Bloody Trail

by Ford Fargo

  And they did fine, he and Emory. One always trying to outwork the other was a good basis for a business, and a partnership.

  At first glance, the shop might fool many as, if not for the forge, it looked as much like a ship’s chandlery as an ironsmith’s abode. It had rigging that recalled the block and tackle of many a ship, rigging used to move heavy iron and wheel-less wagons around the space. This was because Angus had spent many an early year aboard ship, both on the river and in the Gulf of Mexico, learning the trade of a smithy while pounding out chains, anchors, rigging, connections, repairing boilers, and even doing fine decorative work—fancy hatch hinges, latches, and running lights—of both sailing and steam vessels. He had also become a master with rope rigging and could tie a blight, crown knot, or barrel hitch with the best of them, but Wolf Creek had little use for decorative knots, and the hangman’s noose was about as fancy as he’d been called upon to preform since he’d settled here.

  Angus and Emory alike were happy to fill their days with simple work. They had each had more than enough excitement in their lives, in one way or another, to last them. Wolf Creek was just the town for both of them, they told each other more than once. On a summer day like this—peaceful and quiet, so long as one stayed north of Dogleg City—that seemed truer than ever.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Wil Marsh, Wolf Creek’s photographer, had felt like death warmed over when he had woken up. A late night at the Wolf’s Den had significantly lightened his wallet. He was not sure which had been more responsible; Ira Breedlove’s rot-gut whiskey, or the house gambler Preston Vance’s skill with the cards. He had no doubt that the whiskey had given him the gut ache and caused his eyes to feel as if they had been taken out, rubbed in the dirt and stuck back in again. He was less sure whether Vance was the fine-skilled Virginian gambler that he claimed to be or just a highly competent card sharp.

  After a retching session and a hasty ablution, he headed off to his studio. He had thought of going past Li Wong’s laundry to see if he could try a little flirtation with the beautiful exotic Jing Jing, whom he lusted after. Feeling as bad as he did, he reckoned he might not be at his most appealing, so he made his way across ‘Useless Grant’ Street, and on toward Birdie’s General Store on North Street where he bought tobacco and a fresh supply of coffee. Then he went across the street to the telegraph office.

  Dave Maynard, the telegrapher, was a man of few words. He dealt with Marsh’s telegram to Wichita for more chemicals for his photographic studio with silent efficiency. It amused Marsh that a man whose work revolved around communication could be so shy that he barely ever said a word to anyone. He reckoned that was why the guy seemed to be a confirmed bachelor. Yet, Marsh’s hangover was making him feel cantankerous enough to want to jibe some conversation out of the reticent telegrapher.

  “I see you got lots of burns on your arms,” he remarked. He pulled back a sleeve and showed his own arm. “I get chemical burns in my line of work, as well.” He smirked internally, for his burns had been from a time in his past when he, too, had been a telegraph operator and had to tend to the lead-acid batteries.

  Dave Maynard looked up and blushed. He had not really talked to the photographer before. He wasn’t the sort that he naturally took to. He thought that Wil Marsh was shifty, and always seemed to be on the lookout for something. He guessed he had a past he didn’t want to reveal…kind of like half the folk who had settled in Wolf Creek.

  “Yes, folks don’t realize how the acid in these batteries burns.”

  Marsh persisted and forced conversation, all the time keeping an eye on what was going on outside. He noted everything. He spotted Mason Wright carrying a tray of bread and pies, presumably heading toward the Imperial Hotel. He saw the tall figure of Derrick McCain stride past. And he observed the wagon with a tarpaulin covering its load being hauled along North Street by a mule. A horse was tethered to the back and trotted along behind it. He didn’t recognize the driver, a surly-looking fellow with lank red hair and a cigar hanging languidly from the corner of his mouth.

  “Now, me, I plan to make enough money here in Wolf Creek, and then I’m headed East. I just need to take me some really sensational photographs to sell to some of those fancy newspapers and magazines.”

  Dave Maynard nodded his head in the direction of the window. “What about the Wolf Creek Expositor? David Appleford is making that newspaper of his really sell in these parts.”

