“Should be easy, won’t even have to pull a trigger,” Huxley said confidently.
“Who’s the sheriff? Pudney said, considering the plan.
“Iver Johansson, former Texas Ranger.”
“That bastard is still alive? Good idea of yours to get him out of town,” Pudney said.
“I say we just shoot the old buzzard and be done with him,” growled Wilson. “And that peckerwood deputy, too.”
Pudney shook his head and laughed, “Oh sure, kill a lawman, a ranger besides, and give every starpacker a reason to hunt us like dogs. Boy, you must be some special kind of stupid.”
Anger flashed on Wilson’s face as he leapt to his feet. He was amazed that Pudney had stood up equally fast and his right hand hovered above his pistol. “I ain’t stupid, and I’ll take no crap from a weasel like you,” he said between grit teeth. His hand clawed for his pistol when he felt part of his ear separate from his body. Screaming, he grabbed his ear which was bleeding badly and glowered and Pudney who was holding a smoking and cocked revolver in his hand.
“I call it the way I see it,” Pudney said in a tone that was smooth as silk. “Still think you can shade me?”
“You done shot off my ear!” yelled Wilson, grimacing in pain.
“I would have put it in your ugly face if we didn’t need you for this job. Get sideways to me again and I will, savvy?”
Pete Huxley stepped between them. “Get his ear fixed up, Luther, I think we’re done here. Right, Bob?”
Pudney smiled as he spun his pistol and landed neatly in his holster. “Yup.”
They had to wait a full day because the stage only ran every other day. Frank Wilson’s mood was uglier than ever because every time he tried to sleep he would roll on his shot up ear and yell out in pain. He tried to nullify the agony with what whiskey they had left but that only made him meaner. The morning of the robbery Huxley and Bent rode out to cut down the tree. When that was done they picked up Pudney and Wilson a mile outside of town. Wilson rode into town at a fast gallop yelling that the stage was being held up. Just as he had planned, the sheriff and two men rode past where they where, riding at fast gallop. The three of them trotted their horses into the town and straight up to the bank. They dismounted and handed Bent the reins. After taking a quick look around, Huxley and Pudney pulled their neckerchiefs over their mouths and entered the bank. To their surprise the bank was empty except for one man sitting with one leg on the desk pointing a twelve gauge shotgun directly at them.
“Hello, Pete, been a long time,” he said.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Pete said pulling down his neckerchief. “Blake Thorton.”
******
Two days prior to the robbery Blake was still angry at the way the sheriff had treated him. He tried to put it out of his mind by working on the forge. Things were quiet in the town but Blake knew they were on borrowed time, waiting for Huxley to make his move. Blake thought about going out to find Huxley and his men, but thought better of it because he had no proof of what they were planning and, once Huxley recognized him, the whole situation would change, and not for the better.
Blake had been assigned to the same unit as Huxley during the war. Blake enlisted almost a year before the war ended, because he had been drifting with no real sense of purpose and a friend of his from back home had talked him into it … a decision he regretted moments after he signed on. Having been living free for so long, he immediately found it to be difficult to obey orders from men he didn’t respect and the army was full of that sort. He found himself in the stockade several times for minor infractions and was relieved of stripes more than once. That’s where he first met Pete Huxley. Huxley was being held on several charges and was on the road to a court martial someday. As many men do in jail, he was a big talker and tried to get the other men to join him. Most men, including Blake, wanted nothing to do with him because it meant most likely they would hang beside him when they were caught. There were many that thought he had good ideas. Luther Bent was one of them and the two became good friends.
At one hearing Blake had, his friend from home vouched for him to keep him from doing more jail time. He told the board that Blake had been a blacksmith back home and maybe that would be a good place for him. So Blake ended up with the unit blacksmith who was drunk a majority of the time. He was much happier filling his days with work instead of the mindless drilling that the infantry did.
