Stagecoach Graveyard

by Thom Nicholson

  “Let’s hope it’s not,” Marty answered. “I want it plenty dark. So dark the outlaws can’t get us in their sights.”

  Marty swung down from the driver’s box and opened the door to the coach. “Might as well get comfortable, boys, we’re here fer a spell.”

  “What’s goin’ on, Mr. Keller?” Pat Quinn asked, a confused look on his face.

  Marty explained his plan to make the run over the top of the pass during the hours of darkness.

  “Can them mules see in the dark?” the other man asked, his voice betraying both his Southern roots and his nervousness at the notion of driving blind.

  “Sure can,” Marty answered. “What’s you name, by the way?”

  “I’m Del Murphy, Mr. Keller. I was in Logan’s Rangers durin’ the war.”

  “From Georgia?” Marty asked.

  “Yessir. Fought with Johnson at Stone Mountain and got captured. Spent the rest of the war in the prison camp at Rock Island, up in Illinois. A damned cold place to be in the wintertime.”

  “So I’ve heard. Well, Del, let me assure you, and Squint and probably Pat here can tell you, mules can see like it’s pure daylight, even on the darkest night. I learned a long time ago to just let them be and they’ll get you wherever you want to go.”

  Pat Quinn nodded his head. “I see where you’re goin’. Yu’re gonna make a run past them outlaws in the dark. What they can’t see they can’t hit.”

  “Yep, and we’ll be answering back anything sent our way with double-O buckshot from the shotguns we’re gonna carry the rest of the way.

  “Squint, you take care of the mules with Del here. Pat, if you’ll give Carson and me a hand, we’re gonna put some boilerplate up for Squint to hide behind if the shooting starts.”

  “I wondered what that chunk of tin was for.”

  With the strong Irishman’s help, it did not take long to tie the boilerplate to the side of the driver’s box in such a way that Squint was protected from shots fired at him from the side of the road.

  Squint climbed up into the driver’s box and settled himself so the iron plate was touching his shoulder. “Well, I reckon it’ll keep the bees away,” he snorted. Then he climbed down and returned to where he had chosen to wait out the day, although Marty noticed that every once in a while he would look at his stage with its dark iron barrier and smile.

  The men gathered around a small campfire while they had hot coffee and ate fried ham and beans for supper. Then as the sun dropped into the far ocean west of California, Marty poured the last of his coffee into the tiny fire, raising a puff of smoke and ashes. “It’s time. Harness ’em up, Squint. Let’s get on the road.”

  Charlie Call cussed for a solid minute, then threw his cigar into the tiny fire the men had made for their coffee. He was hungry and irritable. None of the outlaws had brought any food assuming they would finish the job before noon and be back at the ranch in time for a late lunch. He slopped the dregs of his coffee into the flames and spoke loud enough for the men to hear. “To hell with it, let’s go home. The skunks musta gone some other way, else they’d be here afore now.”

  The gang started to gather their rifles and saddlebags before heading back to the clearing where they had tied their horses. “Joaquin, go git Miguel and tell him to come on, we’re headed fer the ranch.” He worried over just how he would explain this to Barton. The outlaw leader was as irritable as a mangy cat lately. Charlie had just climbed onto his horse when Joaquin came running up.

  “Senor Call, the stage, she coming. Right now.”

  “What the hell? You sure ’bout that?”

  “Oh, sí, she coming. Almost to the top of the pass already.”

  “Come on, boys,” he shouted. “Git back to yur places. If you can’t see nuttin’, fire at the sound. Hurry, hurry, damn your hides.” Charlie grabbed his rifle and ran as quickly as he could in the darkness back to the tree where he had a good view of the road. In the dim moonlight, he could just make out the lighter trace of the roadbed about thirty yards below him.

