by Ford Fargo
“Cholla!” Bill called again. His paint came charging from his corral and up to Bill. He stopped and nuzzled Bill’s chest, then whickered. Bill wrapped his arms around the big gelding’s neck.
“Dunno why you didn’t follow me like you always do, boy, but thank God you didn’t,” Bill murmured. “Somethin’ must’ve told you to stay behind. Cowboy once told me there’s a saint—Francis if I recollect right—who protects animals. Guess he was watchin’ over you, ol’ pard. If he was, I’m sure grateful. Meantime, I’d better try and calm your friends down, then see where I can help out.”
Bill was more sickened by the killing of many of Wolf Creek’s horses than that of several of its residents. After all, his thinking went, men always had a way to fight back. Horses had no such choice. They were innocent victims of man’s greed and inhumanity.
Deputy Fred Garvey’s horse, a blocky grulla gelding, was in the stall closest to Bill. Bill stroked its nose to soothe the frightened animal.
“Easy, Dusty,” Bill whispered. “They’re gone. Nothin’ to worry about now.”
“Bill! You in there? Sheriff Satterlee’s lookin’ for you. Needs you pronto.”
Jimmy Spotted Owl was standing in the door of the stable. The young half-Cherokee cowboy’s face was streaked with gunpowder.
“Satterlee’s lookin’ for me? Why?” Bill questioned.
“’Cause he’s gettin’ up a posse, and needs horses. Gotta get on the trail of those renegades before they get too much of a jump. Sheriff wants to know how many horses you’ve got left.”
“Tell him half a dozen, not countin’ my Cholla,” Bill answered.
“You’d better tell him yourself,” Jimmy replied. “I’ve got to find Billy Below and Phil Salem. We’re gonna ride with Satterlee. Whole town’s riled up over all the killin’s, especially little Li Chang and the schoolteacher.”
Bill’s heart jumped into his throat.
“You mean they killed Marcus Sublette?”
“Not Marcus Sublette. Ann Haselton.”
Bill gasped. He felt like he’d just taken a Comanche lance right through his gut.
“Miss Haselton? Are you certain?”
“Saw her body myself. One of those bastards shot her right in the back.”
“Jimmy, tell G.W. I’ll be at his office in five minutes.”
“Bill, you don’t even wear a gun,” Jimmy started to protest, then stopped short, when he noticed the Colt snugged in the hostler’s waistband, and the grim look in Bill’s gray eyes.
“Don’t matter none,” Bill said.
“No, I reckon it don’t,” Jimmy agreed.
Once Jimmy left, Bill went to his room. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his chest and removed two boxes. The longer of these he set on top of the chest. He opened the other and removed a pair of well-oiled Navy Colts, along with a still-supple gunbelt and holsters. The bullet loops were filled with .44 Henry shells. Bill settled the belt on his hips, buckled it in place, then checked the action of the Colts before sliding them into their holsters.
Cholla was still waiting in the aisleway.
“C’mon, pardner, we’ve got a job to do, just like we‘ve done before,” Bill murmured to the paint.
****
Spike knew George Washington Satterlee, the sheriff, and he’d want to bring these scum suckin’ pigs back to town and make a big deal out of trying and hanging them. Hell, it would probably make Leslie’s Weekly and the lawman would be famous. But Spike had already made up his mind that these ol’ boys, who’d ridden down innocent women and children, would rot out there on the trail somewhere, and their trip to burn in hell would be as short as Spike could arrange. The crows would be pickin’ their eyes before many moons would pass, had he his way.
But as was his custom, he didn’t mouth it, just swore it to himself. A blood oath, for spilled blood.
He’d hoped he’d seen the end of it with the close of the war, but knew as long as there were men, there’d be killing.
He spat on the dirt street in disgust, and walked on.
And to add insult to that injury, when he got to the Wolf Creek Savings and Loan, he found his money was gone along with the rest of the town’s. He’d worked hard for four years putting money in that bank—as well as, thank God, some in a tobacco can buried in his flower and vegetable garden out back of the shop. Another reason to see the crows were well fed. More importantly, more lay dead. Two young tellers, Hank Jones and Jeremiah Barnes, lay dead on the floor, blood pooling around them. Hank was a married man with a new child. Spike’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t work up a spit. He clamped his jaw and walked out, heading for the sheriff’s office.