News came down that the war was drawing to a close. The news spread like wild fire through the camp and most of the men were celebrating, except for Major James Campbell. Campbell liked the war; he became morose and nastier as the days progressed. He left the camp to go on a patrol with a small detachment of men, Blake included, to search out any small pockets of rebel soldiers. It was strange that he requested a blacksmith but orders were orders and Blake went with him. A week into the patrol they came across a small band of rebels and quickly took them prisoner. The ten men they captured were dirty, tired and hungry. There were barely six rounds of ammunition between them and two of them had no boots. There was no fight left in them and they surrendered easily. One of the men captured was Lt. James Nolte, he ordered his men to lay down their arms to save their lives.
Campbell ordered his men to tie the prisoners up and forced them onto a small circle with no rations. Blake and some of the other soldiers felt pity for the beaten men but could not help them for fear of reprisal from his commanding officer. They made camp in a small copse of trees and settled in for the night.
The next morning Major Campbell ordered Blake to his tent. “I want you to make some special items for me, Private Thorton,” he said handing Blake some drawings. Blake examined the prints and thought they were some of the cruelest devices he had ever seen. Collars with shorts spikes on the inside, manacles that allowed no movement whatsoever and a cage made to fit around a man’s head that would cause immeasurable pain.
“I’ve seen pieces like this before, Major,” he said. “They are meant for torture, sir.”
“They are aids for interrogating prisoners, Private,” the major replied with a sadistic smile. “I need information, and I do not wish to dally about it.”
“With all due respect sir, shouldn’t we turn these men in and let Command question them?”
The Major stood so quickly that his chair overturned behind him, and placing his hand on the desk he glowered at Blake. “Construct these items or find yourself in chains next to the prisoners.”
“Yes sir,” Blake said angrily snatching the papers off the desk. The rest of the morning Blake moved very slowly making the torture devices. He knew he couldn’t allow them to be used but it would mean he would end up in front of a firing squad for disobeying orders.
A very impatient Major paced back and forth checking on his progress, frequently ordered him to move faster.
A fellow soldier brought Blake a tin cup of water. “What’s got a burr under his saddle?”
“Look at what he wants me to make,” Blake said quietly when the Major was out of earshot.
“Damn,” he said whistling low. “That ain’t right.”
“Private Winslow,” the Major yelled, making the man jump. “Bring me one of the prisoners, I am anxious to get started with the questioning.”
Blake grabbed Winslow’s arm and shook his head, but Winslow whispered, “Got to boy, or he’ll string me up.” He turned and went over to the prisoners and cut one loose and escorted him to the Major’s tent, past the two guards who had been stationed at the entrance, Huxley and Bent.
Screams and the sounds of breaking bones filled the afternoon as Campbell “questioned” the man. Most of the company went about their business trying to ignore what was happening but Huxley and Bent stood grinning and smirking every time another shriek of agony erupted from the tent. Finally, Campbell emerged covered with blood wiping his hands on a white rag. “Huxley, remove that trash and bring me another,” he glared at Blake and yelled, “Are y
ou finished yet, blacksmith?”
“Just about, Major,” Blake growled back.
“Incompetent fool,” cursed the Major, throwing the rag in the dirt.
Huxley and Bent dragged the lifeless form from the tent and threw it into the bushes. They swaggered past Blake to retrieve another prisoner. “You can’t let him do this,” Blake said in a low voice as they passed him.
“Shit,” said Bent. “I was kinda hopin’ he’d let me take a turn on these Rebel bastards.” Huxley laughed and they went to get the next man.
It was dark when Campbell finished with the next soldier, who fared no better than the first. Exhausted he washed and retired to his tent after admonishing Blake for not completing any of the tasks he had given him.