  Just as he got there, the outline of the stage went past, faster than he would have imagined anyone would dare drive it in the darkness. He quickly snapped off three shots at the general location of where the driver would be sitting. Several of his men also fired at the indistinct mass hurtling past. They were answered by what sounded like cannons in the darkness, but it had to be twin-barrel “greeners,” being fired from the stagecoach’s interior. The whistle of buckshot zipped past, tearing away branches and ripping into the trunks of trees. He could hear the outraged cries of two or three men who had stopped one of the pea-sized lead balls from the shotguns being fired at them. Then it was too late. The stage rolled even deeper into the gloom until only the sound of hoofbeats and squeaking wheels was left, and a descending cloud of dust. Cursing at his bad luck, Charlie fired at the fading sound, hoping one of his bullets might hit something, anything.

  As he cursed the fleeing stage, one of his men ran up. “Do ya want us to chase after it, boss?”

  “Naw, in the dark we couldn’t go fast enough to catch up with it noways. Anybody hit?”

  “Yeah, two men got pellets in their legs and Shorty got hit over his right eye. He may lose it iffen we don’t git him to the doc in Reno right away.”

  “Damn. All right, git everyone mounted. We may as well go on back to the ranch. Them skunks got the best of us this time. There’ll be another day, I reckon.”

  As they rode toward the V bar B, Charlie knew he was in for a major ass eating over the unfortunate development. “Next time I’ll kill everyone on the damned stage, just see if I don’t,” he snarled to himself as the discouraged outlaws rode back to their lair.

  Squint drove the mules as fast as he dared until they came to a small dip between two low rises in the road, where he stopped the panting mules for a breather. “Whoo-eee,” he shouted, “did we ever surprise them owlhoots!” He struck a match and looked at the outside face of the boilerplate fastened next to him. “Lookie at this here gouge. Iffen I hadn’t had this plate fastened next to me, I’d be tradin’ my mule whip fer a pair of heavenly wings.”

  Marty got up from his position behind three of the grain bags. “Anybody inside hurt?” he called out.

  Carson climbed out of the coach, followed by Quinn and Del. “No,” Carson called back. “One bullet came through the door, but it buried itself in the grain sack.”

  “Good. Squint, check the mules and make sure none of them got hit.”

  Soon Squint was back beside the coach, shaking his head. “Nope, looks like they all came through jus’ fine.”

  “Good enough. Let’s get on to Virginia City. I’m tired of riding along like a blind man.”

  “Hells, Marty. We still got twenty miles to go. It’ll be two a.m. afore we get thar.”

  “Well, let’s get going. It won’t be any earlier the longer we stand around.” As he climbed back up on the stage, he thanked his lucky stars nobody had been hurt. An awful lot of lead had come down from the hidden outlaws. There had to be fifteen or twenty of them. “I wonder if we hit any of them?” he asked Squint. “It’d be only luck if we did. Fast as we were going plus the darkness. Only good luck.”

  Just as Squint had predicted, the clock in the freight office chimed twice as Squint pulled the tired mules to a halt outside. Marty swung down and checked the office. It was empty and locked and he had not thought to ask Malcolm for a key. “All locked up tight, fellas. Let’s get the mules taken care of and grab some shut-eye. Pat, if you and Del want to have a drink, it’s all right with me, but I want you sober and ready to go early tomorrow morning. We’re going on to Reno before the outlaws have a chance to recover.”

  “I imagine me and Del will grab ourselves a beer afore we call it a night, but don’t worry, Mr. Keller. We’ll be alert tomorrow.”

  “All I can ask.”

  Carson spoke out. “Pat, Squint and I will join you if it’s all right with you.”

  “Hell, if you’re
all going, so’ll I, if nobody objects,” Marty broke in.

  “Sure. The more the merrier,” Quinn answered.

  The tired men rousted the mule barn swamper from his cramped quarters off the main building and got the mules taken care of.

  “Where can we bunk out?” Marty asked. “There’s no chance of us getting a room at the hotels in town this late tonight.”

  “There’s plenty of fresh hay in the loft. Be my guest,” the swamper answered.

  “We will, but first we’re gonna treat ourselves to a cool beer.”

  “Me, I’m going back to bed. Unless, that is, if you was to be a-buyin’?”

  “Be my pleasure,” Marty answered. “Come on. Last man to the bar is a hoot owl’s fur ball.”

