by Shorty Gunn
‘What’s the name of that song? I’ve never heard it before.’
‘They call it Marching Through Georgia. It’s a new military song very popular back east. I was lucky to get the sheet music to it.’
‘Who is suppose to be marching through Georgia, the boys in grey?’
‘No, the Union Army. You know, Sherman’s march to the sea.’
‘That’s a Yankee lie. Play something else. I don’t want to hear any more of it!’
‘But it’s brand new. Everyone likes it.’
‘I don’t care what everyone likes. I don’t. Play something else.’
‘Like what?’
‘You know Dixie Land, don’t you?’
The piano man stopped playing. A pained look came over his face.
‘Well, don’t you?’ Fan insisted.
‘Yes, I now it . . . but.’
‘I don’t want to hear any “buts” about it. I said play it.’
The piano man turned back to the keyboard, lightly fingering the opening notes to Dixie Land.
‘Play it louder. I can’t hear it over all this noise,’ Fan demanded, his patience growing short.
Red reached over grabbing Tyge’s arm pulling him close. ‘Let it go. It’s not worth arguing over.’
‘I don’t care. I want to hear it.’’ He tipped up his glass, draining it in one fast gulp.
A man several tables away shouted at the piano man. ‘Hey, what’s the slop you’re playing? Play something else. This ain’t Atlanta!’
Fan immediately rose to his feet, glaring at the stranger. ‘You keep right on playing it,’ he ordered the piano man.
At that moment Loyal Horton came through the door into the Red Eye. Keller saw him first, ordering Fan to sit down and shut up, but the whiskey was already doing the talking. He ignored Red’s plea.
‘We don’t want to hear any of that Confederate slop!’ The stranger got up from his chair, pointing a finger at Fan. ‘And if you don’t like it, go someplace else!’
‘You’re a yellow dog Yankee!’ Fan shouted back. Red tried to grab his arm but he shoved him away. Taking a step away from the table, Tyge cleared his gun holster for action.
Men at tables between the pair scrambled to get out of the way, clearing an opening. Horton saw what was coming, pushing through tables and starting across the room before a gunfight broke out. The piano man jumped off his stool, diving around behind the piano for cover.
‘I said you’re a yellow dog Yankee. What are you going to do about it, big mouth!’
‘You’re nothing but southern trash. You lost the war. Now you’re gonna lose in here too!’
The stranger stabbed for his pistol, but he never had a prayer. Fan’s .44 cleared the holster spitting flame and hot lead once, twice, before the man could even thumb back the hammer on his six-gun. Bullet impacts drove him back through surrounding tables until he crashed to the floor quivering in death.
‘Hold it right there and drop that gun. I don’t want two killings in here the same night!’ Horton stood only ten feet way leveling his six-gun on Fan. ‘Do it now or so help me I’ll drop you!’
Tyge spun facing the lawman, the .44 still firm in his hands. He had three more 220 grain lead bullets snug in their chambers. All he had to do was pull the trigger, and Horton would be a dead man.
‘Don’t shoot, Tyge!’ Red jumped to his feet and stepped between the two men. ‘We’ve got a lot more at stake here than some big mouth. Give me the gun. We’ll get through this without any more killing.’
Fan hesitated, still gripping the big Colt, his eyes fixed on Horton. ‘I’m not going to any jail. Not for this two bit star man or anyone else!’
‘No one said you would. Just give me the gun before it gets any worse. Everyone here saw what happened. It was a fair fight. He meant to pull on you too.’
‘You better tell your friend to hand over that pistol, and I mean right now!’
Fan’s crazed stare went from Red to the sheriff and back again. Red extended his hand talking nearly as a whisper. ‘Let it go. We don’t need any more trouble. Remember what Cort said. Give me the gun. I’ll stand up for you no matter what. If you pull that trigger we’re on the run again.’
Tyge’s didn’t move a muscle for several seconds longer until Red’s hand gripped the six-gun, slowly pulling it away. ‘You better be right on this Red.’ His voice was tense with emotion.
