“Wait a minute,” Jack Dawson said when he heard Sam’s instructions. “What are you talkin’ about, ‘takin’ them a long time to catch them horses’? You ain’t thinkin’ about leavin’ them folks alive, are you? Why, hell, they can identify ever’ last one of us!”
“Jack, you ain’t rode with me long, or you’d know I don’t hold to killin’ women and children. Now, I admit I’ve had to shoot somebody now and again, but I draw the line at women and children. Besides, ain’t no law gonna find us if we head back down to Texas. So you go on and help Joel herd them folks down the road a piece and start ’em to walkin’.”
Dawson did not reply. He bit his lip in anger, but he held his tongue. He decided then that it was the last job he would pull with Sam Bass. He, Cotton Roach, and Ben Cheney had been doing all right on their own. It was Bass who asked them to come along on this job, and had they known he was squeamish about leaving no witnesses, they might have told him to go to hell, they’d do it without him. If it ever came down to telling the story to the law about what happened here, Dawson was the one who shot the guard, and he was willing to bet that Bass or Collins wouldn’t hesitate to give him up. With that thought in mind, he turned abruptly and followed after Joel Collins, who was already herding the victims down the road.
“All right, folks,” Joel said as Dawson caught up with him, “let’s get them pockets emptied. It’ll be a whole lot easier to walk if you ain’t totin’ a lot of money.”
“What about our clothes and things?” Mary Bishop asked, making no effort to hide her disgust for the lot of them. “Are you going to take ladies’ and children’s clothes back to your hideout, or whatever pigsty you call home?”
Collins couldn’t help chuckling at the woman’s show of defiance. “When we’re gone, I don’t reckon there’ll be anythin’ stoppin’ you from goin’ back to the stagecoach to get ’em.”
“Leave us something to buy food and shelter,” Travis Grant pleaded. “You’ve got the money in the strongbox. Isn’t that enough?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Jack Dawson said. “You ain’t gonna need no money.” He casually aimed his .44 at the frightened man and pulled the trigger. The sudden report of the firearm startled bandits and victims alike. Mary Bishop couldn’t suppress a cry of horror as the unfortunate victim’s head jerked sickeningly to the side from the impact of the bullet in his brain. She grabbed her daughters and pulled them to her protectively.
Collins spun around in shock, thinking Dawson had gone crazy. He had ridden with Sam long enough to know he had not ordered execution for the victims, and now Dawson was turning to aim his pistol at Larry Bacon. Joel heard the solid thump against Dawson’s chest at almost the same time a rifle discharged behind him somewhere. Dawson staggered backward a few steps, looking down at his chest in disbelief. A fraction of a second later, another shot ripped into his side and he cried out in pain. His rifle dropped to the ground beside him and he went to his knees.
Bob Allen did not waste time trying to figure out what was happening. He sprang on the dropped rifle and rolled with it until he was clear of the stricken bandit before coming up on one knee and cocking the weapon. Dawson was finished, however, so there was no call for swift action in his direction. Bob moved quickly back, jerked Dawson’s Colt from his holster, and tossed it to Larry, who was already trying to shield Mary and her daughters from further gunfire. The slowest to react was Joel Collins, whose first thought was that Sam Bass had fired the shot after Dawson killed Grant. A general state of confusion set in with only one participant clearly focused on what he was doing—the unseen rifleman. Seeing Bob and Larry now armed, Collins threw one hasty shot in their direction and turned to run. It was a wild shot, hitting no one, but it caused the two stage employees to dive for cover, and resulted in allowing him to reach the idle stagecoach where Sam and Cotton Roach had already taken cover.
“What the hell!” Bass demanded. “Where’d them shots come from?”
“Damned if I know,” a breathless Joel Collins answered. “Injuns, soldiers, I don’t know. Did anybody see?”
“They mighta come from that hill on the other side of the draw,” Roach said.
“One thing for sure,” Bass said, “they ain’t got around behind us, else we’d sure know it by now. I don’t see no use in us hangin’ around here to find out who the hell it is. We got what we came for. Where the hell is Ben with the horses?”
