Showdown in Badlands

by Shorty Gunn

  ‘You so much as move, roll over or try to get up and I’ll kill you right where you sit. Understand me?’

  ‘Yeah, I hear ya, law dog. You better get a good night’s sleep, ’cause I will while you’re havin’ to sit up all night watching me.’

  Ike laid down pretending to close his eyes while Dickson sat across flickering flames, shoulders stooped, watching him with his pistol in his lap. The meagre pile of firewood barely radiated enough heat to fight off the growing cold of the high country, but he was too tired to get up and search for more. Small flames gave off just enough light so that he could watch Ike. That’s all that really mattered now. Dickson pulled his jacket collar higher, trying to get comfortable as time passed agonizingly slowly. The more he stared at Ike, the more his image became harder to focus on. Through dancing flames it looked like Ike was smiling back at him. When he cleared them it did not. His eyes ached so badly, all he wanted to do was get a few minutes’ sleep. He rubbed his face, fighting to stay awake. The moment he stopped, the overpowering urge came right back again. He struggled another half hour as heavy eyelids began to close and his head dropped. This time he did not straighten up. Dickson gave in to deadly, dangerous, demanding sleep at last.

  Ike peeked through slit eyes at the lawman. His chance had finally come. Ever so slowly, without making a sound, he pulled himself up on one elbow, as the fire burned lower. A club-size piece of wood stuck out of the flames. Gripping it, Ike carefully pulled it out, rolling on to his side, dragging himself inch by inch toward the sleeping man, never taking his eyes off him. Head down, chin on his chest, Dickson was deep in sleep and unaware Ike was closing in on him. Reaching Dickson’s side, Ike dragged himself up on both knees, raising the burning club over his head with both hands, swinging it down with all his might on his head, sending the sleeping man crashing on to his back rolling on the ground, struggling to wake up from his worst nightmare. Ike struck again and again until Dickson rolled far enough away he couldn’t reach him, staggering to his feet and searching wildly for the pistol laying next to the fire. Both men saw it at the same time. Both dove for it knowing the loser would die. Ike got his hands on it first, but Dickson dove on his back before he could use it, twisting it out of his hands, still riding him until he brought the six-gun down hard on Ike’s head, knocking him unconscious.

  The tall man slowly got to his feet, fighting for breath, bleeding and burned on his face. Hot coals smoked in his hair. He wildly brushed them out. Finding his feet and steadying himself he stared down at Ike, realizing how close he’d come to ending up dead. Kneeling, he unsnapped the handcuffs, rolling Ike over and locking them on his back again. That’s a mistake he wouldn’t make twice!

  Ike awoke with blood running down his face from the gash on his head that felt like it would explode. There was another layer of pain before he realized he was laying hog- tied hands and feet, the rope tight around his neck nearly choking him.

  ‘I . . . can’t . . . breathe,’ he gurgled, fighting for breath, as Dickson sat across the fire watching him.

  ‘You better get used to it. That’s the way you’re going to stay until we reach Fools’ Gold, or you die first!’

  The fourth day after Ike’s nearly successful attack, the two men rode out of timber to see a line of one-storey buildings up ahead situated in a small flat. Fool’s Gold, at last. Blue smoke drifted up from a row of houses behind its single, dirt main street. On the sidewalk half a dozen men went about their business until the caravan of death reached the edge of town. They stopped, staring at the strange procession coming closer. Once on the main street, Dickson called out to the nearest men, ‘You got a sheriff here?’

  The trio walked into the street staring at him, then Ike, and the horses roped behind with their dead cargo. ‘Sheriff? We ain’t got no sheriff or even a jail if we did. Why’s that man all hog-tied up like that? He’s about blue in the face.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about him. I’m a US marshal, and he’s in my custody. I need someplace where I can lock him up overnight while I get some sleep and maybe a little doctoring.’

  ‘We ain’t got no doctor either, ’cept maybe George Ames. He’s no human doctor but a pretty good horse doctor. You say you’re a lawman?’

