Outlaw Lawman (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Paul Bagdon

  The other man laughed. “It’s too early. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen for a couple weeks.”

  “Bullshit,” the ol’ boy said, “I recall in oh-one, that…”

  The younger guy laughed again. “Fourteen ohone?”

  “We’re ready no matter when the weather comes,” Lucas said.

  “We’d best be careful with that stove,” I said. “Should the office catch on fire, nobody in Gila Bend would do anything but piss on it to put it out.”

  We continued drinking beer and talking for maybe a bit longer than we should have. As we left, I put a ten-dollar bill on the bar. I’d made it a habit to pay for all my drinks and to tip, as well. Don had, too. Lucas thought we were crazy.

  The office was barely habitable, but at least the smeltering-oven effect of the original fire had greatly lessened. Don and I slept in our cells. The office was too hot for Lucas; he slept out in the shelter with our horses.

  The next morning was a strange one. The sky to the west was roiling, churning with dark clouds that seemed to collide with one another, separate, and then collide again. There was no lightning and no actual wind in Gila Bend—nothing but a mild breeze.

  We stood in front of the office gawking at the sky.

  “Well,” Lucas said, “it can’t be a blizzard—it ain’t movin’ at all. There’s never been no blizzard that didn’t move about some.”

  “It ain’t a twister, at least,” Don said.

  “I don’t know what it is. And as long as it stays right out there, I don’t much care,” I said.

  All through the day the mass of dark clouds continued their battle with one another, not moving closer to us or farther away. The breeze hadn’t freshened in the least, the temperature remained too damned hot, and no sounds of distant thunder reached us.

  I couldn’t help recalling the old fellow’s words: It’s comin’, I tell ya. I already got my safety rope strung.…

  None of the stray dogs in town seemed to be concerned about the sky; they went about their daily business of hanging out behind the butcher shop and the restaurant, waiting for scraps.

  Our horses were no more or no less content than they ever were, and the business in Gila Bend continued as normal, although those on horseback and pedestrians alike constantly found their eyes scanning the sky.

  The next day was a copy of the one before. But those clouds weren’t something one could get acclimated to—they kinda lurked in the sky silently, like a cat stalking a mouse.

  On the third day, my nerves were raw and my neck a tad sore from constant looking at the sky. “I’ve had enough of this shit,” I told my deputies. “I’m gonna ride out there a bit closer and see what’s going on.”

  “Might better wait it out,” Don said.

  “I’ve been waiting it out for two full days, and not a damned thing has happened. I’m purely sick of waiting it out.”

  I fetched my horse out of the shelter, saddled him up, and rode out of Gila Bend.

  It’s difficult to gauge distances in miles when the terrain is so vast and unchanging, but I figured I’d ridden eight, maybe ten miles. We cut a little stream and we both drank and I lit a cheroot.

  The strange thing was that I didn’t appear to be getting any closer to those damned clouds. The temperature may have dropped very slightly, but then again, maybe it hadn’t. The whispering little breeze in town seemed to have followed me.

  I have to say that nothing like this had ever happened to me before or since. I was riding along, relaxed in the saddle, giving some thought to lighting a cheroot, when I heard a train coming—a train that was very close to me. But there were no railroad tracks around. Before I could find the logic in that, the storm descended on me in all its howling, wretched, screaming power.

  It was like a theater curtain of pure white suddenly dropped down on all sides of me and my horse—but these curtains allowed the wind and snow to lash at us, scaring hell out of my horse—and me, too, I guess. My horse spun and reared a couple of times, but I kept him under control. The thing is, his spin disoriented me; I couldn’t tell up from down, much less the four directions. Absolutely nothing was visible except a blinding barrage of white. My Stetson was snapped off my head and then gone.

  I didn’t really notice the cold at first, probably because I was too confused and frightened by this monster that’d attacked me. I’d been riding in denim pants, a work shirt, a leather vest, and boots—hardly winter wear.

  My horse danced under me wanting a command, a direction from me, but I had none to give.