He waited quietly for the town fathers to get themselves pulled together, then when the first hint of posse was uttered, told them he’d return ready to ride. He went first to the livery where he kept his horse and a steamer trunk full of tack and other mementos from his time in the war, saddled Hammer, tied his two saddle holsters in place, a rifle boot on either side against the fenders. Then he went to the shop where he spent several minutes convincing Em that someone had to stay and take care of business. It wouldn’t do for both of them to get shot all to hell chasing a bunch of worthless owlhoots. He dug into the steamer trunk he kept in the loft, packed his haversack, rolled a blanket, made sure his cartridge and cap box was full, and headed back to the sheriff’s office to team up with the rest of the posse. Emory Charleston watched his partner ride out, and bowed his head and took a moment to ask the good Lord to watch over him.
He left Emory with the Spenser, but shoved the long Austrian in one saddle boot, a pair of Rigdon and Ainsley Confederate Navy Colt copies in the saddle holsters, and a double barrel twelve gauge in the other boot. His saddlebags would hold two dozen brass twelve gauge shells loaded with double-aught buckshot. The Austrian would do fine for long work, the revolvers for medium, and the scattergun for close, bloody work.
When he rode up, Spence Pennycuff was waiting on the boardwalk. He eyed Spike up and down. “Hell, Sweeney, you look like you’d be ready to take on half of General Lee’s army.”
Spike tapped the kepi on his head. “You got the wrong side there, Spence. If there was still takin’ on to do, I’d be taking on Cump Sherman’s boys. But that’s all behind us now. Let’s get to takin’ on these raiders.”
Spence smiled broadly. “That’s the most I think I hear’d you say since I known you, Spike.”
“Well, sir, these are trying times, and talking never got no row hoed or nag shoed.”
“C’mon in, Spike,” Spence said. “Sheriff’s got a few directions for us, I’m sure.”
****
The whole town was sickened at the sights and the news of the lives lost. No one’s worst nightmare could have been as bad as the sight of Wolf Creek once the smoke started to clear and men battled to douse the flames of the burning buildings. Logan Munro had ministered to the wounded, including Marshal Sam Gardner, and pronounced Li Chang and Ann Haselton dead.
He also pronounced death on Fred Garvey, Slim Tabner, Jeremiah Barnes, Hank Jones and Jed Stevens, along with four of the Danby gang.
Almost immediately, like human buzzards, Wil Marsh—with some help from Elijah Gravely the undertaker—started arranging the bodies of the gang into suitable poses. Then, with his tripod and camera, he methodically set about taking the photographs that he imagined he would be able to sell to the Eastern magazines.
Sheriff Satterlee took control and started to form a posse from the available able-bodied men and whoever had horses. He called an impromptu meeting in his office and prepared to swear in whoever could go.
“Doc Munro, you had best stay in town and look after the wounded,” he said, as he looked over the volunteers gathered in the office.
“The hell with that, Sheriff. I have done what needs to be done. Doctor Cantrell knows enough medicine, as a dentist, to look after the wounded here. And Martha Pomeroy is a capable nurse.” He started filling his meerschaum pipe. “I t
ook the Hippocratic Oath and it is my duty to tend to the sick. I think I need to go, just in case any more of my friends here get hurt. And if we shoot any of that gang, it will be my solemn duty to treat and keep them alive.”
He lit his pipe and his eyes narrowed as he blew out a stream of smoke. “Until we can hang the bastards, that is!”
CHAPTER THREE
By the time Bill reached Sheriff Satterlee’s office, several men were already there, listening to Satterlee’s plans on how best to catch the outlaws who had ravaged Wolf Creek. Among them were Jimmy Spotted Owl, town blacksmith Spike Sweeney, and two of Satterlee’s deputies, Bill Zachary and Spence Pennycuff. Quint Croy, the town’s other deputy marshal, was also there. Charley Blackfeather leaned against the back wall of the office. Next to him, to Bill’s surprise, was Robert Gallagher, one of the clerks from Pratt’s General Store. Gallagher was a young man of about twenty-three, who wore spectacles and, when not working, could usually be found with his nose buried in a book. Gallagher was extremely thin, and the heavy Smith and Wesson American in the holster on his right hip threatened to pull his gunbelt over his hips and down to his ankles at any moment.
Satterlee nodded to Bill when he entered. If the sheriff was surprised at the two Colts hanging from Bill’s hips, and the third snuggled against his belly, he didn’t show it.
“Bill, glad you got here so fast. We don’t have time to mince words. Those sons of bitches did their best to make sure there wasn’t a horse left in Wolf Creek. Lucky me and my deputies were down in Dogleg, so they missed ours. Got a couple of others too, along with a dead outlaw’s mount, but we’re still short. How many you got in your barn?”
