by Shorty Gunn
‘Then just git enough to fill our saddle-bags, and let’s git outa here,’ Ike ordered.
Virgil’s six gun thundered, shattering the hasp lock on the box. Reaching inside he drew out two heavy canvas sacks of gold and silver coins. ‘I got it, Ike!’
‘Pick up those silver bars too!’ Ike shouted.
Through a staggering wall of pain John heard the shouts and orders. He heard the names too, if he could just live long enough to tell someone. Next came the pounding hooves of horses running fast, fading away into an awakening sky. John tried to catch his breath even though he could not rise from the floorboards. Slowly his left hand crawled up to the foot board. He felt the reins in his hand. Gripping them with what little strength he could summon, he slapped them down just once before collapsing on the floor.
‘Git up – to town.’ He rolled over on his back. The last thing he saw was those icy bright stars silently staring down on him.
A cold drizzle that started just before sunrise made the wagon road slick and muddy. The big freighter moved along at a slow pace without a driver to control the horses. But the animals knew the way back to town and kept plodding ahead mile after mile, until late that afternoon when the irregular shapes of buildings loomed up ahead through surrounding timber. The team picked up their pace. Several men crossing the street looked up as the wagon came into the far end of town, until one turned to his pals, stopping them.
‘Ain’t that John Standard’s wagon? But where’s he at? There’s no one up in the seat.’
The trio ran to the wagon, pulling the horses to a halt, while one man climbed up. ‘Good God, it’s John, and it looks like he’s been shot. Someone get some help!’
People on the street heard the shout and came running as one bystander ran for the doctor’s office. Chambers and Mackenzie heard the commotion, going to their office window and looking out to see their wagon with a crowd of people gathering.’Something’s happened. Let’s get out there.’ Chambers headed for the door with Rolo right on his heels.
Reaching the wagon, people were already lifting Standard out, laying him on the ground. One look at his cold, grey, lined face and bloody bullet holes in his jacket made it clear a doctor couldn’t help the old man. That he was even still alive was a miracle of will from the tough old whip man. Rolo knelt next to him, carefully wiping blood from his white whiskered mouth.
‘John, who did this – can you tell me? Try, John. Please try.’
Rolo leaned closer hoping to hear a whisper, but all he heard was a death rattle breath gasping for air. Unable to answer, John looked up with desperation in his eyes. Very slowly he half raised one hand uncoiling four gnarled, bloody fingers. He lifted it higher, nearly touching Rolo’s face, before collapsing back down and closing his eyes.
‘What’s he trying to say?’ Rolo looked up to Chambers, in desperation.
‘I don’t know.’ Edward shook his head. ‘It must mean something important. He managed to keep himself alive long enough to get back here and tell us.’
The doctor came running down the street, bag in hand, pushing his way through the crowd, kneeling at John’s side.
‘You’ve got to help him, doc,’ Mackenzie pleaded. ‘Do something, anything to save him.’
The doctor leaned lower, carefully placing his finger on Standard’s jugular vein. After a moment he looked back at Rolo. ‘The only thing I can do for your friend is get the undertaker over here. I’m sorry, Rolo, he’s gone.’
Rolo’s head dropped as his hand grabbed John’s shoulder, and tears filled his eyes. When he’d composed himself enough to speak again he looked up at Chambers.
‘I think we need that law we’ve been talking about now more than ever. Don’t you, Edward?’
Chambers slowly nodded without speaking. Robbery and cold-blooded murder had come to Peralta. Both men knew town would never be the same because of it.
