by Ralph Cotton
“Bob, come on down here,” said Pace. “I want you meet the Cheyenne Kid—an old friend of mine.” He looked at Cheyenne and said, “Can I call you an old friend?”
“Yeah, sure, why not?” said Cheyenne.
An old friend of his? Christ!
Adcock felt a numbness creep down his right arm and set into his gun hand like frostbite.
“So, Bob,” said Cheyenne, “Handy talks like you both know how many guns the colonel has guarding this place any time of night?”
Adcock stared dumbfounded at Pace.
Pace smiled and said, “Go on, Bob, it’s all right. There’s no law against talking things over among friends.”
Curly Bob Adcock was pretty certain there was a law against it. But he wasn’t going to mention it just now. Handy was only playing along with this outlaw, he tried to tell himself, maybe finding out what Cheyenne was up to without tipping his hand? Something like that? Hell, it had to be! If not, he was talking about helping them rob the place!
“Well . . . ,” Adcock said hesitantly, everyone’s cold eyes on him, making him feel as if he had to say something. “There’s a birdcage with two armed guards in it—shotguns and rifles, not to mention their sidearms.”
“Hell, Bob,” Pace said with the wave of a hand, “he’d figure all that for himself over a drink at the bar. Tell him what else,” he coaxed. “Tell him about the other guards, the ones spread out here and there.”
Damn, what was Pace doing?
Adcock looked at Cheyenne and started to speak. But Cheyenne cut him off before he began.
“Why don’t we climb down and walk around into the alley, out of sight? Maybe Bob doesn’t want to talk about this right here on the colonel’s front doorstep.”
As the men and the woman climbed down from their saddles, Adcock stood in close to Pace and whispered in his ear, “Are we doing right, telling them what we know about the place?”
Pace gave him a look and said, “What do you mean we? You’re the one’s been telling him everything.”
Adcock gave him a sick look as the three gunmen and Pace moved him along with him into the alleyway. The woman stood among the horses at the hitch rail, as if keeping watch on them.
“Do you know any gunmen who’ll hold this town down for us while we make a getaway?” Cheyenne asked Pace inside the alley.
“Sure do,” said Pace. “There’s several here who’d jump at the chance to do some shooting for you.” He smiled and patted Adcock’s shoulder. “Bob here can set all that up for you.”
Adcock stared at him, dumbstruck.
Chapter 17
Leading their horses in the long shadows of evening, the Ranger, Little Foot and Gilley Maclaine—her horse limping—stopped walking when they came upon the bodies of Tanner Riggs and Lou Elkins. The two outlaws lay where they had fallen: Riggs beneath the mountain oak, Elkins half in the running stream, his bullet-shattered head bobbing slightly.
“Looks like trouble amongst themselves,” Sam said, eyeing the surrounding area. He moved upstream from the corpse and let his barb drink. Beside him, Little Foot dropped his horse’s reins and let it drink as well.
Even though the water had long since quit running red with Elkins’ blood, Little Foot stooped down, took the outlaw by his boots and dragged him a few feet out of the water. The outlaw’s head fell limp to the side.
A few feet farther upstream, Gilley led her limping horse into the cool water and splashed water onto the animal’s foreleg with her cupped hands.
“How’s the horse’s leg?” Sam called out to her.
Gilley looked back at him and shook her head.
“He’s bruised bad,” she said. “He’ll be all right with some time off it. But he’s not going to carry a rider for a while.”
Sam thought about it. Beside him Little Foot shook his head, knowing how hard this terrain could be on a lame animal.
“I can’t take her with me, and I can’t leave her behind,” Sam said. He looked at Little Foot. “Cheyenne didn’t get what he needed from the bank in Nawton. What’s his best shot at making a good-paying robbery?”
“Iron Hat,” Little Foot said without having to think about it. He pointed north, into a line of tall, jagged peaks.
“Another bank?” Sam asked his trail scout.
