by Jory Sherman
“You just hold it right there, old-timer,” the voice from the shadows said. “Now, sonny, you step down real easy.”
John got down from his horse, stood by its side with both hands in the air.
Three men emerged from the darkness, their rifles still pointed at John and Ben.
John saw the flash of a silver star on one of the men’s vests.
“That him?” one of the men said. He stepped up close to John. He, too, wore a badge on his vest.
“Naw. Never seen this one before.”
The man in front, obviously the one in charge, stepped up beside the other deputy and scanned John’s face.
“Charlie, you go inside. Take Rob with you. See if Mandrake’s in there.”
“Right, Bill,” Charlie said. He and the other men went into the cantina.
“I’m Sheriff Bill Dorsett, feller. You part of that gang?” Dorsett looked John square in the eyes, as if looking for the slightest flicker.
“No,” John said. “And Mandrake’s not in there.”
“What about a man named Dick Tanner?”
John shook his head.
“There’s been a shooting here,” Dorsett said. “You any part of that?”
“The men you named, and those inside, murdered my parentsand a bunch of miners. They tried to kill me and my friend there.”
“You the one with the pretty gun?”
“I’m John Savage.”
“I heard about you. Hell, everybody in Denver has. A man named Hobart robbed some miners and killed them all.”
“Same bunch,” John said.
Dorsett turned to Ben.
“You back him on that? Who’re you?”
“I’m Ben Russell. Yep. We was up in a mine when these jaspers come and shot all our friends, his folks, stole our pokes.”
The two deputies, Charlie Haskell and Rob Emmons, came back outside.
“They’s some dead men in there, Bill,” Charlie said. “Didn’t see Mandrake ner Tanner. Place is plumb empty. Lamps still burnin’ and all.”
“It’s right spooky in there,” Rob said, his voice quavering slightly.
“Put your hands down,” Sheriff Dorsett said. “Maybe we can sort all this out. Can I take a look at that pistol of your’n I been hearing about?”
“I don’t like to pass it around,” John said.
“Just want to say I seen it,” Dorsett said. "C’mon. I’ll give it right back.”
“Maybe if you all take your rifles off of us,” John said.
“Oh yeah. Charlie, Rob. Put ’em away.”
John slid his pistol from its holster, handed it butt first to Dorsett, who handed his rifle to Charlie.
Dorsett held the pistol up, then turned it over and over. He squinted to read the legend engraved on the barrel, holding the gun so that it caught the light from the lamps inside Rosa’s Cantina.
The inlays shot silver lances from the blue-black barrel, grips, and receiver, like tiny searchlights.
“Beautiful,” Dorsett said. “What’s that mean, that writing on the barrel. Spanish, ain’t it? My Spanish ain’t none too good.”
“Ni me saques sin razon, ni me quardes sin honor,” John said from memory. “It means, ‘neither draw me without reason,nor keep me without honor.’ ”
The two deputies crowded close to examine the pistol in the sheriff’s hand. John licked his lips, dry from worry over his pistol. He was ready to snatch it back if it went any farther from where it was in Dorsett’s hand.
“Mighty nice sentiment,” Dorsett said.
“I hold to it,” John said. “May I have my pistol back, Sheriff?”
“Sure. I guess it’s okay.” Dorsett handed the pistol back to John the same way, butt first. John slipped it back in his holster,stepped back a pace.
“What did Mandrake do that’s got you looking for him?” John asked.
“He cut a man’s throat. We know he’s in with Oliver Hobart. We got wanted flyers on the whole damned bunch. Those men inside the cantina. They Hobart’s men?”
“Yes,” John said.
“Cutthroats, just like Mandrake,” Ben said.
The sheriff turned and looked at Ben.
“You didn’t get ’em all. Hobart wasn’t in there, or Charlie would have told me. We got a good description of him, most of the ones who run with him.”
“Nope, Hobart slipped out with Rosa herself.”
“We had an eye on her, too. I reckon we didn’t watch her close enough.”
“Fact is,” Charlie said, “we didn’t even know Hobart and his gang were in Denver till Mandrake kilt Bernie Robbins over at the Brown Palace this afternoon.”
