Blood Red Star

by Shorty Gunn

  ‘I got something of value you might wanna know, but you gotta promise not to ever tell who you heard it from. I don’t want no accidental dynamite charge to go off on top of me next I’m down in a hole working.’

  Whitman leaned forward wondering what the sudden interruption was all about. ‘If you’ve got something to say don’t waste my time. Spit it out. What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about four men who rode up to the mine a few days back during the night. One was wounded in some kind of gunfight. He’s staying in the shack next to me, trying to heal up, with a man named Carl Loney who works out there too. No one’s supposed to know about it but I heard them because I was still up. I heard one of them call out to someone named Keller. Ain’t that the name of the gang that robbed the mail coach?’

  Nate eyed the man with sudden interest. If what he was saying was the truth, it could change the entire outcome, finding and finishing off the Keller gang once and for all, restoring his reputation at the same time.

  ‘Which shack does this Loney live in?’ he asked.

  ‘Last one on the right when you ride up to the mine. The main office sits behind it about fifty feet away. Mine is next to it on the left. If you decide to come out be sure you don’t shoot my place up too. I don’t want to get hit by no stray bullets – know what I mean?’

  ‘You’re certain this man is still there, is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Yup. He was there an hour ago when I rode in. When do you think you might want to make your move?’

  ‘I’ll keep that to myself. You just stay out of the way the next couple of days.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry none about that. I ain’t gettin’ mixed up in any gunfight. I was thinking I might want to ask you for some kind of payment for me tellin’ you all this. But now I decided not to. I just want to be a good citizen.’

  ‘Sure, you do. Now get out of here and keep your mouth shut. I don’t want any chance this gets back to the wrong people. You understand me?’

  Near midnight the dark silhouette of two riders pulled to a stop on a bend in the mine road, short of the cabins. Marshal Whitman made a silent gesture with his hand to get down. He and Little Hawk tied off the horses and started up the road on foot. Whitman counted four workers’ shacks. The window of the one on the far right was lit by the dim glow of lamp light. He pulled his Crow deputy up close. ‘That’s the one,’ he whispered. ‘When I go in you stay right behind me.’

  Little Hawk said nothing, his dark eyes riveted on the low dwelling for any sound or image moving across the window. He lifted his pistol out, cocking the hammer back as Whitman closed the distance.

  ‘You feeling any better?’ Loney turned to Wic who was lying on a bunk over on one wall, shirt off, his stomach wrapped in makeshift bandages. On top of a small table next to him his gunbelt lay coiled up.

  ‘It’s slow going. If I don’t move around too much it’s better. But I know I sure couldn’t ride anyplace yet. I’d just start bleeding all over again.’

  ‘Then it’s best you just keep resting up. Your friends won’t likely be back for a while. I guess the longer that is, the better for you, huh?’

  ‘I’d like to be in the saddle on the move. That’s what all of us are good at. Staying in one place too long usually means trouble can catch up to you. Right now I’ve got no other choice.’

  ‘Can I ask you why or how you turned to robbing and whatever else you had to do to live like that? I never thought of you as some kind of wild kid. What drove you to it?’

  ‘You didn’t live back in Tennessee, like our families did when the war ended. You don’t know what Union soldiers did to us and the scum that followed them. Cort and Red saw it just like me and my family did. Fan was never a part of it. Cort took him on because he’s good with a gun and not afraid to use it. But us three had a lot to get even with the government over. This is how we try to even that score just a little bit. We never wanted any part of them or their rules and laws. That’s the main reason why.’

  ‘I don’t know, Wic. Seems like a good way to get yourself either shot or hung. Maybe I’m too old or a coward, but I just don’t think there’s any future in living that way.’

  The marshal and Crow edged quietly up to the shack. Whitman slowly pressed his face to the window peering through the edge of the curtain into the small room. He saw Wic laying on the bunk, but not Loney, although he could hear him talking. He turned to Little Crow, holding up two fingers, before pulling him close.

