Wild Bill Williams (A Piccadilly Publishing Western #10)

by Jack Martin

  ‘What are you doing?’ the deputy asked. ‘Dig.’

  ‘Well,’ Bill said with a smile. ‘If I’m to dig my own grave, which I must say is an opportunity that not many men get, then I think it’s important to chose wisely. After all I’ll be there for all eternity and I don’t quite like it in this particular spot. It’s almost a valley and seems rather cold, in winter the wind will come rushing through here. Now up there,’ he pointed to a tree-topped hill that the dying sun was currently illuminating. ‘Now that would seem much better.’

  The rifle sounded, dirt spluttered up at Bill’s feet.

  ‘Dig,’ the deputy insisted. The other one, his partner, said nothing and might as well have been mute.

  ‘Very well,’ Bill said, resigned. ‘But I tell you if I don’t rest easy then it’ll be on your conscience.’

  The two deputies looked at each other, said nothing and then turned their attention back to the Welshman.

  ‘Dig,’ they said as one.

  The ground was starting to break up nicely beneath the spade and Bill knew that if he was going to make his move, then it would have to be soon. As a gambler he knew the odds of it working were against him, but there were times when a man had to run with chance, especially if it was his only chance.

  He paused for a moment, feigning wiping sweat from his brow and used the opportunity to check the two men’s positions. He figured the one closest to him, the one holding the rifle, would be the one to challenge. If it worked and he was able to get to the man’s guns then he’d have a fighting chance. Both men had remained mounted, which was a mistake, as far as the Welshman was concerned. Horses were easily spooked and even the best marksman in the world would find it difficult to hit a target from the back of a startled horse.

  ‘Get back to work,’ the deputy holding the rifle barked.

  Bill bent, worked the spade into the ground and then suddenly hurled it backwards, over his shoulders, sending dirt into the air. He hit the ground, immediately rolling towards the two horsemen, startling the horses and starting them off in a frenzied dance as they tried to avoid the man rolling towards their legs. Before either of the men could react Bill had jumped up and dragged one of the deputies from his saddle. The other fired, missed but Bill kept hold of his man and brought a fist down onto the man’s nose, smashing it. The man screamed and his struggles ceased as his hands went to his injured nose. Bill snatched one of the man’s Colts from his holster and dove to the left, rolling away from the man, just as the other deputy fired again.

  Bill felt the slug pass him by, perilously close and he fired back at the still mounted deputy. His aim was true and the deputy’s head was flung back with a spray of blood. Panicked, the horse bolted with the dead man still in the saddle.

  The other deputy had recovered enough to reach for his remaining gun but Bill spotted him and leveled the Colt.

  ‘Don’t draw,’ Bill warned. ‘That nose’ll heal but dead men don’t get better.’

  The deputy ignored Bill, drawing his weapon.

  Bill fired and the deputy’s nose was further obliterated as hot lead tore his face apart.

  ‘I bloody well told you,’ Bill said and shook his head. That was the trouble with fellas like these, they were always too eager to resort to gunplay. They seemed to think themselves unbeatable, that they would be quicker than the other man. Well there were two more men who had just discovered the hard way that they were anything but unbeatable.

  Bill found his own rig in the saddlebags of the deputy’s horse and he placed it on, instantly feeling more comfortable with his own gun-belt around his waist. He mounted his own horse and had to ride maybe half a mile to recover the horse that had bolted and when he did find the beast, the dead man was still in the saddle, though slumped forward at an odd angle. Bill led both horse and corpse back to the other dead man.

  He dismounted, picked up the spade and started digging.

  ‘I told you this would be a cold place to spend eternity,’ he said while he sweated on digging a hole just deep enough to accommodate the two men. ‘But if you think I’m lugging you two up the hill, you can think again. You’re lucky enough that I’m bothering to bury you at all. Ought to leave you to the critters.’

