by John Legg
“I’m sure a motley crowd of townsmen and miners from Silverton really scared the pants off him,” Culpepper said, only a little sarcastically.
Hernandez laughed. “Maybe he’s just gone on to better hunting grounds.”
“Could be, but it’s more like him and his boys’re gone off somewhere to have themselves a whoop-up with their ill-gotten gains. I wouldn’t even be surprised if at least a few of them retired on their loot.”
“Could be.” Hernandez paused, looking around a moment away from the sun. “You know a U.S. marshal, Jonas?”
“Feller named Ned Coakley?”
Hernandez nodded. “That’s him. He rode in late yesterday. He’s been trying to throw his weight around some. You know anything about him?”
“I kicked him out of Silverton,” Culpepper said flatly. Hernandez’s eyebrows raised in question.
“That pukin’ scoundrel had the gall to ride into town and demand a portion of the reward money for those outlaws my posse brought in last time. And if that wasn’t bad enough, when I told him I’d given most of it to the widows of the two men who died, he actually went and browbeat one widow and took the money.”
Hernandez shook his head in disbelief. “I take it that’s when you asked him to leave town?”
“Yep. After I got the money back, plus a little extra for the widow. Good Lord, the nerve of that maggot. I’d watch him good while he’s in Durango if I was you, Ed.”
“I’ll do so, Jonas. Thanks. Well, good luck to you. I’ll be around town here, if you need my help.”
“Thanks, Ed.” He turned his horse’s head and, towing the mule, rode north out of Durango.
He swung west before he came to the spot where the posse had done so last time, figuring he could cut a little time off. He would head back to the ruins where the gunfight had taken place and then decide which way to go from there. He set a steady but not too stiff pace, not wanting to wear out the horse, the mule, or the mastiff.
Culpepper camped that night out in the open, on the rough hills covered with small pines. There was no water but he had enough wood for a fire. Since his canteen was low, though, he decided to have a cold camp, doing without hot food or coffee. Bear had a good time, though, chasing down rabbits and pack rats. The mastiff ate well.
He had considered going to Fort Lewis, which wasn’t far away, but he decided he did not want the company. And he thought it would take him a few miles out of his way, something he didn’t want.
He was on his way early in the morning. Sleeping in the open and with no fire, they had little to do in the way of breaking camp. Mostly he had to swallow some hard biscuits, a little chicken Merry had sent along with him, and a few mouthfuls of water, load the supplies on the mule, and saddle his horse.
Over the next two days, the land began to turn stark and flat, with only small humps of hills up ahead of him every now and again. Vegetation began to get sparse, and soon was limited mostly to sagebrush and some rough grass. Everything seemed to be a dull, reddish-brown color, and little was. pleasing to the eye. A steady breeze blew over the countryside, enough so that it was an annoyance to Culpepper. He bore that stoically, since there was nothing he could do about it.
The increasing drabness of the scenery made it hard for Culpepper to keep his mind on the job at hand. He much preferred to think of Merry and what he and she might do when he got home again. Occasionally he thought of Jimmy Cahill and his possibly impending nuptials to June Ladimere. He even thought about U.S. Deputy Marshal Ned Coakley once in a while, hoping Coakley would not show up in Silverton again. Culpepper figured he had enough troubles without a pest of a deputy marshal bringing more with him.
The sudden lurch and frightened squeal by his mule brought him back to attention in a hurry. His renewed alertness was reinforced a moment later when he heard the crack of a rifle. Out in the distance, on one of the irregularly shaped humps of land, he saw a puff of smoke.
Culpepper glanced at the mule, which looked to be seriously hit. Culpepper cast off the rope to the mule, spun the buckskin, and rode hell for leather back the way he’d come. “Come on, Bear!” he shouted. Even as he spun the horse another bullet kicked up dirt a few feet away from him, and a steady stream of dirt puffs followed by rifle reports followed him as he rode in a zigzag pattern.
A quarter of a mile or so away, he finally pulled to a halt and turned back. No one was coming after him, and the gunfire had stopped a little bit ago, as he got out of range of whoever it was shooting at him. He dismounted and loosened his saddle a little to let his horse breathe some. Then he poured some water from his canteen into his hat and let the horse drink. Bear got a little after that, and finally Culpepper drank some himself.