“We might better get them guns layin’ in the dirt on the other side of this coach,” Roach said.
“You go right ahead,” Bass replied. “I ain’t stickin’ my nose out there to get shot.”
“There’s a good Winchester rifle layin’ out there. I ain’t ready to ride off and leave it,” Cotton insisted. “I’m gonna see if I can slip around the back of this coach and pick it up real quick.”
“It’s your neck,” Collins said.
Roach left the rear wheel of the coach, where he had taken cover, and eased cautiously around the back of the coach to crouch behind the opposite wheel. He hesitated there long enough to satisfy himself that the stage driver and his shotgun rider had withdrawn from the road and taken refuge in a gully. There was no sound in the notch save that of the horses still hitched to the coach as they stomped nervously. He looked at the Winchester lying several feet from him for a second, then decided to see if he could fish for it with his own rifle. Almost successful, but just a few inches short of hooking the rifle, he strained to reach as far as he could. “Damn,” he murmured under his breath, and crawled to the rim of the wheel, giving himself a few more inches of reach. He extended his arm as far as he could until he felt his fingertips rest on the butt of the Winchester. Two shots in rapid succession immediately sang out. The first threw dirt in his face. The second smashed the fingers on his hand. “That son of a bitch!” he cried out in pain, and quickly retreated under the stage, narrowly missing getting run over when the horses jumped at the sound of the shots.
“Let’s get the hell outta here!” Sam yelled when the coach moved away from them, leaving them exposed. It was unnecessary to repeat it, for all three headed for the hill behind them as fast as they could manage, encouraged in their effort by the rifle slugs peppering the ground at their heels. They were met by Ben Cheney halfway to the gulch where they had left their horses. Taking no time for explanations, they jumped in the saddle and hightailed it—all except Cotton Roach. Seething with rage as he held his damaged hand up close to his chest, craving vengeance for the shooter crippling him, he pulled up short and turned to look back. “Come on, Cotton,” Ben Cheney yelled back at him, but Roach ignored him.
Behind them, two astonished stage employees, a woman, and two young girls crawled warily out of a narrow gully, not sure what had just happened. Undecided if they were entirely out of danger or not, Bob Allen cocked the rifle he was holding and hurried to check on Wilbur Bean. “Nothin’ we can do for Wilbur,” he said when Larry knelt by his side. “He’s gone under.”
“Damn shame,” Larry said, shaking his head. “He shouldn’t never have tried it.”
“He was a good man,” Bob said. He turned to stare at the low ridge east of the road. “Somebody sure knows how to use a rifle,” he commented, then added, “I hope to hell it ain’t a party of Sioux Indians who happened to come along and is thinkin’ about claimin’ the spoils for themselves.”
“Poor ol’ Mr. Grant,” Larry said, looking at the frail body lying near the dead bandit. He didn’t really know the man, but he figured somebody back east would be grieving for him. The unfortunate little man was out of place in this rough country. That much he was sure of. He turned then to give Bob a serious look. “You know that son of a bitch—excuse me, ladies—that bandit was fixin’ to shoot the lot of us.” Thinking of how terrifying it must have been for the lady and her daughters, he asked, “Are you all right, ma’am? Things didn’t look too good back there, did they?”
Mary didn’t answer. She was distracted by the sight of a tall young man with a bright red bandanna around his neck leading a buckskin horse, just then emerging from a ring of pine trees along the base of the east ridge. “Look, Mama,” Emma, her youngest, said, and pointed. Both Bob Allen and Larry Bacon spun around immediately, ready to face whatever threat might now be confronting them.
“Don’t shoot,” Mary exclaimed. “The man just saved our lives.”