Chapter Two
Benjamin Dickson was a most unusual lawman by any measure. Some said, always behind his back, he wasn’t a real lawman at all, only using an old marshal’s badge he carried to justify his depredations against those who went outside his brand of law. There was no disputing he was a rare breed whose reputation was so well known that he literally hired himself and his gun out as sheriff, deputy or marshal, but not for the paltry sum of twenty dollars a month, what most town sheriffs were being paid. His monthly fee to clean out any lawless town was four hundred dollars per man, take it or leave it. Most took it. Towns desperate for law, businessmen who wanted certain people eliminated, cattle interests tired of having beef rustled and missing, all paid up – and gladly. Dickson’s tenure in any town rarely lasted more than one or two months after he’d cleaned out the problem and buried men on Boot Hill in a cheap pine box. At forty-one, an even six feet tall, athletically fit, he was at the top of his game. He could cold track men for days on end in wild country never lighting a fire, eating little until running them down, or force a showdown right on the main street in front of crowds. Ben Dickson didn’t care either way. The sooner he took care of business, the sooner he got paid and was on to his next assignment. He always had rich customers waiting in line.
Dickson was not a man to kid himself either. He knew time and age would eventually slow him down and take its toll on reflexes and gun speed. He had to make all the big money he could, and make it over the next ten years. After that he’d hang up his weapons and move someplace where no one knew his name or fame. That was the fate of every gunman sooner or later, on either side of the law. Those that did not ended up lying in the street, or barroom floor, or on lonely trails dying in their own blood. He’d made up his mind when he chose this way of life he would never be one of them.
Dickson’s specialty was a custom-made Colt .45 caliber six gun trigger honed for a light fast pull. It gave him that split-second edge when facing trouble. He backed that up with a wicked sawed-off 12 gauge shotgun. Those eighteen-inch twin barrels of death aimed at anyone had an instant effect. The man facing them either threw up his hands or was cut nearly in two by a double load of lead buckshot belt-buckle high. There was never any ‘grey’ area about those he deemed guilty. They were outside Dickson’s Law, and had to pay for it one way or the other. Dickson always preferred to settle any matter with guns. Trials, lawyers and juries took too much time and sometimes made the wrong decisions because of oily haired, fast talking, slick lawyers. His brand of justice was fast and final.
Once, and only once, he’d nearly been killed early in his career by an ambush in Indian Territory, chasing a band of renegade Apaches. In the shootout that followed his right leg was so badly shot up it had to be amputated below the knee. Before he made it back to a doctor, he killed all three red men. The result was that he had a hardwood leg from the knee down and walked with a slightly pronounced gait. As far as handling weapons and shooting accurately, it had no effect whatsoever. That was determined by an iron will and gun practice. He had plenty of both.
Dickson sat propped up in a chair on the front porch of the Double Hot Hotel, in Rincon Valley, Arizona, when a young boy came running down the boardwalk stopping to stare up at the feared lawman.
‘Mr Stevens down at the telegraph office told me to get this to you real quick, sir. Here it is.’ He handed over a note, wide-eyed in awe.
Dickson reached into his vest pocket, handing the lad two bits for his trouble.
‘Jeeze, thanks Mr Dickson. I can buy me a whole lot of penny candy with this!’
As the pint-sized messenger ran back down the walkway, Dickson unfolded the paper and began to read.
Mr Benjamin Dickson
Rincon, Arizona
Dear Sir,
We are in need of your special services here in Peralta, Colorado. Your usual fee will be paid in advance upon your arrival. If you are interested in this offer please let us know at your earliest convenience. We look forward to hearing from you.
I remain,
Rolo Mackenzie.
Dickson ease
d to his feet, stretching out the kinks for a moment. The summer sun was coming and no place was hotter than Arizona. Colorado would be cooler. He liked the thought of it. The job and timing were a perfect fit. It was a long ride but the one hundred dollar retainer would make that easier. If there was either state or federal ‘paper’ on whoever Mr Mackenzie wanted taken care of, he’d pocket that money too. He wired his acceptance down at the telegraph office, then stopped by the livery stable to have his horse and a packer prepared for the trail. Back at the hotel, he paid up his bill.
‘You look like a man about to leave town, Mr Dickson,’ the counterman quipped, a thin smile playing across his face.
‘Yes, but hold my room for me as usual. I shouldn’t be gone too long. And keep the cleaning lady out of there too. I want no one in my room while I’m gone. You understand?’
‘I do, sir. Have a good trip.’
