by Phil Dunlap
“Don’t you mean ‘our’ money, Virgil?” said Ben, with a suspicious look.
“Uh, yeah, that’s what I meant.” Virgil quickly turned away to avoid any further discussion on the subject.
Jack scrambled up and over some boulders where he could get a better view of the Cruz gang keeping under cover about thirty yards away across a shallow ravine. Henry moved to his side. As he reached a point where he could pick out each of the outlaw gang’s positions, Jack looked up and saw the train approaching.
“Damn! Looks like Cotton didn’t get it stopped, after all. I reckon it’s up to us now. You got any ideas, Henry?”
“I follow you. You lead way.”
I’m beginning to wish I’d never met Cotton Burke, Jack mused to himself.
“Okay, Henry, I count six of them. We’ll try to take out those closest to us first, then work our way toward where the train will likely have to stop.” He pointed to where he estimated the engine had to stop to avoid derailing.
Henry nodded, and without waiting for any further thoughts Jack might think of adding, he leapt from his perch and, keeping as low as possible to avoid early detection, began to snake around through the brush toward an outlaw who had settled behind a small pile of timbers left behind from when the rail was first laid.
Henry moved so quickly and quietly, he was on the man in seconds. The last sound the man heard was Henry slipping his Bowie knife from its scabbard. He died as his life’s blood spurted from a deep slash across his throat, the shock in his eyes a testament to his killer’s stealth. Henry was about to advance on another position when the locomotive reached the bottom of the incline. As soon as the wheels hit the thick globs of grease that had been applied to the tracks, the train slowed, as the big engine’s drive wheels began to spin, unable to sustain sufficient traction to make the grade. Just when it looked as though Cruz and his minions were about to take the day, the wide sliding doors to two rail cars were flung open and four men in long, black trail dusters came out, blazing away with rifles and shotguns. Two of Cruz’s men went down to the fusillade before they could even return fire. That left only Ben, Blade, and Virgil. Any thought of a successful robbery was immediately forgotten.
Virgil Cruz was mean through and through, but nobody said he was stupid. He did the only smart thing a man could do in this situation: he ran. Ran like the wind for his horse. Escaping those deadly guns was his only concern. The money could wait for another day. Ben and Blade were right behind him. They reached their horses almost simultaneously, leapt into their saddles, and spurred them to a dead run.
Jack watched as the three sped off across the desert. He and Henry and the others stepped out from their positions behind rocks or mesquite and joined the four at the open doors of the express car.
“You men sure do come prepared. Glad to see you,” said Jack, holding out his hand to one of the men. “We were running short of ways to get them critters corralled.”
“Your sheriff telegraphed the station at Gopher Crossing. Just so happened we had arrived by stage about an hour before. We’re railroad detectives. We were headed to Fort Apache. Lucky we was close by when the help was needed.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance. This bunch is down to just three; I reckon they’ll scatter to the winds,” said Jack. “Maybe I can pick off one or two before it’s all over.”
“We’re going to have to get some help out here to repair the track up ahead. Got any ideas?”
“We can help if Mr. Stump don’t need us,” said one of the Wagner men.
Jack just shrugged. “Sounds all right. You fellas give’em a hand, then head on back to the Wagner place. Probably got your work cut out for you there, too. Thanks for your help.”
Henry insisted on staying with Jack to track down Cruz and his two cutthroats. Jack acknowledged he was grateful for the help. They rode off in the direction the outlaws had taken.
After they had made their way across the dry, hot desert for almost a half hour, Henry stopped, got off, and bent over some tracks. “They go different ways.” He pointed to where the three had split off in what appeared to be two different directions.
Jack studied the tracks, scratched his head, and squinted at the way each man seemed to be headed. Then an idea struck him.
“If I got that low-down rattlesnake, Virgil Cruz, figured right, the opportunity to put a stop to his gunslingin’ days is at hand,” said Jack. “It looks like these tracks goin’ off to the left are his, and I’ll bet that’s what some shot-up sheriff figured all along.”
“You not follow Cruz?”
