Drifter 3

by Jake Henry

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ he said and walked towards the bar.

  She followed him, a couple steps behind. Once they reached the bar, an unshaven, foul smelling barkeep looked at him and snapped, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘I got redeye.’

  ‘Then that’ll do,’ Savage said. He felt the woman move in beside him and he turned his head. She stared at him with big brown eyes, an unasked question obvious to him. He turned back to the barkeep. ‘Make it two.’

  The barkeep’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the woman. ‘Get the hell outta here, Connie.’

  ‘I got as much right to be here as the next person, Jud,’ she snapped at him.

  ‘Not if I say you don’t, now get out. Go and look for business somewhere else.’

  ‘Get the lady a drink, Jud,’ Savage said in a low, firm voice.

  Jud opened his mouth to protest but something in the stranger’s eyes warned him against it. Instead he found a half-empty bottle and two grime-covered glasses and filled them with the liquid. When he was finished, he looked at Savage and said, ‘That’ll be a dollar.’

  ‘Kinda steep ain’t it?’ Savage commented.

  ‘Each,’ said Jud.

  Savage put two dollars down on the rough plank bar and Jud scooped them up as though someone else was after them. The Drifter threw back his drink and stared at Jud thoughtfully. He then grabbed the bottle of redeye by the neck.

  Immediately, Jud’s hand clamped over Savage’s and he said, ‘That’ll be ten dollars.’

  Savage gave him a withering stare and dragged the bottle from his grip. ‘I’m sure at the prices you charge, you can let it go.’

  There was a look on the barkeep’s face that seemed to telegraph his next move.

  ‘If you got a cut-down shotgun under that counter of yours, I’d keep clear away from it,’ Savage warned him. ‘Unless you’re real fast with it.’

  ‘Hey, Jud!’ a man called from along the bar. ‘Get me a drink.’

  Jud nodded. ‘Be right there.’

  ‘Excellent choice, Jud,’ Savage said in a low voice. ‘It saved your life.’

  Savage found a vacant table against a far wall under a dim lamp. He moved the chair so the wall was at his back and took a seat. He placed the bottle and glass on the battered table then took a decent look around the room.

  The man who’d called out to him when he entered, now had his face buried between the breasts of the half-naked whore. Another whore sat on the knee of a different customer, nibbling at his ear. In the far corner, sat three, big unshaven men, playing cards.

  A noise near his table caught Savage’s attention and he looked around at the source. A third whore, just as grubby as the other two, and as scantily clothed, plonked herself down in the seat opposite his.

  ‘Buy me a drink, sweet?’ she asked, and gave her best warm smile. She rubbed her hand through her blonde hair, attempting to look enticing.

  Savage looked at her deadpan and said, ‘Maybe all you girls should get together. Between you, there might be a full set of teeth.’

  A confused frown settled on her brow. ‘What?’

  Connie appeared. ‘He said you’re butt ugly, bugger off, Sally.’

  Sally gave Savage an angry look. ‘Why you damned son of a bitch. I was just tryin’ to be nice to you and you treat a girl like that.’

  She stood up, producing a wicked looking knife. ‘You bastard, I oughta gut you.’

  Savage’s hand streaked across the table and locked onto the whore’s wrist. Slowly he applied pressure until Sally gasped and dropped it to the table with a dull thud. She cried out with the pain that shot up her arm and when the Drifter let it go, she remained stiff and unmoved.

  Savage saw why the woman was so afraid to move. Connie had her own knife at Sally’s throat, and a bead of blood had formed where the point had pierced the skin.

  ‘Let her go, Connie,’ Savage said calmly. ‘I think she’s got the point.’

  Connie took the knife away from Sally’s throat. Immediately, Sally whirled on her and snarled, ‘Bitch, you’ll get yours.’

  ‘Get, before I finish the job.’

  Sally stormed off and Connie took her seat. ‘Friggin’ bitch.’

  Savage pushed a glass of redeye across the table towards her. She scooped it up and knocked the harsh liquid back without batting an eyelid.

