Then A.J. Tomlinson caught them.
The sight of the hired hand well established between his daughter’s legs infuriated the farmer. Letting out a howl of rage, he pulled Milo off and began punching him. Milo, being painfully reminded of his father’s cruel punishments, took the blows only long enough to get his pants up and fastened. Then he retaliated in a manner that was to mark his future conduct during any sort of conflict. He beat A.J., kicking, pounding, and clobbering him until the older man was a mushy, bloody wreck. Betty Nell, though not particularly fond of her father, had certain family loyalties. She screamed as loud as she could in fear and shock, bringing out the mother and sisters from the house.
All the Tomlinson women jumping on Milo’s back and pummeling him with their tiny fists finally brought him to his senses.
After seeing what he’d done to an established citizen and property owner of Crawford County, Milo knew he had no choice but to flee if he were to avoid going to prison. Leaving the wailing, weeping women tending to the bloody hulk of their badly whipped provider, he headed west across the Arkansas River, arriving soaking wet and scared to death in the Cherokee Nation.
After three days of aimless and random wandering, he came across a farm owned by the Hays family. A cantankerous cuss named Zeb ran the place with his daughter Mae and son Bill. He had another boy named Orly, but the boy, whose birth killed his mother, was incapacitated mentally and had periodic fits during which he almost choked to death.
Zeb Hays was in a constant state of quarreling with his neighbors. Neither Cherokee Indian nor white cared for him and his brood. Unwelcomed and untrusted, they went to the nearest town of Taloosa for purchases and other business only when absolutely necessary. Naturally, no one in the immediate area would consider working for the Hays, so when Milo Paxton showed up at their doorstep looking for employment, he was welcomed.
Milo and Bill, who were of the same age, hit it off right away. Instead of being treated like hired help, Milo was given a small room in the main house and took his meals with the family. He developed eyes for the daughter Mae, a sixteen-year-old at the time, but his experience with Betty Nell Tomlinson made him leery of females.
Milo liked the work but again was doing it only for found. It was this complete lack of cash – a problem he shared with Bill Hays – that led both boys to a life of crime. Bill Hays was wilder than Milo Paxton – at that time – and it was his idea for them to borrow a couple of Zeb’s guns and go over to the Choctaw Nation and find something – or somebody – to rob. The reason for this foray into banditry was to get a few coins to spend on diversions in Taloosa.
Their victim turned out to be the owner of an isolated general store at a crossroads. The effort netted them five dollars in coins – one of the dollars being Confederate – and they made their escape and rode directly to Taloosa where they squandered their loot on liquor and a worn-out whore who worked in a shanty on the edge of town. When the two returned to the Hays farm, they were jubilant and convinced that crime paid and paid well.
A few more forays kept them in money, and Milo and Bill began to hang around in Taloosa on a regular basis. They finally fell in with a crowd of drifters. Those wanderers told big stories about big money which could be gained in robbing banks. Eventually, Milo Paxton and Bill Hays left home with their new friends. They shared an ambition when it came to outlawry: they wanted to form a gang that would rival Jesse James and his bunch in both viciousness and number of crimes.
Amateurish, but determined, the bunch of kids headed north. After a futile attempt to take down a train, the group of rookies tried to rob a bank in Saint Joseph, Missouri. The citizenry of the town were armed, alert, and quick to react to the crime. The end result, after a humiliating arrest and speedy trial, was three years in the state penitentiary for Milo Paxton and Bill Hays along with their bandit pals.
They returned home with a cock-and-bull story about spending all that time working in Missouri and losing the money they earned on the way back when they were jumped by outlaws. After prison, the old farm looked good and the two went back to work with a vengeance. And twenty-two-year-old Milo noticed that Mae had become a most attractive woman. With the unpopularity of the Hays family in the area, no young swains had called on her as would normally be expected. Milo filled that gap but he found he was dealing with a religious girl rather than a passionate young farm girl like Betty Nell who had the brains and morals of an alley cat. Between falling in love and his respect for the men in the family, Milo decided to propose marriage. Mae accepted and a traveling preacher, very similar to Milo’s father, performed the ceremony.