“Maybe he has, and maybe he ain’t. Let’s just wait and see what he’s got on his mind,” Larry said. He was not ready to trust anyone at this point. “Watch him, Bob.” They were not alone in witnessing the appearance of the mysterious rifleman. Beyond the first grove of pines on the hillside, Cotton Roach stared hard at the broad-shouldered young man leading the horse. Not concerned that his fellow gang members were disappearing into the hills, he remained long enough to make sure he never forgot the man. Even though he could not see his face clearly at that distance, he could remember the way he strode easily across the stage road, and the bright red bandanna he wore. Roach tried to pull his rifle with his left hand, but it was clumsy and his right hand was throbbing in pain so intense that he couldn’t use it at all. He finally gave up trying, knowing it would only waste a shot if he tried to shoot. Furious and frustrated, he finally wheeled his horse and went after his partners. “I’ll run up on you sometime,” he promised himself. “You ain’t gettin’ away with this.”
“You folks all right?” Cam Sutton called out when still some yards away from the people standing in the middle of the road.
Seeing no need for the caution expressed by Bob and Larry, Mary answered, “Yes, we are, thanks to you. If you hadn’t come along when you did, we’d all be lying in the dirt beside poor Mr. Grant.”
“We’re beholdin’ to you, young feller,” Bob said, still holding the rifle ready to use in case it was necessary. “The lady’s right, they was fixin’ to kill the lot of us, her and the young’uns, too, I s’pose. They got away with all the money we was carryin’. Ain’t a dime left.”
The insinuation was lost on Cam. “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t get here soon enough to help that poor feller, but I was on the far side of that ridge when I heard the first shot.” He paused a moment to look at the late Travis Grant, then walked over to stare down at Jack Dawson’s body where it lay facedown after it had finally keeled over. It was the first man he had ever killed, and he was not sure how he felt about that. It was only for a moment, however, for he realized the consequences had he not acted. He reached down and turned the body over, so he could see the face. It was a cruel face, twisted grotesquely in the moment of death. No different than killing a rattlesnake about to strike, he told himself. Standing tall again, he said, “At least you still got your stagecoach.” He turned to look a couple of hundred yards back up the road where the team of horses had stopped after being frightened by the shots. “I’ll ride up and bring ’em back for you.” He climbed into the saddle and rode off to retrieve the coach.
As they watched their rescuer ride away, five-year-old Emma spoke. “Mama, he sure is pretty, isn’t he?” Her comment broke the tension of the moment, causing them all to chuckle.
“I reckon you’re right, little missy,” Bob said. “He sure looked pretty to me when he opened up with that rifle, didn’t he, Larry?”
“That’s a fact,” Larry answered. Then his expression turned cold sober, as if the realization of their situation had just struck home. “We weren’t a frog’s hair from gettin’ a ticket on the same train Mr. Grant and Wilbur took.”
Her eyes still on the broad back of the rifleman, Emma wondered aloud, “Do you think he’s an angel, Mama?”
Mary reached down and drew her daughter up close for a hug. “I don’t know, honey. He might be, but not the kind of angel that came to take Grandmother up to heaven. Maybe he’s just somebody an angel sent to help us when we needed help.”
Grace gave her younger sister a long, patient gaze and informed her, “Angels don’t shoot people, and they don’t ride horses.”
Mary smiled but said nothing. This one might, she thought.
Cam took hold of the lead horse’s bridle and led the team back to the scene of the holdup, where Bob took over. “Mister,” Bob said, “I’m mighty glad to make your acquaintance.” He extended his hand. “I’m Bob Allen, and this is my partner, Larry Bacon. These folks here is Mrs. Bishop and Grace and Emma.” He beamed at the two girls. “Did I get that right?”
“You did,” Mary answered for her daughters, and extended her hand as well. “I’m Mary Bishop, and I thank you for your help.”
“I’m Cam Sutton,” he said after a brief handshake. “Glad I could help.” He then turned to Bob. “You can’t be much more than five miles or so from Hat Creek, if you were headin’ north.”
“We are,” Bob said. “We’re scheduled to stop there for the night.”
“Maybe I’ll ride along with you, just in case those fellows decide to come back, although I don’t see any reason why they would.”
“We’d appreciate it,” Bob replied. “You never can tell. They was just about to clean all our pockets out when you showed up, even if they’d be damn fools to try it again.” He nodded to Larry. “I reckon we’d best put Wilbur and Mr. Grant on the stage and take ’em in to Hat Creek.”
