Stagecoach Graveyard

by Thom Nicholson

  Most of the outlaws taken under fire by the flanking line of Carson’s men did not know they were under attack before the first bullet or bullets hit them. As the Gatling gun’s trace took it back toward the far end of the line, Carson’s men shifted their fires to follow it. The results were devastating. Half the outlaws were dead or severely wounded before Vern realized they had been flanked and were in danger of being wiped out. The roar of the guns, the smoke, the deadly missiles of death that were hitting all around him sapped him of his last reserves of courage. “Charlie,” he shouted. “We gotta git outa here.” Illogically he thought to himself, Who’s ambushing who? Without waiting for an answer from Charlie, Vern hotfooted it up the hill toward his horse. When he reached it, he climbed up and waited a few seconds to see if anyone else was coming. Charlie Call and five men were all that reached the horses alive. Twenty men lay hors de combat where they had confidently awaited the arrival of the freight wagons only ten minutes earlier.

  “Jesus, what was that, Vern?” a shaken Call asked. “It sounded like a hunnerd men were in them wagons.”

  “It had to be a Gatlin’ gun. I heard about them but I never saw one afore.”

  “I hope to hell I never see one agin,” Call replied. “Whaddya wanna do now?”

  “Come on, let’s git outa here fer a start.” Barton galloped away from the bloody scene, his heart racing faster than his horse was running. The five remaining outlaws followed, none concerned about those left behind. As the panicked men reached the Ranch Road, Barton slid his horse to a stop. “Charlie, you come with me. We’ll ride to Virginnie City and tell Stoddard what happened. We’ll git some money from him to rebuild the gang and then git back to the ranch. You fellows head fer the line shack and gather up all our stuff that’s left there. Then take the back trail to the ranch. If anyone comes nosin’ around, claim you ain’t been off the place in a week. Me and Call’ll rejoin ya just as soon as we git done.”

  The outlaws split up, and both groups rode hard, trying to put as many miles as possible between themselves and the men who had dealt them such a savage blow.

  Marty sensed a sudden cessation in the fire from above. He waited for a few long seconds without seeing a single telltale sign that anyone was shooting from the outlaws’ position. “Cease fire,” he shouted, calling again and again until the firing stopped. The only sound he heard was the braying of a wounded mule, somewhere ahead. And the almost musical ping of hot metal cooling. Cautiously, he stepped out from behind the wagon. “Carson, Johnny, can you hear me?” he shouted up the hill.

  “We hear ya, Marty,” Johnny shouted back.

  “See any sign of them?” he called back.

  “Not alive, I don’t,” Johnny answered.

  Marty headed up the hill, followed by Luther.

  “Squint, check the mules and see if any need replacing.”

  Marty met Johnny, Pat, and Carson at a dead outlaw’s body, his head split open by the heavy bullet from the Gatling gun. “God.” Johnny spoke for everyone. “This is awful, it makes me sick to my stomach.” The men somberly looked at the crumpled bodies of the dead outlaws, each feeling the same nauseated reaction to the carnage.

  Carson held his arm tightly to his side.

  “Carson, you hit?”

  “A scratch, honest. I’m fine.”

  Pat Quinn spoke up. “I think he was nicked by a piece of bullet that broke off when it hit a rock or something. It had to be the Gatling gun. I don’t think any of the outlaws ever fired at us. I got a bandage on it.”

  “One did,” Johnny answered. “Billy Walters took one in the throat. He’s dead, over there, by that big pine with the split trunk.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marty answered. “Did we get all the outlaws?”

  “I don’t think so,” Pat Quinn broke in. “I saw half a dozen or so runnin’ up the hill from my spot. I shot at ’em but I don’t think I got any of ’em.”

  “Ruud,” Marty shouted. “Bring your horse and get up here.”

  “Right away, Marty,” the scout shouted back.

  Marty turned to Johnny. “Where’s Ross?”

  “He’s watchin’ the horses, about a quarter mile back there.” Johnny thumbed toward the rear.

  “Pat, would you take some men and bring your horses up? Meet me at the wagons.”

  “Sure thing,” the big Irishman answered, and took off at a quick step across the rocky, pine needle-covered slope.