  ‘That’s what I said. I need some help for a few hours with this man killer. He’s Ike Goss, from Peralta, where he killed a freight wagon driver. I’m taking him back to hang for it.’

  ‘Well, he looks like he’s about half dead already. Could be he might not make it that far,’ another bystander commented. ‘Mind me asking what’s those bodies roped on behind him?’

  ‘That’s his brothers, Virgil and Emmett. They were just as bad as he is. I’ve got another one to pick up before I reach Peralta.’

  The growing knot of men looked at each other, digesting Dickson’s cold remarks and attitude, until one spoke up. ‘ ’Bout the only thing we got that might hold a man is the meat house behind the blacksmith’s shop. We keep ice in it to hang deer and elk meat. It’s made pretty solid, and somebody tied up like that sure ain’t goin’ nowhere. That might work for you. Them other boys roped on those horses would have to stay outside though. We don’t want that stink in there.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll mind. They’re already on their way to hell,’ Dickson answered.

  ‘Come on then, we’ll show you where it’s at.’

  After locking Ike in the meat house, Dickson tied off the brothers’ horses around back with bodies still roped on them.

  ‘Aren’t you going to give them horses a rest and unload them?’ one of the men asked.

  ‘I’m too tired to do that right now. If any of you men are worried about it you can go ahead and take them off.’ He looked from face to face. None volunteered to step forward. ‘Like I said, I’ll leave them on. I need to get some sleep. Keep this lock on until I wake up and don’t anyone try to help Goss, no matter how hard or long he yells. He’ll kill any of you if he gets half the chance. That’s an official order.’

  Dickson got directions to George Ames’ small shack. As he stepped inside the house, Ames studied his burnt, scarred face, slowly shaking his head in amazement.

  ‘You’re a real mess. Anyone tell you I’m not a doctor?’

  ‘Yeah, they did. But if you can do anything that helps that’ll be at least something. I’ve still got the ride to Peralta ahead of me.’

  ‘The boys tell me you’re pulling a caravan of dead men along with their live brother. Is that true or just whiskey talk?’

  ‘It’s true enough. And the live one is lucky he’s not dead meat like the rest of them.’

  ‘You must be a real hard man, Mr. . . ?’

  ‘Ben Dickson. I’m a US marshal.’

  ‘Well, Mr Ben Dickson, the way you treat life and death is just a little unusual even way up here in Fool’s Gold. It doesn’t bother you none to pull around dead men?’

  ‘It does not and never has. That’s my job, and I’m good at it. I’ve been doing it for a long time and plan to continue a while longer. Now do you have something to help my burns, or are we going to discuss my attitude about life, death and the law?’

  Ames didn’t answer, reaching for a jar on the shelf behind him and holding it up for Dickson to look at. ‘I’ve got horse liniment and bear grease. Considering you’re not a horse or any part of one, this bear grease is all I have. It might work until you get to a real doctor.’

  ‘Let’s try it. I need something to ease this pain.’

  ‘We all have our own personal pain. That’s why I like caring for horses. They don’t complain nearly as much as most people do.’

  Dickson studied the elderly man’s lined face. He didn’t answer this time. His inference was clear enough. Ames locked eyes with him as he started to apply the smelly grease.’What do I owe you for this?’ Dickson asked.

  ‘You don’t owe me a thing. I’m doing it out of human decency. You know anything about that, Mr Dickson?’

  Without answering, the lawman left
the Ames’ house, making his way up the street to the cot house behind Somerset’s Dry Goods store. Pushing inside he found an older woman sitting behind a small counter. She looked up, surprised to see a customer at this time of the day. Before she could utter a word, Dickson posed a question.

  ‘Do you have someone working here or in your family that can stable my horse for me? I’ll take the saddle-bags and shotgun off first. Right now what I need is sleep. I’ll pay for whoever you have.’

  She thought a moment. ‘Ah, my son Jimmy can do it. What are you paying?’

  ‘Two dollars is plenty. How soon can you get him over here?’

  ‘He’s in the house right behind here. It’s another seventy-five cents for the cot and a blanket too.’

  He pushed money over the counter. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed for any reason unless this place starts to burn down. You understand me?’