  ‘You’re mighty handy with that knife you’ve got,’ Savage pointed out.

  ‘I get by,’ Connie said.

  ‘So I noticed earlier today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw what you did to that feller that was harrassin’ you.’

  ‘He got what he deserved.’

  Savage was about to reply but was cut off by the sound of a ruckus outside the saloon entrance. Muffled curses followed, then five men burst in through the door. Four of the men were dressed in filthy rags, like most in the settlement. The fifth man seemed to be their prisoner.

  They shoved him forward into the middle of the room. The man staggered slightly then regained his balance and straightened. Savage drew in a sharp breath at the prospect of things going from bad to worse. Attached to the front of the man’s jacket was a United States Marshal’s badge.

  There was something or someone out there in the darkness. Rawhide Allen couldn’t be sure which, but he felt its presence. Across his lap sat an 1855 Colt 10-gauge revolving shotgun.

  He closed his eyes and waited, listening to the sounds of the night that blended together, the snap and crackle of his small fire joining the symphony.

  Allen had become aware of the tail he’d picked up, earlier that afternoon. He was reasonably certain that it was human, although it could be animal. Maybe a mountain lion. He figured he’d find out soon.

  Suddenly the sounds about him stopped and thick silence blanketed the surrounding area. All he could hear now was his own breathing, loud in his ears.

  Still Allen waited.

  Now!

  His eyes snapped open and the shotgun came up. Out of the darkness, a figure appeared, dangerous, bent on killing the man near the fire.

  The Colt roared and its charge slammed into the oncoming Chiricahua warrior. He was stopped in his tracks as the full force of the blast took him in the chest. Allen didn’t wait for him to fall. He thumbed back the hammer on the shotgun and turned to his left as another screaming wraith roared out of the blackness.

  As the Apache entered the firelight, his painted face seemed to disintegrate as the gun in Allen’s hands bucked again. The third Apache came in from his right but there was no time to bring the shotgun to a firing position. He swept the weapon’s butt up to meet the charge and as the Indian leaped at Allen, the brass butt-plate stabbed forward into the Indian’s face, dropping him instantly.

  Lurching to his feet, Allen turned to meet the assault of the next Chiricahua. This one was the biggest of them all and his hands held a battered Spencer. The weapon roared, belching orange flame. The slug hammered into Allen’s side spinning him half around, causing him to stagger.

  The killer gritted his teeth against the pain and gathered himself. With a howl of glee, the Apache aimed to fire again but a slight hesitation cost him his life as Rawhide Allen took advantage. The Colt cracked and the Apache was thrust back by an invisible hand, crashing to the ground in a bloody tangle of arms and legs.

  Fierce, burning pain radiated from Allen’s wounded side but he knew it would have to wait for the moment because there was still another Indian left. He would have to examine it later.

  A sinewy arm snaked around Allen’s throat from behind, locked into position and started to squeeze. The opposite hand held a razor-sharp knife that he prepared to drive deep into the killer’s back.

  Instead, Allen thrust forward from the hips and, with great strength, threw the Apache forward over his head.

  The Chiricahua landed on the low burning campfire, flames and red-hot coals searing the skin and fle
sh of his back. It brought forth a cry of pain as the Apache rolled off the still burning fire, sending red embers up into the black evening sky. Holding his knife in front of him, the Indian scrambled to his feet with a snarl of rage.

  Low and wary, he began to advance on Allen, determined to make him pay. Rage turned to shock when he realized that he wouldn’t get to kill the white-eye. In Allen’s right fist was a cocked six-gun.

  Without hesitation, the killer fired two shots, and both punched into the Apache’s naked chest, killing him instantly. Allen reached into his pocket and removed a fresh, fully loaded cylinder and replaced the empty one while he swiveled about scanning for more targets. All his attackers were either dead or down.

  He thought about checking his wound, then remembered the unconscious Indian. He smiled cruelly. Grunting in pain when he bent down, he retrieved a fallen knife from the dead Apache nearest to him and looked at it in the low glow of the flickering firelight.

  It was time to have some fun.

