by John Legg
“You love her?”
Rhodes nodded. “More than most anything.”
“She feel the same?”
“She’s said so, and I figure she’s tellin’ the truth.”
“Then there ain’t no more puzzlement, ya damn fool. You either marry her or you ride on off and forget about her.”
Rhodes heard something different in Bonner’s voice and he squinted at his friend. “What do you know about such things?” he asked.
For a long time, it seemed as if Bonner had not heard Rhodes. But then he said, “Had me a Flathead woman once I was sweet on. I was just fairly new to the mountains then and didn’t know my pizzle from lodgepole. Our brigade stayed with a village of Flatheads one time, and X met White Plume. Goddamn if she wasn’t the purtiest thing this ol’ bastard’s ary set his eyes on. Goddamn, but she did shine.”
His eyes behind the veil of smoke were distant, wistful, and filled with pain. Rhodes sat silently, knowing instinctively that he was hearing something that Joe Bonner had never told anyone else, something he had kept bottled up for thirty years or so.
“Well,” Bonner finally went on, “I didn’t have more’n the skins on my back, so’s there was nothin’ I could give her ol’ man for her. Still, I waited every day down by the crick for her to come along. She come along but didn’t do nothin’ for a couple days. I was feelin’ mighty glum, but then one day she did stop. And every day after, too, till we pulled out.”
He stopped again and tossed back some whiskey. “Anyways, she told me she’d wait for me till the next spring. She told me that if I was as great a hunter as I liked to think, that I’d have a heap of plews to give for her.”
The noise of the saloon seemed far away, dim, and indistinct. Rhodes still waited in silence, puffing evenly on his cigar. It took several minutes before he realized that Bonner was not going to say more. “So, what happened?” he asked quietly.
“She was carried off by Blackfoot. Her ol’ man got together a war party right off and they chased after them Blackfoot. Caught ’em and whipped the shit out of them fierce bastards, too. But they found White Plume’s body in the Blackfoot camp.”
“Jesus,” Rhodes breathed.
Bonner nodded. Rhodes watched him, and he could see the old man working through the pain, forcing it back down into that dusty crevice of his brain where he had kept it all these years. Bonner finally smiled. It was a small one, but a real smile nonetheless. “So, boy,” Bonner said gruffly, “don’t you piss on this here chance. You might nary get another’n.”
Rhodes suddenly felt much better. He had no more questions about what he would do about Miss Hallie St. John. He relaxed.
An hour later, a quartet of men entered the saloon and headed for the bar. Rhodes would have paid them little mind, just as he had everyone else who had entered or left, except that they seemed somehow familiar. He sat there, eyes on the men, as he paged through his memories, trying to fix where and when he had seen them. He was sure he had. “Somethin’ else botherin’ you, boy?” Bonner asked. It took an effort to leave off trying to recall things, and answer Bonner. “You see them four just come in?”
“Which four?” Bonner asked, looking in that direction.
“The young fellah with the white hair and those with him.”
Bonner nodded. “Yeah. So?”
“I swear I know them boys from somewhere.”
“Durin’ the war maybe?” Bonner asked, turning back to look at Rhodes. “You see lots of folks at such times, and not really know most of ’em.”
Rhodes shrugged. “Maybe so.” He relaxed and sipped some more whiskey, but he continued to stare at the four men. Suddenly the four began laughing, and the one facing the man with the white hair suddenly became visible.
Rhodes started. He had been leaning back on the chair, but now he snapped forward. “Jesus,” he said, anger knotting the word.
“What’n hell’s wrong with you this time, boy?” Bonner asked in some irritation. He had listened to enough gloomy talk—and made enough—to last him a good long while. He was not up for more.
“Those four. I ain’t met any of ’em, but now I know where I know ’em from. Three of ’em are the ones who waylaid the Mormons on the way out.”
“You sure?”
Rhodes nodded. “We got their description from some fellah ran a tradin’ post down there a ways. The one with the white hair is Orson Mackey. The little ratty-lookin’ fellah’s Clyde Laver. The dandified one with the scar on his face is Floyd Decker. I don’t know the other.”
