by Jake Henry
Log houses had been erected by those who’d taken the time to build them, while others, more concerned with finding their fortunes, still lived in single-room canvas abodes.
The hotel was obviously a recently completed double-story construction, its timbers still green. The logs had been harvested from the rapidly receding forest that surrounded the town.
A hit and miss series of boardwalks had been constructed outside of each timber building so when it rained, folks could walk in comfort for the width of the false-fronted building before stepping down into the sucking mud outside of the canvas ones.
Some of the other newly constructed timber buildings were the jail, one of the three saloons, the mercantile, and an assayer’s office.
At the end of the main street, Savage found a livery which was little more than an oversized barn with a split-rail corral.
Once the horse was stabled, Savage asked the hostler about the hotel.
‘What’s it like?’
The wiry-looking man with thick, black hair said, ‘Expensive.’
Savage nodded. ‘Got a spare stall for me?’
‘Nope,’ the man grunted.
‘Where’s a good place to get somethin’ to eat?’
‘Café.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Main Street.’
‘Thanks,’ Savage said.
‘What for?’
‘Nothin’.’
Savage left the man, a puzzled expression on his face, as he walked from the livery, saddlebags over his left shoulder and the Yellow Boy rifle in his right hand. He ambled along the street drawing curious glances from some of the townsfolk.
As he passed one of the rough-built canvas covered saloon-tents, a drunk man staggered out. He stopped, gave Savage a disdainful look then spat on the ground. He was a bull of a man, with an unshaven face, and Savage could tell that the man was trouble.
The drunk screwed up his face and snorted. ‘What the hell are you lookin’ at?’
Savage walked around him and kept going. The drunk, however, wasn’t finished just yet.
‘The last time I saw a man wearin’ a pair of britches like that he was lyin’ dead on a battlefield near Five Forks.’
Savage stopped and turned to face the man.
Another man emerged from the saloon tent and placed a hand on the antagonist’s arm.
‘Leave it, Carter,’ he cautioned him. ‘The war’s over.’
‘So, what?’ Carter snarled. ‘I plan on killin’ me another blue-belly.’
Savage dropped his gaze to the six-gun tucked in Carter’s belt. His eyes came back up to meet Carter’s challenging expression and he said, ‘Listen to your friend, Carter. The war’s over. It’s been over for a long while.’
Shaking his head, Carter said, ‘Nah, you ain’t gettin’ off that easy. I lost a lot of good friends to your lot. Time to get me some payback.’
Savage sighed and looked at Carter’s friend. ‘Are you in or out?’
The man frowned. ‘What?’
‘I want to know, if I have to kill stupid here, will I have to do the same to you?’
‘Who the hell are you callin’ stupid,’ Carter snarled, and dove his right hand clumsily for his six-gun.
The rifle in Savage’s right hand swung up, his thumb cocking the hammer. Once it was level, he squeezed the trigger. The impact of the .44 Henry slug at close range was brutal. It slammed into Carter’s chest, meeting little resistance as it ripped its way through soft tissue.
In a cloud of crimson, it exploded out of his back, spraying the canvas of the tent behind him with droplets. Carter grunted as the air was forced from his body. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came forth except a wet cough, which spattered flecks of blood on his lips.
Carter fell to the ground in an untidy heap. Jacking another round into the breech, Savage shifted his aim with the Winchester to point at the remaining man’s face.
The man threw up his hands. ‘Whoa, stranger. I ain’t buyin’ in.’
‘Wise move,’ Savage said. ‘Tell the sheriff I’ll be at the hotel.’
As Savage walked away, he could hear people start to spill out through the tent flap.
‘What happened, Buck?’ he heard one man ask.
‘The stranger shot Carter.’
‘Why would he do that?’
The answer was lost to Savage as he drew out of earshot.
Sheriff Charley Halley caught up with Savage at the hotel just as he was about to pay for his room.
