Blood Red Star

by Shorty Gunn

  Buel stood for a moment trying to make sense of it all. Whitman and Little Hawk pushed right past him, inviting themselves inside before he could even answer. He started to say something then let it go. Turning back for his bedroom he mumbled something about madmen demanding the impossible in the middle of the night.

  Cort, Red and Fan stood in shadows of Dr Wylie’s living-room waiting for him to finish what he could do for Wic. Cort went to the curtained window parting it slightly, staring outside on to the darkened street.

  Red pulled his pocket watch lifting it close enough to read the dial. ‘It’s been thirty minutes already. How much longer are you going to wait, Cort?’

  ‘I’ll give him a little more time. I need Wic with us if he can ride.’

  ‘I don’t much like being cooped up here in town. We ought to be making tracks to someplace a long ways away from here,’ Fan added his uneasiness.

  ‘Neither do I, but I don’t want to leave Wic flat. I know he’d do the same for either of us if. . . .’

  The sound of fast-approaching hoofbeats stopped Cort’s comments. He spread the curtains wider, seeing four riders flash by at a gallop. The unmistakable figure of Whitman’s white dappled horse, Charger, led the way. Cort quickly stepped back, his voice tense with caution.

  ‘That looked like Whitman right out there!’ he whispered.

  ‘Whitman? What’s he doing here in town?’ Red questioned.

  ‘He sure didn’t trail us here. Maybe he came in for more help. Now that we know where he is we’ll ride in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Like where?’ Fan questioned, his hand fondling his six- gun.

  ‘Maybe back toward New Hope. That’s the last place he’d be looking for us.’

  ‘Why go there?’ Red’s questioning tone made it clear he didn’t like the idea one bit.

  ‘Because we can do a little more “business”, while the law is off chasing his tail, that’s why. It depends on what Wylie can do for Wic, too.’

  The three men stood in the dark without talking further, each to his own thoughts as minutes ticked away until Dr Wylie opened the door of the examination room stepping into the parlor. ‘I’ve done all I can for your friend under these circumstances. The bullet went in below layers of skin creating a lot of damage and bleeding. If it had gone any deeper into the abdomen he’d be dead by now. That doesn’t mean he’s all right, just lucky on that count. He should have absolute rest and not pull those stitches out. If he does and starts bleeding again, he’ll be in jeopardy of bleeding to death. I strongly suggest you put him up someplace where he can rest for at least two weeks to heal. He certainly shouldn’t be in the saddle. Do I make myself perfectly clear?’

  ‘Yeah, you do. What do I owe you, doc?’ Cort’s dismissive tone was short and to the point.

  ‘After holding me at gunpoint, you now want to pay me?’

  ‘That’s what I said. How much?’

  ‘If you’re going to ride out of here and do what I think you are, you owe me nothing. All my work has been a waste of time and your friend’s life. If you mean to give him a chance to recover, my fee for a bullet wound and stitching him up is thirty-five dollars.’

  Cort reached into his jacket pulling out a wad of crisp new twenty dollar bills, courtesy of the US Cavalry payroll. Peeling off three he stuffed them into Wylie’s pocket.

  ‘I said thirty five, not sixty,’ the doctor answered.

  ‘The extra twenty is for the pistol I had to put on you. In case anyone asks, you can tell them I left a tip.’ Cort turned to Red and Fan. ‘Go in there and get Wic. Then let’s get out of here.’

  Once outside the men helped boost Wic up into the saddle. Cort stepped closer with one last word of warning. ‘Doc says you can’t bust those stitches loose or it’s big trouble. We’re heading back toward New Hope. Try to ride easy as you can and keep up. If you can’t, let me know.’

  Casner looked down, breathing heavily, fighting the searing pain. ‘I’ll try . . . let’s get to it.’ His voice was barely above a whisper.

  Nate Whitman recklessly pushed his riders hard into the night heading back to Coy’s ranch. He was convinced if Keller wasn’t still there, at least he might not have had enough time to get very far away, especially if he was carrying a wounded man as he thought he’d seen from the wild gunfight. The farther the four rode, the farther behind Buel and his young deputy, Jeff Banks, fell behind.