  Eight

  ‘You have to get out of here now,’ Savage ordered Connie in a harsh whisper.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, warily.

  ‘Stop them from killin’ that marshal,’ Savage told her.

  ‘But why?’

  He stared hard at her. ‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘There’s a lot of people buried around here that tried to do the right thing,’ she warned him.

  He watched as the men shoved their prisoner into a chair and one of them punched him mercilessly in the face.

  ‘OK, listen up. I’m only goin’ to tell this to you once,’ his gaze burned into her. ‘I’m the sheriff from Dead Man’s Gulch. I’m here chasin’ a killer who murdered the previous sheriff among others. However, I ain’t goin’ to sit by while these sons of bitches kill that marshal. Things are about to heat up and I can’t keep an eye on you while I’m watchin’ them.’

  An indignant look crossed Connie’s face. ‘Why the hell should you want to keep an eye on me?’

  Savage’s eyes flared. ‘Just shut up and go.’

  ‘Rundown shack at the end of the street,’ Connie said, standing up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s my place. Just in case you need somewhere to hide.’

  ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

  ‘Yeehaw! Hit that sumbitch again,’ a loud voice cried out. ‘Ram the bastard’s teeth all the way down his throat.’

  The Yellow Boy was leaning against a spare chair beside Savage’s table. He picked it up and thumbed back the hammer. More blows were landed and blood sprayed from the marshal’s face with each one.

  One of the captors took out a large-bladed skinning knife and shouted above the din, ‘Hold his head still. I’m goin’ to cut his damn ears off.’

  A desperate struggle ensued as the marshal fought with all the might he could muster in a fruitless attempt to stop what was about to happen. But it was to no avail. The beating had taken most of his strength.

  The man with the knife moved closer and reached out to grab the left ear. Instinctively the marshal pulled his head away.

  ‘I said hold him, damn it,’ the knife-wielder cursed.

  About the room people started to cheer him on, their bloodlust rising. The man smiled and leaned in again.

  Savage knew that if he was going to intervene, now was the time. There would be no reasoning with them. These were violent people who only understood one thing. Violence! He stood up from his chair.

  The Yellow Boy roared to life, filling the room with a loud crack. The .44 Henry slug hit the man with the knife, just above his left ear. His head snapped to the side, a large spray of crimson, laced with skull fragments and brain matter splattered over the man beside him. The knife wielder crashed to the floor in a heap.

  Shouts of confusion masked the lever action of the Yellow Boy but not the sound of the next shot as it thundered again. This time, the man with the gore-splattered face took the full force of the shot as the slug tore a ghastly hole in his throat.

  He reached up and tried to plug the spurting wound, but the blood ran freely through his fingers. Within minutes he was dead on the floor.

  Savage jacked another round into the Yellow Boy’s breech and held his fire. He looked at the stunned men near the marshal and shouted above the remaining noise in the room, ‘Everybody freeze!’

  They all stopped and looked at the stranger with the buckskin jacket.

  ‘I’ll kill anyone who makes a wrong move!’ he called above the murmurings. ‘I think I’ve already proved that!’

  ‘What the hell you go and shoot Red and Bob for, stranger?’ one of the captors blurted out. ‘This ain’t none of your concern.’

  ‘It is now. Especially when you’re goin’ to start cuttin’ on a United States Marshal,’ Savage told him. ‘What sort of dead shit place is this anyway? Look at you all. You’re pathetic. Can’t even get rid of a dead man outta the doorway.’

  There was movement behind the group surrounding the marshal. Savage shifted his aim and squeezed the Yellow Boy’s trigger.

  Everyone jumped at the deafening sound, but none more than Jud the barkeep. The bullet took him in the chest, punching him back against the makeshift shelves behind his counter, creating a large patch of blood on his shirt. Bottles shattered under the impact and breaking glass added to the cacophony in the room.

  From Jud’s lifeless hand fell the cut-down shotgun he kept under the counter. Then, as a stunned quiet settled across the small crowd once more, Savage said, ‘I’m thinkin’ you’re all deaf and dumb too.’

