Colorado Crossfire (A Piccadilly Pulishing Western Book 15)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Yeah,” Lefty said. “We’re looking for some old pals of ours. Pud Barlow, Craw Mindon, and Ben Clackum. Do you know ’em?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you noticed three fellers that seem to hang around together a lot?” Lefty asked.

  “Nope. And if I did, I wouldn’t say nothing about it. What’re you two up to, anyhow?”

  “Can’t a feller ask questions about some old pals?” Lefty asked.

  The miner, taking obvious notice of their carbines, shook his head. “I know your type. You’ll be lucky if you ever leave here alive.”

  Kiowa tugged on Lefty’s sleeve and led him away. “That dumb shit don’t know nothing.”

  “Between him and your damn visions, I’m starting to get real nervous,” Lefty said in complaint.

  A few more minutes of walking brought them over to the Mahoneys’ brothel. A couple of the whores were sitting on stools in front of the tent. When Lefty and Kiowa approached, they stood up and put on their best seductive act.

  “You two looking for a good time or still after them pals o’ your’n?” one of the slatterns asked.

  “They ain’t been by, huh?”

  “Pud Barlow was here not too long ago,” the whore said. “But I told you that.”

  “He ain’t been back, huh?” Kiowa asked.

  “Maybe he’s been back and you ain’t telling us,” Lefty said.

  “You’re a smart ass, ain’t you sonny? So now I ain’t gonna tell you when he does show up,” the whore said. “How do you like them apples?”

  “I’ll give you two bits if you tell me when he comes back,” Lefty said.

  The poor prostitute, used to insults and poor pay, calmed down. “Sure, honey boy. Why not? I’ll watch out for ’em. You just come around anytime you want.”

  “Sure,” Lefty said. “We’ll see you later.”

  Once more Kiowa pulled him back to their aimless walking. They had gone around to the other side of the town when they heard their names called.

  “Lefty! Kiowa!” Ned Darnell, coming up behind them, waved.

  They turned around. “Howdy, Ned,” Lefty said.

  “I thought that was you,” Darnell said. “When did you get in?”

  “Awhile back,” Lefty said. “Are you still wandering these hills?”

  “Sure,” Darnell said. “I do what I can to keep body and soul together.”

  “Well, maybe you can help us, Ned. We’re looking for Pud Barlow, Ben Clackum, and Craw Mindon.”

  “I been hanging around with ’em. But right now they’re out hunting, boys,” Darnell answered. “They’re due back today. You want to see ’em, do you?”

  “We sure do,” Kiowa said, shifting his carbine.

  “I know where they’ll be,” Darnell said. “There’s a likker tent at the east edge o’ town. Want me to take you over there?”

  “Sure. Maybe we could have a drink while we’re waiting,” Lefty said. He wanted to get some information on the three from Darnell. Perhaps he could fill them in on their weaponry, temperament, and if they’d heard any news about Milo Paxton and Bill Hays. “You’d like to toss back a couple with us, wouldn’t you, Ned?”

  “Sure, boys,” Darnell said.

  The three went up the muddy street until they reached the tent. Darnell carefully noted the position of the men he’d hired. All were scattered around the small area, ready to pounce. Darnell nodded his head, then put an arm around Lefty’s and Kiowa’s shoulders, leading them to the plank bar. “Order up, boys. It’s on me.”

  “Thanks, Ned,” Lefty said surprised. “Did you find a good dig?”

  “In a way,” Darnell said.

  The bartender started to serve them when the half-dozen men worked their way directly behind Lefty and Kiowa. Darnell stepped back and made a motion.

  The six attacked.

  Nineteen

  Lefty felt his carbine being ripped from his grasp. A large miner had grabbed it, tugging and snarling his efforts to wrench the weapon free. Lefty held on as best he could, but another attacker from the side hit him hard, breaking his grip and making him tumble to the ground. Quickly rolling, he glanced over to see that Kiowa’s long gun had also been taken away and that his friend was battling furiously against two men.

  Lefty had no sooner gotten to his feet then another punch decked him. He scooted backward on his butt, moving with reflexes born of fear and anger. Once again he stood up.

