Showdown at Gun Hill

by Ralph Cotton

  “All right, I’m coming,” he said under his breath.

  * * *

  “He’s coming,” Sheriff Colleen Deluna said over her shoulder, as if having heard the Ranger from her position high atop the ridge. Near exhaustion, she lowered the scoped rifle from her eye and leaned back in relief against the stand of rock behind her. She looked over at Sheriff Stone, who lay leaning back against a rock in the sandy clearing.

  Sheriff Deluna could tell he was still trembling, yet not as badly as he had been earlier in the day. The dusty striped poncho he wore was dark with sweat. His bare foot was scarred and bruised from traveling through brush and rock.

  “Did you hear me, Stone?” she said. “The Ranger caught my signal. He’s on his way up.” Her voice sounded strained and weary, from the heat, the lack of water.

  “G-good,” Stone stammered in spite of his tremors having waned considerably. “I—I hate for h-him to see me like this. I’m going to catch hell for wh-what I done, letting everybody down.” He sat up and hugged himself tight with both arms. A near-empty canteen lay in the dirt beside him. They had been under pursuit, rationing the last of their water to a short sip every now and then throughout the long day.

  Sheriff Deluna looked from Stone over to the body of their pursuer, one of Bo Anson’s men, Hugh Kirchdorf, who lay sprawled in a dark pool of dried blood. He had followed them and shot at them repeatedly from afar. Stone had taken a chance. He’d put himself in the open, waited for the right near miss, then fallen to the ground and waited. When the rifleman checked on his marksmanship, Stone rose and killed him before Deluna got a shot off.

  “I wouldn’t say that, Sheriff. I’m grateful you killed this long shooter before he could kill us,” she said, sounding hard-edged even as tired as she was. She turned the big rifle back and forth in her hands as she spoke, inspecting the long-distance brass scope. Then she stood, walked to Stone and reached her hand down to help him to his feet. But Stone ignored her offer, feeling ashamed. Instead he struggled and pushed himself up, bringing the canteen with him. Handing Deluna the last drink of water, he dusted his bare legs and smoothed the poncho down his front.

  Using each other for support, the two walked to the place where they had tied their horses and led the animals by their reins down the steep rocky path. A half hour later, they met the Ranger leading his dun up the path toward them.

  Upon seeing him, the two sheriffs sank down onto the rocks along the edge of the trail. Sam, noting their condition, hurried to them with two full canteens in his hands. He uncapped the canteens and helped them both drink until they’d sated their thirst. Then the two leaned forward. Stone removed his flop hat and the Ranger poured a stream of the tepid water over their heads.

  “Thank God, we . . . saw you from up there, Ranger,” Sheriff Deluna said, catching her breath as she washed her face with both hands. “Bo Anson held us prisoner. . . . We got loose. But he sent a long shooter. We’ve been run ragged all day and night . . . couldn’t get to any water holes.” She gave a tired nod up the trail where the body lay. “Sheriff Stone killed him . . . earlier today. We were resting up, walking out of here tonight.”

  Sam looked at Stone. His wet head, his poncho, his loincloth, missing a boot. Seeing the Ranger’s eyes on him, Stone lowered the flop hat back onto his head and looked away. His hands trembled. He clamped them together.

  “I expect you heard what happened to me,” he said.

  “Yes, I heard,” Sam said. “I heard you got drunk and wandered off with an old Indian who sells cocaine and whiskey.”

  “A medicine man,” Stone said, half-sullen.

  Sam wasn’t letting him off the hook all the way, not yet.

  “A medicine man?” he said. “What kind of medicine was he—?”

  “There’s something for you to see, Ranger,” Sheriff Deluna said to Sam, changing the subject. She gestured toward her horse where she had stuck the scoped rifle under her bedroll. “It’s a rifle with a brass scope on it.”

  Sam stood and walked to her horse, pulled the rifle out and looked it over.

  “Looks the same,” he said. “There’s not that many of these scopes in use. Think this was the man who ambushed us?”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Deluna. “This man was in Bexnar at the time. He wasn’t riding with Anson until afterward.”