  Marsh was non-committal. He had not exactly hit it off with the newsman so far. Instead, he resumed his discourse about eastern magazines and his plans for the future.

  A few moments later, he saw a second wagon pass and turn onto Fourth Street. Strangely, as soon as he had turned the corner, he began turning the mule round as if to come back on itself.

  “What’s that fool think he’s doing?” Marsh sneered. “He’s going to get stuck.”

  They watched as the driver jumped down, circled the wagon and drew back a tarpaulin. He fiddled with something in the back of the wagon, then took out his cigar, blew on it and applied it to the contents of the wagon. Moments later they saw flames, and then thick smoke started to curl upward.

  “Shit! What the hell is he doing?” Marsh exclaimed.

  From a couple of streets away came the sound of a gunshot. Then, as Marsh and Maynard stared in horror, the man drew his gun from its holster and circled the wagon again. The mule was snorting in alarm and trying to move away from the burning load behind it.

  The man raised his gun and shot the animal between the eyes.

  ****

  Jim Danby took a final glance at his watch then stowed it inside his vest. He ran the back of his hand against the three days’ growth of stubble on his cheek and stretched himself in the saddle. He was a lean, rangy man of about thirty with a ready, toothy smile and cruel eyes. A product of the War, he and his men had ridden with Quantrill and reveled in the Lawrence Raid. Since then, under his leadership, the Danby gang had become one of the most successful and feared gangs in the West. They had parlayed their wartime skills into bank-robbing. And in Danby’s eyes, they were the best, because he was the best. Planning and ruthless execution were his tenets.

  “Any moment now,” he said to Wes Hammond, his lieutenant and comrade of almost ten years.

  Wes Hammond nodded dispassionately. Unlike Danby, he was not given to smiling, unless he was doing what he was best at—hurting people. He was about the same age and build as his boss, although with his longer hair, petulant lips and clean-shaven face he looked somewhat younger. He nodded and pulled his hat firmly down on his head.

  Danby put a hand on the pommel of his saddle and turned round to face the twenty mounted men. They had gathered out of sight of the town in the trees that fringed the boulders on the other side of Wolf Creek. “Okay boys, we go in as planned, as soon as we hear the first two shots. We cross the ford and hit the town. I’ll take the first column down the main street. Wes will lead the other down the first left, then along Lincoln Street. You all know the layout.”

  Wes turned in his saddle. He drew out his beloved .42 Le Mat cap and ball black powder revolver. Not made for fast drawing, it was virtually a one-man artillery piece. With nine shots in its cylinder for shooting from the regular barrel, it also had an 18-gauge shotgun barrel beneath for its tenth shot. He hefted it in his hand and raised it. It had been a popular piece among various elements of the Confederacy. It took time to load—but as a killing piece, he was proud of it. And on a raid such as this, once he had discharged every round, he had his Navy Colts to fall back on.

  “We are all armed to the teeth. This will go as smooth as silk. We’re going to divide up into threes and fours. Each group will take one of the sections of the two main streets. Bates and Milton will already have cut the town in two and contained the law, so one man from each group will cover all the alleys and side streets in his section. If anyone so much as pops their head into an alley, discourage them. If they won’t stay discouraged—kill them.” />
  Danby grinned. Although Wes had needed to be shown who was the master in their early days, he liked to think that he had inculcated and refined a streak of ruthlessness in him. “Ketch and Jackson, you two know what you have to do?”

  A stocky young rider at the back grinned. “Sure we know, boss. We shoot every damned horse we see.”

  Danby clicked his tongue “Good man!” He pulled up his bandanna and signaled for the gang members to do likewise.

  Two separate shots rang out from different parts of the town, and thick smoke started to rise into the blue sky. Moments later the Danby gang hit the ford over Wolf Creek and galloped toward the town.

  ****

  Bill Torrance, owner of the Wolf Creek Livery Stable, was looking forward to an easy day, the first one he’d had in several weeks. The last of the trail herds had been shipped three days previously. With the Texas cowhands who drove those herds now headed back home his stable was more than half empty, the only horses in his care those of his regular clients.

