Showdown in Badlands

by Shorty Gunn

  Down at the end of the street there was the sudden sound of a commotion as a buckboard careered wildly toward the crowd, totally out of control with Vernal Goss whipping the horse with one hand, holding a shotgun in the other.

  ‘Look out!’ someone shouted.

  ‘He ain’t stopping!’ another screamed, people scattering for the boardwalks at a run, trying to keep from being run over.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Kill ’em Paw, kill ’em all!’ Ike shouted, the buckboard racing dangerously closer, Vernal lifting the shotgun to fire. Dickson dived for the floorboards but not Sonderman, who still stood bewildered by the sudden violence. Buckshot cut into his face and neck, killing him instantly; he fell backwards, Bible flying from his hands, his body collapsing on the trap door lever, springing it open. Ike dropped straight down. The soggy snap of his neck was lost to the thunder of Vernal’s second shot that racked the platform. Dickson rolled to his knees pulling his big Colt, firing three fast shots and hitting the old man twice. The reeling buckboard crashed into the gallows, bouncing off as the terrified horse continued running wildly down the street with its dead driver sprawled backwards over the seat.

  Excited people rushed back into the street up to the gallows, pointing and yelling at the disappearing buggy. Rolo and Edward forced their way to the front of the throng, looking up at Dickson.

  ‘Ben – are you all right, are you hit?’

  The tall man back on his feet holstered the Colt, shaking his head, turning to the pastor, surveying his bloodied body and the tight rope swinging slowly back and forth down the trap door hole. Looking down at the mine men, he made only one brief remark.

  ‘The Good Book didn’t do him much good, did it? I took care of Ike like I said I would. You get the old man for free. That seals our deal!’

  The following morning the sound of hammers and double jacks resounded up and down the quiet streets of Peralta. The gallows were coming down as three carpenters began dismantling them beam by beam, board by board. One of the men atop the highest beam untied the hanging rope. Coiling it up in neat loops, he glanced at his pals below.

  ‘Hey, one of you want this hangman’s rope?’

  The three looked up at this eerie question.

  ‘No, we don’t want it. Maybe them mine men up the street would. They paid for it didn’t they?’

  ‘That’s so,’ the top man answered. ‘When we’re done here I’ll take it to them.’

  Vernal’s buckboard was retrieved two miles outside of town later that same morning. He and Ike were buried the next day side by side, in the town’s small cemetery in a shaded clearing surrounded by tall pines. Only Dell Berry, Hattie and two grave diggers attended. Dell tried to say a few words of comfort as the coffins were being lowered, but Hattie’s quiet sobbing stopped him.

  ‘Come on, Hattie.’ He led her by the arm toward his buggy. ‘I guess there’s no more to really say. They’re gone and nothing’s going to change it. I’ll take you back home.’

  The shovel men leaned on their tools, waiting respectfully for the buggy to go out of sight. As it disappeared down through trees, the only sound that could be heard was the soggy thud of fresh earth hitting the top of two pine coffins as the men bent their backs to their final task.

  Reaching town, Hattie put her hand on Dell’s arm, requesting him to stop at Mackenzie and Chamber’s office on Main Street.

  ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’ His face was an open question.

  ‘Just do it, Dell. I’ll explain it later.’

  At the office Berry pulled to a stop, getting down to help Hattie up on to the boardwalk. ‘You sure you don’t want me to come in with you?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘This won’t take long. Just wait a few minutes for me. I’ve got to do this alone.’

  ‘Well, all right. If that’s the way you want it.’ He stepped back in confusion, watching her reach the front door.

  Edward Chambers was working at his desk when Hattie stepped inside. Rolo was out back gathering fresh firewood for the pot-bellied stove. Chambers quickly came to his feet approaching the counter, expecting to be assaulted by the wrath of the tiny woman. Instead she took in a slow breath, levelling a gaze on him for several uncomfortable moments before speaking.

  ‘I won’t bandy words with you,’ she began. ‘More than once you made the offer to my husband to buy our place out in Goss Canyon. You still want it?’