  Sam gave her a questioning look.

  “I recognized him from his wanted poster,” Deluna said. His name is—was Hugh Kirchdorf.” She nodded at the scoped rifle in Sam’s hands and said, “You can keep that for evidence.”

  “Obliged,” said Sam. He walked back to the two sheriffs with the rifle in his hands and said to Deluna, “I left a wounded prisoner with your temporary deputy, Silas Radler. He and another gunman had a string of a dozen horses they’d gathered across the border. He said the number of Anson’s men is always changing.” He gazed at Sheriff Deluna knowingly. But it was Sheriff Stone who replied.

  “Sounds like he’s . . . putting something big together,” he said in a weak voice. “I know a little about Bo Anson. He’s the kind who hates riding small.”

  Deluna and Sam looked at each other, a little surprised to hear from Stone.

  “What do you suppose it could be?” Sam asked, encouraging the sheriff to take part.

  Stone fell silent for a moment.

  “I’m telling you both right now . . . I’m sorry. Sorry I let you down, sorry I’ve acted like a fool, sorry I let you down—”

  “You already said that,” Sam corrected him.

  But Stone continued. “That I’ve been drunk, acting loco—”

  “Let’s get away from all that, Stone,” Sam said, wanting him to know they were out for the same thing, to uphold the law. “Stay with Bo Anson. What do you figure he’s up to?”

  Stone appeared to have a hard time considering the matter. Finally he let out a breath, giving up.

  “That’s anybody’s guess,” he said. “But he’s at the center of everything going on, whatever it is.” He looked away again.

  Sam stood looking at Stone for a moment, deciding whether or not to trust him again.

  “What are you going to do, Ranger?” Sheriff Deluna asked, raising the canteen for another drink.

  Sam hefted the rifle in his hands.

  “I want the long shooter,” he said. “I want the men you’re holding posters on. I’m riding to Gun Hill, soon as I get the two of you back to town.”

  Deluna shook her head as she lowered the canteen.

  “I’m riding to Gun Hill with you,” she said. “They burned my town, took Stone and me prisoner. I’m not letting it go.”

  “Your town needs you there, Sheriff,” Sam reminded her.

  “I know that,” Deluna said, capping the canteen, pushing up onto her feet. “We best get to Gun Hill and get this done right away.”

  Seeing her stand, Stone pushed up beside her and stood looking at the Ranger.

  “Count me in,” he said.

  Sam looked him up and down, sizing him up.

  “Gun Hill is well named,” Stone said, for no apparent reason.

  “Yes, it is,” Sam said. He paused, then said, “Are you going to be able to do your job, Sheriff?”

  “If I’m not, there’s a graveyard in Gun Hill,” Stone said in a grim tone. “It’s as good a place as any. . . .” He left his words unfinished.

  Gun Hill

  From the platform of his private Pullman car, Curtis Siedell stood up from a green canvas folding chair and looked out at the riders headed into town, leaving a cloud of roiling dust in their wake. On either side of him a bodyguard stood in suit, tie, derby hat and long tan riding duster. They both stepped forward with repeating rifles at port arms, flanking him. On his right a Texan gunman named Virgil Pennick, on his left a younger man, Arnold Inman.

  “Summon the men around us, Arnold,” S
iedell said in a low, even tone. He stared straight ahead, evening sunlight landing on his right shoulder. “We’ll want to make a fine show of strength for the colonel.” He raised a thick unlit cigar in his hand and put it in his mouth.

  “Yes, sir,” said Inman. He stepped over to the side of the platform, leaned out and gave a hand signal, summoning one of Siedell’s leaders who stood smoking a cigarette outside the car in front of the plush Pullman. The man, Jacob Bead, nodded and crushed out his cigarette under his boot; he leaned and called out into the car, “All right, men, form up out here. There’s riders coming.”

  On the platform of his Pullman car, Siedell turned to Pennick as boots pounded down the iron steps from the next car.

  “Virgil, get the meat chopper set up on its stand,” he said, gesturing a nod upward toward the top of the car. “I think Colonel Hinler will appreciate seeing it.”