  ‘Let that knothead kill himself,’ Buel snorted to Banks riding next to him. ‘Then we can go back to town and wait until dawn to get enough men to do a real tracking job, instead of this stupid idea.’

  ‘I’d sure feel better if we had more men too,’ Banks admitted, leaning low in the saddle, hanging on.

  ‘General Whitman up there doesn’t have any time for common sense. He thinks he’s going to run this Keller bunch down in the dark. I tried to explain it to him, but he’s too thick-headed to listen. When we get to Brandon’s ranch, I’ll try to talk to Coy before Whitman goes off shooting up the place. I know him a little bit and he’s never given me any trouble before. I don’t think he will now either. That is, if I get the chance.’

  Chapter Three

  Angelina and the three children were already in bed asleep, but not her troubled husband. He sat at the kitchen table under a single coal oil lamp still thinking about the sudden savage gunfight that had his family scared, upset and in fear there would could be more to come. He loved Angelina more than life itself. She’d changed him in ways he never thought possible. But his strong blood connection to Cort went all the way back to Tennessee, and both their families too. Back to a time when he lived the wild life just as Cort did, raiding, robbing, harassing Union troops and fighting the carpetbaggers that followed, who took everything they held dear until they were forced to flee their very homes and the South they’d always known and loved.

  Now Cort was in big trouble with the law again. Coy’s emotions were torn right down the middle because of it. He closed his eyes, resting his head in both hands, his mind swirling with indecision.

  His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of fast hoofbeats coming closer. Was Cort returning for some reason, or was it more trouble with the law? He couldn’t be sure after a night like this.

  He got to his feet grabbing the shotgun off wall pegs next to the door. Lifting the lamp from its hook over the table, he went to the door opening it just a crack trying to see outside as four shadowy figures pulled their horses to a stop.

  Whitman was first off his horse, already shouting orders. ‘You in the house, come out unarmed with your hands in the air. If you refuse I’ll burn you out!’

  Buel, who had already had enough of Whitman’s orders for the night ran up behind the marshal, grabbing him by the shoulder spinning him around. ‘For God’s sake, get hold of yourself. There are likely women and children in there. I know this man. Let me try to talk to him before you do something you’ll regret.’

  ‘And there could also be Keller or some of his men in there too. Take your hands off me or I’ll cuff you first!’

  ‘Have you gone mad? You’re letting your anger overrule common sense. You’re not carrying out any kind of law. You’re doing this for pure revenge. I’ll stop you any way I can. I won’t be a part of this. It’s murder while hiding behind a bloody badge!’

  The two star men began struggling, but Little Hawk quickly moved up behind Buel. Lifting his pistol high over his head the Crow deputy brought it down crashing on the sheriff’s skull, knocking him unconscious to the ground.

  Young Banks ran forward trying to help, but Little Hawk quickly turned, leveling his wheel gun menacingly. ‘Give me gun, or I take it,’ he ordered, advancing on Banks until the young lawman felt the cold steel of a pistol shoved hard into his stomach. ‘Do not interfere with us, young man,’ Whitman warned. ‘or you’ll get the same as your boss did. Give him your gun, now!’

  Little Hawk pulled the six-gun from Banks’ holster, shoving him back a few steps. �
��You no move,’ he ordered in his pidgin English, his intent clear enough to stop him.

  Nate Whitman advanced on the ranch house demanding again that Coy step out with both hands up and empty. Coy could only vaguely see the struggle and hear the sound of what had taken place in the brief confrontation between the four men. Confused by it, he yelled out from behind the door.

  ‘Who is out there? What’s going on? Speak up or you’ll get a load of shotgun!’

  ‘This is US Marshal Nathaniel Whitman. I’m ordering you to give up and get yourself out here now. I won’t ask again!’

  ‘Whitman? You’ve caused enough misery for one night. Cort isn’t here. Neither are any of his men. Saddle up and ride out of here. Leave us alone. My family and I aren’t bothering anyone. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  The marshal turned to his partner with an order. ‘Get me something I can burn. Brush, a limb, anything.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Banks protested, holding up both hands.