  The snow wasn’t in flake form—it was more like tiny ice pellets that stung bare flesh and through my shirt. I think I mentioned quite a bit earlier that I had absolutely no skill or feel for directions. That’s much of the reason I ended up in Gila Bend. Then, my lack was an inconvenience; now it was a matter of life and death.

  I couldn’t see the sun. I had no way to choose the direction to Gila Bend. I knew there were stone outcroppings somewhere ahead, but I didn’t know in which direction.

  I’d experienced fear before. Waiting to be hanged is a constant fear that permeates every thought, every move, every breath. I’d been trapped in a bank once, surrounded by half a town of men with rifles, pistols, and shotguns. I fell into an empty well as a kid. I’ve faced gunmen who just might be a tiny bit better than me.

  But nothing was ever like this.

  My horse was becoming more and more fractious, ready to start bucking for real, or rolling over on me, to get rid of me so that he could run. I gave him some rein and he charged ahead, stopped suddenly, set out in another direction, and then stopped, his body trembling. He didn’t know where the hell we were either, and he hadn’t been in Gila Bend long enough for the shelter to establish itself as a safe place.

  I kept him moving to keep the pair of us from freezing to death right where we stood. Why the hell didn’t I listen to that ol’ coot? He knew what he was talking about. If I’d paid more attention to his warning, I wouldn’t be out here killing myself and a damn fine horse.

  The train sound was constant, although for a few moments at a time, it’d sound like a large stream carrying winter runoff—a whooshing, hissing sort of racket.

  I calculated it this way: I had a choice of four main directions. I didn’t know which one would bring us anywhere near Gila Bend. And ‘somewhere near’ was no good—I might as well be standing right where I was as I’d be a mile from town, if this storm was moving that way, and I’m pretty sure that it was.

  My face was numb and so were my hands. I managed to tie my reins together so I could rein with one hand and stick the other one under my arm to maybe loosen it up a little. Then I veered off to my left and booted my horse into a clumsy jog.

  Actually, this isn’t all that bad. It must be warming up some, because I don’t feel nearly as cold as I had…when…a day ago? An hour ago?

  It didn’t make any difference because it was definitely warming nicely. I looked down at my hands to see if I was reining, but I couldn’t see them. I knew I was still mounted because I was moving without walking. That made laugh, but the laughing hurt my mouth.

  What I needed and what my buckskin needed was a rest—a place where we could hunker down and get some sleep and by the time we awakened, all this train noise and snow would be melted away. If we curled up together, we’d keep each other warm as long as we needed to until it was summer-warm outside. I laughed again and didn’t mind the hurt. Why the hell didn’t I think of that yester—

  Two sounds jerked me back from my dream. I didn’t know what they were—my head wasn’t working real well—but in maybe a couple of minutes later I heard the two sounds again, and they registered. Someone was firing a rifle.

  I had a rifle in my saddle scabbard and reached for it. I couldn’t tell if it was there or not. It seemed like there was something, but my hands refused to grasp whatever it was. I gave up on the reins and jammed both hands under the opposite armpit. If I could get even a small semblance of sens
ation back, I was pretty sure I could haul out the rifle, work the lever, and fire it.

  I started to drift again and caught myself. I yelled as loud as I possibly could. I couldn’t hear anything over the train, but I knew sound was coming out of me, or was pretty sure it was.

  I began to feel a very remote tingle in my hands. It wasn’t strong enough to be called a sensation, but it was something. I pulled my hands out of my shirt and banged them together, rubbing them hard, as if washing them. The tingling became very slightly more pronounced. I kept on washing, kept on shouting.

  Then I tried it—I tried to clutch the .30-30, cock it, and fire.

  I got my left hand on what I was pretty certain was the stock and tugged it out and toward me. I reached for the lever with my right hand, which hit my left hand and the rifle tumbled away into the impenetrable whiteness.