  Ruud showed up, leading his horse. “We had three mules hit, Marty. Squint’s changin’ ’em out now.”

  “Ruud, a half dozen took off over the hill. I want you to follow them to the Ranch Road, and see where they’re headed. Then wait for me. I’ll be there as soon as we can get everyone mounted.”

  “Gotcha, Marty.” Ruud climbed on the back of his dark bay and headed up the hill, his eyes sweeping the ground for sign.

  Marty led the others down the slippery slope to the road, where Malcolm and Squint waited with the other men.

  “We git ’em all, Marty?” Squint asked as soon as he saw Marty break out of the brush.

  “All but about six,” Marty answered.

  “Whooee,” Squint shouted. “That’ll show them varmints.”

  “We have anyone hurt?” Malcolm asked.

  “We lost one man, and Carson got a nick in his arm.”

  “Thank the blessed saints. That’s better than I’d hoped, fer certain.” Malcolm hurried to check out Carson.

  “What’s next?” Squint asked.

  “I’m going after the ones who got away. I aim to finish this thing here and now, just like I promised.” He watched Pat and the others lead their horses out of the woods toward the wagons.

  “Carson, I’ll ride your horse. You and Malcolm get this load to Virginia City right away. You shouldn’t have any problem between here and there. Keep the drivers and guards on duty with weapons until Hearst takes delivery of the pumps.”

  “Aw, Marty. I want to go with you. I’ll be all right.”

  Marty shook his head. “I’m sorry, son, orders are orders. You know the rules. Besides, I need someone to make certain Malcolm fulfills his contract. You’ll be the most valuable making certain the pumps arrive safely.”

  Marty clamped his hand on Carson’s good arm. “I’m counting on you, Carson. Luther, you come along with me. We may need some long-range shooting before this is over. Sergeant LeCroix, Corporal Blue, you two did marvelous work. Have a look before you go on into Virginia City.”

  Squint spoke up. “Marty, I wanna go on with you to finish this. We ain’t gonna be needed the rest of the trip to Virginnie City.”

  “You can’t get that big wagon over the hill, Squint. There’s no road and it’ll never make it through the trees.”

  “We’ll go around. There’s a cutoff ’bout a mile or so back down the road. We’ll meet ya where the outlaw trail cuts the River Road. Take us ’bout half an hour, maybe twenty minutes.”

  “All right, Squint. Get one of the Sorensen brothers to ride shotgun and get goin’. We’ll either meet you there, or I’ll leave Ross to guide you to where we are.”

  Marty led his victorious fighters up the hill and down the other side, following the game trail until they reached the Ranch Road. Ruud was waiting for them there. “What’s the story?” Marty asked.

  “Two men went north, toward either Virginia City or Reno. Four rode to the line shack trail and turned in. They probably don’t think we know about the line shack.”

  “Ross, follow the two who went toward Reno. Stop at the turnoff to Virginia City. Pick up Squint there and bring him and the Gatling gun to me. I’ll go with everyone to the line shack first. See if you can determine if the two runners are going on to Reno or to Virginia City.”

  “I’ll do her. See ya shortly.”

  Marty motioned to the rest. “Let’s go. We’ve got some outlaws who need redeemin’.”

  Chapter 27

  The Righteous Shall Prevail

  The four fleeing
outlaws slid their panting horses to a stop at the line shack. They had paused at the top of a small rise about two hundred yards in front of the cabin and watched their back trail, and saw nobody in pursuit. They rode the rest of the way to the cabin at a dead run, each anxious to be the first to rummage through the private articles of their dead comrades.

  Being thieves and amoral, it was easy for them to completely disregard the fact that their friends and co-outlaws had just died a violent death only moments earlier. They felt safe now; nobody knew about their use of the line shack. They could take what they wanted from their dead friends, then leisurely ride the back way to the V-B, where they would wait for Vern and Charlie to return.

  Ruud easily followed the tracks as they crossed the Peavine range toward the line shack. Marty slowed the pace as they approached the small rise to their front. If his information was right, the shack was just on the other side, backed up to an animal lean to, and a small corral, with woods about a hundred feet to the rear. He stopped as the shack became visible through the bunch grass. Four horses stood tied to the top rail of the corral, but there was no sign of the hunted men. A slight breeze barely stirred the bunch grass and the sun was directly overhead.