  By eight-thirty, Bill had already completed the heavy chores of the day. The horses were fed, watered, and most turned into the corral. All the stalls had been mucked out, the soiled bedding and manure dumped into the ever-growing pile out back. While Bill wasn’t bothered by the smell of horse manure, in fact rather enjoying its earthy pungency, the fly-attracting, odiferous mound was a bone of contention between himself and the pastor and congregation of the nearby church.

  “Now that you’re all nice and shiny, reckon it’s time I wash up too, Cholla,” Bill told his big paint gelding, giving the horse’s bay and white splotched coat a final swipe of the currycomb. “You wait here while I get my stuff.”

  Bill’s horse snorted, then nuzzled his shoulder in reply. Cholla was rarely secured in his stall, mostly having the run of the stable, and a small corral of his own. He’d been with Bill for years, the man and equine having a deep bond, far beyond the usual relationship between a rider and horse. Bill himself had an almost mystical connection with horses. People had always said Bill seemed to speak horses’ language. If fact, Bill would be the first to admit he preferred the company of horses to that of most people he’d met, and understood equines far better than humans.

  Bill headed into the small room at the back of the stable which was his living quarters. He removed a bar of soap, washcloth, towel, and his shaving kit from a battered five-drawer chest, then headed outside, to the back of the stable, Cholla following. He had an old horse trough there which served as a washbasin, along with a mirror hanging from the barn wall. Bill placed his gear on the bench alongside the trough, then peeled off his shirt, revealing a puckered bullet scar high on the right side of his chest, along with an old saber scar which ran diagonally across his belly, from just under his left breast almost to his right hip. He ducked his head in the trough, soaking his unruly thatch of sandy hair. Cholla nuzzled insistently at Bill’s shoulder, nickering.

  “Will you cut it out, horse?” Bill chided. “I know you’re jealous, just ’cause I had supper with Ann Haselton last night, rather’n you.”

  Bill had been an enigma to the citizens of Wolf Creek since his arrival over a year back. He’d ridden into town with no gun on his hip or rifle on his saddle, and since then had given no indication he’d ever touched a weapon. He bought the livery—which was in an advanced state of disrepair—from old Walt Corriher, then spent almost all his time fixing up the place and caring for his equine charges. Except for occasional visits to the Eldorado Saloon, and his regular meals at Ma’s Café, Bill basically kept to himself. He’d never even been seen entering Abby Potter’s “Boarding House”, to be entertained by one of her girls, nor, to anyone’s knowledge, had he partaken of the services of the many prostitutes available in Dogleg City.

  “Doggone it, I said cut it out,” Bill repeated, when Cholla placed his muzzle into the small of Bill’s back and shoved. “If I want to go out with a lady, I’m gonna do just that. Besides, I’d imagine Miss Ann has much prettier legs than yours, pard.”

  A smile played across Bill’s face, and his gray eyes sparkled at the memory of last evening. Ann Haselton, Wolf Creek’s schoolteacher, had been dropping not-so-subtle hints for quite some time she was interested in getting to know him better. After months, Bill had finally worked up the courage to ask her to supper, and she’d accepted. Instead of Bill’s usual place, Ma’s, they’d gone to Isabella’s Restaurant, where Antonio, the owner, had provided a sumptuous meal. From Isabella’s they went to the Imperial Hotel for pie and coffee. Everything was perfectly proper, of course, in keeping with Ann’s position as schoolmarm. When Bill escorted her back to her small cottage on Lincoln Street, two doors from the schoolhouse, their goodbye had been a handshake, not a kiss. He’d also made sure plenty of people saw Ann go inside, alone.

  While Bill washed and shaved, Cholla kept nuzzling his shoulders and nipping his ears, despite Bill’s threats to turn him into dog food. When Bill bent over the trough to rinse the shaving lather from his face, Cholla clamped his teeth onto Bill’s belt, lifted him into the air, and dumped him unceremoniously into the trough. Bill emerged, spluttering, and muttering various uncomplimentary oaths about Cholla’s ancestry. He turned at the sound of raucous laughter.

