The Black Horse Westerns

by Abe Dancer

Cole felt like a drink, had done for a couple of days, but hadn’t been game to give in. He was still afraid he might capitulate and throw his annual drunk – he sure had his head full of Alice and Jeff. It was normal for him at this time of year, but with the ransom payment looming, he couldn’t afford any diversions.

  Still, he entered the saloon, scanned the drinkers at the bar and the tables scattered around the smoky room. The men Toddy had warned him about, Blue Shirt and Vest, as he thought of them, were sitting at a table near a side door. He let his gaze slide across them without pause.

  He greeted a few townsfolk, breasted the bar and ordered a beer, using the large mirror to watch the two men who claimed his interest. They, in turn, were surreptitiously watching him, but he merely leaned an elbow on the counter and rolled a cigarette, chatting with one of the sweating barkeeps. He lit up and shook out the vesta, eyes still a little dazzled by the brief flare of the match.

  A glance in the mirror showed him the two men had gone. Smart! They’d waited until the match briefly blinded him and then left, quickly and silently. It had to be by the side door….

  Cole crossed swiftly to a table where four townsmen were laughing over a joke one of them had just told. It was only a few feet from the side door.

  ‘Two rannies just go out?’ he asked and the laughter died slowly.

  A big man in sweat-stained shirt, his chair facing the door nodded. ‘Coupla strangers, Sheriff.’

  ‘Blue shirt? Other with a vest over grey?’

  The man was still nodding when Cole crossed to the door in two fast strides, then changed his mind and hurried down the smoke-filled room to the front batwings. He shouldered past a couple of men on their way in, ignoring the curses, moved quickly to the corner of the building.

  There was no sign of his quarry in the now darkened alley. Darting his gaze about, he searched for places they might have gone. There were two lanes, one curving back to Front Street about a block along from the saloon. The other led to a secondary street, down past the general store, skirted the yard behind the saddler’s and then swung towards the block where the bank stood.

  And the side with the special door leading to Charlton’s office faced onto it.

  Cole drew his Colt, automatically checking the loads by turning the cylinder slowly and feeling the noses of the bullets in the chambers with his fingertip. While doing this, he watched for the men.

  There was movement between him and the bank door, just a formless shadow, but it was too big to be that of a pariah dog or an alley cat. He padded forward, walking on the balls of his feet. It was a strain on his left leg but he gritted his teeth against the cramping pain. Only a few more steps and he would have the drop on them.

  It was just a faint sound, very brief, as something whispered through the air. His reactions, he thought later, were as good as they had ever been, despite any residual hangover from that poisonous moonshine.

  He propped and the descending gun clipped the brim of his hat. He lurched sideways as the man who had tried to drop him cold stumbled forward with the motion of the swinging weapon. Cole smashed his Colt into the side of the attacker’s head, knocking off his hat. The man grunted and fell to the ground where his hat was already rolling in the dust.

  His companion, near the bank door, heard the sounds and rounded fast, his gun firing, the flash briefly outlining him, clearly enough to show the faded blue colour of his shirt.

  Cole triggered and his bullet knocked the man spinning. He crashed into the bank door, clawed at the wood and sat down, one leg bent under him. His head rested against the woodwork, his body jamming one arm. The other was clawing at his chest.

  He froze when Cole’s gun muzzle pressed into his grimy neck.

  Just then a startled, eye-popping Linus Charlton wrenched open the door, gun in one hand, some banknotes in the other. ‘What the devil…?’

  ‘Open the door wider, Linus. We’ve got two of ’em to drag in. With a little luck, it’ll be an interesting conversation.’

  ‘No!’ The small-calibre handgun lifted and covered the surprised lawman. ‘Sorry, Cole. No one comes into my office while I’m counting the ransom – and that includes you. If you want to question these two, take ’em down to your jail.’

  The door slammed and the key turned in the lock.

  The gunfire had attracted some curious folk, mostly drinkers from the saloon, and Cole organized four of them to bring the strangers down to the law office.

  The wounded man was gasping that he needed a sawbones, he was dying.

  ‘Then what you need is an undertaker,’ Cole said flatly. ‘You’ll get medical attention in the cells. Fry, will you go get Doc Partridge and send him along?’