Blake waited until it was past midnight and the guard watching the prisoners was asleep at his post. Crawling as silently as he could, he made his way over to the captives. He pressed his finger to his lips as he cut the ties on the lieutenant’s wrists. Quietly they cut the others loose and the prisoners crept into the brush. Lt. Nolte smiled at Blake without saying a word, saluted and disappeared. Blake was trying to figure out what his next move was when lightning erupted in his head and his knees buckled. Winslow stood over him holding the rifle that he had just used to knock Blake unconscious. He was in a tight spot himself. He was the guard on duty watching the prisoners and if they escaped the Major would probably have him shot. He waited three hours until he was just about to be relieved when he clouted himself with his own pistol and fired a shot in the air raising the alarm. Men were up and scrambling about when the Major stomped up to him demanding an explanation.
“I caught Private Thorton here lettin’ them rebels go. He done knocked me out and when I woke up I tried to get a shot off but he came at me so I hit him with my rifle butt.”
Campbell gave him a suspicious look. “I grow weary of the level of incompetence in this company,” he snarled. “I want those men recaptured by breakfast and this traitor placed in chains!” he screamed as he gave Blake a savage kick in the ribs. Four of the troopers grabbed rifles and ran into the brush, while Huxley and Bent chained Blake to a tree near the camp. He woke a short time later to a pounding head. When he tried to move he discovered the chains and winced in pain as a wave of nausea swept through him. Blake watched through bleary eyes as Major Campbell cursed and threw things at the four troopers who had returned empty handed. Campbell raised his hand to strike the nearest man when a small round hole appeared in his forehead followed by a gunshot. The camp erupted into chaos as more shots brought down more of Campbell’s company. Huxley and Bent ran for horses and made a quick escape while the other confused men tried to make a stand. The camp was filled with gray uniforms who soon overpowered them. Blake was the only survivor. A large Confederate sergeant walked over to him with a smoking pistol and leveled it at Blake’s head. “Looks like you was headed for a firing squad anyway boy, I’ll just save ‘em the trouble,” he said cocking his pistol.
“Hold your fire, Sergeant!” someone behind him yelled. Lt. James Nolte stepped around the big man and looked at Blake. “I will take charge of this man.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said and holstered his gun.
The young lieutenant bent down and released the chains binding Blake. “Stay close to me,” he said in a low voice, “my friends might not understand why I saved your Yankee hide.”
“Appreciate it,” Blake replied quietly.
“I’ll post two of my men on you tonight. There will be a horse saddled with provisions to last for a short while and a pistol. They were with me at your camp and they know how you helped us. Ride fast and stay low. I hear the war is over and we lost so keep out of sight, it’ll take some time for everybody to get the word.”
“I figure this makes us even,” Blake said with a trace of a smile.
“Yup,” Nolte replied smiling back.
Later that night, true to their word, the two troopers let Blake go after explaining that when they escaped, they came across a company of Confederates. After hearing about what Major Campbell had done they agreed to return and exact revenge on the murderous bastard. Blake thanked them and shook their hands, then he disappeared into the night.
******
“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Huxley asked. “I figured you dead for sure.”
“Not hardly, Pete,” Blake responded in a flat tone. “Been drifting around some and wound up here.”
“Well I don’t see no star on you. Was you robbin’ this bank?” Huxley said smiling, “cause if’n you was, we could throw in together.”
Blake noticed Huxley and Pudney’s hand staying close to their pistols and Pudney had a concerned look on his face. “Nope,” he said. “I saw you and Bent ride in the other night and figured you were up to no good. Took me a while to guess how you were going to do it. Now why don’t you boys drop those pistols and we can end this real peaceable.”
“You ain’t gonna stop us, Blakey-boy,” Huxley said slowly closing his fingers around the grip of his Peacemaker.
“Already have,” Blake growled. He was watching Pudney close and noticed a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth. Blake pulled the first trigger on the twelve gauge as Pudney cleared leather and fired a shot harmlessly into the floor. The force of the blast blew him backward out the plate glass window in front of the bank. Huxley had his pistol out and cocked when Blake hit him with the second barrel of buckshot slamming him against the wall, killing him instantly. Shots erupted on the street as Bent mounted his horse and began firing at the deputy who had hidden around the side of the bank and came out when Blake shot Pudney. Ventosa cut Bent out of his saddle with a rifle shot leaving him dead in the street. A man screamed in pain as Blake came out of the bank and saw Big Man holding Wilson by his damaged ear while Dan LaClare relieved him of his pistol.