  ‘When we rush the door I’ll take the one laying on the bed. You take whoever the other one is. I can’t see if he’s armed or not. Don’t take any chances with either of them.’

  The deputy nodded, gripping his pistol tighter. Whitman grabbed the door handle twisting and slamming it open in one quick motion, rushing into the room.

  ‘Hands up!’ He shouted, pistol aimed arm’s length on Casner.

  Wic lunged for his pistol on the table. Whitman fired once, twice, in quick succession. Wic’s body jerked at bullet hits, still struggling to reach his gun before he went limp, sliding on to the floor. Loney, scared to death by the sudden, savage entrance, tried diving under the table for cover. Little Hawk’s six-gun spit fire and lead, hitting the old man in the neck and head, killing him instantly too, tipping the table over and breaking the coal oil lamp on the floor with an explosion of spreading flame.

  The marshal straddled Wic’s body pulling him up to see if he was still alive. One quick look was all it took to see Cort Keller’s trusted cousin was a dead man.

  ‘What about the old man?’ Nate shouted over fast-spreading flames.

  ‘He dead too.’

  ‘Then let’s get out of here and let the whole place burn down.’

  ‘What about the men?’

  ‘Let both of them burn in hell along with it!’

  Chapter Five

  A pair of cavalry troopers rode dangerously close along the narrow canyon trail above a roaring, white water river far below. Ahead, a quarter mile away, they saw Captain Criswell’s line of men climbing toward a gun sight pass to top out.

  ‘There they are!’ One rider pointed ahead. ‘I’m sure glad we found the captain without another five days riding in Crow territory. I don’t want to stay in here any longer than we have to. I was about ready to turn back and say we couldn’t find him.’

  ‘Sir, riders coming in,’ Lieutenant Martin Stanford, riding next to Captain Criswell, pointed to riders climbing towards them. Criswell held up his hand, stopping his line of troopers.

  ‘What in God’s name are those two doing following us all the way in here?’ He turned to Stanford. The look on Criswell’s face made it clear he wasn’t happy about it. ‘I don’t like surprises, and I think I’m about to get one I didn’t ask for.’

  The cavalrymen pulled to a halt saluting, handing the captain a hand written note. ‘We were sent to find you by Sergeant O’Halloran, sir.’

  ‘O’Halloran?’ Criswell cut him off before he could explain further. ‘Why didn’t he come himself?’

  ‘Sir, the sergeant is still in New Hope. He’s been badly wounded. He tried to stop a bank robbery in town and got shot in the back. He sent us after you to tell what happened. He wants you to know the Keller gang took the bank. They killed the deputy sheriff there, too. He thinks command might change your orders to turn around and go after Keller.’

  If the captain was irritated about being stopped, his patience ended with this final suggestion. ‘Sergeant O’Halloran does not give orders to anyone but the men under him. Certainly, he cannot suggest what I do as his commanding officer. I’m concerned to hear he was wounded, but until or unless I get direct orders from Fort Jackson, I cannot simply turn my men around and start chasing after this Keller bunch. You men are now back in my command. Take your place in line.’

  Criswell turned to his second. ‘Lieutenant Stanford, take the men and top out in the flat up there. I want a few moments to myself. I’ll be up shortly
.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Stanford turned to the line of cavalrymen ordering them to follow him. As the line of blue-clad troopers moved away, Captain Criswell watched them go, struggling with himself about this conflicting new information he’d suddenly received. He leaned back in the saddle, gazing higher, surrounded by the grandeur of ice-sheathed peaks dotted with tiny, greensward basins and silver rivulets twisting down below them. This vast mountain land seemed so quiet, so serene. Yet it was all a facade. The savage Crow Indians fighting to keep the white man out of their ancestral lands, the robberies, shooting and killings in towns and even out in wilderness areas, proved it was a wild and dangerous land no matter how beautiful it looked. This new possibility of changing orders only added to the confusion he had to deal with. If he decided to continue with his pursuit of the Crows, or turned back to New Hope, trying to pick up Keller’s trail, he could be reprimanded or worse either way. Criswell pondered his dilemma until he had an idea that might cover both possibilities. Urging his horse forward he climbed the steep trail rejoining his men.