  The only option I had left was my pistol. My right hand was so used to the exact position of that .45 that even frozen solid, my palm would go to it. I needed to do something fast, because I didn’t think we were moving any longer, and I kept flashing in my mind on the bed I’d slept in as a kid. It was like my bed was right in front of me and all I needed to do was to…

  My palm found the grips and my right finger slid into the trigger housing. I struggled the Colt out of my holster and attempted to fire it off to the side. My goddamn finger refused that one silly, half-assed move. I think I screamed again and at that time I must have exerted enough pressure with my trigger finger. The Colt fired. I did it again—fired—and then waited. I fired twice, quickly. That left me with two live rounds. There was no way in the world I’d be able to remove a cartridge from my gunbelt and get it into the .45’s cylinder.

  I pointed the barrel upward and jerked the trigger twice.

  This is it. I can go to my bed now.

  Something large bumped in to my horse. Then there was a voice: “You stupid bastid! What the hell are you doing out here? Jesus, waddan idjit.”

  Chapter Six

  I could feel someone doing something to the front of my saddle, but I couldn’t see the person or what he was doing. I wasn’t at all sure whether my eyes were open or shut and frosted closed, but I suspected the latter.

  A cup of booze magically began prodding at my mouth, pushing through the accumulated ice and frozen nose-drippings. I drank it down, whoever it was slowly lifting the cup so that I didn’t lose a drop, and so that I wouldn’t have to tilt my head back.

  After that, it seemed like a long time passed with nothing happening except the train going by, the cold, and the total whiteness of everything.

  My horse began to move. I reached for the reins but couldn’t find them with my numbed hands.

  Had the voice shouting in my ear been a dream? Had the whiskey been a dream? I didn’t think so; I could still taste the liquor. But was that sensation of taste a dream, as well? I felt like my horse was walking, but I couldn’t be real sure. Riding is done with the butt and the legs, and mine were numb—as if they were frozen solid.

  Whatever was happening went on forever. Something was wrapped around me, but it accomplished nothing. The miniscule glow from the alcohol was long gone—if it’d existed at all.

  I fought my way to consciousness and found nothing but pain. A million tiny fire arrows had been shot into my body, each inflicting its own private pain. I thought that I may be on fire, but opened my eyes and saw that I wasn’t.

  I took me several moments to figure out where I was. Everything shimmered in my vision—nothing was clear. There were two faces looking down at me. One, I think, was Don. The other I didn’t recognize. A hand lifted my head and a cup of broth that was maybe half bourbon was held to my lips. I drank it all, and within moments, I was again asleep.

  When I woke up the next time, the faces were gone and so was most of the shimmering in my vision. The fire arrows had turned to blunt pins, but they were bearable. I looked around. I was on the floor of the office very close to the stove, covered with a robe or blanket of some sort. I think I was nude. Heat poured from the stove like water through a breached dam, and I reveled in it, my body sucked it up like desert sand sucks rain.

  A face peered down at me. “He’s awake again,” Don’s voice said.

  “My horse…” I managed to croak out.

  “Lucas has been rubbing the hell out of him for the past few hours, Pound, and giving him only warm water to drink. His lower lip is frostbit some, but not too bad. He’s gonna be fine.”

  “How’d I…get…here?”

  “A fella brought you in. Says he put a loop around your saddle horn and kinda dragged you and your horse in to Gila Bend. I’ll tell you this: he’s one tough sumbitch.”

  “Who…?”

  “Wouldn’t say,” Don said. “He said he seen your badge, otherwise he woulda left you ‘til spring meltdown. Says you were lookin’ for him.”

  Don held another mug of that bourbon broth to my mouth and I sucked it down. It eased my voice considerable. I noticed that the train sound was still roaring outside but it was muffled.

  “Storm bad?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah the storm is bad. Nobody seen the damned thing coming after that first day when the sky was dark. Caught lots of folks with stock out in pastures. A couple wagonloads of mine workers aren’t accounted for yet. Couple kids out playing ain’t been home yet—and probably never will be. Hell, there’s better’n three feet of snow out there, Pound.” His voice changed, became bitter. “Only ones who did OK are Billy Powers and his crew. They stayed in their saloons drinkin’, whorin’, an’ playin cards. There’s a few horses standin’ out at the hitchin rails froze solid.”