“I don’t reckon we oughta put them bodies in the coach with the lady and her girls,” Larry commented.
Mary quickly replied, “We won’t mind. I’m sure it won’t be any worse than riding with that Mr. Smith. That man just looked evil, and he never said a word, just stared at us with those eyes that looked like glass.”
Bob was in agreement with Larry, however. “Ain’t no need for you to have to ride with a couple of corpses,” he said. “Won’t be no trouble to load ’em on top.”
Contrary to what Bob said, it was a little more trouble to haul two dead bodies up on top of the Concord coach, but with Cam’s help, they were soon loaded. “What about him?” Cam asked, indicating the one still on the ground.
“To hell with him,” Bob said. “Let the buzzards have him.” He hesitated, then decided. “We’ll just drag him outta the road, though.” He and Larry each grabbed an ankle and pulled the late Jack Dawson over to dump him in the gully they had taken refuge in before.
Chapter 2
By the time they rolled into Hat Creek Station, the sun was already poised on the horizon, preparing to settle down in the hills to the west. They were met by Fred Johnson, who was the acting manager in the absence of John Bowman or Joe Walters, the men who built the ranch. “You folks are running a little late, ain’t you?” Johnson asked when greeting them. Taking note of the two bodies atop the Concord coach, he commented, “You’ve took to haulin’ some unusual freight.”
“I reckon you could sure ’nough say that,” Bob replied as he climbed down from the seat. “One of them bodies up there is Wilbur Bean. He was ridin’ messenger. The other’n is a passenger. I reckon we’ll have to put ’em in the ground. I’ll notify the office about the passenger, and they can contact his family. Then if they wanna come dig him up and have a funeral, that’s up to them. Poor ol’ Wilbur, he ain’t got no family that I know of.” He went on to tell Fred about the holdup. “The young feller on the buckskin is Cam Sutton. If he hadn’t come along when he did, you and me wouldn’t be talking about it right now.”
Bob took it upon himself to get Mary and the girls settled in a room in the hotel while Cam helped Larry with the horses and the coach. There was the matter of the two bodies lying atop the coach that would have to be dealt with, but the first thing to do, after Mary was settled, was to notify the office in Cheyenne about the robbery and the deaths that resulted. Fred Johnson went with Bob to the telegraph office to send the message.
Cam had been to the stage station half a dozen times over the past couple of years, and he knew the hotel had a good cook. In addition t
o the hotel, there was a telegraph office, a post office, a bakery, a grocery, a blacksmith, and even a small brewery. It always seemed like a regular city to him with little else to be desired. Built below a ridge of pine-covered hills separating the high plain from the valley at the foot of those hills, it was not really located on Hat Creek. Back in 1875, some army troops were sent from Fort Laramie to establish a fort on Hat Creek in Nebraska to protect travelers from Indian attacks. The soldiers never got to Nebraska, but thought they had when they reached Sage Creek in Wyoming Territory. They called it Hat Creek anyway, and set up their camp. It never did develop into a fort, but it had turned into a fine stagecoach station now that the Indian threat was reduced and the Black Hills were open to prospectors.
“Let’s go get ourselves some supper,” Bob sang out when he returned from the telegraph office.
“Since we’re so late, I thought we might skip it tonight,” Larry said, and winked at Cam. He couldn’t help japing his partner a little, knowing full well that Bob Allen would never swing through Hat Creek without visiting the hotel dining room. The little Japanese woman who ran the kitchen had caught his eye. Atsuko was the lady’s name, and Bob got all tongue-tied whenever he tried to have a conversation with her. She seemed to know it and made a point of sidling up to his table and talking to him whenever he came in.
“Suit yourself,” Bob advised him. “Damned if I’m gonna skip supper. I’ve had a busy day. I need some vittles.” He then turned to Cam. “I know a young feller like you can always eat, so come on, I’ll gladly buy your supper. I owe you a helluva lot more than that.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Cam insisted. “You’da helped me if it had been the other way around.” He flashed a wide grin. “But I’ll take you up on the supper.”
Long Road to Cheyenne Page 2