“No,” said Little Foot, “the bank in Iron Hat went out of business last winter. There is a saloon there that draws its people from every direction. It is called the Colonel’s Sky-High Saloon and Sporting House.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Sam said. “It belongs to Colonel Steadly Moser?”
“Yes,” said Little Foot. “He was a colonel in the army of the South, cousin to President Jefferson Davis himself.”
“Known by his men as ‘Ol’ Bloody Sword,’” Sam added.
Little Foot nodded and said, “His saloon is the only business in Iron Hat worth robbing. If they did not go to Iron Hat, they took a lower trail leading northwest. But there is no place along that lower trail with the kind of money a man like Cheyenne would be interested in.”
Sam gazed off along the trail, considering things.
“Will you stay back with Gilley, the two of you ride double, bring the lame horse forward easylike? I’ll leave you sign of which trail I take following them.”
“We will ride double and take it easy with the lame horse, as you say,” Little Foot said. “But you do not have to leave me any sign. I am a trail scout,” he said indignantly. “I track without you leaving me any sign.”
“I know you can,” Sam said diplomatically. “I was thinking about the woman.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll show her which way you went,” Little Foot said. “But it’s better that you tell her what we’re doing. I don’t think she will listen to me.”
While the barb drank, Sam walked to where Gilley led her horse back to the stream bank.
“I’m going to ride on by myself,” he said. “I want you and Little Foot to follow. Where the trail forks three ways, I’ll leave a sign which direction I went. I’ve got a feeling they’ll head for Iron Hat. Little Foot says it’s the nearest place Cheyenne can pick up some money.”
Gilley smiled. “I really tied a big knot in his plans, stealing all his stolen money, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” Sam said. “For what it’s worth, Cheyenne was a fool to take you lightly.” He paused, then said, “He was an even bigger fool, treating you the way he did.”
Gilley looked a little embarrassed.
“You don’t have to say that, Sam,” she said, “but thanks all the same.”
“I’m not just saying it, Gilley,” Sam said. “I’m saying it because I mean it.”
She smiled.
“You and Little Foot look after each other,” Sam said. “I’ll see you as soon as you catch up to me.”
She watched him gather his reins, step up into his saddle, turn the barb to the trail and ride away.
* * *
In Iron Hat, Cheyenne and his men stood in an alley behind a freight office watching the two off-duty saloon guards, Pace and Adcock, walk toward them. As the four approached, Latin and Tarpis stood flanking Cheyenne. Caroline Udall was back a few yards holding the reins to their four horses. Beside Cheyenne, Dock Latin stared straight ahead.
“This fellow Pace talked like you and him are good friends from way back, Cheyenne,” he said sidelong. “Any truth to it?”
“No, not a lick,” Cheyenne said. “I met him a time or two, but we never made a job together, never had to drop a hammer side by side.”
“So, he’s just a weasel?” asked Tarpis, standing on Cheyenne’s other side.
“He was a politician in Kansas, I heard,” Cheyenne said. “Once he got thrown out of office for drinking so much he couldn’t find his horse. There wa
s nothing he was fit for except shooting pool, stealing, lying, double-crossing.”
“All the traits of a public office holder,” said Tarpis. “Can I shoot him when we’re all finished up here?”
“Let’s see how it goes,” said Cheyenne. “He talked this Adcock fellow right into siding with us. He’s pretty slick. I have to give him that.”
Tarpis spit in contempt and wiped his hand across his lips.
“I always wanted to shot a politician, just to see if there’s any blood in him,” he said.
Cheyenne smiled to himself as the four men stopped a few feet back and stood looking at him.
“Cheyenne,” said Delbert Pace, “this is Neil Corkins and Sandy Hollenbeck. Two good gunmen.” To Corkins and Hollenbeck, he said proudly, “Fellows, this is the Cheyenne Kid, a very good friend of mine.”
“This son of a bitch . . . ,” Tarpis growled under his breath.
Bob Adcock stood staring rigidly, a man clearly knocked off center by the events unfolding around him.
“Howdy, Cheyenne,” said Neil Corkins. “Handy tells us you’re looking to add to your gang.”