  ‘You shut up and stay out of the way. Little Hawk, cuff him after you get me that firewood. I don’t want any more interference from either of these two.’

  Coy still stood behind the door for protection, tightly gripping his shotgun, until he saw the flare of a match followed by brighter flames of the ignited torch. Whitman advanced closer shouting his threat to burn it down. Coy had to do something and fast. His wife and children were all he could think about. Kicking the door open he stepped outside, shotgun still in one hand, raising the other to stop and talk. Before he could speak, Whitman dropped the torch, leveling his six-gun on him firing once, twice and a third time, crumpling Coy to the ground. Whitman ran forward, Little Hawk right behind him until both stood over Brandon.

  ‘Roll him over and get that shotgun before I cuff him,’ the marshal ordered.

  The Crow deputy pulled Coy over by his shoulder. In flickering firelight of the still burning torch, he leaned lower.

  ‘No need cuffs. You shoot him dead, already.’

  Whitman turned walking up to Jeff Banks. His voice was a low, menacing order. ‘If anyone asks you, Brandon aimed his shotgun on me and I had to stop him or be killed myself. Understand me?’

  ‘But he didn’t do that. You shot him down in cold blood. I saw how it happened.’

  The marshal grabbed Banks by the jacket yanking him up face to face. ‘I said he had that shotgun on me first. You try to say any different, you’ll end up the same way. I’m not going to have some two-bit Southern rebel ignore the law and not pay for it. Do as you’re told, or I’ll personally see to it you end up without a badge or job!’

  Buel staggered to his feet holding his bloody head, trying to make some sense out of the confusion around him. Coy lay a few feet away. His deputy came to his side, helping him steady himself. ‘What . . . happened . . . who hit me?’

  ‘You got out of line,’ the marshal answered. ‘I had to have Little Hawk stop you before you did something you’d regret. I’m running the show here and no one else. Don’t you or Banks forget it. Brandon tried to kill me. I had to stop him. Didn’t I, deputy?’ He eyed the young deputy who only stared back without answering.

  A sudden cry of anguish turned all four men to the front door. Angelina, still in her nightgown, stood trembling, both hands to her mouth, terrified at the sight of her husband lying a few feet away. She ran forward, collapsing on top of him sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘Coy, Coy, don’t die on me!’ She looked up at Whitman, pleading through a tear-streaked face, cradling Coy’s head in her arms. ‘You murderer, you killed my husband. I saw what you did!’

  Buel finally regained his senses enough to walk up to the marshal, still holding the back of his head with one hand. ‘Is this what you call justice? You just turned that badge you’re wearing into a blood red star. Everyone will know it soon enough if I have my way.’

  ‘You better get used to it. This is how you stop these Johnny rebs.’

  After a week of hard riding north up in the lofty Big Sheep Mountains, Captain Theodore Criswell, of the 77th Cavalry, sat in his freshly pitched tent reading a message just brought to him by a courier out of Fort Jackson. The young private delivering it stood at attention while Criswell digested the note. Ending it with an audible sigh, he looked up at the man in blue.

  ‘Did they tell you back at Fort Jackson, this message was so urgent they had to send you all the way up here to deliver it?’

  ‘No sir. They just ordered me to get it to you fast as possible. It took me two extra days riding to find you up here.’

  ‘I see. Get yourself and your horse a good feed. I’ll send you back tomorrow with my reply.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ The private saluted smartly turning to exit the tent as Criswell went over the note a second time, pulling at his chin.

  From Command, Fort Jackson

  May 27, 1867

  To Captain Theodore Criswell

  This message is to inform you that the United States Cavalry courier pay wagon was stopped and robbed at gunpoint by four men on May 5, thought to be the Keller gang, near New Hope. You are ordered to relieve your unit of six men to ride to New Hope, to see what they can further learn and also the possible whereabouts of these men. Any further information learned there should be brought to us by a pair of your fastest riders. You are to remain with your main unit continuing to pursue the Northern Cheyenne Indians who have been raiding in the Big Sheep Mountains.

