A Good Day to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  Sam and Latigo lowered their weapons.

  “Trust a Yank to be in the middle of all that shooting and whatnot,” Johnny said, shaking his head in mock sadness. “The bad penny always turns up somehow.”

  Sam looked him over. “I was thinking the same about you.”

  SIXTEEN

  The girl, June, was dead. Sometime during the chase into town, the rough ride caused the arrowhead to cut something vital and she’d bled to death. A stricken Mary Anderson and her sobbing twelve-year-old niece were taken in tow by some of the women of the church committee and escorted to a place of safety. At least, as safe as any in Hangtown.

  But how safe could that be, Sam wondered, with Red Hand’s Comanches on the warpath within striking distance? He hoped he wouldn’t find out ... but he knew better.

  Donahue picked up his traveling bag and took his sample cases out of the stagecoach’s rear boot. Desirous of getting stinking drunk, he went into the nearest saloon, which happened to be the Golden Spur. Quickly apprised that he had found no safe harbor due to the Stafford threat, he went down the street to the Alamo Bar.

  It was closed. Donahue disappeared into the Cattleman Hotel.

  Sam and Latigo sat at the front of the stagecoach. “Could be a reward from the stagecoach line for bringing in their property,” Sam mentioned. “If there is, we’ll split it. If not, we’ll sell the coach and horses and split the cash.”

  That sounded good to Latigo, who moved the team out and to Hobson’s Livery Stable south of the jail.

  Hobson had survived the raid intact and unharmed, as had his son and principal helper, a red-haired, freckle-faced kid. Hobson, a brawny titan who doubled as town blacksmith, wore a pair of holstered six-guns. He made arrangements to board the stagecoach team and the string of six horses. He asked no prying questions as Sam paid in hard cash, including something extra for the trouble of securing the coach.

  He told Hobson what he’d seen on the plateau: burned-out ranches, slaughtered settlers, and the temporary camp of several hundred Comanches in Lago Gulch.

  Hobson took the bad news with about as much excitement as if they were talking about the weather. He didn’t crack too much.

  Sam broke down the rifle, unfastening long barrel and stock and fitting them in the gun case. In the close confines of town, with its crowded saloons and narrow alleys, the cut-down mule’s-leg was more convenient, faster to get into action.

  He stuffed Black Robe’s talismanic garment into one of his saddlebag pouches, draped the saddlebags over his left shoulder, and hefted his gun case. Latigo took his own saddlebags and carbine, and they took leave of Hobson.

  A hundred yards south of the stables, on the far side of a weedy dirt field, lay Mextown. A handful of bodies, some of settlement folk and others of Comanches, lay strewn about on the ground. White-clad residents milled around, armed with muskets, shotguns, machetes, axes, and such potentially lethal implements as scythes, sickles, and flat-bladed hoes.

  “Let’s find the sheriff,” Sam said.

  Latigo made a sour face. He had no great fondness for gringos, less for lawmen. But Señora Lorena had told him to stick close to Sam, so he duly fell into step alongside him.

  They walked north to Trail Street. The jail was closed up tight, nobody home except for an inmate in one of the cells, who gripped the bars of a window with both hands and stuck his face between them, bawling for somebody to come let him out. He was unhurt and scared half sober.

  There wasn’t anything Sam could do for him so he and Latigo moved on.

  The sheriff wasn’t hard to find. He was standing on the front porch of the Cattleman Hotel, surrounded by a cluster of the town’s leading citizens, at least in their own estimation. A larger group of townfolk, mostly men but some women and children, were grouped in the street around the front of the hotel, facing Barton and the notables.

  Now that the Comanches had been driven off, more people were emerging from behind bolted doors and shuttered windows to venture outside. Sam grinned wryly to himself. He was the bearer of ill tidings that, when they learned of it, would send most of them back running for cover.

  Wanting to keep a low profile, Sam decided against bulling through the crowd and bracing the sheriff in public. Motioning to Latigo, he led him around behind the building to the back of the hotel. A waist-high white packet fence enclosed the backyard. They went through the gate and along a plank board pathway to the kitchen door. It was unlocked, opening into the kitchen. They walked through the kitchen and pushed open double swinging doors that accessed the main dining room, a large space filled with tables and chairs, but no diners. A half dozen white-aproned members of the kitchen staff, cooks, assistants and waiters, stood gathered under an archway, facing the front entrance.