Meanwhile, the Hays’ relationships with their neighbors had deteriorated to the point that one of the local farmers who had a beef with the family got shot when both Milo and Bill lost their tempers and started firing.
In a case like that, where folks enforce their own law, some tough hombres find it convenient to make tracks. Thus, the entire clan – Milo, Mae, Zeb, Bill and Orly – made a midnight exit, leaving most of their possessions behind.
Hearing about gold strikes in Montana, they headed north and got up into the Rocky Mountains at about the time that Willie was born. Things turned tough for the family. Milo and Bill, after establishing the little group in an isolated cabin, took Orly with them and went back to robbing.
They hit a bank, with Orly holding the horses, and made a clean getaway. They returned to the cabin with a story of having a gold claim to work. The money was from selling the nuggets to the assayer. Poor Orly, not really sure about what was going on, had neither to corroborate nor deny the story since no one asked him one way or the other.
Milo and Bill returned to continue their criminal activities. They eventually met some more rough sorts in Luckville, El Campo, Pan-And-Weep, and a few other places. When the Northwest and Canadian Railroad made its appearance in the area, Milo decided once again to try his hand at train robbing. This time he took charge, carefully planning out the details and recruiting others to help out.
A gang finally emerged from the endeavor as Milo’s reputation as a good planner grew. He finally took permanent charge of the operation after an unfortunate and slow fellow named Harry Duane challenged his decisions. A vigorous argument ended when the man died in Milo’s gunsights.
The gang continued to hit the trains at irregular intervals, then disappeared back up into the mountains to wait for the next opportunity. Milo and Bill, with Orly in tow, always followed the same routine between robberies. They returned to the cabin keeping up the pretense of working a claim.
Lately, Mae wanted to move down into one of the towns. Milo and Bill, unable to risk being recognized, would have to talk her into going to California or back East. But that was something to be dealt with later.
The Northwest and Canadian was still running.
It was pleasant by the pond. Impatient to catch something, Willie kept a sharp eye on his line while his father dozed beside him. An instinct born of countless criminal forays broke into Paxton’s light slumber. He sat up, wide awake, and reached for the pistol he’d laid beside him.
“Milo.” It was Bill Hay’s voice sounding from off in the distance.
Paxton stood up. He could see his brother-in-law and a companion approaching on horseback.
A couple of minutes later Hays and the man rode in over the hill leading down to the pond. Willie was still keenly interested in getting a fish. He gave the arrivals only a quick glance. But Paxton was very interested in the man who came in with his brother-in-law.
“Howdy, Ned,” Paxton said. He knew the man would have some important information for him. “What brings you here?”
Ned Darnell dismounted his horse. “I got news, Milo.” He nodded toward Willie. “Is it alright to talk in front o’ the boy?”
“It depends on what you got to say,” Paxton said.
“Well, it’s bad news but I guess it won’t mean nothing to him,” Darnell said. “Tom Foyt, Tip Tyler, and Selby Turner is
dead. They been shot down.”
Paxton felt a surge of hot anger. “Did they try something on their own?”
Darnell shook his head. “Bounty hunters hired by the railroad got ’em.”
“What?”
“It was bound to happen,” Bill Hays said.
“We know the fellers,” Darnell continued. “Lefty McNally and his Injun pal.”
“I thought they was prospectors,” Paxton said.
“Yeah,” Darnell said. “They was. They worked a useless claim at both El Campo and Pan-And-Weep.”
“Then what the hell are they doing chasing my boys down?” Paxton asked.
“They’ve done more out here than just pan and dig for gold, boss,” Darnell explained. “For a long time they worked as hunters for the Northwest and Canadian before they went to the hills to try their luck on a claim.”
Hays looked at Paxton. “Them two is purty handy with their guns. Remember? You was even thinking about having ’em to join up with us.”
“Them two ain’t nobody to toy with,” Paxton said. “They’ll be getting the boys one by one.”