“I am,” said Cheyenne, “but nobody walks in without proving himself.”
“That’s understandable,” said Corkins. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Hollenbeck just stared, his hand resting on his gun butt.
“What about you?” Cheyenne asked the silent gunman. “Does that sound fair to you?”
“Tell me who you want killed, they’re dead,” he said without the slightest change in his expression.
“I like that attitude,” Cheyenne said. He gave a thin smile and spoke to both of them. “We’re taking the Sky-High tonight. I need two good men in town here to keep everybody pinned down for a few hours. Kill whoever you need to, then ride like hell and meet up with us on the trail to Dutchman’s Gulch.”
“What’s the pay look like?” Hollenbeck asked flatly.
“Leave here clean with nobody hanging on your tail, you get an equal cut same as everybody else.” Cheyenne looked him up and down. “We treat our men right,” he added. “We’re not the railroad.”
Hollenbeck almost smiled, liking what he was hearing. He turned to Corkins.
“Damn it, Neil,” he said. “I think I’m going to like riding with the Cheyenne Kid.”
A full share? Adcock perked up and started making better sense of the situation. He’d seen the large sacks of cash the colonel toted into his office of a night.
Delbert Pace saw the look on Adcock’s face change from shock to excitement and greed as Cheyenne turned to him and said, “Same share for you, Adcock. All you’ve got to do is spot the guards for us, and stick with my good friend Handy.”
“You got it, Cheyenne,” Adcock heard himself say, excited now that he realized how much this was worth to him.
“See, Bob? Who looks out for you?” Pace said with a sly grin. He slapped Adcock on his back.
“When are we doing this?” Corkins asked Cheyenne.
“Soon as the crowds starts tapering down tonight,” said Cheyenne. “We want all the money that’s taken in tonight, not just part of it.”
“There’ll still be lots of guns there,” said Hollenbeck. “This will not be a peaceful place we’re robbing.”
“Does that not suit you?” Cheyenne asked pointedly.
“Hell, that suits me fine,” said Hollenbeck. “I’m just speculating on how much hardware to carry.” He grinned. “I like guns that leave big holes.”
“Shotguns,” Cheyenne said. “When everybody shows back up here, have a shotgun hanging in one hand. I don’t care what’s hanging in the other, so long as it can kill a man with one shot.”
The men all looked at each other and nodded in agreement.
“All of you stay in close with Tarpis and Latin here until the time comes,” Cheyenne said. “You don’t get out of their sight, even to go to the jake, until we’re ready to make our move. They’ll let you know when I give the word.”
* * *
Near midnight the crowd at the Sky-High waned down to only a few passed-out miners, and a few more tittering at the bar ready to fall to the floor. In a corner musicians packed their guitars into coffin-shaped cases; fiddlers kneaded their aching necks with tingling, rosin-coated fingertips. A Jew’s harp player dipped his small instrument in a whiskey glass, wiped it clean and put it in his shirt pocket. An angry squeeze box player cursed under his breath as he wiped beer and broken glass from his stylish Hartz Mountain accordion.
Above the horseshoe-shaped bar, in an iron cage hanging by rope and pulley, two shotgun guards, Virgil Stokes and Eddie Kindle, sat in wooden chairs, still alert, but a little less so now that the night had started winding down. They watched the musicians file out the rear door. Neither man paid any attention to Handy Pace and Bob Adcock, when they walked in separately ten minutes apart. Each man stopped and stood on the right beside two guards planted strategically at the bar.
In the cage, Virgil grinned at the sight of Pace wobbling at the bar below.
“Looks like Handy is enjoying his night off,” he said, sitting sprawled, a hand slid half down behind his belt.
Eddie Kindle sucked a tooth in contempt and said, “He’s drunk so much, I can’t tell when he’s sober.”
“A man drinks so much for so long,” Virgil offered, “he stays a little bit drunk, even when he thinks he’s not.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” said Eddie, bored. He fished a bag of tobacco from his shirt pocket and rolled himself a smoke.
Below, at the bar, Delbert Pace grinned drunkenly at the guard beside him.