  Sam and Latigo came up behind them unnoticed. Sam put a hand on the shoulder of a waiter. The fellow started violently, giving a jolt to the other staff members alongside him.

  “Easy,” Sam said, “if I was a Comanche, I’d’ve had your scalp already.”

  “You’re not supposed to be in here,” the waiter said, frowning.

  “Just passing through.” Sam and Latigo went under the archway, across a central hall and into a lobby filled with overstuffed furniture and potted plants the size of small trees. Leafy green fronds screened the sunlight pouring in from the front bay windows, softening it.

  On the other side of the hallway, standing near the front entrance where he could observe Barton and company organizing the townfolk, was Lloyd Garvey, the desk clerk, a prematurely aged young man with permanently hunched rounded shoulders. It took something on the order of an Indian attack to flush Garvey out from behind the front desk, where he customarily held court, dispensing room keys and keeping the rest of the staff on their toes.

  “W-why, Mr. Heller,” he said, catching sight of Sam, “what are you doing here?”

  Sam didn’t much cotton to his own cooking and ate dinner at the Cattleman several nights a week. The desk clerk was in a position to know plenty about the hotel’s occupants and visitors, their comings and goings, and Sam’s peculiar trade thrived on such bits of timely intelligence. He kept Garvey plied with gratuities to keep him nice and pliable.

  Sam opened his hand, a gold coin nestling in his palm. He held it so only Garvey could see it, and that briefly. because Garvey made it disappear with smooth, well-oiled skill that comes of much practice. “How may I be of service?” he asked brightly.

  “I want a word with the sheriff.”

  Garvey’s face fell. “I can’t interrupt him, I’m only the desk clerk.”

  “Tell Barton that if he wants to have a town to be sheriff of, he’d better listen to what I’ve got to say.”

  Garvey goggled, his eyes bulging, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “Give it to him just like I said it. If he gets sore, he’ll be mad at me, not you, so you’ll be in the clear. Make sure you tell him so only he can hear it. We don’t want to go starting a panic.”

  “Well—okay,” Garvey said, after much hemming and hawing. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath and started forward on his errand.

  Approaching Barton from the side, Garvey tugged at his sleeve. Startled at being interrupted by such a lackey, the sheriff could only assume the desk clerk had something worth hearing. “’Scuse me, folks.” Barton leaned toward Garvey, turning an ear to him.

  Speaking behind his hand, Garvey passed along Sam’s words. Barton looked over his shoulder into the hotel. Sam gave him the high sign, motioning for Barton to come to him. The sheriff was a quick study. He blanked his expression, assuming a poker face before turning to face the buzzing crowd once more.

  “Take over for a minute, Wade,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

  “Huh? What? Wait a minute,” Hutto sputtered.

  Barton entered the hotel, closing on Sam. Outside, Hutto had hold of Garvey’s lapel and was no doubt inquiring into the latest odd turn of events. A quick study himself, Hutto recovered and comme
nced speechifying to the citizens, plying them with soothing generalities.

  “You!” Barton said, face-to-face with Sam. “You brought the Comanches into town.”

  “Not hardly,” Sam corrected.

  Barton pointed a finger at Latigo. “And you too, huh? You’re a long way from Rancho Grande.”

  “I wish I was there,” Latigo said.

  “That makes two of us. I wish you was there, too.”

  “We brought the stagecoach in. The Comanches wanted it, but we wouldn’t give it to ’em,” Sam said.

  “You got some tall talking to do, mister,” Barton declared.

  He knew Sam Heller as a bounty hunter, a Yankee gunman who had drifted into town in the aftermath of the War Between the States and then just set, not moving on. A most mysterious fellow, he had somehow engineered the destruction of the Harbin gang, which was no mean feat. The stranger had some pull with the bluebelly commander of Fort Pardee, too, but that was no surprise. Those damned Yankees all stuck together. Barton had as little use for Sam as he had for any Northerner—none—yet he knew to let sleeping dogs lie. The sheriff was in no hurry to brace him to run him out of town. Even a Yankee bounty killer had his uses in a time and place where so many violent men flourished.