  ‘Lieutenant, I want you ride for New Hope with ten men. Once you reach there send a rider on to Fort Jackson, with a message I’ll write for them about why I’ve been forced, through new circumstances, to change my orders. If you can pick up this Keller gang’s trail, stay with it if you believe you’re closing in on them. Give yourself four or five days. If you can actually capture him, take him down to Fort Jackson. They’ll likely hang him fast after all the misery he’s caused the army. If you’re unable to, ride back here and rejoin me fast as possible. I’ll still be on the move so that will take you some time, and time is not on our side. I won’t pretend not to be worried about engaging the Crow war party with only half my men, but I have no choice left to me. Get cracking, lieutenant!’

  The fast ride out of New Hope, after the bank robbery, saw Cort, Red and Fan, each carrying a heavy sack of gold and silver in their saddle-bags. Cort, in the lead, kicked his horse south putting as much ground between New Hope, and Nate Whitman, as possible. Two weeks of steady riding brought the trio within sight of the first lower table lands and flat topped plateaus where mountains came down to meet this rugged new country carved with a thousand twisting canyons that led nowhere. Gone were lush meadows, icy peaks, the pungent aroma of tall pines. Instead they rode into an arid land of sagebrush and juniper jungles of Blackfoot country, deadly enemies of the Crows up north. Cort felt certain even Nate Whitman would not be able to follow them all the way down here. Even better neither he, Red or Fan, were known for what they were. They could move around out in the open with relative ease, riding into the few, widely scattered towns they came across without fear of being recognized. Reining to a stop at the end of an open plateau above Red Deer Canyon, the men saw a tiny cluster of buildings still far ahead.

  ‘I could sure wet my whistle down there after eating all this dust,’ Tyge said, licking dry lips.

  ‘Yeah, and I wouldn’t mind a real hot meal after eating all those stringy jackrabbits we’ve been eating,’ Red chimed in. ‘What about it, Cort? You want to ride down and have a look see?’

  Keller didn’t answer for several moments, intently studying the cluster of buildings with a thin pall of blue smoke hanging over them.

  ‘Maybe, if we’re careful,’ his voice was cautionary. ‘New Hope may be nearly three hundred miles away, but bad news travels fast and far.’

  ‘There hasn’t been any town we couldn’t shoot our way out of yet,’ Fan bragged. ‘A hick town like that can’t give us much trouble.’

  ‘All right. Let’s ride down and take a look. Remember, we’re not here to draw any attention to ourselves. If there’s any law there, that only brings more trouble. We brought plenty of both with us.’

  The three men rode easily down the street eyeing each store front sign as they passed. By the end of the first block, Red already counted four saloons and two gambling houses. At the corner a bearded man crossed the street in front of them. Fan called out to him.

  ‘Hey mister. This town got a name?’

  ‘Sure we do. See all those whiskey dens you just rode past?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘That’s why we call it Whiskeytown. You could likely float a boat down main street on Saturday night, and you wouldn’t even need oars!’ The man laughed, continuing on his way with a wave of his hand.

  The second block matched the first with one notable exception. Half way down they saw a sign hanging over a door marked ‘Sheriff’s Office’. Cort looked to Red and Fan without saying anything. It was enough they knew a star man was here. At the end of the third block they saw the tall, pointed white steeple of a church with a wooden cross on top.

  ‘At least this town ain’t all bad,’ Red nodded, eyeing the house of worship.

  ‘All those sinners need a place to repent Sunday morning after what they did on Saturday night,’ Fan mocked with a sly smile.

  ‘You thinking about renting a room?’ Red turned to his brother. ‘I’ve sure had enough of sleeping out in the brush, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Keller shook his head. ‘I’m not ready to start rubbing shoulders with people we don’t know. We’ve already seen they have a lawman here. Whether he’s some hard-nosed type or just some local yokel to pin a badge on, we’ll have to find out first. At least we can get a hot meal. That’s something we all need. For the next few nights I still say we camp outside town. Let’s take our time and look around here a while.’