  She nodded, handing him a small wooden disk with a number 5 on it. ‘Your cot is way in back against the wall. You won’t be bothered none there, no one else will probably come in until tonight anyway.’

  He made his way into the shadowed room. The acrid smell of sweat from red dirt miners was thick in the air. At the cot he laid the saddle-bags down, using them for a lumpy pillow no one could touch without alerting him. Stretching out, boots still on, he pulled the shotgun up alongside and the blanket over him. He took in one long breath closing gritty, aching eyes. Before he could draw a second one Dickson was deep in exhausted sleep.

  Maybe it was the thin stream of sunlight filtering through the walls, or the sound of shuffling feet close by that woke him up. Dickson pulled himself upright, still groggy. Kicking off the blanket he got to his feet, gathering the saddle-bags and shotgun, heading for the counter and finding it empty. Stepping outside into bright sunlight, he heard a door close behind him. Turning, he saw the counter woman exiting her house.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’ he asked as she came up.

  She thought a moment, lifting her hand to her mouth, trying to count the hours. ‘Ah . . . you came in yesterday morning and slept the rest of the day and last night too. I guess you slept that makes it . . . fifteen hours, maybe a little more?’

  A sudden bolt of emotion shot through Dickson. It was the fear that Ike had enough time to somehow work himself free and escape. If anyone could, he was that man. Dickson started up the street at an uneven run. Reaching the meat locker, he drove the wooden peg locking the door bolt out, swinging the heavy door open. Ike lay on the floor still tied up, shivering uncontrollably, half conscious. Dickson breathed an audible sigh of relief, stepping inside.

  ‘Wake up, Ike. We’re riding all the way to Peralta. Let’s get to it!’

  Ike slowly opened his eyes. Instantly that glare of hate came back. His mouth quivered struggling for words, his face lined with excruciating pain. ‘You . . . better . . . kill me. Right here . . . and now. Because, one way or the other . . . I will kill you.’

  ‘Kill you? No, I’m going to enjoy watching the hangman do that. So is the rest of town while you dangle snapping and jerking.’

  Ordering several men who came up to watch Ike, Dickson retrieved his horse from the stable. When he returned they helped boost Ike back on his horse while the tall man led the pair of horses behind the meat locker, carrying his brothers out front and tying them off to Ike’s horse.

  ‘I don’t think your prisoner is going to make it all the way to Peralta, alive,’ one man said, eyeing Ike slumped in the saddle.

  ‘He’ll make it all right. I’m going to see to it. I’m not going to let him die on me now. Not after what I had to do to run him down.’

  The caravan of death rode down the street of Fool’s Gold, disappearing into the timber at the trailhead at the end of town, while onlookers commented on their gruesome passage.

  ‘That lawman Dickson treats his prisoner like he’s an animal. I never heard of any marshal ever going that far, did you?’ He looked to his friends.

  ‘I’d say he’s about as mean as they come. I sure wouldn’t want him trailing after me, I know that for sure.’ Another shook his head.

  The star man pushed the horses hard again. Peralta lay only another two days ahead. He had to get there while Ike was still alive. His dream to ride down the main street pulling his dead brothers behind loomed even larger now that he was so close. The second morning on the trail Dickson reined off into a small flat studded with jack pines. Riding in a slow circle, his eyes covered the ground until finding a spot where cut limbs were scattered and bits of clothing, bone and one boot lay exposed. Easing out of the saddle, he moved them with his boot before looking up at Ike.

  ‘You can say goodbye to your brother, Elwood. I left him here until I got back, but it looks like the wolves got to him first. There’s nothing left to take.’

  Ike’s mouth twisted as he fought for breath and spittle ran down his wildly whiskered chin. ‘You’re . . . going to burn in hell.’ He choked out the words. ‘And it’s . . . too damned good for the likes of you!’

  ‘Maybe, but if I do you’ll already be there to welcome me, won’t you, Ike.’