  An excited Hutto made his way into the hotel, rushing up to Barton. “What’s going on?”

  “Let’s step off to the side, in private,” Sam said.

  “Why?”

  “This has got to be handled carefully.” Sam turned, crossing to an alcove in the lobby, the others trailing after him. It was a nice secure space with nowhere for eavesdroppers to hide. “This’ll do.”

  With the dead strewn about the streets and the cries of the wounded still ringing in their ears, Hutto and Barton needed little in the way of convincing when Sam told them that Red Hand and his Comanche warriors were gathered to hit Hangtown in force—and soon. Black Robe’s famed garment, well known by ill repute in that part of the West, removed any lingering doubts.

  “Red Hand’s a bad one. Wahtonka knows when to pull in his horns, but Red Hand’s looking to make a name for himself,” Barton said, more dour than ever.

  “What do we do?” Hutto asked, worried.

  “Fight him.”

  “What about the troops from Fort Pardee?” Hutto asked. He and Barton looked to Sam, a Yankee with shadowy connections with Captain Harrison, the fort’s Union Army commander.

  Sam shook his head. “They’re in force west of the Breaks, waiting to rendezvous with Major Adams’s wagon train to escort it across the Staked Plains.”

  “Maybe Red Hand will attack them,” Hutto said, hopeful, momentarily brightening.

  “Why would he go against the cavalry when he doesn’t have to?” Sam asked.

  Hutto’s face fell.

  “Hangtown’s a richer prize than any wagon train,” Sam added.

  Barton ground a fist into his palm. “Red Hand played the bluebellies—played us all. Those attacks on the plains were a decoy to lure the army away.”

  “The rendezvous point is less than a half day’s ride away,” Hutto said. “If we sent a rider out there to bring back the cavalry—”

  Barton laughed mirthlessly. “Good luck finding somebody fool enough to take that ride, with Comanches on the loose. Staying here and blowing his brains out would be quicker and less painful.”

  “He’d have a better chance if he went out after dark. He could reach the troops and have them back well before sunup. Comanches don’t attack at night, everybody knows that.”

  “They’re not gonna let anybody ride through their lines, either.”

  “Still, it’s a chance.”

  “Nobody’s stopping you from asking for volunteers, Wade.”

  Hutto’s gaze fell on Sam, measuring him.

  “No, thanks,” Sam said quickly.

  “Would a hundred dollars in gold change your mind?”

  “No.”

  “Two hundred?”

  “I already ran the gauntlet today. Once is enough.”

  Hutto eyed Latigo. “How about you?”

  “No comprende, señor.”

  “Don’t bull us, Latigo,” Barton said. “I know you speak good English.”

  Latigo grinned.

  “You’d have to work a long time for Don Eduardo to make a hundred in gold,” Hutto pressed.

  “You told him two hundred,” Latigo said, indicating Sam.

  “All right, damn it, two hundred!”

  “What good is money when you’re dead, señor?”

  “Bah! If you don’t want it, somebody else will,” Hutto said, with ill grace.

  “Try some of the Dog Star crowd,” Barton said. “Those galoots are wild and woolly enough to take a chance. Get ’em when they’re good and drunk—which is most of the time.”

  Sam disagreed. “Best plan on fighting without the army. That’s the way to bet it.”

  “Oh, brilliant! Got any more bright ideas, Heller?” Hutto asked, sarcastically.

  “Yup. Get Stafford and Damon to call a cease-fire,” Sam stated. Johnny Cross had told him about the standoff.

  Hutto made a face. “Is that all?”

  “No, but it’s a start.”

  Barton mulled it over. “Damon might go for it. He’s a gentleman. Vince’s an ornery cuss, though, and right now he’s got blood in his eye.”

  “If he’s got no sense, his men might. They won’t fancy losing their hair to some brave’s scalping knife,” Sam said.

  “We could use the firepower. Those Ramrod guns already came in mighty handy,” Barton admitted.