“There’ll be hell to pay over this,” Dorsett said, his jaw tightening. The other two deputies wore grim looks on their faces.
“I don’t know the man,” John said. “Who was Bernie Robbins?”
“Territorial marshal,” Dorsett said. “We knew him. Good man. Mandrake near cut his head off with a big bowie knife. Got him from behind, while Tanner pinned Bernie’s arms. Slicker’n winter snot, the bastards.”
“Why?” John asked. “Was this Bernie on to Hobart, huntin’ him?”
“We don’t know. Bernie rode down from Laramie where he’s been working on a case. Said he was near to calling in the U.S. Army and closing it out. Said he got a telegram from somebody down here who could fill in all the missing pieces.”
“You think Hobart sent the telegram?”
“It sure fooled Bernie. He was hoppin’ glad that he could solve his case.”
Ben moved closer. The lights from the cantina threaded his beard, glistened in the depths of his eyes like candle flames.
“What kind of case was this U.S. marshal on?” he asked.
“Seems like somebody up in Laramie’s been smuggling in a lot of guns, Henrys and Winchesters, ammunition. And a whole lot of Mexicans come up from down south, then disappearedalong with all them guns.”
“Doesn’t make much sense to me,” Ben said.
“Not to anybody else, neither,” Dorsett said. “But Bernie said it looked like somebody was going to start a war, and the law up there got worried about the Arapaho, Southern Cheyenne, even the Sioux, breakin’ loose and goin’ on the warpath. Mighty puzzlin’, you ask me.”
“So the marshal doesn’t know where the guns went or why all those Mexicans disappeared,” John said.
“Nope. He was still working on the case. But he said he’d heard the name Hobart more’n once and then that telegram come and said much the same thing. That Hobart was here and some of his men wanted out of the deal and would talk to him. Hobart set him up, and Mandrake killed him.”
“Must be something big,” John said. “But why would Hobartwant the Indians to go on the warpath?”
“Bernie didn’t think that was it. He said he thought Hobart was putting together his own private army for some damned reason.”
“Well, you can bet there’s money stuck to that reason,” John said.
“I sent a telegram off to Washington this afternoon. The government’s going to have to send somebody up here to take up where Bernie left off. Going to take some time, probably. That’s why I was hoping we’d find Hobart here. Maybe meetingup with Mandrake and Tanner. Looks like they got clean away.”
“Why don’t you get a posse together and go after them?” John asked.
“They’ve got too much of a head start on me. By the time I rounded up enough good men to chase after Hobart, he’d be in Cheyenne, I reckon. ’Sides, I got to tell my sister about Bernie.”
“Your sister?” John shifted his weight. It seemed he had been standing in one spot for hours and one of his feet was goingto sleep.
“Bernie was going to marry my sister Nancy when this was all over. Now, I’ll have to take her up to Laramie so she can pack up all her things he took up there with him.”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “Bernie was going to resign as a marshaland work for the sheriff in Laramie. Nancy was set on goingup the
re to live.”
John let out a breath.
“If you tell me where Bernie lived, maybe Ben and I can pack up your sister’s things and freight them back here to you, Sheriff. Save you and Nancy a trip, maybe.”
John was thinking that he might find out more about Hobart’s scheme if he was able to look through the marshal’s papers.
“Would you do that?” Dorsett said. “Save me a heap of trouble, for sure.”
“Be glad to,” John said.
“I’ll tell you how to get to Bernie’s place and give you my address where to ship the stuff. Hell, I’ll pay you to do it.”
John waved his hands at the sheriff.
“No, Sheriff. I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s mighty good of you, Savage. And me and my men will take care of what happened here at Rosa’s, so you don’t have to worry none about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, we’ll make out a report that we followed Mandrake and Tanner out here and shot all them men dead in there.”
“You mean you’ll take credit for that?”
“Why, sure,” Dorsett said.
“Then, Ben and I will ride off and follow Hobart. Might catch him in Cheyenne.”
“Might,” Dorsett said. “Do us all a service if you did.” He told John how to get to Bernie’s place.