  Edward stood flabbergasted, turning red in the face, trying to clear his throat to answer. ‘I’m . . . sorry about your husband, Mrs Goss. Rolo and I never meant for anything like that to happen.’

  She waved off his apology. ‘I didn’t come to hear that. Do you want to buy or not?’

  ‘Can I ask after all that’s happened why you’re offering it to us now?’

  ‘I’m leaving Peralta, for good. I’ve buried my sons and husband. There’s nothing left here for me. I’ll use the money to get back home to Missouri, and what’s left of my family there. You come out tomorrow morning and I’ll sign off the deed, but only for the same amount of cash money you offered Vernal.’

  Rolo stepped through the back door with an armload of firewood. Seeing Hattie, he stopped in his tracks glancing at Edward. Before he could ask the obvious question his partner spoke.

  ‘Mrs Goss wants to sell us her ranch in Goss Canyon. I told her we’d be glad to buy it from her.’

  Mackenzie couldn’t answer. It was too much to try and understand so quickly. He dumped the wood next to the stove, coming to the counter, never taking his eyes off the tiny white-haired woman.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do that?’ He parroted Edward’s question.

  ‘We raised up four boys out there and for a while we were a happy family. After my husband got crippled in that freight accident, everything changed. He changed. He became bitter and mean about everything, including us. When you two came around offering to buy our place I asked him to sell so we could take the money and try to make a new start someplace else, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It only made him worse. I’m all that’s left now. I want to be as far away from here as I can get. If Vernal had listened to me in the first place none of this killing would have ever happened. You two be out to my place in the morning and bring cash. I don’t want no cheque.’

  Hattie turned, walking out the door, leaving Rolo and Edward staring after her then at each other, speechless at the amazing turn of events.

  Ben Dickson left Peralta unnoticed and unseen early the following morning after Ike’s hanging. His saddle-bags were heavy with gold and silver coins. He’d finally finished the contract he originally thought would take only a few weeks that instead lasted months. He looked forward to returning to Arizona, and his permanent room at the Double Hot Hotel. He needed a rest and knew it. It had been a long and difficult task trailing the Goss brothers and his still-painful chest wound had taken its toll on his energy and endurance, as much as he hated to admit it to himself. Now he looked forward to long quiet afternoons sitting on the hotel’s front porch in his favourite chair, sipping an occasional tequila.

  Rincon Valley was a long ride south. He meant to enjoy the leisurely pace getting there. No more schedules to meet and no deadly men to face with flaming six-guns. As each day passed he even surprised himself how much he enjoyed the natural pace of it. He also vowed that once he reached home he would not take another job for a while. Exactly how long, he wasn’t sure yet. He’d make that call when he felt fit and ready. A week into his ride it dawned on him he had a birthday coming up soon in October, his forty-second. It seemed life could not get much better.

  Tales of the unbelievable exploits of Ben Dickson, especially his time in Peralta, travelled far and wide from small mountain towns across the west, down to flat land farms and even cities back east. Popular dime novelists that had never seen him and never would, began writing about Dickson in glowing terms as a man tracker and killer without peer. The public’s appetite for the wild stories grew enormo
us. One of those writers was Lewis Lansing, who sat in the offices of the Gentleman’s Gazette on Madison Street in Chicago. Lansing had a large and popular following in the Gazette. Now he had a red-hot idea how to make that even larger. Behind the big oak desk across from him sat Horace Throckmorton, owner and publisher of the Gazette, his thin white hands folded across a ponderous stomach, as Lansing enthusiastically pitched his exciting new idea.

  ‘Listen boss, we can make a fortune running Sunday supplements about this man Ben Dickson, then follow it up with a book about his life as a paid-for hired killer. If you’ll open up your wallet and put up the money for me to go out west I’ll find him and get that story. It cannot miss. It’s a natural best seller. You can use the Sunday stories as the teaser, then bring out the book out after a few months.’

  Throckmorton leaned back in his big padded chair without comment, thinking the whole idea over. He knew Lansing was a well-known and well-liked writer in the Gazette. The book idea did intrigue him, but there were clearly risks, financial ones, and if there was anything he kept under tight control it was the nickels and dimes that could suddenly add up to thousands of dollars going in the wrong direction if you weren’t always cautious and careful. He probed a bit further.