“Nope. Don’t think I need to. Even all bandaged up and in pain, Cotton can take care of himself. He is one tough buzzard. Cruz don’t know who he’s up against.”
“What you want me to do?” asked Henry.
“My guess is the other two are goin’ back to gather their belongings and probably hit up Cappy Brennan for whatever cash the ranch has on hand. I’d like to head ’em off before the Brennans have to face them alone. Think the two of us can get to the Double-B spread before they get there?”
“They not Apache.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Chapter 58
Henry and Jack urged their mounts over ground Blade and Ben wouldn’t have dared tackle. The sure-footed pony carried the Apache with the precision of a bullet, allowing nothing—no obstacle, no incline, no rock-strewn hillock—to deter him. Jack’s horse followed closely.
When they came to the top of the rise overlooking the Brennan ranch house, Henry stopped to look for signs that Ben and Blade might have arrived before him. There were no horses to be seen, none tied to the rail in front of the big house. Their horses began a cautious walk toward the ranch house. They’d no sooner gotten there than a man came running out waving a meat cleaver and yelling.
“No come here! Go way!”
Henry reined in, his eyes wide at the sight of the angry Chinaman. Jack held up his hand.
“It’s me, Wu Chang, Jack Stump. The outlaws are on their way here. They’ll arrive very soon. And they’ll likely be lookin’ for all the cash they can steal.”
Wu Chang stopped, blinked. Then shook his head in dismay.
“So solly, Missa Jack. Old eyes not what they used to be. I no recognize from distance.”
Wu Chang had been with the Brennans through many good times and bad, although trouble seemed to have engulfed the Double-B ever since the Cruz bunch signed on. Now, according to Jack, more of it was on the way. Chang’s shoulders slumped. He shook his head as he motioned for them to get down and come into the house.
“I hide horses first,” Henry said to Jack. He led their mounts around to the back of the house and tied them to the porch railing. Jack followed Wu Chang inside. As the heavy front door closed, Cappy ran down the stairs with a gun in his hand.
“Jack? Damn, I’m glad to see you. Did you kill all them scoundrels?” he said, waving the .44 in Henry’s face.
Wu Chang spoke up. “He say bad men coming to rob us.”
Cappy lowered his revolver. “Damn!”
“Ben and Blade are on their way. I figure on stopping them, with your help of course.”
Cappy looked as if he’d been overwhelmed by sudden darkness. He glanced around for a way back into the light. “Uh, wh-what do I have to do? I-I ain’t no gunslinger. Dad is upstairs, still all busted up, barely able to lift his head let alone hold off gunmen. Wu Chang is just a cook. He ain’t never killed anything but chickens.”
As Henry entered, Jack turned and said, “You two set up to defend the house. I’ll go around back and come at them from the corral.”
Henry nodded. He turned to Cappy and said, “You have shotgun?”
“Sure. There, by the fireplace.” Cappy went over and grabbed it up. He broke the breech and checked to make certain it was loaded. It was. “Okay. Now what?”
“When men come, we be ready.”
Even though fear gripped the young man and he was shaking li
ke a leaf, Cappy got the picture real quick when Henry went out on the stone porch and squatted down, out of sight of anyone approaching. Cappy did the same on the other side of the steps to await Ben and Blade’s arrival.
“What if I miss? They’ll shoot me quick enough. I ain’t never been in a gunfight.” Cappy’s nervousness was getting the best of him. Those who had called him a bookworm were right. His only heroic adventures had come while reading James Fenimore Cooper.
“You stay down. I shoot first. If miss, use shotgun, defend self and father.”
Cappy had started to say something else when the sound of horses approaching at a fast pace reached their ears. Henry checked his Spencer. His rifle would be much more accurate at a greater distance than the six-guns of Blade and Ben. He could get off two or three shots before they were close enough to hit anything from the back of a racing horse.
When the distance was right, Henry leapt to his feet and cranked off a quick shot before Ben and Blade could get their guns out and return fire. His bullet missed its mark, but got the outlaw’s attention. Both men yanked back on their reins, urging their mounts to get out of the line of fire, so they could dismount and find cover. Their expressions showed surprise at anyone’s having the spine to attempt to thwart their intentions to rob the ranch.