  Bill continued to dig, chatting away to the two dead men as he toiled. Eventually he had dug a hole, which he decided was just deep enough to accommodate the men. He wiped his hands on his pants and climbed from the hole.

  ‘I usually charge for my labors, ‘Bill said and went and searched each of the men in turn. The grand total between both men was seventeen dollars, which didn’t fill Bill’s saddlebags in the same way the twelve hundred had. ‘Duw, duw,’ he said. ‘It’s a pauper’s grave for you two.’

  He dragged the men one after the other and threw them into the hole. Then he picked up the spade and covered them over. He muttered a few words he remembered from Sunday school and then, task finished, stood back and admired his handiwork.

  It would do.

  He would have to go back to Stanton, but he knew to do so before nightfall was too much of a chance, a bet no gambler would take. He had already played a wild card and he knew it didn’t do to tempt fate too many times. The sun was sinking in the sky and in an hour or two it would be dark. After dark, Bill felt he’d be able to slip into town undetected. He could of course not bother and instead ride onto the next town and notify the US Marshal there but he wasn’t sure how far that was. And the kid was due to be hung on Sunday, today was Friday and Bill wouldn’t be at all surprised if the kid didn’t reach the rope at all, but was rather shot down trying to escape. No, he had to bust the kid free, not that he was obliged in any way to the kid but Bill knew a great injustice had been served here, and he couldn’t turn his back on the situation, knowing the kid would be dead within days. There was also the little matter of the twelve hundred bucks.

  He’d quite like to retrieve that.

  The town of Stanton it was, then.

  He had no other option.

  Bill sighed and went to his saddlebags, removed his knitting and sat himself on a rock. He expertly moved the needles, thinking that he could complete another square for the blanket, before moving off.

  Chapter Seven

  Bill gave a slight tug of the reins and the horse stopped immediately. He shifted in the saddle, worked a cramp out of his legs and stared down at the town sign.

  “WELCOME TO STANTON,”

  Some welcome, the Welshman thought. He would have certainly given the town a wide berth had he known previously what he knew now.

  ‘Hindsight,’ he mumbled. ‘Is indeed a wonderful thing.’

  He gently moved the horse forward, his owns eyes alert for any movement as he neared the main section of the town. He saw the main street in front of him and it looked deserted. The only signs of life were the flickering lights from the saloon and the sounds of drunken merriment that drifted out of the batwings.

  He dismounted and took the Indian pouch from beneath his saddle. The pouch, which was worn slung over the back and held in place by a strap that ran over the shoulders and around the chest, had been gifted him by a brave named Walk Tall on Steady Feet. It had originally been constructed to carry a bunch of arrows but with the deft use of a knife and thread Bill had turned it into a snug home for his Winchester rifle. He tightened the strap so that the pouch wouldn’t sag with the weight of the rifle and then took the rifle from its boot and slid it into the pouch. He filled his saddlebags with extra ammunition, for both the rifle and his six shooters, and slung them over his other shoulder.

  He was hoping to avoid any gunplay but sometimes, the Welshman knew, that was not possible.

  He led his horse to the rear of a large barn and ground tied it. He patted it gently on the muzzle, whispered a few words in his native Welsh, and then proceeded to walk into town. As he walked down Main Street he kept his head bowed, not wanting to be recognized should anyone spot him. And armed as he was, the butt of the rifle sticking out above his s
houlders, he hardly looked inconspicuous. Thankfully the street was empty and Bill reached the town newspaper and telegraph office without incident.

  The building was in darkness but as Bill peered into the window he saw the flicker of a pale light coming from the back of the building. The owner obviously lived on the premises. Bill pulled one of his Colts, went and tapped the front door and stood aside, his back against the wall, his eyes scanning the still deserted street. When there was no answer Bill used the butt of his gun and rapped harder on the door. Almost immediately the Welshman heard movement inside.

  ‘Hello,’ a timid voice sounded from behind the door. ‘Who is it? We’re closed.’

  Bill said nothing, tapped the door again.