  ‘Exactly where out west does this famous gun fanner live?’ He leaned forward for an answer, pursing his lips.

  ‘I’m told he lives in Arizona. Someplace called Rincon. I can’t find it on any of our maps, but there must be a town or city someplace close to it. This is the chance of a lifetime. We can scoop all the other publishers. He just tracked down and killed an entire family of murderers. I think their name was Goss, or something that sounded like that. They were four sons and their old man. He killed them all! Now is exactly the time for us to capitalize on the stories going around about him. What do you say, boss? Let me give it a try.’

  Careful, penny-pinching Mr Throckmorton rested his double chins on one hand, calculating the time and expense to send Lansing all the way down to Arizona. His eyes settled on a picture hanging on a wall behind Lansing. The large, lavishly-coloured oil painting depicted a cowboy riding full out at night in a rain storm. A sudden bolt of lightning streaked down the background, while he chased a herd of stampeding cattle. Horace had always loved that picture. It was an adventure he always wished he could live, if someone could get him up on a horse big enough to carry him. He looked back at his writer, weighing the chancy odds of success.

  ‘Tell you what, Lansing. I’ll give you one month to find this man and sign him to a book deal. You tell him I’ll offer a twenty-five per cent royalty on every book sold, but I won’t pay any advance money, especially since we’re spending all the money taking the risk of me sending you there. We don’t even know if he can sign his own name, let alone coherently recite his life story. You and I both know how most of those western gun slingers really turn out to be. They are back-shooting brutes who kill from ambush that should have been hung rather than praised. Be that as it may, if this story is as good as you think it is, we may have something here worth publishing. I trust for your sake it is. I’d hate to have to fire you for spending all this time and my money on a wild goose chase. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘You sure do, and don’t worry. You won’t be sorry. I’m going to bring back a story that will knock your socks off. We’ll get rich over it . . . or at least you will, boss.’

  After Mackenzie and Chambers paid off Hattie Goss, she immediately left town as she’d vowed. The two men took a half dozen of their workers out to the old house in Goss Canyon, with orders to burn it to the ground so exploratory work could begin on mining the site. In the glow of the fiercely burning fire, both men stood thinking of all the misery and death that led to this moment, wondering if it had really been worth it. At last they had the property, but at what cost in human life? As the last wall came crashing down in a cloud of sparkling embers, neither man could be sure hiring Ben Dickson had been the right thing to do after all.

  Three weeks later, work at the new exploratory mine shaft revealed the richest vein of nearly pure silver Rolo or Edward had ever seen. The desperate, destitute Goss family had been sitting on top of a fortune that would run into the millions of dollars, never knowing it. As more land was cleared on the property, workers also discovered the hidden money from the robbery and murder of John Standard. That find made both men conclude everything had finally come full circle, easing the guilty conscience they’d both been struggling with over all the killings.

  Lewis Lansing sat at the window of the Canton & Keller stagecoach, peering out at the jagged peak of Mica Mountain, dominating the skyline. The driver had already informed him once they topped out at Ridington Pass, they’d start the downhill run into Rincon Valley. Somewhere only a few miles away should be the tiny, isolated village of Double Hot. Coach wheels slowed as the whip man eased back on the reins, applying brakes to steel shod wheels, reaching the summit. Lansing pulled out a handkerchief, mopping sweat from his face again in the blistering heat. He couldn’t imagine how or why anyone would live in a land that always seemed to breathe fire, compared to his home far to the north in cold, windy, snowbound Chicago.

  Lansing was a man running out of time and he knew it. It had taken him far longer than originally planned or promised to get this far. He had to find Ben Dickson as fast as possible. Much to his disappointment he’d only recently learned there really was no town named Rincon, Arizona, only the Rincon Mountains surrounding the valley of the same name, making finding Dickson even more difficult. By the afternoon it was well on its way to being another one hundred degree day, when the stage rocked to a stop at the valley floor. Lansing leaned out the window at the shout of the driver.