  “Take another, Lefty,” Ben Clackum snarled. The big man slammed a ham-like fist straight into Lefty’s nose.

  Vaguely wondering where Clackum had come from, Lefty rolled with the punch. Through tearing, blinking eyes, he saw Pud Barlow and Craw Mindon also in the fray.

  Kiowa, having his own troubles, also noted the arrival of Milo Paxton’s men. Hemmed in by two attackers, he faked an attempt to escape around one side, danced back the opposite direction, then changed again and made a real run for freedom. One of the men was drawn off balance by the quickness of the moves. Kiowa rewarded his slow-wittedness by slamming him in the side of the jaw. The hired thug, teeth loosened by the force of the blow, went down dazed and in disoriented.

  “You goddamned pesky redskin!” he bellowed in pain.

  At that exact moment Kiowa pivoted slightly and kicked out, catching the second man in the crotch. A high-pitched scream gave evidence of the agony. Losing all spirit, the down-on-his-luck prospector sank down to a sitting position blubbering like a baby while holding onto his injured scrotum.

  A sudden jolt from behind propelled Kiowa forward. He stumbled a few steps before going to the ground. Immediately he felt the weight of his assailant jumping on top of him. Muscular arms wrapped around his waist and tightened hard, squeezing the breath out of him.

  “You’re going to the happy hunting ground, Injun,” the man said increasing pressure with all his strength.

  Every Indian boy gets plenty of wrestling experience while growing up. Kiowa knew exactly what to do. Reacting with such speed that it seemed like one movement, he quickly exhaled making his waist smaller while twisting and slipping to freedom.

  Pud Barlow, seeing the lightning quick escape, moved in and threw a straight right that caught Kiowa square in the face. The half-breed flew backward, crashing into a couple of the hired miners, all going to the ground as a group with fists and feet striking and kicking.

  Kiowa, his senses still clear, kicked himself free of the others. He managed to score a couple of more kicks as he got to his feet and fought clear of the hands grabbing at him.

  Meanwhile, Lefty, punching desperately, kept moving as he turned in all directions to meet the attacks. His punches were sharp and fast as his knuckles slammed repeatedly against various faces. A hell of a scrapping Irishman, his wild, aggressive, defensive fighting caused the attackers to draw off a bit. Craw Mindon made a wild rush and caught a couple of good whacks on his right ear before staggering away with a wild ringing in his head.

  “C’mon, you sonofabitches!” Lefty snarled. “I’ll show you how a Irisher kicks asses!”

  Mad as hell and not thinking clearly, he rushed forward at one man. This left him open for attack from another who managed to slam him hard in the ribs.

  “Oof!”

  Lefty took the punch, but retaliated with a roundhouse left that knocked the man into the interior of the tent. The rickety bar made out of slats collapsed and bottles crashed as the miner rolled into them. He made an attempt to get up, but his eyes rolled crazily and he sank into numb unconsciousness.

  Now the owner of the liquor tent lost his temper. He leaped over his ruined bar holding an ax handle in his hand. “You’ll pay for this!” he bellowed. “Ever’ goddamned one o’ you rotten bastards! You ain’t got no call to wreck my business! Sonofabitches!”

  Craw Mindon, off to one side recovering from the hard smack he’d gotten from Lefty, drew his Colt and eased up behind the liquor peddler. Hitting him hard from behind, the outlaw sent the unfortunate man crashing to the groun
d with a deep gash in the back of his head.

  Now tiring, Kiowa fought as wildly as he was able while three of the miners moved in on him. An unwise, emotional punch exposed him and he was rushed. In spite of his wild struggling, he was finally grabbed by each arm. Pud Barlow appeared in front of him.

  “Alright, Kiowa. This is for my pards.”

  Pud started slapping him in the face, keeping it up until he had punched the Kiowa Kid stupid. Near unconsciousness, he finally slumped to the ground still held by the two hired prospectors.

  Now it was Lefty’s turn. Tackled from behind, he went down with two men on him. Somebody grabbed his hair and began pounding his head on the ground. Unable to wiggle free, he felt each individual shock as his skull was slammed into the dirt. Dizziness and nausea began to overtake him until he heard a familiar voice shout out.

  “That’s enough!”

