by Don Bendell
Strongheart said, “Jim-Bob, I can’t help you. You are dying. If we move you it will just give you more pain. Just lie still and make peace.”
Jim-Bob said, “Slim, it hurts. Can y’all just put a round betwixt mah eyes, please?”
Then he stared off at the sky, saying, “Ma, I fed the master’s dog, but he done kicked me again anyhow.”
He died just like that.
“Dadgum!” Slim exclaimed, “Ol’ Jim-Bob has gone under. We rode the owl hoot trail together nigh on three year.”
“Not a very wise trail to follow,” Strongheart said.
Slim shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Reckon not. Guess Ah’ll be followin’ my ole pard ta hell now. They’re gonna stretch my neck I figger.”
Joshua replied. “That does not have to be true, Slim. Maybe they will give you a break if you are willing to testify in court about who hired you.”
“Ah’m a dead man, anyway, Ah s’pose,” he said. “Thet man thet hired me probably’ll plug me afore y’all kin hang me or even git me ta court. I could tell he was a tough hombre.”
“Got a name?” Joshua asked.
“No, suh,” Slim said, “But he showed me a Pinkerton badge and said killin’ you was official business.”
“Where did he hire you and what did he pay you?” Joshua came back.
Slim said, “He given us each fifty bucks and fifty more after’n you was dead, if’n we come back ta Cheyenne and collect it.”
“Where is the man and who is he?”
“He rides him a roan Appaloosa, which ya kin always find tied outside the Hitching Rack Saloon,” Slim replied.
Strongheart said, “Why’d he pick you two?”
The outlaw responded, “We was ridin’ the grub line and seen him there gamblin’ a time or three. He said someone he was playing blackjack with tole him we would do any type of job and keep our mouths shut.”
Strongheart said, “What does he look like?”
Slim chuckled. “A dandy, suh. He dresses like one a them city boys who fancies hisself a shootist. Wears a pair a Russian .44s with fancy ivory handles and tied-down cross-draw holsters, black tie, black suit, boots. Ya know what I mean. He has a long-droopin’ mustache an’ his hair is kinda reddish and real, real long. Hangs all over his shoulders.”
“Sounds like George Armstrong Custer,” Joshua mused.
“Yeah, old General Custer. I seen him a few months back,” Slim came back. “Fancy dresser fer shore. Ridin’ a big ole purty red Thoroughbred.”
He had apparently seen Custer riding one of his two chestnut Thoroughbreds, Vic or Dandy. He rode both interchangeably.
Strongheart corrected him, “Custer is not a general though. He is a lieutenant colonel. He was a brevet general in the Civil War.”
Getting very serious, Slim got a grim look on his face, saying, “Mr. Strongheart, what about me?”
Joshua said, “Well, we’ll head back to Cheyenne. I’ll turn you in, but my boss will want to talk with you. I’ll tell him you have been cooperating and can maybe help us some more.”
“Wal,” Slim said. “Ah’m plumb sorry I tried ta plug ya, suh. Ya think they’re gonna stretch mah neck?”
Strongheart said, “No, the Pinkerton Agency has a lot of influence, a whole lot. As long as you are trying to help us with information, my boss will keep you from getting strung up. We need to saddle up and get moving.”
“What about Jim-Bob?” Slim asked,
Strongheart said, “What about him? He tried to bushwhack me. Just like you. By the time I get you to Cheyenne, I’ll need to spend a night there, and head out in the morning, So, you boys cost me at least a day. I’m not burying him. Coyotes need to eat, too, you know.”
“Yes, suh,” Slim said humbly. “Ah’m plumb sorry, again.”
Joshua said, “You and I don’t have any shovels, but if you want to put his body under the cut bank over there and kick dirt in on it, I’ll let you do that and say some words over him.”
Slim thought for a second, then said, “Naw, hell with him. He’s gone. Ah feel bad enough ’bout the trouble we caused ya.”
Strongheart saddled up and told Slim to do the same. They left Jim-Bob’s body lying in the prickly pear. Joshua would tell the sheriff about it in Cheyenne.