  The townsman nodded and broke away from the small group following Cole. The man the sheriff gunwhipped was starting to groan and move a little but was still mighty groggy.

  Until they reached the landing at the front door of the law office and Cole fumbled out his keys.

  Then the man in the frayed vest suddenly came to life, kicking one of the men half-carrying him, smashing his forehead into the face of the second man, who lurched back, yelling, blood spraying. There was a tangle and Cole was knocked against the door, pinned briefly by the stumbling men.

  Others were shouting but all dived for cover as the man in the grey shirt pulled his gun and started shooting. A townsman dropped without a sound and another gave a cry of pain. The rest either hit the dirt or ran for whatever cover they could find.

  The fugitive loosed two shots at Cole, making him duck. While the sheriff did that, trying to shoot past some of the weaving townsmen, the vest man leapt into the saddle of a horse at a nearby hitchrack and spurred away.

  Cole jumped over prostrate townsmen, raised his Colt but swore as he was forced to hold his fire. The runaway was weaving in between the evening traffic and didn’t offer a clear shot.

  ‘Lock that hombre in the cell when the doc’s finished with him,’ he ordered as he started to run for a tethered horse. Pain immediately knifed through his leg and he staggered. But he was able to slap the reins loose and ram his left foot into the stirrup. His leg collapsed again and the horse whinnied and shied, throwing him.

  Dimly, he heard the drumming of the other horse’s hoofs as it sped over the bridge.

  Cursing, a couple of townsmen helped get him into the saddle, ignoring yells from the horse’s owner. He spurred after the fugitive, noting with satisfaction that there was a rifle in the saddle scabbard.

  It was about as dark as it was going to get now and he had to rely on his ears to follow the escaping gunman. They were into the trees here, weaving between the trunks. Branches scraped his shoudlers as he lay low in the saddle. He reined down, the horse blowing, his heart slamming against his ribs. He couldn’t hear the other mount!

  Rifle in hand now, he eased the horse forward slowly, using his heels and knees to guide it; luckily it was a cow pony, used to such commands. Then flame stabbed out of the darkness to his right: that son of a bitch had set up an ambush!

  The lead was close and he slid from the saddle, dancing on his good leg. He slapped the horse’s rump, sending it racing on. The gun followed its sound, firing again.

  Cole threw up the rifle, triggered at the flash, slightly up and to the left. He heard a grunt and a thrashing, and though he waited, there was no more shooting.

  CHAPTER 8

  CLOSING IN

  ‘Am I gonna die, Doc?’

  Partridge straightened and pressed one hand into his aching back, dropping bloody rags into a bucket on the cell floor.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say….’

  Cole, leaning against the end of the bunk in the cell, cleared his throat. The sound caught the doctor’s attention and he paused. Cole shook his head slightly: Don’t tell him he’s not going to die!

  Partridge knew what the lawman wanted from years of similar situations and turned again to the wounded man with the bandaged chest, stretched out on the bunk.

 
; ‘I wouldn’t say you were a good candidate for any long-term life insurance. Sorry, but I’ve done all I can.’

  The man still had a black eye and a scabbed gash on his cheek from the fight with Cole on the Fourth of July. His skin was greyish and there was fear in his eyes. He pawed the doctor’s arm as Partridge gathered his instruments and lotions.

  ‘Doc, I – I can’t breathe!’ His chest was heaving but Partridge winked at Cole with the eye the wounded man couldn’t see. He mouthed the word ‘panic’, but said aloud,

  ‘Just lie quiet, son. It’ll make the passing a lot easier. No sense in getting fussed at a time like this.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ The eyes were wide now, sought out the hard-faced Cole who was casually rolling a cigarette. ‘I’m too young to die!’

  ‘What are you? Twenty-four, twenty-five? Hell, I seen boys sixteen, fourteen, die in my squad durin’ the War.’

  ‘I’m twenny-six! An’ I don’t wanna die!’

  Cole shrugged, held the cell door open for the medic to pass through into the passage. ‘That’s just what your pard said after I shot him in the trees earlier.’

  From the passage, the doctor said, ‘Best make a clean breast of your sins, son. Smoothe the way some. You’ll feel better, with your conscience clear. I won’t bother you with the undertaker right now. In the morning’ll do.’