John looked at Dorsett. Shadows on the sheriff’s jowly face made him look like a bulldog in the dim light. He was a stocky man with a belly that hung over his gunbelt like a sack of meal. The deputies were trimmer, leaner, probably because they did most of the work while the sheriff spent his time drinking beer and eating vittles.
“All right. Ben, you ready?”
“John, you ought not to . . .”
“Mount up,” John said, knowing that Ben was going to try to talk him out of going after Hobart. But now John wanted to find him more than ever. Mandrake and Tanner, too. Such men were a scourge on the earth. Dangerous, mean, and lawless.
“Good luck to you, Savage,” Dorsett said.
“You’ll be hearing from me, Sheriff,” John said as he hauled himself into the saddle. He and Ben raised their hands in farewell as they rode off into the night.
Ben started grumbling as soon as they were out of earshot of the sheriff and his deputies.
“John, this is too big for you. You ought to let the law take care of Hobart and his men.”
“I ought to, Ben. But the law already tried and failed. Mandrakemade a widow out of a woman who hadn’t even gotten married yet.”
“That don’t make no sense.”
“None of it does, Ben,” John said, but now he saw a greater purpose in killing Hobart. Who knew how many lives he might save by wiping Hobart and his men off the face of the earth?
John’s jaw hardened with determination.
And now, thanks to Sheriff Dorsett, he knew where Hobart was going. If he didn’t find him in Cheyenne, they’d ride on to Laramie.
He had a mission and he was going to carry it out if it killed him.
4
Melvin willis had not realized how rough the trail was when he had driven his wagon up to high ground the night before.Now, as he gazed down at the road, he realized why the mule was balking, standing motionless in the traces despite repeated lashes of the buggy whip on its rump.
“Use the quirt, Mel,” Darlene said, “or we’ll be up here all day.” She sat next to her husband on the springboard seat, a folded fan in her lap. “It’s going to get hot real quick and we’ve a long drive until we get to Fort Collins.”
“I know, I know,” Mel said. “The quirt won’t do more’n make old Jubal that much ornerier. He’s spooked, that’s all, over what he’s got to do. He’ll step out directly.”
“Pa,” their son, Calvin, said from his perch on the wagon, “you want me to get down and hold out a carrot for Jubal?”
“No, Cal, just sit tight.”
Mel flicked the whip once again. The thin lash flapped up dust and left a mark on Jubal’s rump. The mule didn’t budge.
“Shit,” Mel said.
“Mel,” Darlene said. “Not around the boy.”
“Damned mule. Haw, Jubal.”
The mule switched its tail, stood staring down at the steep, rocky trail.
“I could give Jube a push,” Cal said. His face bore a seriouslook. His father’s eyes rolled in their sockets. Darlene sat there, twiddling with the folded fan. The sun crept up towardthe eastern horizon, the sky filling with light. The trees and rocks around them stood out in stark relief as etched into a permanence that hadn’t been there before.
“One more time,” Mel said and swung his arm back. The whip made a crack with the force of his forward thrust. The lash smacked onto the mule’s rump. Its hide rippled under the blow and the mule hunched its shoulders and jerked forward, pulling the traces taut.
“Now he’s moving,” Darlene said with a breath of relief pushing her words.
“Finally,” Cal said, his eyes alight with eagerness.
Mel said nothing, but gripped the reins tight without pulling on them. He wanted the mule to keep moving, but braced himself in case Jubal lost his footing and began walkingtoo fast.
“Hold on,” Mel said to his wife and son. “Going to be tricky.”
Darlene grabbed a side panel. Cal braced himself. The wagon rumbled over the rocks as the mule picked up speed. The wagon teetered from side to side as the wheels rolled over rocks. Mel heard a sound that froze his blood. He saw a rattlesnake coiled up next to a rock, its tail quivering. The mule saw it, too, and swerved to the left, off the path. Mel, Darlene, and Cal bounced up and down as the wagon rolled into brush and rocks. Mel pulled on the right rein, trying to steer Jubal back onto the rough-cut road.