  “Yes, sir, right away,” said Pennick. He turned, yet hesitated for a second. “But I need to say, sir, I don’t see the colonel among these men.”

  “Hmm . . . ,” said Siedell, studying the riders closely. “They are wearing our uniform dusters for the most part, are they not?”

  “They are, sir,” said Pennick. “But I don’t see the colonel. I don’t even see any faces I recognize.”

  “Puzzling,” said Siedell. “I’ll have to see what the colonel’s up to.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Pennick, stepping down off the platform quickly and trotting back to where the shape of a Gatling gun and tripod sat on the ground covered by a canvas tarpaulin. Along the wide wooden dock, freight handlers stopped working and watched as the armed men spilled out of the private car and assembled around the rear of the Pullman. Bo Anson also watched the armed men as he and his men drew closer from the far end of the street.

  He chuckled under his breath and spoke to Ape Boyd riding beside him.

  “Feels good, don’t it, having folks turn out when you ride into a town?” he said sidelong.

  “I’d sooner ride in shooting,” Ape replied. “I don’t take to warm receptions much—never did.”

  “All in good time, Ape,” said Anson. “Just keep watching for my signal.”

  Counting a few more of his men who had fallen in with him along the trail as they’d planned, their ranks had now grown to seventeen, gunmen and murderers all. Just the kind of men he needed, Anson told himself, drawing his horse down to a halt thirty feet from the rear Pullman platform. Ape Boyd stopped his horse beside him, leading a horse with the colonel’s body tied down under a dusty blanket.

  The rest of Anson’s men drew their horses down and bunched up behind him and Boyd on either side. All of them wore tan riding dusters. Most of them wore derby hats. Rifles stood in their laps. Bandoliers hung from their saddle horns. A large furry dog sprang out from under a boardwalk and ran forward barking and snapping at the horses’ hooves. A sharp kick from a big sweaty bay sent the dog flipping, rolling and scrambling away, leaving a painful yelp lingering in the air behind it.

  “Hope that wasn’t your dog, Mr. Siedell,” Anson called out as Siedell and his men stared at the unusual sight.

  “It is not,” Siedell said regally, dismissing the matter. “I take it you’re Bo Anson? The colonel telegraphed about you. Welcome to my rail-spur operation.” He spread a hand to take in the station, freight dock and entire town.

  “Gracias, Mr. Siedell,” said Anson. “The colonel told me you needed more men—sent me to round some up.” He nodded at the men on either side.

  Siedell eyed the men over, noting that he’d never seen a harder, tougher-looking bunch of gunmen. There were no familiar faces among them, which he found curious.

  “Very good.” He nodded. “And where is the colonel?” he asked. “I want to show him my new Pullman ornament.” He gestured up to where three men were busily mounting the canvas-covered Gatling gun.

  Even with the canvas hiding it, Anson could tell what was underneath. Seeing the print of the Gatling gun alone gave him pause. He knew that one man firing and one loading the big gun could wreak havoc on him and his gunmen. This was no place to launch an attack on Siedell. Anson decided to let the matter simmer a little while longer—get Siedell out of town on the desert. Once there he could take the man captive and demand whatever amount he wanted from Siedell’s businesses.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news about the colonel, Mr. Siedell,” he said. He motioned for Ape to throw the blanket off Colonel Hinler’s body. “The sons a’ bitches killed him only last evening, before me and these men got there to stop it.” He reached up, pulled off his hat and clasped it to his chest. “All we want now is the chance to kill them low, no-good dogs.”

  Siedell looked at the colonel’s body lying strapped down over the saddle.

  “You’re going to get that chance, Bo Anson,” he said. “I’m sending you and your men right back out there come morning.”

  “You do that, Mr. Siedell,” said Anson. “And you’ve got my word we’ll catch every one of them.”

  “Let’s make something perfectly clear, Bo,” Siedell said, already calling him by his first name, Anson noted. “I do not want Max Bard and his band of cutthroats simply caught. I want them killed, to the man.”

  Anson stared at him for a moment, nodding.