  Marty motioned for Pat and Johnny to come forward. “Looks like the same situation as at the mine. Johnny, take five men and cover the back. Don’t let anyone out. Pat, you follow me with the rest. I’m gonna stand off a bit and try and convince them to surrender. If they haven’t done so by the time the Gatling gun gets here, I’ll turn it loose on ’em. That oughta help them make up their minds in a hurry.”

  Johnny took five men and rode wide around the shack, disappearing into the trees. After ten minutes, Marty began to deploy his men in a wide semicircle around the sides and front of the log cabin. They all went to ground about two hundred yards from the cabin, within rifle range, but reasonably safe from anything but the most carefully aimed fire. When everyone was in position, Marty fired a shot through the roof of the shack. “Hello, the shack,” he shouted. “You men inside, come out with your hands up, and you won’t be hurt.”

  “Damn, where’d them fellas come from?” one of the outlaws inside the line shack complained. He headed for the back door and a quick exit to the woods.

  An explosion of shots from the woods drove him back into the line shack, unnerved by his close call. “They’re all around us. What’ll we do?”

  One of the more daring outlaws grabbed his rifle and knocked the glass out of the only window in the front of the cabin. He ripped off three quick shots as fast as he could fire and lever in another round. Then he fell dead to the cabin’s dirt floor, a buffalo slug through his chest from Luther’s scope-aided rifle.

  The remaining outlaws were in a quandary. Intense arguments erupted as to whether they should try and fight their way out or surrender, or try something else.

  Marty waited patiently, hoping the outlaws would use good sense for a change. Squint’s wagon carrying the Gatling gun came rumbling down the trail, following Ross on his paint horse. The heavy wagon lumbered along as fast as Squint could make his tired mules trot. There was no way the stubborn animals were going to run, pulling their heavy load.

  “Where do ya want us, Marty?”

  Marty pointed toward a small knoll, about midway between his extended line of men. “Pull in there and wait for my command to fire.” The little swell provided some protection to the mules and the wagon, while still allowing LeCroix plenty of visibility to fire his gun.

  As soon as the wagon stopped, Marty shouted, “Let ’em have it, Sergeant.”

  The Gatling gun opened up, and so did Marty’s men, firing with deadly abandon at the shack and its unfortunate occupants. Bullets flew through the shake roof, the busted window, or slammed into the round logs of the outer wall. The men inside dropped to the floor, covering their head with their arms, as if that might save them from a deadly wound.

  Joaquin crouched below the window at the rear of the cabin. He risked a quick look out the window to ensure that none of the men in the woods to the rear were trying to sneak up on him and his companions. As he did, a bullet, probably from the Gatling gun bounced off a rock in the fireplace and nearly cut him in two. He died without a sound. That was enough for the others. One man tied his neckerchief to his rifle barrel and stuck it out the front door, waving it up and down to attract attention.

  “That’s it boys,” Marty shouted. “Cease fire, they’re quitting.”

  The two remaining outlaws filed out of the cabin, sullen looks of defeat on their faces. Marty quickly had them tied and separated from each other. Then he went from man to man asking the same question. “Where were Barton and Charlie Call?”

  They soon had their answer. “So they’re in Virginnie City.” Squint nodded. “It figgers. That’s where the moneyman is, Ranson Stoddard.”

  “Squint, you and Johnny take these jaspers down to Carson City and get ’em jailed up. I’ll take Ross, Luther, and Pat Quinn and head for Virginia City. We may as well make a clean sweep of it.”

  “Don’t ya want more men than that?”

  “No, we’ll make do. Any more and we might get in each other’s way.”

  The four men hunters rode away from the line shack after the two remaining outlaws were secured to their saddles, preparatory to taking them back to Carson City. As they reached the cutoff to Virginia City, Marty laid out a rough plan to find and capture the two outlaw leaders. “I doubt if they’re going to give in to my demands without a fight. If they start anything, don’t hesitate to take ’em down on the spot.”