Henry chambered another round, quickly squeezed off another shot, and Blade went down that time, blown from his saddle and dumped on his back in the dirt, dead. Urging his mount to a run, Ben got two quick shots off as Henry chambered another round. But Cappy suddenly stood up from behind the stone railing and pulled both triggers on the scattergun. The spread of buckshot, while somewhat off target, crashed into Ben’s right shoulder, knocking him off his horse. He lost his six-gun in the dirt. He scrambled to find his revolver and get to his feet before either Henry or Cappy could get another chance at him.
Ben was about fifteen feet from the porch now, and on foot, stumbling about, fumbling to get a firm grip on his gun. He kept on the move, making himself an unreliable target. As he struggled with his revolver using his left hand, stumbling left and right with his uneasy horse as cover, he was shocked to suddenly come face-to-face with Jack, the Remington aimed right at his head. Ben tried to cock and fire, but Jack beat him to it.
Ben’s expression as the bullet struck him in the forehead was a mixture of shock and dismay. Drenched in his own blood, Ben tried to mutter something before crumpling to the dirt. The Cruz gang was now all but decimated. Cappy sat on the steps and began to shake; the shotgun clattered to the ground. Tears of relief flowed down his cheeks. “I told you I wasn’t a gunslinger,” muttered Cappy.
“You no coward,” said Henry, putting his hand on Cappy’s shoulder. “You ready when needed. Good man.”
Wu Chang shook his head and clucked his tongue at the sight of the two bloody corpses.
Jack motioned for Henry to get their horses. “We’d better get to town and see what’s befallen my ol’ buddy, Cotton.”
“Wait, no go yet,” said Wu Chang, “Missa Hank want to thank you. Come into house, prease.”
They stopped, thought about that for a second, then followed the Chinaman. Upstairs, Hank was all smiles when Wu Chang told him of the exchange that had just occurred in his own front yard. And how Jack, Henry, and Cappy had risked their lives to protect the ranch, killing at least two of the men who had been involved with the attempt on Hank’s life.
“I swear I wish I had twenty men just like you two. You fellas ever want a job, with good pay, you come to me. I owe you that and more.” Hank winced as his movements became too exuberant, and he dropped back onto his pillow.
“You have a brave son, Hank,” Jack said. “You need him now.”
Hank looked at Cappy and nodded. “I reckon I do, at that.”
“I owe much to Emily Wagner. Must return to her.” Henry turned on his heel and strode from the room and down the staircase as a man with high purpose. He had been saved from certain death by the Wagners; he had returned the favor by risking his life to save Emily Wagner. His debt was paid. He now would return to the ranch and stand tall among the white cowboys. From now on, if it had ever not been so, he would be regarded as an equal in all respects. His pleasure at how the events of the day had played out showed in his smile as he rode through the gates of the Brennan ranch.
“That Indian risked a lot to help us out. You suppose he’d accept some money?” Hank said.
“I doubt he wants any reward. He only wants to get back to the Wagner ranch and take up where he left off before Cruz and his bunch tried to pull off the biggest haul in the territory. At least that’s what they thought.”
“What do you mean?” said Cappy.
“One of the railroad detectives on the Southern Pacific told me there wasn’t any money on that train. When the railroad got wind of that article in the newspaper about the million-dollar shipment, they changed their plans and sent it out a week ago. It arrived safe and sound. It may turn out that the whole thing started when a newspaperman with not enough facts and a big mouth got too big for his britches. Or maybe he had something else in mind, like a way to come into some quick money,” Jack said, raising one eyebrow.
Cappy said, “What will you do now? Would you consider staying on and becoming our foreman? It was Hank’s idea.”
“Thanks, Cappy, but I’m afraid hard work just isn’t my style. I’m goin’ home and take up where I left off with a gal that thinks I’m near perfect. I only hope she never learns the truth.”