‘Mind if I have a word with you, stranger?’ Halley asked. ‘My name is Charley Halley. I’m what passes for law in Dead Man’s Gulch.’
‘Sure, ask away.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Jeff Savage.’
He waited for some sort of reaction but one wasn’t forthcoming.
‘How long do you plan on stayin’, Savage?’ the sheriff asked.
Looking down at the money he was about to pass across to the rotund desk clerk, Savage said, ‘At these prices, one night. And that’s only ‘cause I couldn’t get a stall at the livery.’
The last part of the comment was directed at the clerk, the Drifter making a point of letting him know he wasn’t happy about parting with the five dollars he was being charged for the room.
He handed the money over and the clerk gave him a room key.
‘You mind tellin’ me your version of events with Carter?’ Halley asked.
Savage shrugged. ‘Not much to tell. He thought he could fight the war again and win. He was wrong.’
‘At least there’s one less of them now,’ Halley muttered.
‘Sorry?’
Halley realized he’d spoken aloud. He sighed. ‘The feller you killed worked for Craig Vandal. He’s the big man around this part of the mountains. Runs a big minin’ operation about a mile from town. Carter was one of the mine guards. Vandal has around fifteen gunmen on his payroll to keep watch just in case the Chiricahuas decide to hit the mine. It wouldn’t be the first time. They’ve even hit the Gulch a time or two.’
‘I had me a run-in with them Apaches of yours,’ Savage said, and went on to explain about his recent adventures.
Halley shook his head. ‘Damn it. Did one of them fellers have a beard?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yep, that was Charlie and Hank. They been workin’ that creek for an age.’
‘Not anymore they ain’t,’ said Savage.
Halley nodded. ‘Do me a favor while you’re here. Try not to get into any more trouble.’
‘It ain’t like I went lookin’ for it, Sheriff,’ Savage snapped.
Halley raised his hand. ‘Just whoa up a mite. I know that, OK. All I’m askin’ is for you to try and avoid any more.’
‘I’ll do my best. But if it comes knockin’ at my door, I ain’t goin’ to run away.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Where’s a half-decent place in town for a man to get a feed,’ Savage glanced at the clerk again, ‘and it don’t cost him the price of a good horse?’
The hint of an understanding smile touched Halley’s lips. ‘Try the Down and Out Saloon. It might cost you more than what you’re used to payin’ but the food won’t kill you.’
‘I’ll try it out, thanks.’
For an emerging town, the office of Craig Vandal was quite lavish. Hand-tooled furniture had been shipped in, and ornate paneling adorned the walls. It was something that belonged back in St. Louis or Chicago, not in a tough mining town like Dead Man’s Gulch.
Vandal was a solidly built man in his mid-fifties. His hair was gray and his face was lined from years of hard work. As he stood up from behind his desk, the brown suit that he wore stretched taut and appeared to be at least one size too small on his frame.
‘Who is this stranger anyway?’ Vandal asked Curt Wedde.
Wedde was Vandal’s right hand, bodyguard, and troubleshooter. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He drifted into town today.’
‘Fin
d out who he is,’ Vandal ordered. ‘If a stranger comes into my town and kills one of my men, I want to know who he is.’
‘It weren’t the stranger’s fault, Craig,’ Wedde told him. ‘Carter pushed him into it from what I understand. He got drunk and decided the damn war wasn’t finished. The stranger didn’t want no part of it but Carter wouldn’t let it drop. He could be like that.’
Vandal nodded in agreement. He’d seen Carter beat a man half to death for just looking at him. ‘What about the other problem?’
‘It’ll be taken care of tonight,’ Wedde told his boss.
‘Make sure that it is. With Halley out of the way, I can get my son out of that damned jail.’
‘Are you sure you want it done this way? I mean, we could break him out of there,’ Wedde suggested.
‘Just do it like I said,’ Vandal snapped.
‘Sure, no problem.’
Savage had to agree with Halley. Sure, the meal had cost a little more than usual, but it was good. He guessed the meat was venison smothered in a thick gravy and was served with beans and potato.