They rode due east to the road and Strongheart put a pile of three rocks on top of each other so the sheriff or undertaker would know where to turn north to find the body if they were going to pick it up. He had already put Jim-Bob’s guns as well as Slim’s on Eagle.
4
MORE SHOOTING
Slim was locked up in the jail in Cheyenne, and Lucky was on his way from Chicago with a team to interrogate him. Strongheart walked into the Hitching Rack Saloon shortly after dark. He immediately saw a man at the poker table who fit Slim’s description, which was very accurate. Lucky had already sent him a telegram stating that he was not a Pinkerton based on the description, and Joshua knew he would have remembered a man who looked like this.
As soon as the man saw Strongheart, he rose to his feet. He wore a pearl-handled Colt Navy in a cross-draw holster and his left hand went behind his back, telling Strongheart he had a gun hidden there, too.
“Mister,” Joshua said, “personally, I would love for you to try to pull that belly gun and try to get busy with it, or even that cross-draw. I don’t like someone hiring men to dry-gulch me. However, I really need to know why you hired them and also why you have been posing as a Pinkerton, so kindly move your hands away from both guns. Let’s just talk.”
Strongheart saw the man think about it briefly, but suddenly his eyes opened wide with that deer-in-the-torchlight look, and he knew instinctively he had to move. Joshua’s hand streaked down and up in a flash, and he saw both revolvers appear in the man’s hands, as his own Peacemaker stabbed flame. The bullet left a large crimson splash in the center left of the imposter’s chest, as his heart literally exploded from the bullet. His body folded up like a rag doll, and he dropped in a heap without moving a foot.
With the discipline of a practiced gunfighter, Strongheart quickly ejected his empty shell and replaced it with a bullet from his gun belt. A man stood up to his left, and Strongheart whirled drawing.
The man, a big, burly, redheaded teamster put his hands up palms facing out and laughed nervously, “Easy, mister, easy. I was just gonna tell ya that was a righteous shooting. Ya gave that man every chance in the world not to draw.”
Strongheart reholstered his six-shooter, saying, “Sorry, sir. Thank you. Would you hang around until the police or marshal get here and explain what you saw?”
“Shore,” the big man said extending his hand.
They shook.
“You’ll be the Pinkerton Strongheart, eh?”
Joshua said, “Yes, I am. How did you know?”
The man chuckled and held his hand out with a sweep showing Strongheart’s presence.
He said, “Look at ya. I heard about ya plenty and looking at ya it shore as hell ain’t hard ta guess who ya are.”
Joshua was embarrassed.
A deputy marshal came in and got the accounts from several eyewitnesses including the teamster. He knew Joshua from the Pinkertons and knew of him by his reputation. He and Joshua went through the man’s pockets looking for evidence but found none.
Then Joshua asked the teamster, “Did you see this man come in here with anybody?”
The freighter said, “I shore did. I come in the same time, and he rode up with a feller in a fancy business suit, and he was riding the prettiest big old black Thoroughbred you ever seen. Long legs and he had a fancy Mexican black saddle. He took off before you come in. Not too long before.”
Joshua said, “Did you see which way he rode off?”
“Nope,” the teamster replied. “Sorry. I tell you what, though. That Thoroughbred is sevent
een hands tall if he is an inch. Find him and you’ll find the man. That horse was some beauty. Had a white blaze but no stockings or socks. All black.”
“That helps, mister,” Joshua said. “Much obliged.”
As soon as the deputy released him, Strongheart took off looking for a beautiful black Thoroughbred and the man who owned it. He started riding through the nighttime streets of Denver thinking that next morning he would make the rounds of blacksmiths and livery stables and ask about such a horse. The grass was greening and bears were out of hibernation. Strongheart was looking forward to and hoping for a wonderful summer ahead.
Little did he know that June would be one of the bloodiest months he would ever witness.
He went into a saloon when he found a tall black Thoroughbred tied up outside and looked around.
He went up to the bartender and quietly asked, “Do you know who owns that big black Thoroughbred outside?”