  Marty had his party on the road to Reno by nine the next morning. They arrived in the town without incident. Marty instructed Squint to get the mules settled and for Pat and Del to stay close to the office while he and Carson checked in with Jesse Longabaugh. The town sheriff had a good laugh when Marty described the hair-raising ride in the dark and the wild shoot-out with the outlaws.

  “They’ll be looking for you to try that again, Marty. Probably have torches or a woodpile ready to light up, so they can see you outlined by the fire.”

  “I didn’t think we could try it but one time, Jesse. I’ve got one more surprise for them this trip. Then we’ll have to wait until I’m ready to make the all-out effort against them.”

  “When will that be?”

  “When the pumps George Hearst ordered arrive. If they don’t stop us from delivering them to Virginia City, all their effort will have been in vain. They’ll be coming out of the woodwork then and we’ll have the opportunity to stomp ’em out, permanently.”

  “By the way, Noah Peabody sent a man in here yesterday to find you. I told him you were on the way, so he may have waited for you.”

  “How’d you know I was on the way?”

  “Malcolm sent me a wire, asking for me to watch out for you. He was worried about you, I guess. You’d best send him one sayin’ you’re here and all right.”

  “Guess I’d better.”

  “While you’re doin’ that, I’ll look around for the Peavine rider. I’ll send him over to the freight office if I run across him.”

  “Thanks, Jesse. Also, put out the word the stage’ll be leavin’ day after tomorrow to Virginia City.”

  “You’re not . . . ?”

  “Nope, but I wouldn’t mind if it got to certain ears that I was. Keep ’em off my back while we take the flatlands route to Carson City.”

  “Now, why didn’t I think of that?”

  Chapter 20

  The Gatling Gun Arrives

  Marty sent a quick wire to O’Brian telling him of their safe arrival in Reno. He walked back to the mule barn at the rear of the freight office just in time to find Squint instructing Carson on the finer points of driving a six-team stagecoach.

  “You planning on making a driver out of Carson?”

  “It’s somethin’ the boy needs to know iffen he’s gonna be in the stagecoach business.”

  “Do you think I could ride up with Squint when we go back to Carson City, Marty? Maybe get a few miles under my belt handling the team?”

  “If it’s all right with Squint, it’s fine by me. I’m tired of hearing this ole geezer cuss those poor animals anyway. My ears need the relief.”

  Before Squint could think of an appropriate reply, Jesse Longabaugh walked into the barn with a stranger. The man was short and blocky, with the bowed legs that proclaimed him to be a cowboy most of his life. He walked as though he could straddle a barrel without breaking stride.

  “Hello, Marty. Here’s that man from the Peavine Ranch. Shorty Royall, meet my friend Marty Keller.”

  “Howdy, Mr. Keller. Mr. Peabody sent me into town to give ya a message.” He offered his hand in greeting.

  Marty shook the hand. It was rock solid. “Hello, Shorty. Glad to make your acquaintance. Say hello to Squint, the old-timer, and Carson.”

  “Howdy, boys.” Shorty turned back to Marty. “Mr. Peabody said to tell ya that someone is usin’ our easternmost line cabin. Not often, but they left plenty of sign. It’d put them about two miles beyond Virginnie City and twelve miles closer to the Reno Road than from the V bar B Ranch. He said it was probably the gang you been searchin’ for.”

  “Thank Mr. Peabody for the information. It will prove useful. Tell me all about the cabin. Where is it? What’s it made of?”

  The cowboy finished all of Marty’s questions and took his leave. He smiled as he walked out of the barn. He still had time for a cooling drink of beer before he had to start back to the ranch.

  Marty walked Jesse back to his office. “Well, old pard, that answers the question how the outlaws can hit the freight wagons en route from here to Virginia City. They get word a shipment is going out, wait at the line shack until their lookout arrives with word the wagons have left town, then move to their ambush site.”

  The whistle of the arriving eastbound train interrupted their discussion. Jesse steered Marty in the direction of the train station. “I try to meet as many of the arriving trains as I can. I like to take a look at any newcomers to town.”