It was early in the evening and night was an hour or so old. The saloon was busy with miners and other people from around the town. Although it was bustling, there was something not quite right about the atmosphere of the place. Savage supposed it could be his presence and the fact he’d killed one of their own, but thought it might be something else entirely.
He found out before he finished his meal.
While doing his rounds, Charley Halley entered the saloon and looked around. He spotted Savage and weaved his way through the tables of patrons until he reached him.
‘How’s the meal?’
‘You were right, it’s good.’
Savage noticed Halley looking about, not really taking notice of their conversation.
‘Expectin’ trouble?’ Savage asked.
Halley’s head snapped back at the mention of the word. ‘What?’
‘I asked if you were expectin’ trouble?’
Halley frowned. ‘No. At least I hope not. Have you heard somethin’?’
Savage forked a piece of gravy-soaked meat into his mouth.
‘Nope,’ he managed to get out while he chewed.
Once more, Halley looked about the room. Suddenly a scuffle broke out at the bar. Two large men grabbed each other and a couple of their friends latched onto them. Cursing, Halley walked toward them.
‘Hey, knock it off you two,’ he called above the noise.
A sixth sense told Savage that something about the scuffle was wrong and his suspicions were confirmed a few moments later. Placing his knife on the table, Savage dropped his right hand to where the Remington rested in its holster.
He eased it out so that the cocked six-gun lay on his lap ready to use at a moment’s notice.
While Halley was helping break up the fight, two men moved in behind him and the hairs stood up on the back of Savage’s neck. From a table to the right, another man stood and headed towards the group. As he closed in behind them, the Drifter saw a long, thin knife blade down at his side.
Savage knew what was about to happen but now had an additional problem: his line of sight was obscured by another drinker. Without hesitation, he launched from his chair and moved swiftly towards the group. He watched as the would-be killer’s knife arm came back and was set to drive the blade deep into the sheriff’s back. A blow that would never be delivered.
Using his left hand, Savage locked the man’s collar in a vice-like grip and hauled him backward so that he staggered and went down hard on his butt. With his right hand, Savage wielded the Remington like a club, sending a crashing blow across the head of the man on the sheriff’s right.
It made a sickening crunching sound and the man dropped where he’d stood. Then Savage brought it back in the opposite direction, just as the man on the left turned his head to see what was happening.
The Remington’s barrel caught him across the bridge of his nose, shattering it in a spray of hot blood. As the stricken man fell to the floor, Savage turned back to face the would-be assassin with the knife. He looked up at the Drifter and started to come off the floor with a snarl of rage.
Without a second’s hesitation, Savage raised the Remington and blew a hole in his skull. The knife wielder’s head snapped back from the force of the slug and he flopped onto his back. Blood began to pool under his head and filter through the cracks in the floorboards.
Swinging back around, Savage brought the six-gun up and placed it against the head of the man nearest to him, which happened to be one of the men trying to break up the fight. The ratcheting sound of the gun hammer going back made him freeze.
Savage’s voice grew cold. ‘I suggest whatever it is you and your friends have planned, you might want to forget about it.’
Fear flashed through the man’s eyes and the first words past his lips were, ‘Don’t shoot, Stranger!’
‘Why not?’ Savage asked. ‘It would be about as much chance as you were goin’ to give the sheriff.’
‘What the hell, Savage?’ alarm filled Halley’s voice.
‘These fellers had you lined up to kill,’ Savage told him. ‘The dead one on the floor was about to stick you with a knife.’
Halley looked at the corpse and saw the knife lying beside it. He switched his hot gaze to the others.
‘Did Vandal put you up to this?’ he snarled.
They remained silent.
‘Well?’
Still nothing.
Halley shook his head. ‘Get the hell out of my sight! Take your friends with you. Includin’ the dead one.’
One of the men made a point of saying to Savage, ‘You killed my friend. I’m goin’ to kill you. You’d best be ready for it.’