  I waited a few moments before speaking. “The man who brought me in—where’d he go? Is he coming back here to the office?”

  “I sent him over to the hotel. He wouldn’t go there until he got his horse down to the livery an’ in a stall and rubbed good. Then I guess he went to the hotel.”

  “He saw my star, is what he said?”

  “Yeah. He said somethin’ about a deal an’ needin’ some cash money, too.”

  “Oh.” So the word has gotten out to some of the right people.

  “Don, you have any long johns I could borrow? Are my clothes dry yet?”

  “Yes to both questions. We ran a rope over the top of the stove to dry your stuff, and I’ll fetch some long johns outta my cell.”

  It was while I was dressing that the infernal itching started. It was that of a mosquito bite times a million. Jesus, how I itched! I suppose it was merely skin coming back to life after it’d damned near frozen. I tried not to attack the itches, but had little luck. Those things demanded to be scratched.

  Don came back with the long johns and the tin of hoof dressing from our shelter. “Look,” he said, “I figured this itch would slide in on you. Just put a little bit of this stuff on your fingers and rub it into your skin.”

  “Damn, Don, I’m gonna smell like a used-up horse.”

  Don grinned. “Up to you. I know this works. I didn’t realize you were going to a damned cotillion tonight to dance with those purdy Southern ladies and then escort one out on the porch or maybe to behind the stables…but you’re right, Pound. No lady in her right mind would care to spread her legs for a fellow who smells like a hoof.”

  I didn’t have much to say about that.

  “I’m gonna walk out a bit while you do what you need to do. I wanna check how much damage the town has taken on.”

  I did as Don instructed and found that the hoof dressing worked as he said it would. I stood there nude and stupid, globs of hoof dressing on each hand, rubbing it on.

  It worked—and it worked fast and well.

  I was tugging on my boots and reveling in the non-itch of my skin when the office door swung open, bringing in a frantic burst of snow, wind, temperature low enough to freeze a brass monkey’s eggs clean off—and what looked like a giant, long-coated prairie dog.

  He stood in the open doorway looking at me,
his eyes the only part of his face visible under the pelt of whatever animal he was under. A pair of bandoleers of ammunition crossed his chest, and he held a .30-30 loosely in his right hand, the rifle’s action covered by the fur mitten he wore. The inch-long talons of the mittens made it pretty clear that he didn’t purchase the mittens at a mercantile.

  “You Pound?” he asked in a voice that wasn’t low and threatening as I’d expected, but that of a normal rancher.

  “You wanna close that door?” I said.

  “You wanna answer my question, ya little pissant?”

  “I’m Pound,” I said.

  He shut the door. He took a step closer to the stove and pushed his hood back, showing a narrow face with eyes set too closely together. His long mustache continued past both sides of his mouth and hung down an inch or better on either side of his chin.

  “It’s a good thing you are Pound,” he said. “Otherwise I’d have wasted a whole lot of time draggin’ some goddamn ribbon clerk back to his town. It’s nippy out there,” he added, “and some breezy, too.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. “What’s your name?”

  “Don’t make no difference.”

  “The thing is, I need…”

  “You sent a wire,” he said. “You must be worthwhile—if you ain’t, you wouldn’t have knowed where to send it.”

  “I sure need some help…”

  “You got a single dollar you can spare?” he said, cutting me off.

  That confused me. “Sure. But what’s a dollar going to…”

  He pulled off his left mitten with his teeth. One of the talons left a scratch next to his nose. In his bare palm rested a compass—more like a kid’s toy than a navigation instrument.

  “This little fella saved your bacon,” he said.

  “Yours, too,” I said.

  “Maybe—and maybe not.”

  “I’ll get me one of those compasses and keep it with me,” I said.

  “That’d make some good sense.”