‘I am. You’ll see. Let’s end this right now.’
‘You two will have to come with me over to my office.’ Horton said, before turning to men around him ordering them to carry out the body. ‘Let’s go.’
Sheriff Horton unlocked the door to his office motioning Red and Fan to step inside. Tossing the keys atop his desk, he sat in the swivel chair eyeing both men before saying anything. He had a killing to deal with and was trying to think of how to be stern yet not force another gun fight. He motioned the men to sit in chairs opposite his desk.
‘Listen, you two. This town didn’t get its name by drawing straws out of a hat. There’s good reason why it’s called Whiskeytown. It’s not Abilene Kansas, with two hundred whiskey-starved droves and two thousand head of long horns being driven in each month raising hell, either. I don’t need that kind of trouble or what you started with this shooting. I let a lot of little things go on but there’s a limit to how much I’ll put up with. Everyone here knows Lard Bullard was a big mouth trouble maker, and they probably knew one day he’d end up calling out the wrong man. He tried to draw first. I saw that. But I can’t have strangers come riding in here gunning down citizens. Do you both understand what I’m saying? I’m not some hell for leather shotgun sheriff, but if you two promise you’ll keep your guns holstered and no more of what happened at the Red Eye, I’ll let you two walk out of here without any jail time. One other thing. I want your names. What do you say to it?’
Thinking fast Red nodded with a quick answer. ‘Yeah, we understand. We didn’t ride in here looking for trouble. It just happened like you saw. My name is Joe Brown. My friend here is Dade Wilson.’
‘What about the other man, the one I saw with you at the diner?’
‘He’s John Morgan. We all travel together looking for work. We thought Whiskeytown might be a good place to start.’
‘All right. I’ll write them down. Just remember what I said about all this.’
‘We sure will. You don’t have to worry about that. Let’s go, Dade.’ The pair got to their feet along with Horton, reaching across the desk shaking hands.
‘I’m glad we understand each other. It makes my job a whole lot easier.’ He watched the pair walk out the door before sitting down to ink the names on a piece of paper, slipping it into the desk drawer.
Cort heard horses coming into camp. Getting to his feet he stepped away from the flickering fire, hand on his six-gun just in case. Peering into the dark he heard his brother’s high, three note signal whistle. A moment later Red and Fan rode out of the dark into the circle of light.
‘You two are back early,’ Cort said surprised.
‘Yeah, we are,’ Red nodded. ‘We sorta didn’t have any choice.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Cort’s voice was more concerned than the question sounded.
‘Ah, we had a little trouble back in town.’
‘Like what?’
Red glanced at Fan who knelt next to the fire pouring himself a cup of hot coffee. ‘Go head, tell him Red,’ Fan offered.
‘Well . . . this drunk in the Red Eye called Tyge out. He had to make a move to stand his ground. He couldn’t let that whiskey breath buffalo him in front of everyone . . . could he?’
‘You mean gunplay? Don’t tell me you let that happen after what I warned you two about before you left here.’
‘This guy just pushed it. What were we suppose to do, sit there and take it? You wouldn’t have. I know that for sure.’
‘Damnit, Red! Now we’ll have to pack it up and run for it again.’
‘No, we wo
n’t. We had a talk with Horton, the sheriff. He saw it all himself. He said that whiskey breath was a trouble maker who had it coming to him. If it wasn’t Tyge who took him down it would have been someone else. By the way, while I’m talking about it your new name is John Morgan.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Horton wanted our names after the shoot out, so I made up three real quick while we were in his office. That way if there’s any paper on us none of them will match up.’
Cort stood shaking his head in dismay. ‘We don’t need any of this. You both know that don’t you?’
‘It just happened,’ Fan finally spoke up. ‘I didn’t go in there looking for trouble. I think Red got us in the clear over it. He’s such a good liar he’s just about got me believing my name is Dade Wilson. He was real smooth about it. We’ll be all right.’
