Riders From Long Pines

by Ralph Cotton

  “We’d like to hear what the young man has to say about it,” a voice called out from the cracked-open door of the barbershop.

  But Frazier ignored the voice. “Tell your men to throw down their guns, Mackenzie,” he demanded as the young drovers spread out along the boardwalk in front of his saloon. He brought his own gunmen forward with a gesture of his hand. “You’re not leaving Red Hill,” he called out to Mackenzie.

  “They’re getting too close, boss,” Brewer said in a harsh whisper, getting anxious. “Say the word, let us commence!”

  “Hold your fire,” Mackenzie said sidelong to the two drovers. In front of him Tad Harper stood watching quietly, his rifle in hand, cocked and ready. Then Mackenzie called out to the listening townsfolk, “Frazier told us there’s no sheriff here, but that we could trust him. We told him that we found the robbed stage, but we wouldn’t tell him where the money is hidden until we knew we were safe. Now he figures if we’re his prisoners, he can force us to tell him—”

  The young trail boss’s voice was cut short by a rifle shot resounding from the street. The bullet whistled past his left knee and thumped into the front of the Blue Belle Saloon. Splinters flew from a large hole in the clapboard siding.

  “Damn it, Sadler!” said Frazier to the gunmen flanking him. “Don’t shoot up my place. Wait until they make a run for it. Take that trail boss alive, but kill the others.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the rifleman who had just fired at Mackenzie’s leg. He levered a fresh round into his rifle chamber and gave a hand signal to two more gunmen atop the roofline. “Wait until they try to make a break. Leave the trail boss to me, boys, we want him alive,” he said, repeating Frazier’s words up to them. “Kill the others.”

  Hearing part of the rifleman’s words, Thorpe and Brewer glanced at each other, then stared at Mackenzie, their hands tight around their guns. “You heard him, Mac!” Brewer said through clenched teeth. “Say the word before they kill us.”

  “Hold your fire,” said Mackenzie, noting how low the bullet had been zipping past his knee. “Wait until I tell you.”

  “Dang it, Mac, let’s do something!” said Brewer, his nerves pressing him hard.

  “Do as you’re told, Brewer,” Mackenzie said in a harsh rigid tone. To Harper he said, “Tadpole, unhitch the horses. Get ready to make a run with them.”

  “Right, boss.” Harper stepped forward, reached out and quickly unhitched and gathered the reins to all four horses along the rail.

  “Jock, you and Holly get ready to cover him,” Mackenzie said to the other two.

  “What are we fixing to do here, Mac, try to make a run for it?” Brewer asked, his confidence in the trail boss wavering a bit. His eyes darted back and forth between Mackenzie and the men advancing slowly along the dirt street.

  “No,” said Mackenzie, “we just left the best cover in town.” He gave Brewer a determined look. “We’re going back inside Frasier’s saloon . . . only we’re taking our horses with us. If he wants us out of there, he’ll have to burn us out.”

  “You’re danged right, boss,” Brewer said, the look on his face changing quickly. “Give Tadpole the word, we’ve got him covered.”

  “We’ve got to let him know,” said Mackenzie, raising his cocked Colt and taking careful aim at the rifleman who had fired the first shot, “that we’ll stand together or let his place burn down around us.” He pulled the trigger. The Colt bucked in his hand. The rifleman nearest Frazier flew backward to the ground, his life’s blood splattering on the saloon owner’s face.

  “Fire,” Mackenzie said to Brewer and Thorpe. To Harper he said, “Go, Tadpole!”

  As bullets began to fly, Frazier watched Tad Harper rush through the batwing doors, the horses filing in behind him. “What the hell are they doing, Bryson?” he asked the gunman left standing beside him, above the roar of gunfire from both directions.

  “What are they doing? They’re taking their damned horses inside your saloon,” Nate Bryson replied, firing as he spoke. “That’s what the hell they’re doing.”

  On the boardwalk, Mackenzie gave the last of the four horses a slap on its rump. As the animal slipped inside the saloon, a batwing door fell from its top hinge and hung at a crazy angle. Hurrying inside behind the horses, Thorpe gave the door a hard kick and sent it bouncing and sliding along the plank boardwalk. Mackenzie braved the heavy gunfire until Brewer was safely inside behind Thorpe. Then he fired three shots as he backed inside the saloon.