  “Hey, Bill, why the devil are you takin’ a bath? It ain’t anywhere near Saturday,” Jed Stevens called. Like Bill, Stevens, head wrangler for the Lazy H Ranch, had a special affinity for horses. He was the only person in Wolf Creek who Bill would call a close friend.

  “Wasn’t my idea, it was Cholla’s,” Bill answered. “I think he’s jealous ’cause I had supper with Ann Haselton last night.”

  “Well, you’re the one who turned that animal into a biscuit-eater,” Jed replied. “You spoil that horse.”

  “I know, but he deserves it,” Bill replied. “I’d trust him over most of the people I’ve known, no question. Besides, you spoil your Rojo every bit as much.”

  “Boy howdy, I can’t argue with you there, on either point,” Jed agreed. “Never mind your horse, though. Half the town’s buzzin’ about you bein’ seen having supper with the schoolteacher. So, tell me about last night.”

  “We had supper, that’s all. Ann’s a real—”

  Bill stopped short, as the sound of gunshots and pounding hooves shattered the morning.

  “What the hell?” Jed exclaimed. He pulled his Navy Colt from its holster. “Better see what that’s all about.”

  He and Bill headed for North Street on the run.

  ****

  The jangle of a bell from the outer waiting room stopped Logan from lighting his pipe, and with a shrug of resignation, he stood and crossed the room. A bit of work was needed to help him stave off the tiredness after his night’s work and the melancholic mood that was never too far away when he thought of his Helen.

  He opened the door to find himself confronting the intimidating, unsmiling figure of Charley Blackfeather. The scout was taller than Logan by a couple of inches and weighed about two hundred pounds of almost pure muscle. Charley’s father had been a runaway slave, and his mother was a Seminole. He had the proud, handsome features of both races. His raven black hair hung down his back in a single long braid. Eschewing a shirt, he was dressed in a blue cavalry slouch cap adorned with a single crow feather, a black vest and canvas pants. His feet were encased in high-topped beaded moccasins, and about his waist was a veritable armory of weaponry. He carried an Army Colt, a Bowie knife, and a steel tomahawk that Logan had once seen him hurl to decapitate a rat at thirty paces.

  “For you,” he said, holding out a small sack that seemed to be moving, as if it contained something alive. “Green frogs. They’re good for pounding into hog fat with some of the herbs I brought last time. They’ll cure any ulcer.”

  Logan took the bag from the Indian scout and opened it. A small green frog instantly leaped out, but Charley Blackfeather caught it in mid-air and deposited it back in the bag.

  “Thanks, Charley,” Logan said, tying the b
ag and pointing to his consulting room. “Come and have a coffee.”

  “No,” Charley returned taciturnly. “I have business with Casto Haston at the tannery.” He pointed through the window to his horse which was hitched outside, and at the load of hides strapped to the back of his saddle alongside his bow and the scabbard containing his ’66 Winchester Yellowboy.

  “You just make some of that green frog ointment. You’ll find it’s much better than anything else you got. It’s an old Seminole remedy that my mama used on me many a time. It works on gunshot wounds, too.”

  Logan took a pragmatic approach to medicine and was willing to try out all manner of the Indian remedies that Charley Blackfeather supplied him with. He was not too sure about using green frogs, though.

  Just then, Ann Haselton passed the window with the four Li boys following her in a line, each carrying a basket. Logan guessed that they were now on their way to the newspaper office. Little Chang was bringing up the rear, a broad grin on his face. They all waved as they passed. Logan was sure that Li Chang would have been delighted to see the bagful of green frogs, but probably less enamored at the fate that Charley Blackfeather proposed for them.

  Logan and Charley chatted for a few minutes more, and then Charley turned and reached for the doorknob. He stopped and stood still, sniffing the air.

  “Something is burning!” he said.

  Logan smelled it too.

  Then there was the sound of a gun. It was followed by another from somewhere further off. Almost immediately, there was the cadence of galloping hooves.