  Lefty recognized Milo Paxton’s voice as he was hauled to his feet and held tightly. He looked over to see that Kiowa, too, was a prisoner.

  Now Bill Hays appeared. “Take ’em into the woods.”

  Lefty dazed by the pounding he’d taken, glanced over at Kiowa. “Careful! I think this is a trap.”

  “You dumb shit!” Kiowa hissed. “We’re already in it.”

  A crowd had gathered mumbling audibly to themselves and watching numbly as the two were hustled away into the trees. Milo Paxton, knowing full well the unpredictability of the excitable mining camp mobs, wisely spoke up. “Boys, them two done us bad dirt. They jumped claims and kilt some pals of ours. This is justice. Back off and stay outta this.” When he was convinced the spectators were going to do nothing, he turned and followed his men.

  Now, with the fight over, Ned Darnell, with the money given him by Paxton, called the five hired men around him. The sixth, as unlucky in the fight as he had been at prospecting, still lay unconscious in the shattered interior of the liquor tent.

  “You done your job, boys,” Darnell said to them. He handed out a ten-dollar gold piece to each one. “You’ve served a good cause, boys. You can be proud o’ that.”

  One of the miners, his eye purpling rapidly, took his money. “Who the hell was them fellers anyhow?”

  “A coupla desperadoes,” Darnell said. “Didn’t you hear what my pard said?”

  “They sure could fight,” another remarked. “They damn near whupped us all.”

  “Now you know why we needed help,” Darnell said.

  “Hey!” one said. “What about him?” He pointed to the unconscious man inside the tent.

  “What about him?” Darnell asked.

  “He’s got a gold piece coming to him,” the man pointed out.

  “He ain’t able to take it, so he losses it,” Ned said. He laid his hand on his pistol.

  “I reckon you’re right,” the man said. “Thanks for the money, mister.”

  Darnell watched them leave. He gave the crowd a surly glance. “Anybody got anything special to say?”

  Everyone in the crowd stood in silence. Even if they didn’t believe the story of Lefty and Kiowa being claim jumpers, they all had recognized the group as being Milo Paxton’s gang. None wanted to be the first to start trouble with the bandits. Lefty and Kiowa’s old friend Nolan Batcher also kept his mouth shut. Darnell gave them one more threatening look, then turned and headed for the trees to follow after the rest of his friends.

  When he rejoined them, he found they had bound Lefty and Kiowa by wrapping ropes around them to pin their arms to their sides.

  Milo Paxton stood in front of the two, treating them to a few moments of silent viewing before he spoke. “Now ain’t you two something else?”

  Lefty, his mind racing, decided to play dumb. “What the hell did you jump us for, Milo?”

  “I was just looking for fun,” Paxton said.

  Lefty grinned. “Well, I reckon you had some alright.” He looked at Kiowa. “Huh? Didn’t they have some fun?”

  “I reckon,” Kiowa said.

  Bill Hays interjected himself into the conversation. “We hear you killed Tip Tyler, Tom Foyt, and Selby Turner.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Lefty asked.

  “A little bird told us,” Hays said.

  “Well, now, boys, it ain’t like it appears,” Lefty said. “They picked fights with us. Didn’t they, Kiowa?”

  “I reckon,” Kiowa said.

  Paxton looked at Kiowa. “Is that right, Kiowa? Did ol’ Tip and Tom and Selby pick fights with you and Lefty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How come they was to do that?” Paxton asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kiowa said doing his best to shrug in the ropes. “You’ll have to ask ’em.”

  “That’d be kinda hard to do,” Paxton said. “Seeing as how they’re dead.”

  ‘Yeah,” Lefty agreed. “It do make it difficult to talk to somebody when he’s dead.”

  “I reckon,” Kiowa said.

  “I think it’s downright amazing how it’s only our boys that pick fights with you,” Hays said.

  “Now that ain’t right, Bill,” Lefty said. “Why, hell, we shot up ol’ Jack Dougherty and some of his pards, too.”

  “I ain’t having none o’ that,” Paxton said. “I don’t know what brought about you shooting them others, but I do know for certain you’re after my boys.”

  “Aw, hell, Milo,” Lefty protested. “How’d you ever come by knowing something like that?”