Keller stared back at both men. The look on his face said he couldn’t understand how both men actually thought the sheriff would forget about the killing and buy Red’s wild story. ‘You both believe Horton is that dumb? Is that what you’re telling me after I warned both of you not to make any trouble?’
Fan was getting tired of the tongue lashing. He stood up glaring at Cort. ‘I didn’t have any selection in it. Why can’t you understand that? It was him or me. Just that simple. Horton saw it. He let us walk, didn’t he? Why beat it to death?’
Cort turned back to the fire pit cussing under his breath. He had enough to worry about and now this on top of it. The killing had to spell trouble despite Red’s fast thinking. Sooner of later he knew it would work against them. The only thing he was sure of now was that it was too late to do anything about it.
Chapter Seven
A whiskey-colored sunrise rose over its namesake town spotlighting Loyal Horton keying the lock on the front door of his office stepping inside. He’d spent part of the previous night troubled about Bullard’s killing. The lightning fast way of Dade Wilson’s gun handling still bothered him. Wilson was no cow puncher or saddle bum. Not the way he moved with a six-gun in his hand. His friend Joe Brown was a fast talker almost too willing to cooperate with him. The third man in the trio he’d only met briefly at the Cactus Flower, had barely spoken two words during their brief encounter. When he added all three up there was something about them that didn’t seem to make sense. Was there something more, or was it just his natural suspicion of strangers that kept him asking so many questions of himself.
He sat in his swivel chair pulling at his chin thinking all this over. Opening a desk drawer he took out a small stack of wrinkled wanted posters, beginning to slowly thumb through them one by one. He’d never paid much attention to them in the past but now his curiosity changed that. Near the bottom he came to a recent one he’d tossed in the drawer without a second look. What made it so unusual was it was a government issued poster. He’d never seen one quite like it before. Bold black letters at the top shouted REWARD. $5,000. WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. Below was a rough description and drawing of four men and their suspected names, chronicling the holdup of a US Government payroll wagon somewhere near New Hope, on May 5th 1867. It ordered anyone knowing the whereabouts of the men to contact either the nearest Cavalry Post, or Marshal Nathaniel Whitman, in New Hope.
Horton slid the poster back atop the desk. Leaning back in the squeaky chair he closed his eyes rubbing the kinks out of his neck, thinking all this over. Joe Brown had given him his name quick enough and the other two men. None of them matched the names on this poster, and it also said there were four holdup men. Brown and his friends were only three. He argued with himself whether he was letting his imagination get the best of him or whether he should go ahead and try to do something about it. He finally reached into a drawer, pulling out writing paper and began a letter to Marshal Whitman, in New Hope. He knew it was a long shot and might all be a wild goose chase, but he was a lawman after all even if not of the hell for leather firebrand.
Twenty miles outside of Whiskeytown, Many Horses, one of the Indian scouts Nate Whitman had put the word out to try and track down the Keller gang, pulled his paint pony to a stop. His dark eyes had been following the trail of three riders for over two weeks, winding south in and out road-less canyons, dry creek beds, leaving cold fire pits in their wake. Each day of his careful tracking he’d grown more certain the men he followed did not want to be found because of the back country way they traveled avoiding common roads and even rough trails. Many Horses turned to the pair of dark-skinned braves riding with him, Wolf Runs and Buffalo Shield.
‘These white eyes are riding for “noisy village” ahead. I will stay on their tracks. You ride for Whitman. Tell him I want four good horses with shoes, for this information. Ride fast. I do not want to follow them farther south into the land of our enemy, the Cheyenne. Tell him come quick.’
The pair of scouts galloped off into brush leaving Many Horses riding slowly ahead, eyes still glued to the ground. New Hope lay nearly two weeks behind them. Because the slow work of tracking was no longer needed for Wolf Runs and Buffalo Shield, they could ride flat-out cutting that time down to eight or nine days. Many Horses could now make better time too. He was certain he knew where the dim hoof prints would lead, to the only white man’s town in these endless mesa lands. He’d been there once before but only to see how the white men lived and drink some of their potent fire water. The constant mix of noise, music and loud men both day and night, made it someplace he could not stay long. The white men were like so many ants always talking, shouting, always on the move. He would never understand how they could live the way they did.