“Shore enuff, Injun,” the big, gruff barkeep answered. “That big boy belongs to ole Alejandro Cabal, over there playing poker. The skinny little Mex runt ya see. Why? Ya wanna buy him?”
“No,” Strongheart responded with a grin. “Just wondered. Handsome horse.”
He looked at a very small Hispanic-looking man in the corner engrossed in a card game. He knew that was not the varmint he sought. Joshua thanked the bartender and walked out. Climbing into the saddle he headed north away from the saloon and just happened to notice two men saddling up nearby and walking behind him up the street. He kicked Eagle into a trot and glanced back, noticing that the two shadowy figures followed suit.
Strongheart suddenly turned right down a side street then left into a narrower street filled with closed businesses. The two riders soon turned the same corner behind him, and Joshua kicked Eagle into a canter, making a couple turns back onto the main busy street he left. Numerous saloons and bawdy houses dotted both sides of the street and there were plenty of sounds of music, laughter, and shouts from most buildings.
The two men held back a safe distance, but there was no denial in Joshua’s mind. He knew they were up to no good, and then he noticed a third rider joined them. The next street over also was a busy street and ran parallel to Cherry Creek. He kicked Eagle into a trot and went down the street, glancing into each saloon door until he saw what he wanted.
He finally saw a saloon with two large bat-wing doors and could see it was a large saloon with a rear entrance on the road that paralleled Cherry Creek. Joshua quickly spun Eagle around and launched him toward the saloon entrance. He drew his pistol and fired in the air, and all the men at the bar saw him darting toward the doors and quickly jumped back away from the long mahogany bar. Lying low over Eagle’s neck Strongheart went through the doorway at breakneck speed and galloped the depth of the saloon and tore out the doors at the far end, went to his right, crossed the road, and jumped a hedge down into Cherry Creek, turned left and ran full speed for a mile.
• • •
The three ambushers did not know what to do, as Joshua’s move caught them so suddenly. They finally sped down the street, around the corner, and they ran north, the direction he’d angled when he’d exited the bar. It took them an hour before they unraveled his trail south on Cherry Creek, but many more hours before they found out he’d left Cherry Creek and doubled back heading north.
Strongheart rode well into the night putting Denver and Auraria behind him. He knew that these three characters obviously hired to assassinate him would also know he was headed north into Montana territory to meet with the Lakota. Joshua, however, would plan his own meeting with them.
He could have taken the railroad, but Strongheart knew that these men would keep coming if somebody wanted him dead that badly. They also needed an intelligence report on this obvious conspiracy, so he decided he had to capture at least one of them alive. He was well into Wyoming territory when he picked his place to confront the trio, an area with cottonwoods and other large trees off to the north of the trail. It was in a sort of natural bowl about an eighth of a mile east of the north-south trail with lush grasses for horses to graze, plenty of trees for firewood and shelter, a fast-running stream, and out of the prairie wind, so Joshua knew he would find the remains of many campfires, which he did.
The investigator, simply using common sense, knew these three riders would make camp in this small grove. Strongheart quickly rode through the grove of trees making his plan. He then moved downstream and set up his own camp, got what supplies he needed from his saddlebags, and went back to the camp area, leaving Eagle there grazing near the creek. He simply knew the three ambushers would not be able to resist the camp area.
It was not an hour before the three appeared, stopped out on the road and, like he suspected, immediately rode toward the trees. Strongheart stayed back in the trees, watching. They picked one of the first campfires, which even had some firewood stacked near it. They watered their horses and let them graze on the lush green grass along the stream bank.
Charlie Lombardi immigrated to New York City when he was a small boy from Sicily, Italy. His family was very traditional and tight knit. Mano Nera, the Black Hand, was a secret organization that began in Naples in the seventeen-fifties. Charlie’s father was in the process, with some friends, of reviving it in the eastern United States as a secret extortion organization, which would eventually evolve into the modern-day Cosa Nostra, commonly referred to as the mafia. His father had gotten a strong start with his friends, extorting protection money from any family and business he could detect a weakness in. That was the environment Charlie grew up in and was a big part of his character now.