“What’s to be done?” Hays asked.
“We’ll round up what’s left o’ the gang and get ’em,” Paxton said coldly. “It’s that simple.” He glanced back at Darnell. “Did you find out where Lefty and Kiowa is at?”
“The last word give me is that they’re on their way to Pan-And-Weep,” Darnell answered.
“If we don’t get ’em there, we’ll get em somewheres else,” Paxton said. “C’mon. We got to go now.” He turned to Willie. “I’m going back to the house. You wait here ’til I send your grandpa out to look after you.”
“Yeah, Pa.”
Bill Hays and Ned Darnell, walking their horses, followed Milo Paxton. The gang leader’s stride was long and rapid, showing his anger and determination.
Sixteen
Ben Clackum and Craw Mindon sat on the log across from their host, an affable Easterner named George Perkins. The three men occupying George Perkins’s comfortable camp were eating a fine meal of beans and fish.
Perkins was a tall, thin young man in his late twenties. Clean-shaven and neatly groomed in spite of his primitive lifestyle, he had an aristocratic air about him. Perkins chattered happily, keeping up a running, almost non-stop conversation between bites. “It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had any company, gentlemen. I have been isolated here, completely dedicated to my work. You don’t know how happy I was to see you riding in here.”
Craw Mindon stirred at the beans on the tin plate. “Yeah. You seem to have been alone for quite a spell.”
Perkins laughed. “Am I talking too much? Dash it all. I’m sorry. Please accept my apologies, gentlemen. But months without the company of another human being has a tendency to make one a bit crazy – loco – as they say out here, hey?”
A few hours earlier, Clackum and Mindon had seen the flicker of Perkins’s camp fire far up the side of the mountain. Curious as to who might be in such an out-of-the-way place, they had ridden up to investigate. To their surprise, they found not only a prospector, but one who was so happy to have guests that he invited them to stay for supper.
Ben Clackum chewed slowly, savoring the taste of the mountain trout. “You’re purty lucky as a fisherman. How’s your gold panning been going?”
George Perkins shook his head. “Not too good.” he said. “I’ve pulled a few nuggets out of that stubborn river, but not enough to make a profit.”
“Ain’t struck it rich, hey?” Mindon asked.
“Hardly” Perkins responded. “It’s embarrassing to say so, but I had to return to Helena a few months back to send home for more money to buy supplies.” He chuckled. “Or, allow me to once again fall back to the local vernacular – a grubstake. I must confess to a fascination with the manner of speech employed here in the West.”
“You got folks with money at home, huh?” Clackum asked. “Where might that be, George?”
“Massachusetts,” Perkins replied.
“Back East, is it?” Mindon asked.
“Oh, yes,” George Perkins replied with a laugh. “About as far east as one is able to go outside of New Hampshire, Maine, or Vermont.”
Clackum, who hadn’t the slightest idea where that area of the country was, took another bite of the trout. “At least you got somebody to give you some money when you need it, George. Lots o’ fellers got to stop prospecting and head back to town to find a job to build up a grubstake when they go broke.”
‘“Yeah,” Mindon said. “Or find someone to invest in his diggings.”
“I suppose I’m rather more fortunate than the average fellow,” Perkins said. “My family is rather well-off. And that includes several generations, I must admit. Of course that’s no guarantee that the youngest son – which is my station in life – will benefit the greatest from such a situation.”
“I reckon not,” Glackum allowed. His own family background had been that of a prostitute mother and an unknown father who could have been any man among hundreds she entertained during a particularly busy month almost thirty years ago in western New Mexico. Left pretty much on his own at an early age, Glackum had survived more through brawn and meanness than wit and charm.
Perkins continued. “Also, when one considers the fact that my father considers me somewhat reckless and irresponsible, it would be surprising that I inherit anything.”
“Yeah. That’s real tough, George,” Mindon said feigning a sympathetic tone. His own father had died at the end of a rope in Lincoln, Nebraska for murdering Mindon’s mother in a drunken rage. The only thing Mindon inherited from his violent sire was an uncontrollable temper and the willingness to do anything to get what he wanted.