  'Who is it?'

  Bill cleared his throat and then muttered, 'Sheriff,' he kept his voice low. This was a small town and the Welshman wouldn't have been at all surprised if the man behind the door knew the sheriff's voice intimately. 'Open up,' he commanded and once more rapped the door.

  The door opened slowly and Bill immediately pushed it, sending the man behind sprawling. The Welshman went through the door and quickly closed it behind him. He stood looking down at the small man, spectacles askew, and a thin trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth, who cowered on the floor.

  'Stand up slowly,' Bill said, keeping his Colt on the man.

  The man did so, first getting to his knees and then groaning as he got back to his feet.

  'What do you want?' he asked.

  Bill regarded the man for a moment before speaking, wondering how threatening he needed to be in order for the man to do his bidding. 'What I want you to do,' he said. 'Is work that contraption of yours. I want to send a telegram.'

  The small man frowned; he obviously hadn't been expecting that and it was clear that being held at gunpoint and then ordered to send a telegram was a novel experience for him.

  'I usually stick to opening hours,' the man said.

  'Where is it?' Bill asked.

  'Where's what?'

  'Your contraption?'

  'It's in the office, out back.'

  'Lead the way,' Bill prodded the small man in the ribs with the Colt, which provoked a high-pitched squeal.

  ‘Now what I want you to do,’ Bill said. ‘Is to send a message to the commander over at Fort Hood. He’s a personal friend of mine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye,’ Bill prodded the man in the back again. ‘I served with him when he was merely a sergeant. Name’s Nathan Brittles and he’s a bloody good man to have on your side during a fight.’

  The man looked at Bill with a vacant expression. Rather than being impressed by the name of the commander he simply looked bemused.

  ‘You want me to send him a telegram?’ the man looked at Bill incredulously.

  ‘Aye,’ Bill said. ‘I thought I’d made that clear enough.’ He gestured once more with the Colt.

  ‘What do you want to say?’ the small man now looked more mystified than ever.

  ‘I want,’ Bill said, trying to think of the wording. ‘I want you to tell him that Stanton is a rotten town and that a young man is due to be hung in what is quite clearly a travesty of justice. A murder carried out under the colors of the law. I want you to request he send some men over immediately and then notify the US Marshall’s office. Address it as from me, William Williams formerly of the seventh and he’ll understand.’

  ‘All that?’ the man stammered.

  ‘All that,’ Bill nodded. ‘And also inform him that tonight I will bust the kid out of the jail, take control of the town and hold it until the real law arrives.’

  ‘You intend to take over the town?’

  ‘I do,’ Bill nodded. ‘And I will.’

  For several moments the man regarded Bill thoughtfully. No longer did he feel afraid and now it was confusion that shone in his eyes.

  ‘Well get that contraption working,’ Bill said and holstered his Colt. There no longer seemed any need for the weapon. ‘I shall not tell you again.’

  ‘You can’t put all that in a telegram,’ the man said. ‘And besides at this hour there would be no one on the other end to receive the message. There’s also the fact that my contraption, as you call it, is broken down. We are waiting for a part which won’t arrive for at least another week.’

  Bill frowned.

  ‘Wait,’ the man said, reading the look in Bill’s eyes as one of danger. ‘You could send a letter. A good rider on a fast horse would reach the fort by the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Aye,’ Bill said. ‘I could do that. But who would I send?’

  The man smiled then and seemed to be regarding Bill with a look now of admiration.

  ‘Do you really think you could take control of the town?’ the man asked, countering Bill’s question with one of his own.

  ‘I can,’

  ‘But Stanton’s a powerful man. He has many guns in his employ.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Bill said and there was something in his voice that gave the words credence.

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘I do,’ Bill said.

  The man held out his hand and Bill took it. They shook and then the small man smiled, ‘Dave Thomson,’ he said. ‘Editor of the Stanton Chronicle, telegraph operator and general town’s dogs body.’