He fell in with Texas Tom Hardcastle and George “Oink” Johnson. Texas Tom should have been named Texas Tom Hardcase instead of Hardcastle. Texas Tom grew up near Austin, Texas, and was an experienced cowhand. His only problem was the devil he turned into every time he pulled a cork on a jug. He was a big, strong man and had literally killed a man with his hands in a saloon fight, been charged with murder, and escaped the hangman’s noose by escaping from jail in a small Nebraska town. He started riding the owl hoot trail and had done one murder for hire and held up two stagecoaches.
Oink Johnson was also called Tightskin behind his back, because he was so large and bulky his skin seemed like it was stretched over a large frame. He had no neck, was short, but bull strong and had short-cropped red hair and a long red beard. Oink got his nickname because of the way he laughed. He sounded like a pig grunting when he really got a laugh going. Oink was rattlesnake mean and sadistic. He had robbed and killed and was also a rapist. This was unusual, because outlaws had been known to turn on their own if they molested women. There were so few women in the West, so most men were very protective of womanhood in general.
By dark, the three had large steaks grilling over a large fire, and a skillet with sliced potatoes and onions. Strongheart could hear his stomach growling as he smelled the fresh steaks they had picked up from a butcher in Denver. Joshua lay in the foliage just a little outside of the circle of light from the fire. He had trained himself years before to ignore hunger, thirst, heat, cold, and insect bites when in such a situation, whether stalking man or animal. He had several more hours to wait, but in that time he would watch the three and listen to see how they interacted with each other.
Joshua Strongheart lay in the shadows for several hours, watching the men share a bottle of whiskey and swap lies. He listened to their conversation and determined that Oink was the overt intimidator and mouth of the group, but Charlie Lombardi was the brains, the quiet shrewd one who spoke little, but he was definitely the leader of the trio. Based on this, Joshua formulated his plan.
After midnight, all three were asleep and snoring soundly. He crept forward silently and made it first to Oink. He removed the man’s pistol from the holster and ejected the bullets into his hand, then replaced the gun in the holster.
He slowly crawled over to
Texas Tom and started to do the same with him. However that cowpuncher had better instincts. He came wide awake clawing for his gun, and Strongheart’s Peacemaker ended that as it came crashing down on his left temple, producing an instant goose egg, and knocking him out.
Strongheart looked over at Charlie, and he did not stir, nor did Oink. He undid Texas Tom’s gun belt and removed it. Then, he tied the limp assassin’s hands behind his back.
Now, he crawled toward Charlie. He slowly inched forward on his belly. The Pinkerton was now only five feet away.
Suddenly, Texas Tom, who had come to, yelled from behind him, “Charlie, look out! It’s Strongheart!”
Charlie Lombardi sat bolt upright drawing his pair of .44s, giving Joshua no choice. His hand streaked down and up with his Colt .45 spewing flame. Two rounds that could be covered with a silver dollar slammed into Lombardi’s chest, both hitting his heart. He immediately slumped into a motionless pile of rags. Strongheart heard a gun click behind him, and he spun around as Oink tried fanning his empty gun with nothing but empty clicks. Strongheart raised his own gun, and Oink dropped his.
Joshua pulled six bullets from his pocket and said, “Looking for these?”
The man spat on the ground, glaring at the half-breed.
Joshua said, “Toss it over here.”
Begrudgingly, Oink threw the pistol to the Pinkerton, who caught it and tucked it into the back of his waistband.
Oink said, “Yer a lot taller ’n’ me, Strongheart. You kin talk tough with a gun in your hand. What about with just yer fists?”
“No,” Joshua grinned broadly at the bushwhacker. “I like it a lot better with a gun in my hand. Sit down by the fire.”
Strongheart added some wood and set the coffeepot on the coals. Then, he tied Oink’s hands behind his back and whistled. Seconds later, Eagle came galloping up. Joshua unsaddled him and let him start grazing nearby. He retrieved his breakfast fixings out of his saddlebags and started making himself breakfast while speaking to the two would-be assassins.