“Half-dozen, plus Cholla. One of those is Fred Garvey’s, so that one doesn’t count.”
“Fred won’t be needin’ his horse. He’s dead, so you can add his bronc and yours to the number.”
“There’s another dead outlaw’s horse in my barn,” Bill answered. “As for my horse, I’m ridin’ with you, Sheriff.”
“You sure about that, Bill?”
“Nothing could stop me.”
“Good. Head back to your barn and saddle up those horses. We’ll be along in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll need a horse, Sheriff,” Quint said. “Mine was one of those killed.”
“We’ll find you a mount,” Satterlee assured him.
“Sheriff, you’d best leave the town deputy here,” Charley Blackfeather spoke up. “In case you already forgot what I told you, that was the Danby outfit that hit us. Jim Danby likes to circle some of his men back after a raid, figurin’ while a posse is out chasin’ part of the gang the rest can finish what they started.”
“Charley’s right,” Satterlee said. “Quint, you stay in town.”
“But—” Croy started to object.
Satterlee cut him short. “No time for arguin’. Bill, get those horses ready.”
“Right, Sheriff.”
Bill opened the door and stepped outside, only to be greeted by a blood-curdling scream. Satterlee and the other possemen rushed out of the office.
“What the devil’s goin’ on?” Satterlee demanded.
Bill was standing stock-still. A plump, middle-aged matron blocked his way. Her dark eyes were wide with indignation, and her finger shook as she pointed at the hostler’s bare upper torso, which was smeared with Jed’s and Rojo’s blood. She jabbed her parasol into Bill’s chest.
“Sheriff, this man has no shirt on!” she exclaimed. “I demand you do something about it. It’s indecent. Arrest him at once!”
Bill hadn’t had the chance to pull his shirt on before the outlaws attacked. Now, in his haste to answer the sheriff’s summons, combined with the shock of Jed’s and Ann’s deaths, Bill hadn’t even realized he’d never fully redressed.
“Mrs. Pettigrew,” Satterlee said, exasperated. “After all this town has just been through, do you really think I’m concerned about whether or not a man has a shirt on? Why don’t you make yourself useful and try to help with the wounded, or else just go home?”
Edith Pettigrew was the widow of Seth Pettigrew, one of the founders of Wolf Creek, and considered herself, and her group of sewing circle ladies, the moral compass of the settlement. She was constantly badgering the marshal and sheriff about some perceived iniquity. The fact she was addicted to opium from Tsu Chiao’s Red Chamber did not seem, to her, the least bit hypocritical—somehow it seemed only to heighten her moral indignation. She never went to the Red Chamber herself, of course. People would talk. She usually sent Dickie Dildine or Rupe Tingley to fetch her “medicine”.
“George Washington Satterlee, I’ll have your badge,” she shrieked.
“Fine, Mrs. Pettigrew. You can have it once I’ve finished my business with the Danby gang. Now, just go home, or by God, I’ll have you hogtied and carried there.”“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Just try me,” Satterlee snapped. “Bill, get goin’.”
Mrs. Pettigrew scurried away. Satterlee sensed the shock in some of the posse members at his brusque treatment of a lady, even one as exasperating as her, and silently swore at himself. This kind of stress tended to bring out the rough edges of his past life, not a desirable trait in a public official—and not a side of himself that George Washington Satterlee wanted to show. But there was nothing to be done about it now, and no time to worry about it further. The Danby Gang had violated his town, and they were going to pay.
****
Twenty minutes later, fourteen men were assembled in front of Bill’s stable. Joining the ones from Satterlee’s office were three more cowboys, Billy Below, Joe Montgomery, and Phil Salem. Red Myers, one of the assistants from the tannery, was also present, along with Doctor Logan Munro, who carried his medical bag. Rounding out the posse was Derrick McCain, who nodded silent agreement as Montgomery loudly voiced his objections to some of the members.
“Sheriff, I thought I was joinin’ a posse, not a Sunday school picnic,” Montgomery complained. “We need the toughest hombres we can find to take on Jim Danby and his bunch, not a bunch of lily-livered, yella-bellied women.”
“Joe, where the hell do you think I’m gonna find more men?” Satterlee questioned. “Fred Garvey’s dead, Sam Gardner’s shot up bad, and I’ve got to leave some people behind in case Danby decides to come back and hit the town again. Spike, here, offered to stay back, but a lot of the folks in town don’t trust him. Besides, I need his gun.”