That done, he took stock of his situation. The only water he now had was that left in the canteen. There were three other canteens on the mule, but that was doing him no good now. He had no food, only a little extra ammunition, and no horse grain.
“All right, you pukin’ scoundrel,” Culpepper muttered. “We’re about to fix this.” He tightened the saddle and climbed aboard. He turned south and rode that way about a mile before he swung west again. Half a mile or so later, he turned north until he was sure he was well past the point from where the gunshots had come. Then he rode east and finally south, figuring to come on the gunman from the north, which he hoped would surprise the man.
He thought he spotted the correct hillock and so he dismounted. He swiftly hobbled the horse so it wouldn’t be able to stray very far, and then he started walking. He hadn’t gone far when he realized he was still just a bit to the west, and that the hill he had seen before was not the right one. But momentarily he had gotten his bearings and moved cautiously on.
Suddenly he spotted a horse, and he stopped. With some reluctance, he lay down on his stomach. “You be quiet now, Bear,” he whispered to the mastiff. Then he began slithering forward. Bear emulated him.
When he was within ten yards of the man still lying on the crest of the hill, Culpepper stood, eased out a pistol, and thumbed back the hammer. “Lookin’ for me, maggot?” he said more than asked.
The man started, then froze.
“Put your hands where I can see them, and then roll over onto your back.”
The man began doing as he was told, but halfway around, he snatched at the Winchester rifle. He didn’t get far with it before Culpepper fired once, hitting him in the left shoulder. The man dropped the rifle and clutched at the wound.
“Now, ease out your pistol and toss it away, maggot,” Culpepper said harshly. When the man had done so, Culpepper asked, “What’s your name, you pukin’ scoundrel?”
“None of your damn business,’ the man spat, pain in his voice.
“All right, Mister Business, what’re you doin’ out here, tryin’ to kill me?”
“My name’s Owen Fauss, ya damn fool.”
“All right, Mister Fool, same question.”
“You goddamn idiot,” Fauss ranted on. “My name’s Owen Fauss.”
“All right, then, Mister Fauss, same question to you. I don’t much care which one of you three answers.”
“I ain’t tellin’ you shit, lawman,” Fauss snapped.
“It might go better on you if you were to be reasonable.”
“I don’t have to be reasonable, god damn it, and you can’t make me tell you anything.”
“Would you care to wager on that?” Culpepper asked coldly. Fauss looked into the piercing blue eyes and decided he definitely would not want to make such a bet. He licked his lips, then offered, “I’ll talk to you, Sheriff, but you gotta promise to let me go after.”
“You, Mister Fauss, are in no position to make demands,” Culpepper said calmly. “Nor even requests. I’d suggest to you that it’d be best to talk to me and then hope I’m feelin’ beneficent enough to treat you better than you deserve, maggot.” Fauss decided to talk—and hope. He might be able to get to his belly gun and shoot the sheriff Besides, he had no reason to protect the
man who hired him. “Marshal Ned Coakley sent me to drop you.”
“When?” Culpepper asked, surprised.
“Yesterday. I ain’t sure, but I think he saw you get off the train. He went lookin’ for a man to do his dirty work for him, and he found me. I rode out here right off, passin’ you in the night, as best as I can tell.”
“Must’ve been by a good distance, or Bear would’ve alerted me.”
“I stuck a mile or so south of your trail.”
Culpepper nodded. “How much did that pukin’ rascal pay you?”
“A hundred dollars. In advance.”
“It wasn’t enough,” Culpepper said flatly.
“I suppose not.”
“All right, maggot, get up and turn around.” When Fauss did so, Culpepper said, “Move two steps to your left. That’s away from the rifle, if you don’t know your right from your left.” When Fauss had done that, Culpepper picked up the rifle in his left hand. He backed up and slid the rifle into the saddle scabbard on the man’s horse. He untied the reins from the picket ring and mounted Fauss’s horse. “March,” he ordered.
“Which way?” Fauss asked, looking over his shoulder.