  “Jesus!” said Frazier with a wince, seeing the butt of a rifle crash through a large front window. “This is not what I intended! They’re going to bust my place to pieces!”

  “We’ve got a fight on our hands, Frazier,” said Bryson. “You might not have intended it this way, but you best get used to it. When they killed Sadler, they called it on to the end.”

  Bryson ducked away, Frazier right beside him as rifle fire from the broken front windows grew too intense to stand up to. Inside the saloon, Brewer called out to Mackenzie, “The ones in the street are backing away to cover, boss.” He fired another shot as Frazier and Bryson disappeared behind a stake of wooden shipping crates out in front of the freight office.

  “Good. Hold your fire,” shouted Mackenzie, noting that the gunshots from the rooflines had ceased. “Tadpole, get a count, see how much ammunition we’ve got between us.”

  Harper hurried to the milling horses, who stood huddled at a battered upright piano as if studying its yellowed ivory keys. He flipped open saddlebag after saddlebag, rummaging through them and laying boxes of ammunition and loose handfuls of rifle cartridges onto a green-felted poker table.

  “Whooiee! I never realized we all were so flush with bullets!” he said.

  “What does it look like, Tadpole?” Mackenzie asked in a stern tone of voice.

  Counting quickly, Harper said, “It looks like we’ve got near a hundred and fifty rounds amongst us, Mac.”

  “A hundred and fifty?” said Mackenzie. “Are you sure, Tadpole, that sounds like a lot.”

  “Want me to count it again?” Harper asked.

  Before Mackenzie could answer, all four men swung their guns toward the bar, where a crash of glass resounded, followed by a curse, then a sharp cry. “Don’t shoot! I just work here,” a voice called out as the bartender stood up behind the bar with his hands in the air. “I’m not on Frazier’s side—I’m not on anybody’s side. All I do is sling whiskey for Frazier! I swear it! You can ask ole Art here.”

  Beside the bartender, the old man, Art Mullens, stood up with his hands raised too. “He’s not lying,” said Mullens. “His name is Thesis Sweeney, and I’ve never seen him take sides agin a man on Frazier’s account.”

  “I heard shooting and ducked down,” said the tall, thin bartender.

  “Is there a shotgun back there?” Mackenzie asked, his hand relaxed but still holding his Colt in the bartender’s direction.

  “Yes, sir, there is,” said Sweeney. “But I never intended to—”

  “Pick it up by the barrel and lay it on the bar,” said Mackenzie, cutting him off.

  “Here I go, easy-like.” The bartender sidestepped along the bar, slowly raised a shotgun and laid it down along the bar top.

  “Ask him what that grinning rattlesnake Frazier drinks,” Harper called out to Mackenzie.

  Mackenzie and Brewer gave each other a curious look until they both caught on to Harper’s reasoning. “Good thinking, Tadpole,” said Brewer.

  “Yeah, good thinking again, Tadpole,” Mackenzie repeated. He gave a slight smile and said to the bartender, “You heard our pard. What does your boss drink?”

  “Mr. Frazier drinks only the finest Kentucky bourbon,” said Sweeney, not seeming to realize what the drovers had in mind. “He has it sent here all the way from Bardstown, where it’s made at.”

  “Get it up, bartender,” said Mackenzie. “We could all use a good long drink about now.”

  “What?” Sweeney looked dumbfounded. “I can’t ser
ve you his sipping bourbon—he’ll have a straight-up conniption fit! His bourbon and cigars are the pride of his life!”

  “Are you going to make me ask you again?” Mackenzie said in a stronger tone. “Get the bourbon.” He cocked the Colt even though he had no intention of shooting the wide-eyed bartender.

  “The cigars too,” Harper called out from his position at one of the broken front windows.

  “You heard him, Thesis Sweeney,” said Mackenzie, “get out the cigars too.”

  “Yieeehi!” From the broken window, Brewer called out to the street, “Much obliged, Bart Frazier. We’re fixing to help ourselves to your bourbon and cigars.”

  Behind the shipping crates, Frazier watched Nate Bryson reload his rifle and wave the gunmen along the roofline to come down to the street. “Did you hear what he said? They’re going to start looting my place.”