  Cort pushed through the door of the Cactus Flower diner, Red and Fan on his heels. The setting sun had blinked out behind black rock mesas, inviting the first glow of coal oil lamps lighting windows of saloons and gambling houses preparing for another night of risky business. Legitimate store owners had already closed their shops, locking doors, leaving for home before the usual rowdy crowd began filling the street. Once whiskey started flowing and gambling tables filled, the street would quickly turn into a free for all where nearly anything went and occasionally even bloody murder with smoking six-guns.

  The small diner already had tables filled except for one over by the front window next to a big, pot bellied stove. Keller edged his way through men at tables until sitting down. Eaters shot a quick glance at the newcomers before going back to their vittles and conversations. A tall, skinny man in a grease-stained apron came up to the table. ‘What’ll be, gents?’

  ‘You got a menu?’ Fan asked.

  ‘Yeah I do, right here in my head,’ he pointed.

  ‘All right, what are you cooking?’

  ‘The special tonight is mule deer stew with some vegetables. If you want to go whole hog, I’ve got elk steaks with real potatoes, not those Indian roots some like to pass off as the real thing.’

  ‘Give us the steaks,’ Cort ordered.

  ‘You mean all three of you?’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘You know you’re talking about a forty-five dollar dinner, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not worried about the price. Just get it on the table hot. Bring us a pot of coffee, too.’

  The greasy apron started back across the room humming with conversation, while Cort sat back eyeing the crowd of men at tables around them. It felt good to be out of the saddle after the long ride, and even better Nate Whitman wasn’t breathing down the back of their necks. He hoped it might be possible to stay around town a while and give all three men a rest. From somewhere up the street the jangling sound of rinky-tinky piano music began as Whiskeytown opened up for another night of non-stop drinking and gambling. Dinner came with all three eagerly digging into the hot, juicy provender. As they ate the front door opened. In stepped an older man wearing a tin star. Cort had his back to the door. Fan, sitting opposite Keller, quickly nudged him under the table.

  ‘Look what just came in,’ he nodded over Cort’s shoulder, Keller twisting in the seat.

  ‘Just keep eating,’ he whispered, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

  Loyal Horton st
ood for a moment looking the crowded room over for a seat. The only empty one he saw was at Keller’s table. He crossed the room with a nod here and a hello there from diners who knew him until he stood looking down at the three men.

  ‘You’ve got the only empty chair in the house. Mind if I sit down and fill it?’

  ‘Help yourself.’ Cort glanced up, Red stiffening beside him, Fan’s hand slowly moving down to his six-gun until Cort made the slightest gesture with his head stopping him.

  ‘I know most everyone in town. I don’t recollect seeing you three before.’

  ‘We’re just passing through.’ Cort kept it short, continuing to eat and trying to ignore the lawman.

  Horton looked like he’d lived every day of his forty-nine years. His wrinkled, deeply-tanned face sprouted grey whiskers and sideburns under a well-worn Stetson hat. The star was pinned on a sagging shirt that said he was mostly skin and bones. He didn’t look like much of a sheriff but more a figurehead, someone to pin a badge on, while the rowdy citizens of Whiskeytown cut loose doing pretty much as they wanted. Horton noticed the steaks his silent guests were busily eating.

  ‘You boys must be doing pretty well, to order up something like that,’ he questioned without getting a response, as the cookie came back to the table.

  ‘What’ll you have, Loyal?’

  ‘I can’t afford those streaks, so I guess its venison stew for me. Bring me a cup of coffee too, Lenny.’

  The sheriff eyed his strangely silent guests trying another question. ‘Where you boys from?’

  Keller looked up, already edgy of the verbal sparing. ‘Nowhere, really. We’re just on the move wherever another job shows up. We’re here today and next week a hundred miles away.’

  ‘I understand that. There’s a lot of men today doing pretty much the same thing especially since the war over the South ended. Did I catch just a hint of southern twang in your voice?’