“It’s not exactly like I don’t know what responsibility is. I’m married with two children,” George Perkins said. “Because of that, of course, when I made the decision to come West and seek a gold fortune, my father was completely disapproving. He is of a most pragmatic nature and quite stuffy, I fear.”
“Pas can be real bad sometimes,” Mindon said. The last memory he had of his father was the fateful night when he’d watched his mother beaten to a bloody corpse. Mindon had hidden in the kitchen behind the stove hoping like hell that the drunken son of a bitch wouldn’t find him and give him a similar treatment.
“But, gentlemen, I insist on defending my decision to come out here,” Perkins said. “It was certainly not a wild whim that brought me to this hidden glen in the Rocky Mountains. I was an accountant in a shoe factory, immersed in column after boring column of figures. There was nothing in my future but a doubtful inheritance and the improbable potential of being made the head accountant years in the future. The prospects I had, though comfortable and solid, were dreary to the ultimate extreme.”
“But you can send home for money though, huh, George?” Clackum asked.
“Yes. I suppose my father is stubborn enough to want me to succeed,” Perkins said. “All his friends know I’m out here. He would look upon my failure as a personal affront to himself. Therefore, I took advantage of this attitude. This time I asked for more funding than for a single season. I received enough to keep my going through two.”
“So you didn’t spend all your money, hey, George?” Mindon asked.
“No. I have another grubstake – I must again employ the prospectors’ idiom,” George Perkins said. “Another season of failure shall not find me wanting entirely.”
The men finished the meal. Perkins, still blabbering, took it on himself to clean the plates. When that was finished, the three turned their attention to coffee and some excellent cigars the Easterner had with him.
“You wouldn’t mind if we spent the night, would you, George?” Ben Clackum asked. “It’ll be dark damned quick and too dangerous to travel in these mountains.”
“I would be delighted, gentlemen.” Perkins exclaimed. “In fact, I’d hoped you might extend your visit for a few days if you’re able.”
“I reckon we can,” Mindon said. He looked over at Clackum and gave a subtle nod.
Clackum took the hint. “I got to take a piss.” He stood up and walked out into the woods.
“Well, George, I hope you make it,” Mindon said. “If anyone deserves to strike it rich, you do.”
“I intend to work hard at it, Craw,” George Perkins said. “I’m going to stay out here and pan and dig until I find that fortune in gold.” He laughed. “Then my father will have to admit I had the right idea. Why he’ll—”
Clackum’s pistol slammed down on his head hard. Perkins rolled forward almost unconscious. Mindon stood up and walked over to kneel beside him.
“Let me help you, George,” the outlaw said. He rolled the man over.
Perkins, in a daze, was going into shock. “Yes – yes – please. Help me.”
Mindon methodically pulled his bowie knife. Without a change of expression, he jabbed it into Perkins’s belly, stabbing upward and twisting the sharp weapon. The Easterner gurgled as blood spurt from his mouth and nose. Clackum was already ransacking the camp trying to find George Perkins’s money.
“Is he dead?” Clackum asked without looking up from his task.
“Yeah. He’s done for. But hurry up,” Mindon urged him. “I’ll bury this fancy pants sonofabitch, then we can get back for some more fun in Pan-And-Weep.”
“How come you want to bury him? Leave the sonofabitch rot,” Clackum said.
“Naw. Somebody might stumbled across the camp. If they can’t find him, they might figger whoever was here died in an accident or something,” Mindon said.
“I reckon you’re right. No sense in taking chances,” Clackum said.
It didn’t take long to locate the money bag.
Clackum pulled it from a valise in the neatly arranged tent. “That dumb bastard didn’t even try to hide it,” he announced.
Mindon grinned. “I’m right fond o’ folks who have lots o’ trust in others, Ben. Now let’s get back to that whiskey and the Mahoneys’ women.”
~*~
Colorado Crossfire (A Piccadilly Pulishing Western Book 15) Page 15