“What’re you fixin’ to do, boy?”
“I expect I ought to pay them a visit and mention to them the error of their thievin’ ways.”
“There’s four of ’em, and ain’t but one of you,” Bonner reminded him.
“You gone and got so old you don’t like a little fracas, old man?”
“I could still kick your fat ass any day, sonny.” He paused. “You plannin’ on bringin’ ’em to Marshal Pritchard?”
“I expect. If he ain’t interested, we can stash them someplace and let the vigilance committee handle it from there.”
“Got it all figured, have you?” he asked.
“Near enough.”
“You expect them boys to just get all aquiver with fear when you tell ’em you gonna throw ’em all in jail?”
“Well, I guess they could do that,” Rhodes said contemplatively. Then he grinned a little. “Of course, I don’t expect it.” He absentmindedly patted the scattergun on the table.
“You’re a nervy little bastard, ain’t you?” Bonner said with admiration. It was one of the reasons he liked Travis Rhodes.
Rhodes shrugged. It was something he never questioned. He had absolutely no fear of dying, or of going into battle. It was one of the things that made him so deadly when he was in a fight. It wasn’t that he wanted to die, it was just that he didn’t care one way or the other. His fate, he figured, was not in his hands, therefore he would not worry about it or fear it.
Bonner drained his whiskey glass. “Well, hell, boy, let’s go’n get it over with.” He stood and lifted the rifle.
Rhodes also finished his glass of whiskey as he grabbed the scattergun. Side by side, he and Bonner headed toward the four men.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rhodes and Bonner came up to the four men from the door side of the saloon, having skirted the whole barroom floor. With the door almost directly behind them, the two would have the light behind them. That would give them at least a little bit of an edge in cutting down the odds.
Orson Mackey turned, as the unknown man said something to him. The two other outlaws also turned.
Mackey was clad in a citified suit, with vest and string tie. He wore a good-quality brown derby. The suit and the big scar carving itself across his face set Mackey apart from the others quite a bit. The unknown man was wearing a butternut shirt and pants made of ducking. A battered hat rested on his head. Laver and Decker were clad in black denim pants, collarless shirts of a fancy flower pattern, and vests. Laver wore a worn gray derby, and Decker a Stetson with the front brim pinned to the crown.
“Something I can do for you fellows?” Mackey asked politely.
“You can come along peaceable to the jail house and wait there till I round up the law,” Rhodes said.
Mackey laughed. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “Surely you can’t think I’d do something like that for no good reason. You aren’t the marshal here, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Then why should I acquiesce to such a ridiculous demand?” Mackey asked. His words and voice were utterly calm and polite, but danger lurked in the dark brown eyes.
“Won’t be no skin off my ass to put a slug or two into your carcass.”
“That wouldn’t be nice.”
Rhodes shrugged, unconcerned.
Mackey was irritated. Usually his politeness lulled men into a false sense of security. If that didn’t work, a glance at the scar and the fla
t, deadly eyes was enough to convince most to move on. This one showed neither inattentiveness nor fear.
“What’s your name, friend?” Mackey asked. “Travis Rhodes. My partner’s Joe Bonner,” Rhodes said never taking his eyes off the four men.
“Well, Mr. Rhodes, just why is it that you want to run me into the jailhouse?”
“Among other things, horse and mule theft, robbery and intimidating folks.”
“And when was I supposed to have taken part in this wave of crime?” An audience was growing, and he liked that. He could play an audience better than many stage performers could. He was warming to his role.
“Couple months ago, back near the Platte River.” Rhodes knew he was losing the advantage. Mackey was too smooth, and his three companions were content to let him hog the spotlight and throw the law off.
“I’ve never been to the Platte, Mr. Rhodes,” Mackey said evenly.
“Bullshit,” Rhodes said. He pointed toward the man’s chest. “You mind tellin’ me where you got that locket?”
“From me dear, departed mother.”
“Mind if I have a look at it?”
“Me mother’d be very put out with me for allowin’ such a thing.” Mackey patted the locket on his chest.
“I ain’t going to ask you but this one more time to let me see that locket,” Rhodes said calmly.