  “Tough luck, Frazier,” said Bryson. “Me and the boys were in a serious game of poker at the River Palace when you come asking us for help. We agreed, for one thousand dollars. Now it’s sounding like you’re ready to crawfish out of the deal.”

  “Don’t worry about your money, you’ll get it,” said Frazier. “But my plan was to take them as prisoners without incident. I didn’t consider getting my saloon shot to pieces in the bargain!”

  “Like I said, tough luck, Frazier.” Bryson levered a round into his rifle chamber. “But we’re not stopping, not after them shooting Sadler down like a dog.”

  “I understand you feeling that way about losing one of your own,” said Frazier. He wiped sweat from his forehead. “But there must be a way to get them out of there without destroying the Blue Belle! For God’s sake, it’s the only decent saloon in Red Hill.”

  “Then you best hope we can get these cowhands to come out,” said Bryson, “else we’re going to level it to the ground if we have to.” He rose quickly, threw his arm atop a wooden shipping crate, leveled his rifle and began firing.

  “Level it to the ground? Good Lord, man! You must be out of your mind!” Frazier shouted. But his words went unheard beneath the renewed volley of gunfire from the rooflines, from the corner of an alley and from Bryson right beside him.

  Inside the Blue Belle, Mackenzie hurried around the bar in a crouch while the other three drovers returned fire from the broken windows. Huddled back down behind the bar, Sweeney and Art Mullens looked at Mackenzie wide-eyed. “Are you going to shoot us?” Sweeney asked. “I warned you he’d have a fit over his bourbon and cigars.”

  “I’m not going to shoot you,” said Mackenzie. “I’m going to get you out of here before they shoot you and we get blamed for it.”

  “Why don’t you just hold us hostage?” Art Mullens grinned, holding a bottle of Frazier’s Kentucky bourbon, a black cigar gripped between his teeth.

  “Because I don’t think holding you two hostage would do a thing for our predicament,” Mackenzie said.

  “You never know until you try,” the old man offered with the wink of an eye.

  Mackenzie looked at him. Then he nodded toward the rear door, saying, “Come on, both of you follow me.”

  “You know danged well Frazier has a gunman or two covering the back door,” said Mullens, not wanting to give up his unique situation. “He knows every lowlife in the territory.”

  “They’ll see it’s us and they won’t shoot us, Art,” said the bartender, eager to get out of there. “Now stop jawing and get moving.” He gave the old man a shove to get him started.

  “All right, then,” Mullens said grudgingly. He hurried along in a crouch behind Mackenzie, gunshots spitting through the air all around them.

  At the back door, Mackenzie crouched to one side, lifted the latch and swung the door open wide. The tall, lean bartender and the old man stepped out, hands held high and hurried forward. “Don’t shoot! It’s me, Thesis, and old Art!” the bartender called out. Mackenzie glimpsed a man stepping out from behind a tall saguaro cactus with his rifle to his shoulder.

  “Get the hell away from that open door,” the gunman called out.

  Seeing that the gunman wasn’t going to shoot at the bartender and the old man, Mackenzie waited a moment until the two were safely out of the way. Then he fired three rapid shots and swung the door shut. “It looks like Frazier has thought of everything. He’s got us surrounded,” Mackenzie called out through the gunfire.

  At the broken front window, Harper peeked out. “You mean they’ve got us circled?” he asked. On one side of the street the gunmen from the roofline had hurried down and taken new positions. On the other side of the street, Frazier and Nate Bryson remained behind the cover of the shipping crates.

  “I’m afraid so, Tadpole,” Mackenzie called out in reply.

  “That’s good,” said Harper. “It they’re all around us, they’ll have to shoot at each other when we ride through them.”

  Brewer and Mackenzie looked at each other through the heavy gunfire. “Don’t he beat all?” Brewer said.

  Chapter 11

  When the gunfire reached a lull as both sides reloaded, Frazier ventured a long look at the front of his bullet-riddled saloon. “Oh no . . . ,” he lamented. A bullet had broken one of the chains holding a large wooden sign above the doors. The sign hung from one end, bullet holes having splintered it so badly it was no longer readable.

  “What’s the matter?” Nate Bryson asked, turning with his smoking rifle in one hand, a palmful of bullets in the other.

  Broken window glass sparkled like piles of diamonds on the boardwalk. Bullets had chopped off the hitch rail, leaving two post stubs standing in the dirt. “Nate, we’ve got to stop this!” said Frazier. “It’s gotten entirely out of hand.”