  Paxton leaned forward and jabbed Lefty hard on the nose with his finger. “On account o’ I got an inside man at the good ol’ Northwest and Canadian Railroad.”

  “No shit?” Lefty said. “Who?”

  “That’s none o’ your damn business,” Paxton said. “But he told us that Jim Bigelow hired you two special for hunting us down. But he wasn’t sure o’ the full story. So we’re gonna take a little time and clear that up now.”

  Bill Hays stepped closer and slapped Lefty across the face. “Who set all this up? The railroad? The law?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bill,” Lefty said. “You’re getting all riled over nothing.”

  “Nowadays the law and the railroads is working together,” Paxton said. “Have you got papers on us?”

  “Papers?” Lefty asked.

  “Legal warrants, you dumb shit,” Bill Hays said. “Even our inside man wasn’t sure on that point. Ol’ Bigelow and that fat bastard Terwilliger kept a lot to their selves.”

  Lefty knew that the end of the game could be as close as a pull on the trigger. For the first time in his life he began to feel helpless fear. He was tied tight, far away from civilization or any sort of help. It all boiled down to the fact that he and Kiowa had agreed to take on a dangerous job for money. Now that decision had turned out to be a bad one – probably the worst in his life if not the last. He felt it was impossible to convince Milo Paxton that he and Kiowa hadn’t been tracking down the gang. Especially now that Paxton claimed they had an inside man at the Northwest and Canadian. He had a wild, desperate hope that Paxton was bluffing.

  Lefty affected a chuckle. It sounded more like a croak, but he tried to act nonchalant. “Now, Milo. You know that me and ol’ Kiowa isn’t gonna do no such thing as track you down. Right, Kiowa?”

  “I reckon,” Kiowa said.

  Lefty continued. “I think maybe somebody must be lying to you.” He chorded again weakly. “How’n hell could anybody get any information up to you from the railroad.”

  Bill Hays pointed to Ned Darnell. “Our insider tells Darnell.”

  Lefty had thought that Darnell had perhaps been hired for the fight like the prospectors. All the time he’d known him, Lefty hadn’t been aware that he was connected with the Paxton Gang other than as a drinking pal. He felt what little was left of his self-confidence crumble. “Who – who tells him?”

  Paxton glanced at Bill Hays. “It won’t hurt to say now. These two sonofabitches ain’t gonna be telling nobody.” He looked back at Lefty. “Russ Wilson is our ma
n.”

  “Oh, shit!” Lefty said.

  While the conversation had been going on, Kiowa was taking deep, silent breaths. Each one was more intense than the other as his Indian medicine refreshed his spirit. He could feel himself expanding, pushing his bonds out until they began to loosen.

  “Your deal with Jim Bigelow was quite a secret at the railroad,” Paxton said. “Even Wilson didn’t know about it, ’til after things was rolling.”

  “Aw, shit, Milo!” Lefty exclaimed. “You got us all wrong!”

  Paxton, coldly furious, stepped forward with a violent swing of his fist. It collided with Lefty’s chin, knocking him back a couple of paces before he hit the ground.

  At that moment Kiowa jumped back and made a side kick that hit Ned Darnell. He slipped from his rope and grabbed the knife he kept in his moccasin. With only a split second to spare, he swiped the blade across Darnell’s throat and bounded off into the woods.

  “Get him, goddamn it!” Paxton roared.

  While Darnell rolled over and died with blood gushing from a gaping wound across his Adam’s apple, the other gang members drew their pistols and blasted away in Kiowa’s direction.

  “Pud! Craw! Go after him!” Paxton ordered. He kicked Lefty where he lay on the ground. “This ain’t gonna do you a bit o’ good, you sonofabitch!”

  “Fact is,” Bill Hays said in a cold voice. “This is gonna make it worser on you.”

  Lefty, happy about Kiowa but frightened for himself, lay there thinking what a lousy day it had turned out to be.

  Twenty

  The Kiowa Kid didn’t concentrate on finesse as he fled through the woods. He recognized Ben Clackum and Pud Barlow’s voices as they crashed through the undergrowth after him. The knowledge of their pursuit intensified his deep sensory perceptions that upbringing in the tribe had instilled.