“Or?” Mackey was still smug.
Rhodes snicked back the hammers of his shotgun. He could not see that the question needed more of an answer.
Mackey was sweating now. He was not afraid, but he had no desire to die, and at this range, that scattergun would tear him to shreds. It was not a pleasant thought.
Bonner, who was standing partly sideways so that he could watch both the outlaws and the door, suddenly said, “Pritchard’s comin’. Erastus is with him.”
Suddenly Laver screeched, “That’s the bastard we robbed! He’s gonna finger us!” He went for his pistol and snapped off a shot.
All hell broke loose all at once. Marshal Wade Pritchard shoved Erastus Flake hard, sending the Mormon falling to the side. Then Pritchard went for his own revolver.
“Stupid bastard,” Mackey muttered. He was still afraid to move with that scattergun pointed straight at his chest.
Floyd Decker pushed Rhodes hoping to get a little leeway for gunplay. He also had sense enough to know that Mackey could not help his companions while Rhodes held that shotgun on him.
Rhodes fell a step to the side. Mackey went for the revolver at his waist. He managed to almost get it out when two loads of buckshot splattered a goodly portion of his torso all over the bar.
Rhodes dropped the scattergun and yanked out one of the Whitneys. Without seeming to be aware of doing it, he swung in a slight crouch and fired all five shots he kept chambered in the weapon. Two hit Decker in the back, as the outlaw made for the door.
Rhodes swung back, noticing that Bonner was firing his Colt pistol and that Flake and Pritchard were down. Rhodes fired at Laver, who apparently had been hit already and drilled him twice. His fifth shot missed, and tore out a chunk of the bar.
Dropping the pistol, Rhodes grabbed the other. He whirled just in time to see a tomahawk-clutching Bonner charging toward the unknown man, who was fleeing. Bonner let go some kind of war whoop.
Marshal Pritchard was on the floor, hurt bad, as far as Rhodes could see, but he managed to get an arm up and tangle the fleeing man’s legs a little. As the man tried to right himself, he heard the wild screech behind him. He partly turned, just in time to catch Bonner’s tomahawk on the side of the head. The blow ripped off a large hunk of the man’s skull and sent it skittering across the floor. He stood, as if he didn’t really know he was dead. He fell, landing partly on Pritchard.
Suddenly all was silent, except for the drip of broken bottles. The saloon patrons began easing out from behind tables and chairs.
Rhodes made no effort to check on Mackey. No one could live through the double blast of the shotgun he had taken. So shredded was his torso that there might not be enough left for the undertaker to work with. He knew he wouldn’t have to check on the unknown man either. He did go and check on Decker and Laver. Both were dead. Each had been hit at least three times.
Rhodes turned and headed toward the door. Bonner was helping Flake up. Then Rhodes and Bonner knelt alongside Pritchard. He, too, was dead. Rhodes counted seven bullet holes in the man’s body.
“Tough ol’ bastard, weren’t he?” Bonner said.
“Sure was. Too bad such a man’s got to get killed by such scum.” He paused. “You hurt?”
“Nary a scratch. You?”
“Got winged once. Here.” He looked at his left arm as he pointed to it. “Well, hell,” he said in some amusement. “I got winged twice.”
“Christ, I’ve cut myself shavin’ worse’n that.”
“Me, too.” Rhodes realized Flake was looming behind him. “You all right, Erastus?”
“Only a scratch. Marshal Pritchard shoved me out of the way as the gunfire began.”
A winded, puffing Logan Macmillan pushed into the saloon so fast that he almost tripped over Bonner and the marshal’s body. “Jesus,” he said, still panting from the run here from his office, as he looked at the carnage. He stepped fully inside the saloon. Bonner stood and moved away from Pritchard’s body as Macmillan kneeled there to look the corpse over.
Finally he stood, looking sternly at Rhodes and Bonner. “You mind telling me what went on here?”
Rhodes shrugged. “We were aimin’ to arrest those four back there.” He pointed with his thumb.
“Why?”
Flake explained it all.
“Why didn’t you just go get Marshal Pritchard?” Macmillan asked.