  “That right there,” he said, pointing a finger at Siedell, “is exactly what I’ve been hoping to hear.” He straightened in his saddle. “We’ll be ready to go come morning. Nothing would please us more than you riding side by side with us.”

  Siedell cocked his head a little to one side, visibly not pleased with Anson’s words.

  “You forget yourself, Anson,” he said. He gestured his cigar toward all the men around his Pullman, at the Gatling gun atop the car. “When I travel I go with my entire army. We all may meet you and your contingent on the trail. But you’re new here. Do not assume yourself to be my right-hand man.” He looked around at his detectives. They gazed flatly at Anson and his gunmen.

  Bo Anson’s face reddened.

  “No, sir, Mr. Siedell,” he said, keeping a cordial tone even as anger raged in his chest. “Please excuse me. I only want to do the best job we can for you.”

  “I understand,” Siedell said, but there was an edge of superiority in his voice. “Now take these men over there where I can summon you when you’re needed.” He pointed out at a wide, barren sandlot at the far edge of town. “I’ll have some elk stew sent over. I’ll come and meet each of you later. That will be all,” he added.

  Summoned? When he was needed . . . ?

  Anson only sat staring for a moment, keeping his rage and humiliation from spilling over to his gun hand.

  “Elk stew sounds just fine, sir,” Anson managed to say tightly without betraying his rage.

  Chapter 17

  Curtis Siedell took the horse carrying the colonel’s body and watched as the gunmen rode toward a barren stretch of ground at the far end of town and swung down from their saddles. He smiled to himself and drew on his fresh cigar as Arnold Inman held a long sulfur match to the end of it.

  “Thank you, Arnold,” he said through the smoke looming around his head. He continued to stare where Anson and the gunmen stepped down to make camp. “Did Virgil get the meat chopper set up?”

  “He did, sir,” Inman said, shaking out the match. “He was only waiting on word from you to take off the canvas cover.”

  “Good, let’s leave it mounted for the time being,” Siedell said. He nodded his agreement at two men who stepped out and led the colonel’s body off the street.

  “Covered or uncovered, sir?” said Inman.

  “Covered, of course,” said Siedell. “Too much dust here. I would have only uncovered it for the colonel. But leave it mounted for now and make sure the ammunition crate is full.”

  “Yes, sir,” Inman said, giving Siedell a curious look. “I’ll see to it right a
way.”

  Siedell remained staring out at Anson and his men as Inman hurried around the side of the Pullman car and climbed the iron rungs leading up to the roof.

  At the sandy ground where the gunmen began setting up camp, Ape Boyd stood staring back at Siedell, a hundred and fifty yards between them.

  “What are you looking at, you pillow-assed poltroon, son of a dripping—” Ape snarled under his breath.

  “That’s enough, Ape,” Anson said, cutting the wild-eyed gunman off.

  “All right,” Ape growled. “But I don’t know why you didn’t let me shoot holes in him while I had him in pistol range.”

  “Because then you too would be dead, Ape,” Anson said, knowing the futility of trying to reason with Ape Boyd.

  “Yeah, so?” Ape said, turning his stare away from Siedell, looking around at Anson.

  Anson shook his head and took a patient breath.

  “I want you alive, Ape,” he said. “Don’t worry, you’ll get all the killing you crave, as soon as I get things set up just right here.” As he spoke, some of his men gathered around him, their bedrolls under their arms, rifles in hand.

  “Holt, you worked the rails,” he said to one of the gunmen who’d joined him on the trail. “How much fuel do you say is in the wood bin?”

  “Enough to run easy for three days, maybe,” said Gus Holt, who stood staring back at the big black steam engine and its three-car train.

  “How about running hard?” Anson asked.

  “A day, a day and a half,” Holt said. “Run any harder than that, you’d likely blow the boiler.”

  Anson nodded and said, “How often they have to run that boiler just to keep the water ready?”

  “In the heat of the day every two or three hours,” Holt said with authority. “Likely they’ll stoke it up and let it idle all night, though, keep the water boiling enough to get them going if they needed to.”