  ‘This is it. You’re in Rincon Valley. There’s a small cattle ranch about half mile down that road.’ He pointed. ‘You can likely rent a horse there to ride to Double Hot.’

  ‘Doesn’t this stage go there?’ His voice was strained with disappointment.

  ‘Nope. No reason to. There’s nothing there but a few adobe buildings, and an old hotel. We couldn’t make a plug nickel. You’re on your own from here. Good luck!’

  Ben Dickson was relaxing on the shaded front porch of the hotel, when he saw the lone figure of a rider atop a mule coming out of brush and thorny cactus still some distance away. He eyed the rider curiously until he pulled to a stop at the hitching rail, recognizing him as a teenage kid named Zac Wild. Wild was part of a big family that lived several miles away in the brushy mesquite flats struggling to eke out a living with a few bony longhorn cattle and half wild horses. Already nearly six feet tall with an odd hunched-over walk, Zac looked like an old man at a distance. Dickson had seen him before, never paying much attention to the illiterate kid. The only thing that made him look different this time was a pistol stuffed in his pants top, hanging out at an odd angle.

  ‘Howdy . . . Mr Dickson.’ Zac stepped up on the porch, looking down at Dickson with his usual half smile on his pimply face.

  ‘Hello, Zac. What are you doing here in town?’

  ‘Well . . . I’m eighteen now and Paw says I can ride in here and have me a drink of that mescal, if I want . . . because I’m a man now.’

  ‘I see you’re carrying a pistol for the first time.’

  ‘Yup. Paw gave it to me. He says I’m grow’ed up enough to have one.’

  ‘A man, huh? There’s a lot more to being a man than carrying a six-gun. You also have to be man enough to back it up if it comes to that. It might be best you leave that old iron at home a while longer, before walking around with it. You might run into the wrong kind of people who want to see if you know how to use it.’

  ‘I already know how. I shot . . . two jackrabbits and a coyote last week. Paw says I’m a dead shot. He says when he rode over to Red Rock, the paper there says you shot down a whole family of killers. He says you’re famous because you killed so many people. It that true, Mr Dickson?’

  Dickson glanced away, gazing at the blue silho
uette of mountains. ‘Papers say all sorts of things. Tell your father not to believe everything he reads. You shouldn’t either.’

  ‘Ah . . . I don’t know how to read. Paw says book learnin’ is only for city folks. He says we’re cattle people. We don’t need to know how.’

  Dickson let the remark pass. Trying to explain anything further was a waste of time. Wild lived in his own small world of ignorance enforced by a father and mother plus four younger sisters all of the same mind.

  ‘I’m gonna go get me that drink now. I never had mescal before.’

  ‘You do that, Zac. But don’t drink too much or you’ll likely fall off that mule of yours and shoot yourself in the foot, before you get back home.’

  The kid stood a moment longer wondering if he was being made fun of. ‘Why would I want to shoot myself in the foot, Mr Dickson?’

  ‘Nothing, Zac. It was just a poor joke. Forget about it.’

  Wild pushed through the front door as Dickson leaned back, balancing the chair on its back legs, boots propped up on a porch post. No sooner had he gotten comfortable than a new rider came into view, this time the strange figure of a man dressed in a rumpled suit and bowler hat. ‘City clothes,’ he thought, studying the new arrival pulling to a stop, sweat running down his face red with heat. Lewis Lansing dismounted, holding on to the saddle horn a moment trying to get his breath, balance and composure back.

  ‘I’m praying your name is Benjamin Dickson.’ He finally got the words out stepping up on the porch. ‘Because if you’re not him, I’ve just come a thousand miles for nothing, and probably lost my job in the process.’

  ‘I’m Dickson,’ he nodded. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Thank God for small favours! I’m on my last legs. Do you mind if I pull up a chair and sit? I was just about ready to give up and go back to Chicago, to resign. I’ve been trying to find you for nearly a month. My name is Lewis Lansing. I guess that doesn’t mean much to you, but I’m a feature writer in Chicago for a very popular men’s magazine called the Gentleman’s Gazette. I don’t suppose you ever heard of that, either?’