  Partridge moved away down the passage and the wounded man rolled his head, began to cough, clasping his chest.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Cole asked, as he finished making the cigarette and fumbled out a match.

  ‘Larry Creed.’

  ‘You like a last cigarette, Larry?’ Cole held out the one he had just lit. ‘Then again, guess it might tear up your lungs, and we’re trying to make things easier for you. But it’s really up to you to help yourself.’

  Creed stared, wide-eyed, mouth working soundlessly.

  Cole, starting to turn away, suddenly swung back. ‘You really want to unload yourself, Larry? Get some of your bad doings off your chest?’

  Creed continued to stare, but when Cole shrugged and began to leave, he rasped, ‘Wait up! Don’t leave me to die alone.’

  ‘Sorry, Larry. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to do. I’d like to oblige you, but I guess it’s too late for that. I’ll give you a little privacy. A man should take time to think about things when he’s like you are, so close to goin’.’

  ‘Er – no. I wouldn’t mind you – stayin’. We could talk – for a bit.’

  Cole frowned, looked uncertain. ‘Well, I dunno. I’ve got a lot of things on my mind right now, too. Like Donny Charlton’s kidnapping, and the ransom. I really don’t think I can afford the time to just sit here and—’

  ‘I – I can tell you somethin’ about the kid.’ Creed was eager, half-risen off the bunk now, convinced he would be dead before morning, wanting company right to the last.

  ‘I don’t even know who took him.’

  ‘Aw, we got him. I mean me an’ Mitch – my pard you just killed – and a coupla other fellers.’

  ‘Tells me nothing. Where?’

  ‘Well, we holed up in a crooked canyon in the Flintrocks.’

  ‘That’s a helluva big place, Larry!’

  ‘Yeah – we just stumbled on the place. Damn good hideout – almost at the base of the Church Spire. Know it?’

  Cole did: it was a high column of basalt, tapering to a point like the spire on a church. He said nothing, drew on his cigarette, looking bored. Sitting on the edge of the bunk opposite Creed’s, he moved restlessly, as if he was thinking of moving. Creed ran a tongue around his lips, his only thought that he didn’t want to die alone; he was eager to talk so that Cole would stay put.

  ‘Quinlan’s behind it,’ he gasped suddenly and the sheriff had to stop himself from revealing how interested he was in this piece of information.

  ‘You’re joshing me. I mean, what the hell would a man like Quinlan want to kidnap Donny Charlton for?’

  Creed almost smiled. ‘Got you interested now, huh? Well, Quinlan’s havin’ trouble with Devlin. Wants more money and Devlin won’t cough up. So he got this idea of kidnappin’ Charlton’s brat. You know – a bank president, rich wife. They ought to be willin’ to pay up, he figures. An’ plenty.’

  ‘Well, twenty thousand’s sure a heap of money.’ Cole hoped he spoke with the right amount of reverence.

  Creed did smile now, not noticing any pain, having virtually forgotten his wound. ‘Shucks – that’s only the start!’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘They pay up, but Quinlan holds onto the kid – asks for another twenty thousand. You get it?’

  Cole got it, all right. It was the kind of lousy deal Quinlan would pull. ‘When’s the ransom got to be paid? And how?’

  ‘Ask Charlton. He’s got all the details.’

  Suddenly Creed narrowed his eyes, felt the bandages covering his chest wound. He rubbed them gently, frowned, staring at Cole. Then his face blackened as a thundercloud settled above it. He wasn’t feeling any worse!

  ‘Just a minute, you miserable son of a bitch. I ain’t dyin’ at all, am I! You and that stinkin’ sawbones – you blame well tricked me! Judas priest—’ His chest was heaving now with emotion. His words began to tumble over themselves, his anger so great he didn’t finish all the syllables in one word before trying to spit out another.

  ‘I’ve heard of fellers getting delirious just before they die, Larry. You best go easy. You’re talking gibberish.’

  ‘Christ, Cole! If I had a gun! A club! Anythin’! I’d pound your head flat!’

  ‘Bet you would, too. Why’d you and Mitch come to Barberry? You bring another note?’