Culpepper pointed with his pistol.
Dejectedly, Fauss moved slowly off toward where Culpepper had left his own horse. As he walked, he held his left shoulder with his right hand. It hurt like hellfire, but he tried to ignore it as he worked his left hand toward the belly gun without trying to move the wounded shoulder any. He was sweating hard from the pain and exertion, but he kept at it, especially when he spotted Culpepper’s buckskin up ahead, and knew he had very little time.
Finally his hand touched the butt of the small Colt under his shirt. It was turned the wrong way, and he switched it to the left, so he could grab it with that hand. He would rather use his right, but to do so would let Culpepper see that arm moving suspiciously, so it had to be the left, even though bringing the pistol up with that arm would be excruciating.
At long last, he was ready, and he decided there was no time like the present, seeing as how he was less than ten feet from Culpepper’s horse now. He sucked in a breath to settle himself and prepare for the pain. Then he jerked the pistol out and began whirling.
Chapter Fifteen
Culpepper fired twice. One bullet caught Fauss in the side as he began to turn. The second punched a hole in Fauss’s chest and knocked him down. With a sigh of annoyance, Culpepper stopped the horse and dismounted. Holding the reins in his hand, he walked to where Fauss lay in a small but growing puddle of blood.
Culpepper had half figured that Fauss would try something, though he had hoped Fauss would have enough sense not to. Culpepper supposed now that he should have checked Fauss over for other weapons, but he wanted to get handcuffs on Fauss, and the handcuffs were in his saddlebags. It had been a foolish thing to do, and Culpepper was angry at himself for having made the mistake.
Culpepper knelt alongside Fauss, who was still alive, though barely. “That was a durn fool thing to do, boy,” he said harshly. “There was no reason for you to die like this.”
“You would’ve killed me anyway, sooner or later.”
“Not unless I had to. If you’d only...” Culpepper stopped, realizing Fauss was dead. With a sigh, he stood and put his Remington away. Then he hobbled Fauss’s horse. Finally, he cleaned the pistol he had used. He wasn’t sure it was necessary, but it gave him time to think.
Culpepper was inclined to just leave Fauss’s body where it was, take the man’s horse and use it to replace the pack mule and ride on. Trouble was, he was a conscientious lawman, and his conscience would not let him do that. He could take the body back to Durango, but that would waste at least a day and a half. There was one other choice—Fort Lewis—and he decided that it would have to do.
He finished cleaning his pistol, and then tossed Fauss’s body across his saddle. Fauss’s horse did not like it one bit, but there was little he could do, hobbled as he was. Culpepper waited him out, and finally the horse settled down. Mounting his own horse, Culpepper rode off, trailing Fauss’s horse behind.
Shortly after, Culpepper came to his pack mule, which he had heard just after getting past the hill from which Fauss had done his shooting. The animal was hurt bad and still braying pitifully.
“Durn it all,” Culpepper muttered. He hated using his pistol again, since he had just cleaned the weapon, but he was not about to let the mule suffer any longer. Then he remembered Fauss’s Winchester.
Culpepper got the rifle and quickly shot the mule in the head. “Sorry, old feller,” he said. He got the extra canteens, plus his ammunition, and loaded that on Fauss’s horse. He was tempted to take everything from the mule and put it on the horse, but that would slow him down too much, and possibly kill Fauss’s horse before he got to Fort Lewis.
With another sigh of annoyance, Culpepper mounted up and rode off, leaving the mule where it was. Two and a quarter hours later, he rode into Fort Lewis. Minutes afterward, he was introduced to Major Abel Watkins, the commanding officer.
“What brings you out here, Sheriff?” Watkins asked, after he and Culpepper were seated.
“Had to kill a darn outlaw a few miles on. I ain’t got time to take his carcass back to Durango, so I was hopin’ you might do so for me.”
“That’s not generally our line of work, Sheriff,” Watkins said. He did not seem all that put out by the idea, though.
“I understand, Major. But I figured you probably have fairly regular runs to Durango and might not mind your men takin’ along a little extra baggage.”
“We can probably do that,” Watkins said with a nod. “What do you want us to do with it once we get it there?”