  The men rode most of the way in silence, still digesting the mind-numbing battles of the past two hours. They reached Virginia City in about an hour, where Marty split them up. “Pat, you and Ross start at the north end of town and Luther and I will start at the south. Keep your eyes peeled for the pair of them. You clear on what they look like?”

  “Yep, if we see ’em we’ll come git you right off,” Pat answered.

  Vern and Charlie had impatiently waited in Stoddard’s office for him to return from an inspection trip to one of his smaller mines. The silver vein his miners had been chasing had inexplicably disappeared, and Stoddard’s mood was foul and angry. He listened with barely concealed rage as Barton described the chaos at the ambush site and the loss of so many of his men.

  “You’ve failed miserably, and now you want me to help bail you out? I must say, Barton, you’ve got your nerve. I oughta just throw you outa my office and wash my hands of you forever.”

  “Now, Mr. Stoddard, it ain’t quite that bad. With a little money, I can rebuild my gang and we can continue raiding O’Brian’s stages and such. I’ll lie low fer a couple of weeks, let the heat die down a mite, and then it’ll be business as usual.”

  “All right, Barton. I’m gonna go along with you, just this once. I may regret it, but I assure you, if you fail me again, you’ll regret it the rest of your very short life.” Stoddard turned to the large safe behind his desk and spun the twin dial tumblers until a soft click was heard. Then he swung open the heavy door and reached inside. He grabbed a stack of paper bills and threw them on the desk next to Barton’s hand. “Here’s two thousand. Now get out of my office.”

  Barton scooped up the money but did not leave. “Hold on, Mr. Stoddard. I’ll need more’n that. It’ll take at least five thousand to pay off my men and hire new ones and keep them paid till we can take enough from O’Brian to cover expenses.”

  “Well, you’re outa luck. I don’t have that much. Guess you’ll have to take that and go on the dodge until it’s safe to return.”

  “He’s lyin’, boss. I seen a big pile of money in his safe.”

  Barton’s tone grew ugly. “You’re not tryin’ to weasel out of anything are you, Mr. Stoddard? Give me the five thousand.”

  Cursing under his breath, Stoddard turned to the safe, knelt down on one knee, and reached for the additional money. His eyes fell on the handgun he always kept in the safe. He paused
. He could shoot the two of them and claim they had been trying to rob him. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about their loyalty. He took the pistol and started to stand up.

  Call drew and shot in one fluid motion, the bullet hitting the mining man in the lower back and coursing upward until it pierced his liver. Unable to move or even cry out because of the shock and pain, Stoddard slumped back to his knees. His head knocked against the upper shelf of the safe. He died the way he had lived, his eyes focused on stacks of paper money.

  “What the hell?” Vern shouted at Call. “Why’d you do that?”

  “He grabbed a gun. It was nickel plated. I saw it shinin’ in the light. He was gonna shoot us.”

  “You don’t know that. Christ Almighty. Now what are we gonna do?”

  “Grab the money and light a shuck outa here. There’s other towns and other places to do business.”

  Call reached in past Stoddard’s head and pulled out the stacks of bills. He passed some to Barton and shoved some into his shirt. “There’s better’n ten thousand here. That’ll take us a long ways. Come on, let’s git while the gittin’s good.”

  The two killers dashed down the stairs and out of the building, headed for their horses. They nearly ran over Marty and Luther, walking slowly toward Stoddard’s office.

  Marty did not hesitate. “Barton, Charlie Call, you’re both under arrest for robbery and murder. Throw down your guns and get your hands up.”

  Screaming in rage and frustration, Charlie Call clawed for his pistol. Smooth and steady, Keller shot him twice in the center of his chest before Call’s pistol cleared leather enough to point. The horse they were running for reared and thrashed around the hitching rail, masking Barton’s body from both Marty’s and Luther’s aim. Barton leaped on the back of the shying animal and spurred him hard. The horse took off running directly toward Ross and Pat Quinn, who were racing toward Marty and Luther as fast as they could.

  Marty refrained from shooting at the fleeing Barton: there were too many innocent people suddenly gawking at the spectacle. “Pat, get Barton!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.