‘I intend to.’
Three weeks later Ben Dickson rode down Main Street in Peralta, to the stares of some on the boardwalk. It only took one look to see this new stranger was no knock-about cowboy. Not with his fine horse, big packer and expensive trail clothes. He rode slowly down the street reading each business sign until he came to the ‘Chambers & Mackenzie Mining Company’. Reining in, he eased out of the saddle, tying off his horse and packer. Stepping up on the boardwalk, he pushed through the front door into the office. Rolo was first to turn from his desk. Getting to his feet he came to the counter, studying the tall man in expensive clothes.
‘I’ll bet you’re Ben Dickson, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am. And how did you come to that?’
‘Because you’re exactly what I thought you’d look like.’ He extended his hand over the counter top with a small smile, introducing himself.
Chambers quickly crossed the room, shaking hands before inviting Dickson into the office and offering him a chair.
‘Care for a cup of hot coffee, Mr Dickson?’ Edward offered.
‘After my long ride, don’t mind if I do. Then I want to get down to business about whatever problem you’re having here in Peralta. The sooner I know what and who that is, the sooner I can resolve it for you. I want both of you to tell me everything you know or think you know. Don’t leave out any detail, no matter how small you believe it might be. Anything you tell me can be important.’
He shucked off his heavy trail coat as Rolo and Edward shot knowing glances at each other. Already they knew this was a man who meant business. Anyone of his stature who spoke with authority and carrying a big pearl-handled Colt pistol to back it up, had to be exactly what they’d hoped for.
‘I can tell you straight off we have a pretty good idea who we think robbed our freight wagon and killed the driver,’ Rolo was quick to volunteer.
‘If you’re that sure, why haven’t you done something about it?’
‘Because there is no law here in Peralta. And we’re not much good at taking it into our own hands. That’s why we need a man with your expertize.’
‘I see.’ He nodded. ‘You have a name for me?’
‘Yes. There’s a backwoods family that lives outside of town named Goss. The old man, Vernal, has four grown sons. They’re about as wild as the place they live in. They’ve made threats before but we never thought it was that serious. You know, just tough talk. There’s been a lot of bad blood over an offer we made to buy their property to expand our mining. The old man refused it. He leads his boys around and they do whatever he tells them to. He’s a cripple and the real trouble in the family. He spreads his misery around to all the boys and they don’t dare question him.’
Vernal Goss sat at the kitchen table ordering his wife Hattie and the boys to sit down around him as she nervously twisted her fingers, fearing what tirade he’d come up with next. He looked from Ike to Virgil first then Elwood and Emmett, with the same squinty-eyed stare. ‘Did you bury them silver bars like I told ya to?’
‘We sure did, Paw. Just like you said. We buried them above the spring in that rocky ground behind the house. We even put a mule shoe between two flat rocks pointing right at the spot so Elwood and Emmett can find them if we’re not around when you want them.’
‘All right then. I’m glad to see you two had enough brains to use your heads for once. Now listen to me and listen real good. We can’t go around flashin’ any of that money from the hold-up, or try to sell those silver bars anyplace around here. It’s too risky. Someone would sure take notice that all of a sudden us poor folks came into big money. You might have to take the buckboard and go all the way down to Marysville, or head over the mountain to Fool’s Gold, to sell ’em off. For what little food we buy in town, you can use some of the money but not too much. Don’t never go in there with a pocket full of cash. We gotta be careful and smart about how we use it.’
‘I heard someone in town say the wagon driver died right there on the street,’ Ike added. ‘I never figured that old bird would ever make it that far after the holes we put in him.’
‘And they said he never told who took him down, either. We got lucky on that one.’ Virgil nodded, looking around the table for agreement.
‘Killin’ can bring trouble, but if the driver was fool enough to go for a boot gun, then you’ve got no choice. Next time remember that. If you can get the cash box without killin’, do it. If you can’t, do what you have to. We’re gonna break these mine men until they don’t have two bits left to their stinkin’ name, and they pack up and go someplace else to wreck the country. I’ve had a belly full of ’em around here!’