  I remain,

  Commander Judson P. Weatherly

  Fort Jackson, Wyoming

  Criswell got to his feet, walking to the open tent flap looking out on his new encampment. The large, green meadow only yards away was split by a small crystal clear creek gurgling over rocks. Beyond, a picket line of horses fed steadily on lush green grass in front of white canvas tents while some troopers uniformed in blue tended smoking campfires. Others took the brief rest to sit cleaning their Springfield 45-55 carbines after the long ride into the mountains. It all seemed so idyllic, peaceful, yet trying to trail up the elusive, dangerous Cheyenne could change in seconds to an all-out ambush. Criswell didn’t like the idea of splitting up his command. He might need every single man and rifle available if things suddenly turned into a savage gun battle. Yet orders were orders, and he had no choice but to obey them. His orderly was busy a few yards away stacking fresh firewood for the evening campfire. The captain called him over.

  ‘Yes sir?’

  ‘I want you to fetch Sergeant O’Halloran. Tell him to come over here on the double.’

  ‘Right away, sir.’

  Criswell went back inside his tent, sitting down until the sergeant came up. He waved him in. It only took a brief glance to see why O’Halloran had been promoted to sergeant. Grady O’Halloran looked like a man who meant to have his own way come hell or high water. Standing just five foot nine, the ruddy faced Irishman’s broad brawny shoulders filled out his blue tunic, nearly bursting stitches. His square-jawed face sprouted unshaven red whiskers around a straight slit mouth, used to barking orders that better be obeyed. If not they would be settled out behind camp with his hard knuckled fists. He was the perfect man to maintain order especially out on dangerous patrol like this where men had to follow orders to stay alive and not panic under ambush or attack.

  ‘You called for me, Captain?’

  ‘I did. I have a somewhat unusual job for you to do. There’s been a robbery of our pay wagon back near New Hope. I want you to choose five men, your best riders, and leave for there today. Get as much information as you can about the robbery including talking to the marshal there. What’s his name. . . Whitman? Command believes the Keller gang are the ones who robbed the courier. Whatever information you get, send two fast riders back to Fort Jackson with it, then get back here. Take one of our Crow scouts with you so you can find us when you return. We’ll be moving farther back into these mountains. You’ll need him for that.’

  ‘All that’s going to take some time, sir.’ O’Halloran was already skeptical abou
t his new orders. ‘I might not get back here for a week, if that.’

  ‘I know that, Sergeant. That’s why you better get cracking. Pick your men and get extra rations from the supply wagon. I want you out of here in one hour.’

  Cort’s bold plan to quickly double back to New Hope, began to unravel because of Wic Casner’s bleeding wound. That first day on the trail even riding at a slower pace didn’t help. The fresh stitches pulled and tore at Wic’s side until bleeding started again. He tried not to complain but by late that afternoon he’d had enough and was forced to pull to a stop. Cort, in the lead, wheeled his horse around, riding back.

  ‘I think I’m going to have to stop.’ Casner opened his jacket revealing his bloody shirt. ‘Maybe it might be better if you three go on ahead. I’ll try to catch up later after I rest a while. I don’t want to mess up your plans, but I won’t be much help like this.’

  Cort glanced at his brother Red, then Fan. Neither said a word until Red spoke up. ‘If Wic says he can’t help us, I think we ought to at least try to find someplace where he can hole up. The three of us can go into town and take care of business on our own if we have to. Then maybe we can pick up Wic and get out of here.’

  ‘Maybe, but where can he hole up?’ Tyge questioned.

  An uneasy silence fell over the three men until Wic spoke up. ‘I used to work at the old Corker silver mine. I might still have friends there. It’s far enough out of town no one would come poking around. This bleeding isn’t going to stop until I get off this horse and stop riding. Why don’t we give it a try there, Cort?’

  ‘All right. We’ll swing east to the mine when we get closer. Just the three of us in town, instead of four, changes everything, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it.’

  Evening stars were already beginning to dot the dusky sky when the riders came out of timber on to a rutted road leading up to the mine. Ahead they saw dim lights from several shacks where workers bunked. ‘How you doing, Wic?’ Cort twisted in the saddle as they rode up on the first rickety building.