  ‘Don’t shoot anymore, stranger,’ a different man said. ‘Just tell us what you want before you kill us all.’

  ‘It’s him!’ a familiar voice called out. ‘He’s the feller I told you about. The law-dog that shot down Rhett and Jimmy. All ‘cause of a stinkin’ Indian.’

  The Yellow Boy’s aim shifted again and settled on Sheb.

  ‘What did I say would happen the next time I saw you?’ Savage asked icily.

  At the prospect of his imminent death, a large wet stain appeared on Sheb’s pants and the smell of urine wafted up, making those beside him shuffle away.

  ‘Looks to me like you had yourself an accident,’ Savage observed.

  ‘Don’t shoot me?’ Sheb blubbered.

  Savage turned his disgusted gaze away from the terrified man and waved his rifle at the crowd.

  ‘Everybody over against the far wall,’ he ordered.

  They shuffled as one and did as ordered. ‘OK. Now I want all guns on the floor. Any funny stuff and you know what will happen.’

  While the guns dropped one by one, Savage walked over to the marshal. He looked down at the bloodied face and asked, ‘Are you able to get up?’

  The man turned his head to look up at Savage. Beneath the crimson mask that covered his face, Savage could see that one eye was already closed, his nose was broken, and his lips were split.

  The marshal gave a jerky nod. He leaned forward, spit a glob of blood from his mouth and said, ‘I reckon. They didn’t break my legs.’

  He struggled to his feet.

  ‘I got a horse outside, a pinto,’ Savage informed him. ‘Wait out there. I’ll be right behind you.’

  Once the marshal had exited the stinking establishment, Savage started to walk backward in the same direction, not taking his eyes from those in front of him.

  ‘If anyone pokes their head out the door before we’re gone, they’ll get up close and personal with a .44.’

  No sooner had he passed through the doors, when a chorus of shouts and curses sounded followed by the bumps and thumps of men scrambling for their weapons.

  Savage ran for the pinto and hauled himself into the saddle. He reached down and helped the marshal up behind him.

  ‘Thanks for the help,’ he said, from behind the Drifter.

  ‘Don’t thank me yet. We ain’t out of this by a long shot.’

  Savage sawed on the re
ins and brought the horse’s head around. He then gave it a couple of hard kicks to set it running along the rutted thoroughfare. The animal had only just lengthened stride when the first shots sounded behind them.

  Sharp cracks indicated the passage of bullets that passed close by the speeding animal as it carried its double load.

  ‘Keep your head down!’ Savage shouted back to the marshal.

  ‘Don’t worry I …’ the sentence was cut short by an audible grunt.

  The marshal stiffened behind Savage and he realized that the man had taken a bullet. Hurriedly he rammed the Yellow Boy into the saddle scabbard and reached back with his free hand. He grabbed the wounded marshal and called over his shoulder, ‘Hang on. Just hang on.’

  They raced past the outskirts of the settlement and into the night. An angry voice growled after the hoofbeats had faded away, ‘Find them. Find them and kill them.’

  Savage detoured from the trail about a mile from Bad Tooth and found shelter in a thick stand of pines. He dismounted and helped the wounded marshal down. He lay him on the ground and used his hands to check the wound in the dark. It was a waste of time. The only thing Savage successfully did was locate the bullet hole. It was high up on the right side and he was reasonably sure that it had passed through the marshal’s lung.

  There was no way he could treat something like that out in the open. He needed to get the wounded marshal into a bed and under the care of a doctor. Bad Tooth was the closest settlement and it was certain suicide to return, but he thought of Connie and her offer of sanctuary.

  The probability of Bad Tooth having a doctor was slim to none but at least the marshal would be comfortable in a bed.

  ‘I gotta take you back,’ Savage said to him. ‘Hell, I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘It’s – it’s Sam Fulton,’ he rasped.

  ‘Alright, Fulton. I’m Jeff Savage and right now I’m goin’ to hurt you again. I need to get you back on the pinto. I’m pretty sure that the bullet passed through your lung. We’re goin’ back to Bad Tooth to try and find a doctor.’