps so Harry would see. “Stop by tomorrow afternoon, Keller. I’ll have yur information by then.” He turned to leave and spoke over his shoulder. “Night. I’ll have my night jailor take yur hoss and the wagon to the stable fer ya.”
“Marvelous. Good night, Sheriff, and thanks for your help.”
Marty quickly put his few belongings from his saddlebags in the scarred dresser, then settled back on the worn bed, falling asleep to the soft drumming of raindrops on the balcony outside his window. He slept soundly, not stirring until the sun was clear of the horizon. Marty took a quick turn around the central part of Carson City, then ate a leisurely breakfast at the Two Bit Café. After his second cup of coffee, he ambled over to the livery, where he was assured that Pacer was receiving first-class attention from the clubfooted stable worker.
“That’s one handsome hoss, Mister,” the stable hand announced as he mucked the stall of one of the pair of horses that had pulled Marty’s wagon from Reno.
Marty softly stroked Pacer’s velvety nose. “Yes. He’s that and more. I don’t think I’d be able to get along without him, now that we’ve become friends.”
“Ya wan’ I should double up his oats ration? Only cost ya an extra dime a feedin.”
“Good idea. Do it.” He patted Pacer’s muscular neck. “Hear that, big fella? You’re gonna be eatin’ mighty good for a spell. Make up for those tough stretches we’ve come across on the trail lately.”
Marty finished up his morning by walking beyond the town limits to a sheltered alcove beside a cold running stream that flowed out of the mountains to the east of the town. For a couple of hours, he practiced his fast draw and then carefully cleaned
his pistols. He meant to clean both his rifles as soon as he returned to the stables. They might have gotten wet during the rain the previous night.
After finishing his chores, he had a sandwich of cold cuts at the Silver Bird Saloon, nursing a beer while he casually questioned the two barkeepers on whether they had ever run across Alva Hulett and Sanchez. He decided to spread a few dollars where he hoped they might be of the most help to him in his search. He slowly strolled to the sheriff’s office, pausing to buy himself another shirt at the dry goods store just across the street. “Ever run across a three-fingered man named Hulett?” he asked the one-armed clerk while the slender man wrapped his shirt in brown paper and tied it shut.
“Nope, can’t say I did. Why’d ya ask?”
“He’s wanted for murder. You ever see a tall, skinny, dark-haired man with only three fingers on his left hand, you be sure and tell Sheriff Schrader.”
“I’ll do that. Here’s yur shirt. Thanks fer yur business. Have a nice day.”
Marty tucked the wrapped package under his arm and walked to the sheriff’s office and through the opened door to where he found Schrader sitting with his boots on his desk, idly cleaning his fingernails with a small penknife.
“Mornin’, Keller. Looks like it’s turnin’ out to be a nice day, don’t it?”
“That it does, Sheriff. Any word on my reward?”
“I spoke to Malcolm O’Brian about it this mornin’. He wants to see ya when ya got a minute.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“Nope. I reckon he’s got money troubles, iffen I was to guess. He may wanta negotiate some about the reward.”
“Whatever he wants, it sounds like bad news, doesn’t it?”
“Can’t say, fer certain. The reward was put up by a private citizen, so I ain’t got no say-so about yur gettin’ it. Malcolm’s a fair man, though. Stop by and see what he says.”
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