Rhodes shrugged again. He slid his pistol into his belt. “Seemed like a good idea to just mosey on up and arrest them before they could start any trouble. We planned to hold ’em till Wade showed up.”
“And?” Macmillan looked mean and gruff.
“And, then Wade came in,” Rhodes said, weary of answering questions. He had been trying to do some, good here, and now Macmillan was trying to twist it all around and place the blame on him.
“I was with the marshal,” Flake interjected. “As soon as we stepped in the door, that man”—he pointed to Laver’s body — “screamed something about the law and then begin shootin’. Marshal Pritchard pushed me out of the line of fire, and even as I was falling, I could see him get hit twice. He started firing back as soon as he could.” Flake shook his head. “If he had not taken the time to push me to safety, he would’ve been able to fire some seconds sooner. It might’ve saved his life. Instead, he made sure my life was spared.”
“Wade was that kind of man,” Macmillan said sadly. “He was not only the marshal, he was my friend.” He turned mournful eyes on Rhodes. “My apologies, Mr. Rhodes,” he said quietly.
“No need, Mr. Macmillan.” He turned toward the bar when Dexter Fairchild, the undertaker came in. He stopped and picked up his pistol and put it in his belt. Then he got his shotgun. As he lifted it, he thought of something. He knelt next to Mackey’s body. There, on the shreds of flayed flesh and splintered bone, was Flake’s locket. It was covered with blood but otherwise unharmed. He lifted Mackey’s head by the hair, worked the locket over the head and then dropped the head.
Rhodes turned and walked to Flake, who was watching with some interest as Fairchild puttered around Pritchard’s body. “You might want this, Erastus,” Rhodes said, dangling the locket’s chain from one finger.
Flake looked at it as if he didn’t recognize it. Then his eyes widened. “My locket,” he said, gingerly taking it. “Who had it?” he asked.
“Mackey.”
Flake looked over there. “He’s in a rather grisly state, isn’t he?”
“Couple loads of buckshot in the chest’ll do that to a man,” Rhodes said dryly.
Flake pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood off the locket. “It’s unscathed,
” he said in wonder.
“Sort of a minor miracle, eh?” Rhodes said: Flake glanced at the Gentile, but saw no indication that Rhodes was ridiculing him. “Indeed. Most wondrous.”
“Anything else of yours they might’ve took and not sold?”
Flake thought for a minute. “Possibly some small jewelry items, I suppose.”
“We’re going to check through those fellas’ pockets and such, Mr. Macmillan,” Rhodes said. “See if they have any more of Mr. Flake’s loot.” Macmillan nodded.
Rhodes did most of the lifting and moving of bodies. Not only was he younger and stronger, he also was more inured to bloodshed and the results of such violence. They were just going through Laver’s pockets, the last of the four, when Macmillan strolled up. He shook his head at the uselessness of such gunplay. “Find anything?” he asked.
“A ring of Mrs. Hickman’s and a pocket watch of mine.”
Macmillan nodded. “How much money are they carryin’?”
Rhodes stood and wiped off his hands on a piece of cloth the bartender had thrown to him. Then he bent and picked up a sack into which he had been placing all the money he had found. “Three hundred seventy-two bucks plus some change, if I counted right.”
Macmillan nodded again. “Dexter, come here,” he said, looking toward the undertaker.
The short, rotund jolly man came up. He looked like anything but an undertaker.
“How much to bury Wade? Top-notch everything.”
“Fifty bucks, I’d say. Get the best casket, silk lined and all. The best embalming. A small stone, but a nice one. Even a small service.”
“Travis, give him fifty out of that sack.”
After Rhodes had given Fairchild fifty dollars, Macmillan asked, “How much to bury the rest of this rabble, Dexter?”
“I assume you don’t want the best for them,” Fairchild said with a bright smile.
“Not quite,” Macmillan said dryly.
“Twenty bucks ought to be enough. Plain pine coffin, no services, no stone.”
“Give him another twenty, Travis.” He paused. “Make it twenty-two and whatever loose change is in there. That’ll even things up.” When that was done, he said, “Keep the rest, Travis. You, the old man there, and Mr. Flake can split it.”