  ‘William Williams,’ Bill said. ‘But then you already knew that. I saw you at my trial, making notes.’

  ‘The duties of a newspaper man I’m afraid.’

  Bill frowned and then, in order to get the conversation back on track. ‘So who would I send with my letter? A good rider, you said. Do you know of such a man?’

  The small man smiled. ‘I’ll deliver your letter myself,’ he said.

  ‘You? A newspaper man?’

  ‘I’m also an expert rider, the man said. ‘I rode for the Pony Express in my youth which was how I got into this business in the first place. The pony express, the telegraph system and the newspaper business are all much the same. They’re all about the distribution of information.’

  ‘I’d certainly like my information distributed.’

  I’ll take the letter from you.’

  ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘I will.’

  Bill hadn’t expected this and the turn of events threw him into a bit of a quandary. But he felt he was a good judge of character and all his instincts were telling him he could trust the small man. The man was built like a jockey and if he could handle a horse the way he claimed, then he would certainly make good speed.

  ‘Then I accept your offer of assistance,’ Bill said. ‘Maybe this town isn’t so rotten after all.’

  ‘Well, mister,’ the small man said. ‘If you really think you have a chance to go against the Stantons and can prove it to the town, then you’ll find no shortage of men willing to help. Lots of folk in town would go up against the Stantons if there was someone to show them the way. Living in fear ain’t healthy for a man, nor is paying the insurances the Stantons demand of us.’

  ‘So let me get this clear,’ Bill said. ‘You want to ride out of here and deliver my letter?’

  ‘Indeed I do and will.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘I do,’ the man nodded. ‘Come on. Let’s write out your letter and I’ll tell you about it.’

  ‘That’s bloody marvelous,’ Bill said, grinned and followed the small man through to the back of the building.’

  Chapter Eight

  They had decided Bill would not attempt to break the kid out of the jail until after Thomson had ridden out of town and yet a further hour had gone by. If things went wrong with the jailbreak then at least Thomson would be well on his way to Fort Hood, and before anyone knew the newspaperman had gone he would be too far away to stop. This had been Thomson’s idea, and although Bill had no doubt that the jailbreak would prove successful he had to admit it made perfect sense to be cautious.

  They had also roped in another man, or rather Thomson had, when he had taken B
ill across the moonlit street towards the livery stable. Bill had been cautious as they crossed the street, his hands hovering over his Colts but they made the journey without incident.

  Once inside the stable Thomson had roused the owner, finding him asleep, covered in a filthy horse blanket, in one corner of the stable. An elderly man with so much beard that it was impossible to put an age upon him. He could have been in his sixties, seventies or even eighties. The way he walked, with his back all stooped up suggested he was ancient but his eyes shone with the vitality of youth. The old man had but the one tooth in his head, dead centre it hung down like a gleaming tusk. The old man’s name was Sam and the newspaperman knew him well, told Bill they had been friends for a great many years.

  Bill had stood aside, watching the exchange between the two men with some amusement. As soon as the newspaperman outlined the plan to break the kid free and then notify the US Marshal, Sam had become particularly animated. He had cursed the entire Stanton clan, said it was not before time that someone around here had the gumption to go up against them. The old man had looked Bill up and down for several moments and, looking unimpressed, had gone and saddled Thomson’s horse.

  And now Thomson had gone and Bill placed his knitting into his saddlebags and looked at the old man.

  ‘Have you got it now?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ the old man snapped and bit off a chunk of chewing tobacco, which was a considerable feat given that he had but the single tooth. He pressed the tobacco plug against his lower gum and bit down. ‘You told me a half dozen times and I heard you the first as well as the last.’

  ‘Better to make certain, boyo.’

  The old man smiled, once again revealing his tooth. ‘I sure do hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve faced greater odds than an old man and his off spring,’ Bill said and then went off on one of his familiar tangents. ‘Did I tell you I was at the Little Big Horn?’

  ‘You didn’t,’