“Anything up?” he asked.
Behind the bar a few feet away, Colonel Steadly Moser stood taking cash from an ornate iron register and stacking it into a folded-down feed sack atop the bar. Beside him stood his son, Steadly Junior, shotgun in hand.
The guard, Stanley Rait, eyed Pace up and down and said, “Go away, Handy, you drunken pig, afore I backhand you.”
“Pardon the hell out of me, Stanley,” said Pace. “I can’t help that I’m a man who takes interest in his work, even when I’m not working.”
“Nobody’s supposed to know I’m a guard,” Stanley said sidelong to him, watching the half-empty saloon as he spoke.
“Damn it, Stanley, am I jumping up on the bar and shouting here’s a guard right here—pointing a finger down at you?”
“You’re drunk enough you’re apt to,” Stanley said, looking away from him.
“I’m sorry you think so little of me,” Handy said, turning to leave. “I’ll go somewhere now and stick my head in a meat grinder if that’ll make you happy.”
“It would,” said Stanley, not giving an inch.
Pace backed away and stood by the post where a long-handled crank held the cage ropes secured.
Stanley Rait stared across the bar at a busty young dove named Silvia—the colonel’s favorite—standing pressed against a customer, a hand up under the back of his shirt, half of his left ear buried in her red-painted mouth. As Stanley watched, Silvia let the customer’s ear flip out of her mouth. She stayed close and whispered into it.
Doves . . . , Stanley thought. He’d give anything to hear what was being said.
Across the bar, Silvia whispered in her husky voice, “All this ear sucking makes me feel naughty. Why don’t we go upstairs, get ourselves comfortable?” She gave the customer’s back a squeeze with her sharp nails, then dragged her hand out from under his shirt.
“I’d love to,” the customer whispered in reply. “But I’m working tonight.”
“Working?” she asked. “What are you doing that’s so important you can’t give me some sweet time?” She moved back a few inches, enough to look him in the eye.
“The fact is, I
’m getting ready to rob this place,” Cheyenne said, leaning closer, whispering it into her parted lips.
She gave him a look, judging his sincerity. A game player, she decided, seeing him give her a slight wink.
“Oh, really, are you!” she said, doing a good job feigning excitement. “Can I help? I love a good robbery!”
“It could get bloody,” Cheyenne cautioned her, his voice still calm, gentle, easy sounding.
“I’ll take my chances,” she whispered huskily. “What part will I play?” Her long nail drew circles on his chest between two shirt buttons.
Cheyenne looked into her eyes. With a hand at the small of her back, he jerked her tight against him and held her there.
“You can be my hostage,” he said in a voice filled with promise.
“I like it,” she said, moving against him. “Go on. . . .”
He patted the Colt in his holster. Through the open door, Latin and Tarpis stepped inside unnoticed, shotguns held up under their long tan riding dusters. Cheyenne saw them split off in different directions.
“I’ll spin you around like this—” He spun her, grabbed her from behind and pressed her back close against him.
“Oh, don’t stop,” she said, feeling his breath hot on her throat. She moved against him again.
“Then I’ll draw this Colt, throw it up against the side of your head—” She felt the cold steel gun barrel press against her temple.
Wait a minute! What kind of game . . . ?
“And I’ll say—” His voice went from a soft whisper to a shout. “All right, nobody move. This is a robbery!”
Silvia’s mouth dropped open as she heard the Colt cock against her head. Suddenly she was standing facing the colonel, his son and the guards at the bar, all with guns pointed in her direction. Overhead, the cage creaked on its ropes as the two guards sprang to their feet, also pointing guns down toward her.
Silvia found her voice and said, “You son of a bitch. I should have known you’re an outlaw. You taste just like one!”
“Take it easy,” Cheyenne said. “You’ll be all right. You’re being robbed by the best.”
Behind the bar, the colonel stood frozen in place while he looked around, assessing the situation. Less than ten feet from Stanley Rait, Royal Tarpis stood with his shotgun up and cocked toward his head.