  Saddling up, Dickson pushed the caravan the rest of that day until near dark, when he was forced to stop. After hauling Ike down from his horse, he dragged in enough wood to make a fire that would last all night. As flames leapt to life, he sat opposite his prized prisoner, sizing him up one last time. Ike lay twisted on his side still hog-tied, still choking for breath.

  ‘Get this damn rope . . . off my . . . neck. I can’t . . . hardly breathe!’

  Dickson considered the request without answering, debating with himself whether he should or not. After a lengthy pause he got to his feet, stepping around the crackling fire, rolling Ike over on his stomach, loosening the rope around his neck and using it to tie his feet together. The dying man coughed and swallowed, trying to catch his breath until he could speak again.

  ‘Take ’em off my feet, too. Don’t you know they’re already dead? Have been for days. I can’t feel nothin’. How dumb can you get!’

  ‘It’s staying on, dead or not. Tomorrow we’ll reach Peralta, I want to be real sure you don’t try anything before we do. Shut up and go to sleep. I want you all rested up when you meet your hangman.’

  The lawman lay back on his saddle watching Ike intently. The long sleep in Fool’s Gold had given him the strength and stamina he needed to make it through the night without nodding off. The burning bullet wound in his chest would also keep him awake. When he was certain Ike had finally fallen asleep, he unbuttoned his jacket and shirt, pulling it open. The ugly wound was swollen and discoloured. Once they reached town he’d have to have the doctor treat it before it became any worse. Buttoning up he began thinking about all the days and weeks he’d travelled tracking down the Goss brothers from Peralta, over the mountains, all the way out into the badlands. He concluded this would be the longest chase he’d ever been on, even longer and more dangerous than tracking down renegade Apaches in Indian Territory, where he’d lost his leg. It was time to add it all up. Chambers and Mackenzie would have to pay the bill for it, the biggest pay day he had ever received.

  While he sat congratulating himself, his thoughts turned to the old man, Vernal Goss. He wasn’t finished with the Goss clan yet. When Vernal heard he was back in town with Ike towing his dead brothers behind him heading for a hanging, they would have it out one last time. Even twisted half-crippled Vernal was still as deadly as a den full of rattlers. He couldn’t leave Peralta without riding out to the Goss ranch for one last showdown. The cold mountain night passed surprisingly fast as a blizzard of icy stars made their timeless arc across the black velvet sky, while Ben Dickson fed the fire, thinking about finally being able to head back home. He was certain when the tale of how he’d run down the Goss brothers got out it would spread like wildfire, enhancing his already legendary reputation as a fearless man tracker and killer. Once home he promised he’d take a long break and relax before taking on another job.
He’d earned it after all this.

  Dawn in the mountains always comes first and fast. Dickson sat jacket collar pulled high, feeding the fire the last stick of wood. A rosy glow in the eastern sky began silhouetting tall pines in stark black outline, as stars faded, finally blinking out to the brightening new day. He eyed Ike sleeping under a thin wool blanket. He was the prize, the last of the Goss brothers, the wildest and most dangerous of all. Today he’d parade him right down the middle of Main Street like a wild animal in a cage, for all to see. It would be the highlight of his long and successful career. He eased to his feet, stretching out the kinks with a low grunt of pain. Ben Dickson had seen a lot of dawns out on the trail after other men, but none like the one he was about to experience today. It was time to saddle up and cover the last miles to Peralta.

  ‘Ike, wake up!’ He kicked at his boots. ‘Get up and let’s get moving. Here comes tomorrow.’

  Chapter Ten

  Later that morning the timbered trail ran across an open saddle where Ike could look down the mountain seeing the image of the Goss ranch far below, still hidden in morning shadows. A tiny curl of blue smoke twisted up from the stone chimney. He knew Vernal and Hattie must be up. Ike strained to see it clearer. If he could only yell out for help. Somehow his father might hear him. The course rope cutting into his neck made that impossible. He tried twisting in the saddle as the scene faded away behind and his hopes sank with it. Dickson could see him squirming, knowing he could see the ranch, unable to do anything about it except suffer. That’s exactly what he wanted Ike to do – and as much as possible in the few days he had left before his life would be choked out on a gallows.