Chapter 59
Cruz figured he wasn’t whipped yet. He still had one card he hadn’t played: the woman in the cabin. Emily Wagner. While Cotton Burke was alive, he wouldn’t have let anything happen to her. Now that the sheriff was dead, she would still serve as Cruz’s hostage, his shield for a clean getaway. The townsfolk would let him pass because they wouldn’t want a dead woman on their conscience. Then he figured he’d kill her just for good measure.
Cruz kicked the mare into a dead run through the canyon and up the narrow draw to the shack where Emily Wagner was his prisoner. As he pulled up, Cruz jumped from the saddle and raced up the steps to the cabin. He knew he couldn’t be more than a few minutes ahead of whoever would be following him. Probably that damnable Jack Stump. He gritted his teeth at the thought. Dead silence surrounded the cabin. Only the incessant buzzing of flies filled the air. And the stench of something dead. He burst through the door to the darkened room. A shaft of light spilled in. He instantly saw what was missing: his captive.
Furious, he screamed, “Where the hell is that bitch? With my bare hands, I’ll kill the man who let her go! Dogman, you bastard, where are you?”
From behind him, back deep in the shadows, a voice said, “He had another engagement.”
Cruz spun around, pulling his .44 from its holster, his eyes fighting to adjust to the dark as he searched for the source of the voice that had challenged him.
A single shot rang out.
The bullet hit Cruz in the right shoulder, spinning him to the floor. His tumbling body knocked over the table, spilling plates and cups with a clatter, and sending the lantern crashing in a puddle of kerosene. Cruz lay groaning as he clutched at his wound, struggling to free his right hand, which still held the six-shooter.
Sheriff Cotton Burke stepped out of the dark and into the light from the open door. He stopped a few feet from where Cruz lay. The outlaw’s mouth twisted in hatred as he glared up in shock at the man who had shot him.
“You! You’re supposed to be dead! You bastard! You killed my brother and now you want me, too. Ain’t no surprise to see you in cahoots with a ringer like Jack Stump. I shoulda blown you both to hell myself.” Cruz spit out the words as if they had been caught in his throat.
“Yep. I reckon you should have played your hand the way you saw it, Cruz. But it’s a mite late now. The way I see it, the only chance you got now is to let that gun drop to the floor and let me take you in to see the doctor. He’ll get that shoulder patched up good e
nough for you to spend the rest of your days in a lonely, cold prison bustin’ rocks.” Cotton let a twisted smile cross his face, a smile that couldn’t hide his hatred for Cruz.
“Uh-huh. You ain’t aimin’ to turn me over to no prison guards; you figure to patch me up so you can drag me out to get my neck stretched. Ain’t that right? Since you’re a lawman, you cain’t collect no reward, can you?”
“ ’Fraid that’s about the size of it, pardner. Maybe you’re right. A necktie party would be more fittin’ than prison. Besides, any reward on you wouldn’t be worth dry spit. Anyway, I owe you for what you did to Emily Wagner.”
“Where is the bitch?”
“Safe. And she’ll stay that way.”
“But what about that Stump fella? He’s wanted. He had a poster on himself. I saw it with my own eyes. What about that three hundred dollars on his head? How the hell could he be workin’ both sides of the fence and not get caught?”
“Twenty-five cents and a friend in the printing business can get a man all the wanted posters he needs. Money wisely spent, I’d say. Now, for the last time, how about lettin’ that hogleg drop to the floor.”
“I knew I shoulda gone ahead and killed that Wagner woman. I planned to anyway.”
Before Cotton could say anything else, Cruz twisted his body around and brought the six-shooter up in Cotton’s direction. The second smoky blast left no doubt that Virgil Cruz was not going to be taken into Apache Springs to stretch hemp or go to prison. A dark red splotch spread over his filthy shirt where Cotton’s bullet had struck him in his chest—dead center. His dying spasm squeezed off one shot that nearly took his own foot off. One final, burbling gasp and Cruz slumped back, his body jammed between the stove and the wall, staining the rotting wood with his life’s blood.
Cotton slipped the Colt back into its holster and walked outside into the sunlight. He pulled a cigarito from his vest pocket, struck a lucifer, lit it, and drew deeply of the smoke.