“You might want to have someone come write this down. I’d be obliged if it wasn’t forgotten.”
Watkins looked at him with a question in his eyes for a few moments, then he nodded. Shortly afterward, a weary-looking first lieutenant entered the office carrying a pen, bottle of ink, and some paper.
“Go on, Sheriff,” Watkins said.
“Thank you, Major.” He paused, thinking a moment. “Give the body to town Marshal Ed Hernandez. Do not give it to county Sheriff Frank Hammond. Tell Ed to make sure that Ned Coakley knows that Fauss is dead, and who did it.”
“United States Deputy Marshal Ned Coakley?” Watkins asked.
“Yep. You know him?”
“Met him once or twice. He struck me as something of an ass.
“He’s a festerin’ puke of a scoundrel is what he is, Major,” Culpepper said flatly.
“Did he have something to do with this, Sheriff?” Watkins asked.
“He’s the maggot who sent Fauss after me.”
“I can arrest him and hold him for you, if you want, Sheriff.”
“No, but thank you, Major. I’ll deal with him in my own good time, and there’s no reason for you to get mixed up in all this. Just have your men make sure Coakley knows who killed Fauss.”
“Anything else?” the lieutenant asked.
Culpepper never had gotten the man’s name, but he figured it didn’t matter all that much. “Yes, Lieutenant. If there’s any reward money on Fauss, tell Hernandez to pay for the burial out of it. Tell him to take twenty-five percent of what’s left, and give the soldiers the rest to divide amongst themselves.”
“Very generous, Sheriff,” Watkins said honestly.
Culpepper shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.” He thought a few more moments. “Tell Hernandez to sell Fauss’s horse, rifle, and other stuff. Tell him to keep that money and use it for something he thinks is important.” He paused. “Well, Lieutenant, that’s about it.”
The junior officer nodded, packed up his things, and walked out.
“One more favor, if I may, Major?” Culpepper asked.
“I can’t promise, but ask.”
“Fauss killed the mule that was carrying my supplies. I didn’t want to overload his horse, so I left the mule and most of my supplies out there. I fi
gured the animals’ll have gotten to it already, so I think I’d best re-supply while I’m here.”
“That can be arranged.”
“I need a mule, too.”
“We have some you can choose from.”
“Trouble is, Major, I don’t have a whole lot of cash money on me. I was wonderin’ if you could extend me some credit. San Juan County’ll pay you back as soon as I get back to Silverton, which might be some weeks.”
“I see no problem in any of this, Sheriff.”
“I’m obliged, Major,” Culpepper said humbly.
“This may sound right foolish coming from a man of my age and position, Sheriff,” Watkins said with a small smile, “but I believe in the work that men like you do. After all, you lawmen’re much like we soldiers are—stuck in a hostile land, fighting an enemy that at times seems to outnumber us by a fair amount, and doing it all while ill-supplied and usually miles from any help.”
“I reckon we do have similar jobs at that,” Culpepper said with a slow laugh. “Well, Major, if you don’t mind, I think I’d better get a move on. Night comes early, as you probably well know.”
“Why don’t you stay here for the night, Sheriff?” Watkins asked. “It’s getting late, and by the time you get resupplied, find a mule, and maybe have a bite to eat, it’ll be close to dark.”
“I don’t want to put anyone out, Major,” Culpepper said with a shrug.
“On the contrary, Sheriff,” Watkins said honestly. “It’d be a pleasure to have someone new to talk with. My officers and I are about talked out. You can bunk with some of the troops in one of the barracks, if that’s suitable.”
“If you don’t mind Bear here hangin’ around, too,” Culpepper said, stroking the dog’s head. “I don’t go anywhere without him.”
“Fine, fine. My children might get a kick out of him.”
“Then I accept your generous offer,” Culpepper said. He tugged at his mustache a bit, then said, “Well, if you don’t mind, I’d as soon pick out my supplies and mules and such now, so I’ll be all set for leaving in the morning. Then we can sit to supper.” He smiled a little. “It’s been since the mornin’ before yesterday that I’ve had a hot meal.”