Cort sat in camp discussing whether to pack up and leave Whiskeytown, or take the chance to stay longer. Especially cautious after Fan’s killing in the Red Eye, he was still unsure, but made his opinion known.
‘I think we’re all right,’ Tyge countered. ‘Horton bought what Red told him. Every single word of it. I’m for staying at least a little while longer. New Hope is way up north. No one down here can make any connection to us there.’
‘What about you, Red?’ Cort asked.
‘I guess I’d like to stay a while longer too. South of here is Colorado Territory, and Indian country. Whitman is bad enough without taking on the Cheyenne, too. This might be the last place where we can take a break before going back to eating jackrabbit and rattlesnake. But you have to know I’ll go along with whatever you decide, if it comes down to that.’
Cort stared into the dancing fire pit flames without answering for several minutes, trying to make a final decision. He relied on Red’s judgment as much as his brother did his, yet hesitated even while answering.
‘I know both of you want to take it easy and give the horses a good feed and break from all the traveling. I’m still worried about staying here after the shoot out. It had to get Horton’s attention. I’m sure of that. I’m leery about what he might do or who he might try to contact. I say if we stay a while longer we’ll have to walk light and keep our eyes open. Another week is about all I’ll go for. After that we should pack up and ride out of here.’
‘What if Horton actually did try to do something?’ Fan spoke up again. ‘He wouldn’t stand a chance against any of us in a shoot out. I saw that about him right off. He’s not going to face anyone down one on one. I wouldn’t worry much about him.’
‘Maybe,’ Cort countered. ‘But if he got help that could change things fast.’
‘Help, from who, where?’ Fan wouldn’t let it go.
‘I’m not sure yet. If he did get curious enough about us he might ask for some. The cavalry must come through here from time to time with all the Indian attacks they have to deal with. I’m not sure how much law is south of here, but there must be other towns, they could have star men too.’
Red nodded in agreement before a suggestion. ‘Why don’t we lay low here and take it easy for another week. That way when we do ride out we’ll have fresh horses and we’ll be ready too?’
‘All right. But no more gun play,’
Cort agreed. ‘We can’t afford to get involved in that again. You both understand me?’
Red nodded, while Tyge stirred the fire with a stick without answering. He wondered to himself if Keller was getting soft. As far as he was concerned he had no problem pulling his six-gun to settle any problem with anyone. The gang had made their reputation doing exactly that. Why the sudden change now? All this talk of being careful and cautious, tip toeing around town sounded almost laughable to him. Even worse, it could be dangerous to all three of them. He decided then and there he’d take care of himself no matter what Cort or his brother said. He’d learned that lesson early on when he was only thirteen years old, killing the man his mother lived with with a shotgun, after he’d continually beaten her when he was drunk. He also learned that killing came easy if you were first to pull the trigger. That single credo had guided all his adult life. He wasn’t worried about Horton or anyone else he could bring in to help him. Tyge Fan would drop all of them before they could even blink.
Lieutenant Stanford had used up his one week up north trying to pick up the trail of the Keller gang. Exactly as Nat Whitmore had rudely predicted, nothing had come of all his efforts. He and his men had wandered south of New Hope for over thirty miles and not found a single track. His orders from Captain Criswell were to return to the main troop when that time was up and continue to try and engage the renegade Crow war party Criswell had been pursuing deep into their mountain stronghold. Stanford’s return trip took him back near New Hope. Even though he had no interest seeing the marshal again, he did want to see Sergeant O’Halloran and how he was doing recovering from his bullet wound. Arriving in town late in the afternoon he had his men stable their horses in the livery for a good feed before walking to the marshal’s office hoping Whitman would not be there. Pushing through the door the first thing he saw was Whitman sitting at his desk.