“Damn,” said Deputy Ventosa. “You sure called that one right.”
“Lucky guess,” Blake said smiling.
Big Man crow hopped Wilson over to them still holding firmly on his mangled ear. Blood dripped from his fingers and down the side of Wilson’s neck. “I was trying to help!” he yelled. “Let me go, dammit!”
Dan grinned broadly as he handed Wilson’s colt to the deputy. “He had his pistol aimed right at you, constable,” he drawled. “I believe helping you was the farthest thing from his tiny mind.”
“Weren’t you the one who told the sheriff the stage was being robbed?” Ventosa asked.
“What stage?” Wilson winced between grit teeth. Big Man tightened his grip on his ear. “Ow, ow. Yeah I told him,” he cried, trying to get free.
“Well when he gets back and says there was no robbery, I guess he’ll put the noose around your neck. Until then you can rest in the jail.” Big Man started marching Wilson down to the jail being none too careful with his ear.
People started coming out of their shops slowly, unsure if it was safe. “The excitement is over folks,” Ventosa yelled. A tall thin man wearing a top hat ambled up to the deputy. “Got three customers for you, Mr. Griswald.”
The older man grimaced looking at Wilson’s lifeless body. “Shotguns make such a mess,” he muttered. “Who’s paying the bill, deputy?” Ventosa walked over the corpse and looked in his pockets, finding two hundred dollars he handed fifty over to the undertaker and counted off fifty more.
“I imagine Weatherby will be complaining about the mess and his window, this should cover the damages.” He motioned to two men on the street. “Take their horses to the livery and tell Bergman he can sell them and the saddles. He can keep half the money and turn the rest over to the sheriff.”
Phineas Weatherby came wheezing up the steps to Ventosa. “I would have never agreed to this if I had known there would such a mess,” he blustered. Blake smiled and shook his head.
“They were going to rob the bank one way or another. It might have been you lying there,” Ventosa snapped at him handing him the fifty
dollars.
Weatherby mopped his head with a handkerchief. “I suppose I should be grateful,” he said in a sarcastic tone.
Blake and Mike Ventosa looked at each other and then at the banker. “Yup,” they said in unison.
Back in the jail an hour later Blake was enjoying a cup of coffee with Mike when the sheriff came galloping up to the door and dismounted. He threw the door open and brushed the dust from his clothes. “Well?” he growled at Ventosa.
“You’re the last piece, sheriff. Was the stage robbed?” Mike asked, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to Johansson.
The sheriff shot Blake a hard look and growled. “No, there was a tree cut down blocking the road but the driver had it just about cleaned up when we got there.”
“Then our Yankee friend called the whole thing straight. A few minutes after you rode out they hit the bank. Huxley, Bent and Pudney are shakin’ hands with the devil and Wilson is in the back cooling his heels.”
The sheriff sat behind his desk rubbing his forehead. “Tell me again how you figured this all out, Thorton.”
Blake sat back in his chair and recounted everything he knew. He wasn’t sure when they would try to rob the bank until Wilson came riding into town yelling that the stage was being held up. Blake figured that was how they would get rid of the sheriff without killing him and give them plenty of time to escape. Since he had never seen Wilson until the night he rode in with Huxley and Bent, he took the chance on telling Johansson what he thought they were doing. It had been a big gamble but it paid off, when the sheriff agreed to let Ventosa stay back to guard the bank. The tricky part was getting Weatherby to give Blake the keys and be in the bank by himself. Thankfully, Ventosa bought into his idea and practically had to get the keys at gunpoint. Blake quietly slipped into the back door of the bank while Mike had LaClare watch Wilson from across the street. Apparently LaClare enlisted the help of Big Man and together they subdued Wilson.
The Blacksmith Page 13