  ‘Go ride off a cliff! I wish we’d kicked your face in at the hoedown!

  ‘You seem to’ve recovered pretty well, Larry.’ Cole dropped the cigarette and crushed it under a boot. ‘Guess you ain’t gonna tell me anything else, but I know a bit more now. You’ll live to hang yet.’

  Creed tried to struggle off the bunk as Cole unlocked the door and stepped out of the cell, but he was hurt, though far from fatally, and he sagged back, gasping. He swore savagely as the key turned in the lock.

  ‘You – you ain’t gettin’ away with this, Cole, damn your eyes!’

  ‘Maybe you better not kick up too big a fuss, Creed. If Quinlan gets to hear we got you prisoner, and wounded … Yeah, that’s better. Relax. Someone’ll bring you breakfast come morning. Now, get yourself a good night’s sleep.’

  Grating curses followed the sheriff all the way down to the front office.

  ‘What the hell did Creed mean, saying you had all the details about paying the ransom, Linus?’

  Cole glared down at the banker seated behind his desk, the piles of money covered with a green-baize cloth. Charlton looked highly nervous in the lamplight. He fiddled with the wick control, sat back, then immediately leaned forward and slopped some whiskey into a glass. He tossed it down, coughed once, looked hard at the sheriff.

  ‘You want one, you’ll have to drink from the bottle. I don’t have another glass.’

  ‘I don’t want any, Linus – and you better quit. You make a mistake with your figures counting that money and you will be in a heap of trouble with your head office.’

  It had taken a threat of blowing the lock off Linus’s office door with a shotgun before the rattled banker would open up and allow the sheriff to enter.

  ‘Creed says you know about paying the ransom. How? And I mean “how do you know”?’

  Charlton started to reach for the bottle again, changed his mind. He seemed to make a decision – or just remembered something. He reached into a desk drawer, waved a creased and grimy sheet of paper at Cole.

  ‘I found this after I’d closed the side door on you earlier. Creed or Mitch must’ve pushed it under just before you jumped them.’

  Cole frowned. Well, it sure wasn’t Mitch – he was much too far away. But had Creed been close enough to push the note under the door? Hard to te
ll in the semi-dark, and then Mitch had tried to club him, and there was shooting….

  Cole took the paper and smoothed it on the banker’s desk. He recognized the same printing as on the previous notes.

  Tomorrow night. Right after moonset Birdwing Wells. North edge. Round rock broke on one side leave money under then get out we’ll be watching If money OK kid’ll be returned if not OK you only get part of him

  Cole blew out his cheeks, looking at Linus as he downed another whiskey. ‘Sounds like a Quinlan deal.’

  Charlton started, suddenly wild-eyed. ‘Quinlan? What’s he got to do with it…?’

  Cole told him about Creed. ‘Scared he was dying, didn’t want me to leave, spilled his guts. Up to a point.’

  ‘Oh, God! A man like Quinlan, holding Donny’s life in his hands.’

  ‘A man like what, Linus? You admitting you know Quinlan now?’

  Linus slumped, nodded miserably. He held up his bandaged hand. ‘He did this. A warning from Brack Devlin.’

  ‘Guessed as much. But a warning about what?’

  Linus stared blankly, then swallowed yet another drink. Cole leaned forward and took the bottle. The banker looked as if he would protest but changed his mind.

  ‘Stay sober, you damn fool!’

  Charlton slumped, not looking at the sheriff. He sighed heavily.

  ‘All right. I’m something of a gambler on the quiet.’

  ‘Not so quiet, Linus. I’ve known for months about your losses in Mannering’s back room.’

  This brought Linus’s head up. His jaw dropped. ‘You – you’re full of surprises, Cole!’

  ‘But you losing money to Mannering – how does that have anything to do with Brack Devlin?’

  ‘They work for the same group back East. A group of hardheads own big pieces of their saloons, and a lot of others, I hear. Devlin’s sort of a – a collector. He’s told about who owes money—’

  ‘And who’s behind in paying up?’

  Linus swallowed and nodded miserably. ‘They think because I’m president of this bank I can lay my hands on money at any time! That’s why they gave me so much easy credit. Damn fools! I have to account for every cent!’