Dickson left the mine office with the news Peralta had no hotel, only a boarding house one block over from Main Street, surrounded by family homes. When he rode up to the two-storey building he wasn’t impressed. He stood for a moment taking it all in. Paint peeled off the old clapboard siding and dusty curtains hung on windows. He steeled himself; he wasn’t going to have the niceties of the Double Hot Hotel. It was all the more reason to get to the bottom of the freight wagon robbery and killing as fast as possible and move on. At least Rolo and Chambers had given him a good start about the Goss family. He tied off the horses, unbuckling two bags and heading for the front door.
‘I serve a light breakfast, no lunch but a good size dinner.’ Birdie Lee, the owner of the house was quick to lay down house rules. Lee was a small, wiry-looking woman in her late forties with a mean mouth that looked like she could bite a double eagle in half. ‘I don’t allow no liquor in the rooms, and no women snuck in here after hours either. If I find any of that going on you’re gone right then.’
Dickson eyed her coolly. ‘How much for a room in this princely palace?’
‘It’s three dollars a night, paid in advance. I don’t take no credit or trade. Even though you don’t look much like you’d do either.’ She’d already sized up his clothes, big hat and fancy hand-made knee-high boots. ‘You here in Peralta on business?’ She took the chance she might draw him out for an answer.
‘Yes – personal business. For three dollars a night it stays that way – personal. Here’s twenty dollars for the rest of the week, and I want someone to knock on my door half an hour before meals are served. Here’s an extra four dollars to cover that before you ask.’ He pushed the bills over the counter, as she eyed his wallet, thick with more bills.
For once Birdie was caught speechless. When she recovered seconds later she said she’d have someone notify him about the meals. ‘You’re the first door at the top of the stairs on the right, room five.’ She pushed the key across the counter.
‘Does anyone else have a key to my room?’ Dickson questioned.’Yes, I do. I have to in case you leave or get locked out.’
‘Give me that key. I want no one having access to my room whether I’m in it or not. You’ll get both keys back when I leave. You don’t have to worry about that. You have a handyman or some kind of help around here?’
‘I have a young kid who run errands for me and helps out.’
‘Tell him I want my horses take
n down to the livery stable to get a good feed on oats and a rest. Here’s another five to take care of that.’
Dickson started up the stairs as Birdie watched him go. He’s an odd one, she thought. But at least he was willing to pay for everything he wanted. She wondered what would possibly bring a man like that to Peralta. He seemed so out of place here.
A knock on the door next morning woke Dickson. He rolled over looking at the clock on the dresser; 6:45 am. A muffled voice on the other side announced, ‘Breakfast in thirty minutes, Mr Dickson.’
Dickson didn’t answer. Sitting up on the edge of the bed he reached over to the nightstand, retrieving his hardwood lower leg. Slipping a sock on his stump he pulled the heavy leather collar attached to it up over his knee and began lacing up the leather thongs snug around his leg. Standing, he tested the fit before slipping into boots, fresh shirt and pants. He stood before the floor mirror taking several steps toward it. Satisfied his gait looked natural enough he went to the wash basin on the dresser, cleaning his face, combing long, dark hair, and lastly trimming his moustache.
Retrieving a leather case, he opened the locks, lifting out the custom-made Colt .45. Buckling up his belt, he slid the six-gun into its holster. The weight of it always felt good against his leg. He never felt whole without it. After shucking into a coat and pulling on his wide-brimmed hat, Dickson exited the room, locking the door behind him and starting downstairs.
Entering the dining room, Dickson noticed half a dozen people already seated at the table passing food trays. All eyes turned to him when he came into the room, especially Birdie Lee.
‘I trust you enjoyed a good night’s sleep?’ Birdie warily tried to start off the conversation on a positive note.
‘It was passable,’ he answered, reaching for a large platter stacked with bacon and eggs. ‘Pass the coffee pot, would you? Do you know what time the livery stable opens?’