  “You ask for it, you got it,” Bryson said, hardly giving the saloon owner a glance as he shoved bullet after bullet into his rifle. He nodded at the empty Colt in Frazier’s hand. “You best get yourself reloaded. My pa always said, ‘an empty gun never solved anything,’ ” he said with a dark chuckle.

  “Damn it, your pa was right.” Frazier stared at him, seething with shock and anger, and jammed bullets into the big Colt.

  As soon as Bryson had finished loading his rifle, he stepped back to where the riflemen could see him and waved an arm back and forth in the air.

  On the other side of the street, at the corner of an alley, one rifleman eased up into his saddle and took three burning torches from another gunman’s hand. Catching a glimpse of what was going on, Frazier asked Bryson in a voice near panic, “Wait a minute, what the hell is he doing?”

  “Just what I’m wanting him to do,” Bryson said without a glance at the saloon owner. “He’s fixing to burn them the hell out of there. These sons a’ bitches ain’t getting the upper hand here.”

  “Jesus! God, no! You can’t burn the Blue Belle to the ground!” Frazier shrieked, jumping up and waving his arms back and forth wildly, trying desperately to get the gunman’s attention and stop him. But he was too late. The mounted gunman raced his horse forward and made three short, fast circles in front of the Blue Belle, hurling one of the flaming torches with each pass.

  “I’ve got him, Mac,” said Holly from inside the saloon. He adjusted his wire rims and tucked the butt of his rifle up against his shoulder. He took close aim while the other drovers began shooting toward the gunman who stood at the corner of the alleyway providing cover fire for the circling horseman.

  The last torch streaked through the air, through the open window past Thorpe’s head and bounced off a felt-topped table just as his rifle shot exploded. “Got him,” Thorpe said under his breath as the gunman flew from his saddle and landed sprawled in the dusty street.

  “Look out, Tadpole!” shouted Mackenzie.

  Harper had snatched up each torch as it landed on the saloon floor, and tossed it back out through the broken window. The first two torches lay in the street, burning harmlessly in the dirt. But the third torch had bounced off the table, off a wall and landed where an earlier bullet had knocked an oil lantern
to the floor.

  A large circle of the spilled oil flamed up suddenly, burning high and fierce. Harper turned away quickly, slinging his arm madly in the air as flames danced along his wool shirtsleeve. At the sight of the licking flames, the horses spooked, one of them spinning and kicking the upright piano over on the floor.

  Mackenzie made a long dive, tackled Harper to the floor and beat at the fire with his hat. Thorpe and Brewer left their positions at the front windows and grabbed the horses’ reins, trying to settle the terrified animals. Bullets streaked through the air, one of them slicing across Mackenzie’s shoulder as he and Harper hurried out of gun sight.

  “Here it comes, they’re burning us out, Mac!” Thorpe shouted. “It’s going up fast!”

  “Mount up! Let’s go! The danged fool is burning his own business!” Mackenzie shouted in reply.

  Jumping atop their horses, Brewer struggled to keep his horse bounding in one spot long enough to ask Mackenzie, “How do you want to play this, boss?”

  “I’m coming last, giving you boys some cover. Ride hard, shoot straight!” said Mackenzie above the licking, bellowing flames as the fire leaped upward against the ceiling and rolled back down inside itself. “Don’t stop for nothing!”

  “Don’t worry, we won’t!” Thorpe shouted, nailing his boot heels to his horse’s side even as the animal reeled on its own and shot out through the large broken window.

  “Who’s going to cover you?” asked Brewer.

  “Don’t argue with me, Jock!” Mackenzie shouted at him harshly. “Do like you’re told! Get out of here!”

  On the street, Bryson and Frazier watched the flames that had traveled across the ceiling and now rolled out and up along the broken window frames. “Burn or fight, you no-good saddle tramps . . . ,” Bryson said in a low growl almost to himself.

  As the four drovers streaked out the window in a broiling cloud of black smoke and raced past him, Bryson fired repeatedly. His shots caused his men across the street to have to duck down and take cover from him as well as from the shots coming from the guns of the fleeing drovers. Beside Bryson, Frazier stood staring pale-faced, red-eyed and stunned at his burning saloon.