“Yeah, but Sheriff, look at what you’ve got. A half-breed Cherokee, who’d rather strum his guitar or play his harmonica than work; then there’s Gallagher, a four-eyed store clerk who probably can’t even see to aim a gun, let alone set a horse; and finally, Torrance, who no one ever saw with so much as a pea-shooter until this mornin’. Hell, none of ‘em will do us any good out there, ’specially the livery man.”
Satterlee gazed at Bill, who had thrown on his shirt, but had yet to button it. He took in the bullet scar on Bill’s chest, and the old saber slash across his belly, both still coated with Jed’s and Rojo’s blood. He also hadn’t failed to notice the Model 1866 Winchester Yellowboy repeater Bill slid into his saddle scabbard.
“Joe, I think Torrance might just surprise all of us. He’s ridin’.”
“Ridin’ what? He don’t even have a decent horse,” Montgomery objected. “That fancy calico pony of his’ll never keep up. Hell, it ain’t nothin’ but a spoiled pie-biter, everybody knows that. Horse like that is only fit for women or squaws.”
Bill had said nothing, until now. He stalked up to Joe, and sank his left fist deep into Montgomery’s belly. The young man doubled up, wrapped his arms around his middle, and collapsed to the dirt. He lay on his side, gasping for breath, eyes watering with pain.
“Montgomery, you can say whatever you’d like about me, but talk about my horse like that again and I’ll kill you where you stand,” Bill warned.
Whatever Joe intended to reply was cut off by Satterlee’s brusque order.
“That’s pl
enty out of both of you. We’ve got a big enough problem facin’ us as it is, without fightin’ amongst ourselves. Joe, soon as you get your air back, get on your horse and catch up to us. Bill, you hold your temper. Rest of you, get mounted. Every minute we stand around is another minute between us and the Danby bunch.”
****
Bill’s thoughts raced faster than the powerful horse galloping underneath him as the posse raced hell-bent for leather across the rolling Kansas plains. When he’d left Texas, he’d vowed to never again wear a badge or touch a weapon. Yet, despite that vow, here he was deputized, and in pursuit of one of the most vicious outlaw gangs plaguing the southern Plains.
As one of the considerable minority of Texans who opposed secession from the Union at the start of the War, Bill had refused to join the Confederate army. As far as he, and a lot of others, were concerned, the war had been started to support a bunch of wealthy plantation owners in the South and rich Yankees in the North. He’d never bought the argument advanced by many Southerners that the whole reason for secession was states’ rights. Bill’s opinion was that claim was so much horse manure. If the plantation owners hadn’t wanted to keep their free labor, the war would never have been fought.
However, while Bill held no truck with the Confederacy, he was still loyal to Texas. Once the Comanches realized much of the male population of the state had gone off to fight, they intensified their raiding, hoping to take back some of the land they’d lost. When volunteer companies of Texas Rangers were once again organized, Bill answered the call. Before long, he rose to the rank of sergeant.
By the time the war neared its end, the Rangers found themselves dealing with white renegades as much as Indians. Deserters from both armies, mainly the South, and outlaws in general flocked to Texas. The wide-open spaces and lack of law provided plenty of opportunity, and places to disappear. The people of Texas soon found out many of those white renegades were far more trouble than any Comanches.
It was during a confrontation with one of those bands of deserters when Bill had his first encounter with Wes Hammond. He and five men from his Ranger company had been searching for the band which included Hammond for several weeks. They finally caught up to them at a trading post some miles west of Bandera, where they’d already killed the proprietor and his family and were looting the place. When the Rangers arrived, the outlaws holed up inside the building. A two-hour gun battle ensued, during which one of Bill’s men was killed, and another badly wounded. The standoff finally ended when a Ranger was able to get close enough to the trading post to set it on fire. Forced to flee the structure or burn to death, the outlaws raced into a hail of lead, which cut down all but one. Wes Hammond managed to escape being hit, and made it to his horse. Bill caught up to Hammond just as he was climbing into the saddle. He ordered Hammond to surrender, but Hammond whirled, saber in hand, and slashed Bill across the belly. Bill staggered back, and managed to fire one shot before Hammond could strike again. His bullet took Hammond in the upper right arm, causing him to drop the saber. Bill collapsed, while Hammond, leaving him for dead, pulled himself onto his horse and disappeared through the smoke and haze. Bill survived, but took several weeks to recuperate. Months later, he heard Hammond had left Texas and joined back up with his old guerrilla outfit, led by a man named Jim Danby.