Jubal didn’t respond.
Instead, the mule began to buck and kick as sharp branches broke off bushes and jabbed him in the belly and flanks. He beganto bellow his hoarse hee-haws. The wagon pitched and rolled like a ship on a storm-tossed ocean and careened down the hillside, out of control as the reins slipped from Mel’s hands.
Near the bottom, the wagon jounced upward and came down hard. One wheel struck a large rock with a sickening crunch. The wagon lurched to a halt, one end careening at a dizzying angle. There was a loud twanging sound as the iron rim broke and one end clanged against a stone. A spoke snapped and the right front wheel collapsed. Spokes loosened and tumbled to the ground like sticks of firewood.
Darlene screamed. She was thrown backward as the wagon jolted to a stop and teetered to the right, its axle jammed against a rock. She pitched forward and Mel had to reach out and grab her to keep her from falling into the traces behind the mule.
Cal was thrown backward, too, and lay sprawled on top of the trunks and carpetbags like a splayed scarecrow. His head had slammed into the tailgate, knocking him nearly senseless. A large knot began to grow atop his head like some angry red egg. His head throbbed and his eyes wouldn’t focus for severalseconds.
Mel swore.
Jubal stood there, tangled in the traces, as docile as a tame jackrabbit, his large ears twitching, his tail switching slowly back and forth to swat the deer flies. Hoofbeats sounded down on the main road. Darlene was breathing hard, holding on to him, her nails digging through his shirt and into the flesh on his back. Her eyes were shut tight as she cowered in her husband’s arms, her hands trembling, her arms quivering against his sides like frog legs in a hot fry pan.
Mel saw two riders out of the corner of his eye and they were heading straight toward them from the south.
“Darlene,” Mel said. “Are you hurt?”
“I-I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
“Couple of riders. Maybe they can help us fix that wheel.”
“You’ve got tools, Mel. I can help you. So can Cal. Cal, where are you? Mel, is he all right?”
Mel looked over his shoulder. Cal was still lying on his back, spread-eagled. Still. A sudden spasm of fear gripped Mel’s t
hroat.
“Cal?” Darlene said, a note of fear in her voice, a voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. She untangled herself from her husband’s arms and tried to sit up. Gravity held her off center of the seat.
“I think he got knocked out,” Mel rasped, his voice husky in a dry throat.
“For God’s sake, Mel, find out,” Darlene screeched, her voice rising to a high pitch just short of a scream.
Mel climbed into the wagon, crawled up beside his son. Cal’s eyes were closed. His face was wan, so drained of color his complexion reminded Mel of men released from prison after many years. He gently shook his son, spoke his name.
“Cal, Cal, you wake up, hear?”
Cal’s eyelashes quivered as if he was trying to open the lids. Mel patted one cheek, put a hand on his shoulder, and shook him again.
“Cal, wake up, boy.”
Darlene struggled on the seat trying to crawl into the wagon.
“Is he—Mel, is he . . . ?”
“No, he’s not dead. Just sit tight, Darlene.”
The riders came closer, but they were still some distance away. Darlene looked down toward them, shading her eyes with the flat of her hand.
“Knocked cold, I reckon,” Mel said, more to himself than to Darlene. He slid an arm under Cal’s back, just below the shoulder blades, and hefted him almost to a sitting position.
“Cal, boy, you got to come out of it,” Mel said almost in a whisper. “Your pants are on fire.”
“Huh—wha?” Cal’s eyes opened and he stared up at his father.
Mel smiled.
"I said wake up.” He saw the lump on Cal’s head, touched it gingerly.
Cal winced and let out a cry.
“Ouch.”
“Got you a pretty fair lump on your noggin, son,” Mel said.
“I reckon. Pa, I don’t feel so good.”
“You’ll be all right. Just take it easy. Lie back down until your head stops spinnin’.”
“It ain’t spinnin’. It’s throbbing.” Cal reached up and felt the knot on his head.
“Is it bleeding?” he asked his father.
“Nope, not so’s I can see. You just got a crack on the head. Ma can put a poultice on it by-and-by and the swellin’ will go down.”