  “It can’t hurt to ask,” Hutto agreed.

  “That’s what you think,” Barton said sardonically. “Who’s gonna put it up to him, you?”

  “Ahem! Well, uh—that is—er, you’re the sheriff, Mack.”

  “Somebody better put it to Stafford, and quick,” Sam said, “before he gets it in his head to lock horns with Damon. Hangtown can’t afford to lose any more men.”

  “You volunteering?”

  “Now Sheriff, you know none of these Rebs’d listen to a damn Yankee like me.”

  “Hell, I don’t know why I’m listening to you.”

  “Because you want to stay alive. And as long as you’re listening, I’ve got few more ideas.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Hangtown made ready for war, teeming with activity like a disturbed anthill. In addition to the two watchmen posted in the church bell tower, two more were stationed in the courthouse clock tower at the other side of town. That ensured against a Comanche sneak from east as well as west.

  Two watchers in each observation post was protection against a lone sentry falling asleep, a very real threat in a town where whiskey flowed freely with no lack of passionate devotees.

  Hutto found two volunteers willing to risk riding out to Anvil Flats in the Breaks to fetch the U.S. cavalry troop escorting Major Adams’s wagon train. The two, Hapgood and Coleman, were each willing to make the attempt for one hundred dollars in gold—more money than either had ever seen in one place at one time.

  Hapgood was a short, feisty bantamweight, tougher than leather, who’d survived some of the worst hell of the war. Coleman was a small rancher whose place had been foreclosed on by the bank when he couldn’t make the payments.

  Hutto wasn’t such a fool as to put out any money in advance, and risk the recipient galloping away for all he was worth. The volunteers would be paid upon return with the troops. As soon as it got dark the messengers would go out separately, by different routes, to maximize the chances of at least one of them getting through.

  The courthouse, the strongest and most secure structure in Hangtown, served as headquarters. Families from all parts of town streamed to it, women and children massing in the large, high-ceilinged courtroom.

  Hangtown was too large to be defended as a whole. The heart of the defense was Four Corners, where the courthouse, the jail, the feed store, and the Golden Spur all met. Townfolk were leery of l
eaving treasured possessions unguarded in abandoned homes and shops, but were allowed to bring only water, food, weapons, and similar necessities into the courthouse.

  The gathering included the folk of Mextown.

  Wade Hutto had resisted when Sam Heller first broached the idea to him earlier in the Cattleman Hotel. “You can’t mix white folks and Mexes in the same place,” Hutto had protested. Aware of Latigo’s cool-eyed glance falling on him, he quickly followed up by saying, “That is, the Mexican element want to stick to their own kind, just as we do.”

  “You speak true, señor,” Latigo said coolly. “We no more want to be with you than you want to be with us.”

  “If we don’t hang together, we’ll all surely hang separately,” Sam said.

  “I’ve heard that before. Who said that?” asked Russ Lockhart, Hutto’s high-strung, volatile brother-in-law.

  “Abe Lincoln.”

  “Lincoln? Don’t you dare mention that name around here!”

  “Ben Franklin,” Hutto said tiredly.

  “Eh? What’s that?”

  “Benjamin Franklin said it, Russ. ‘If we do not hang together we will surely all hang separately.’”

  “Franklin, eh? I suppose that’s all right then.” Lockhart sniffed.

  “You are all wrong,” Latigo said gravely. “It was said by Benito Juarez.”

  “You’re crazy!” Lockhart said.

  “We’ve got to pull together if we want to win. If we learned anything from the last war, that’s it,” Sam reminded them.

  “You’d do well not to bring up the war!” Lockhart sputtered.

  Sam ignored him. “We need as much firepower in one place as we can get. Vince Stafford and Damon Bolt have postponed killing each other and agreed to a truce. The folk of Hangtown, Anglo and Mex, will have to forgo the pleasure of their prejudices till the Comanche is whupped—and believe me, that’s a long way off from being a sure thing.”

  “You lowdown Yankee leveler, you,” Lockhart said, shaking a small, bony fist under Sam’s nose.

  “Your differences will seem mighty small once those braves start coming at you, and keep coming,” said Sam.