‘Get gone, French,’ Halley snapped.
They watched them leave.
‘You don’t want to lock them up?’ Savage asked.
‘No, I got me enough troubles without addin’ to them.’
‘So, it would seem,’ Savage allowed. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go back to my meal?’
‘Before you go, thanks.’
Savage looked him in the eyes and nodded. ‘Watch your back, Halley.’
He went back to the remnants of his meal under the watchful gaze of the townsfolk. Once he was finished, Savage ordered a beer and relaxed while he drank it.
About thirty minutes after the shooting, Savage noticed a serious looking man enter the saloon. He was approximately thirty, had black hair and was maybe six-feet tall. He looked around the room then walked to the bar where he leaned across and spoke to the barkeep.
The barkeep pointed in Savage’s direction and the man began to walk towards his table. As he came on, Savage noticed the two six-guns. One sat in a holster against his right thigh, while the other was high-up on the left hip, but forward and positioned for a cross-draw.
Underneath the table, Savage freed his Remington once more. It sure was a town that kept a man on his toes.
The man sat down across from Savage and looked him over with a steady gaze before saying, ‘You’re causin’ us some troubles, Stranger.’
‘How do you figure that?’ Savage asked him.
‘You’ve been in town but five minutes and you’ve killed two men and banged up another two.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Maybe you should stay out of things that don’t concern you,’ the man warned.
‘Maybe you should tell me your name,’ Savage suggested. ‘I like to know who’s givin’ me orders.’
‘I’m Curt Wedde,’ the man said. ‘I work for Craig Vandal. Who are you?’
‘Jeff Savage.’
Wedde nodded and waited expectantly for Savage to speak.
‘Is there somethin’ else?’ Savage asked.
‘Nope, I said what I wanted to say.’
‘Well I’ll have my say then,’ Savage told him. ‘First, I don’t take kindly to fellers tryin’ to kill me. It has the tendency to rile me
some, as you are aware. Second, I won’t stand by and see men commit murder. And third, I’ve decided to stay a while. Take that back to your boss and tell him to shove it.’
Wedde gave him a thin smile and nodded. ‘I’ll do that. But don’t say you weren’t warned.’
Savage watched him stand and leave. He became aware of the prying eyes of bystanders and when he looked at them, he saw apprehension on their faces. There was obviously something seriously wrong in Dead Man’s Gulch. But what?
‘If he gets in the way again, kill him,’ Craig Vandal said to Wedde. There was a granite like edge to the mine boss’ voice that had become more prominent since his son’s incarceration at the jail.
‘There’s somethin’ about him, boss that don’t sit right,’ Wedde said, voicing his concern.
‘Like what?’ Vandal snapped.
‘I don’t know. I looked into his eyes and there’s nothin’ there. They’re like bottomless pits.’
‘You’re seeing things that aren’t there,’ Vandal snorted, dismissing his man’s instincts. ‘He’s just a nosy drifter who’ll get the damn thing cut off if he isn’t careful about where he sticks it.’
Wedde shrugged, an uncertain expression on his face.
‘Anyway,’ Vandal continued, ‘we’ve got two days until the trial. And my son isn’t going to hang, so we need to come up with another way of getting him out, fast.’
Three
Savage let out a shuddering moan and rolled off the whore he knew as Sylvie, exposing her lithe body to the moonlight that filtered through the window in the small room above the saloon. It reflected off her sweat-streaked form, her large breasts luminescent.
‘Damn, cowboy,’ Sylvie panted. ‘I ain’t been rode like that in a long time. I might have to give you one for free. If you want another that is?’
Savage sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, unsure whether the anger he felt was because he’d betrayed his late wife’s memory, or because he’d paid five dollars for a room that he wasn’t likely to use.
‘We’ll see.’
Sylvie sat up and worked her way across the bed. She then sat with a leg either side of Savage and leaned in close so that her breasts flattened against his back. She ran her long fingers gently across the nape of his neck sending a shiver down his spine.