  The first person they saw stepping off the passenger car to the station walkway was George Hearst. He stretched his back and then walked to where Marty was. “Hello, Mr. Hearst. You met Sheriff Jesse Longabaugh?”

  Hearst stuck out his hand. “My pleasure, Sheriff.” He turned to Marty, a satisfied grin on his be-whiskered face. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Marty. A pleasant surprise. Well”—he beamed in satisfaction—“I got it. I got your Gatling gun. And, even better, some more capital from some of my more affluent friends. We got enough to carry us awhile longer.”

  “Good news, Mr. Hearst. While you were gone, I think I found out who’s been behind the rash of attacks on the O’Brians.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “I doubt it. A rancher named Vern Barton. Has a spread on the east side of Jefferson Mountain.”

  “I do know him, by damn. He’s a friend of Ransom Stoddard. I ran into them at the Virginia Hotel dining room one evening. So Stoddard does have something to do with it, huh?”

  “And you think Stoddard was behind the fire in your mine, don’t you?”

  “Think? I know it. The skunk has been trying to get my holding in the Comstock ever since I sank the first shaft.” Hearst started toward the freight car just forward of the passenger coaches. “General Thomas was a tough nut to crack, but when I reminded him that he had invested in the Comstock Mine, at my recommendation, he gave in. He also sent us two experts to man the thing.”

  Hearst beamed as the door to the boxcar swung open and two black soldiers appeared, blinking their eyes in the bright sunlight. “Hop down, Sergeant. We’re here.”

  The two soldiers hopped down and stood passively, awaiting their next orders. “Marty, this here is Sergeant Henry LeCroix and Corporal Samson Blue, of the twenty-fifth Black Infantry Regiment. They’re stationed at the Presidio, under General Thomas. He assures me they are well-qualified experts when it comes to firing the Gatling gun.”

  Marty shook hands with both soldiers. “Glad to meet you fellas.” He turned to Jesse. “Can we get inside, Jesse? I don’t want people seeing Mr. Hearst and me with these soldiers and wondering what’s going on.”

  “Good idea. Come on, we can use the freight storage room in the station here.” Jesse led the others into a room partially filled with suitcases and wooden crates.

  “Sergeant,” Marty instructed, “would you and Corporal Blue mind staying out of sight until we can get you back to the freight office? Is the Gatling gun in a crate or something so it can’t be noticed?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s all boxed up. Me and Corporal Blue don’t mind lyin’ low iffen that’s what you wants.”

  “Thank you. I’ll explain what this is all about in a few minutes.” Marty turned to Sheriff Longabaugh. “
Jesse, would you have the depot agent get the crates holding the gun placed in here with us? Then make certain the agent keeps his mouth shut about what he saw. I don’t want anyone alerted to what we’re doing.”

  “Sure, no problem. Where you headed?”

  “I’m going to get a covered wagon to pick up the men and gun and get them over to the freight office.”

  “I’ll stick around until you return.”

  Marty was back in short order, in a covered wagon and accompanied by Carson. Using a little ingenuity, they soon had the gun and men delivered to the freight office. Marty outlined the problems with the outlaws’ attacks and some of his plan. “If we can surprise them with your gun, we ought to clean house.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Keller. Me and Corporal Blue here will blow them outlaws to kingdom come.”

  “You feel confident that you can handle the gun mounted on a wagon like I envision?”

  “Not a problem. Up thar on that wagon, we’ll be a mite exposed. Can we make up some sort of cover?”

  “A good idea.” Marty thought for a second or two, then grabbed a pencil and some paper. He quickly sketched out a crude protective box to surround the gun. “How about something like this?” he asked Sergeant LeCroix.

  “I reckon we can make somethin’ lik’ dat. You can git us some heavy timbers?”

  “Not a problem.” Marty gave the tall, dark soldier a warrior’s smile. “You fellas bring any civilian clothing with you?”

  “Nope, alls we’s got is the uniforms on our backs.”

  Marty turned to Carson. “You get these boys some civilian clothes, will you? Put it on the company bill down at the dry goods store.” He then faced Clyde, the office manager. “Clyde, you tell anyone who asks, these two are new swampers for the mule barn.”