Showdown at Gun Hill

by Ralph Cotton

  * * *

  When the end of the tracks came into sight out on the desert floor, Curtis Siedell leaned out over the platform’s handrail and stared ahead through the softened glare of afternoon sunlight. He saw a single rider seated atop his horse holding the lead rope to a string of saddled horses. Behind Siedell, Bo Anson chuckled and puffed on a cigar he’d helped himself to from the businessman’s private supply.

  Siedell’s left hand was cuffed to the handrail. He’d been allowed to get dressed and pull his boots on before walking up the engine and back.

  Anson reached around and unlocked the cuffs. He spoke above the rumble and roar of the locomotive as Siedell turned to face him, also with a cigar in hand.

  “As you can see, I already knew how far it was to the end of the line,” Anson said. “I just wanted to know if you’d lie to me.” He grinned as he nodded in the direction of the rider and the string of horses. “I’ve had my plans laid from the get-go.”

  “And if I had lied to you?” Siedell asked.

  “Instead of us smoking cigars together, I might have put one or two out in your ears,” Anson said, still with the grin. “But it didn’t go that way, and I’m as glad as you are about that.”

  As the locomotive began to slow down, Anson motioned Siedell toward the Pullman car door with his cocked revolver. Siedell walked inside the car and stopped, waiting to hear what Anson’s next order would be.

  “Get your duster and hat on,” Anson said. “We’re heading through some uphill country tonight.” As he spoke, the single-car train slowed more. A slight screech of metal brakes came from under the engine.

  “May I ask where?” said Siedell.

  “No, you may not,” Anson said, mocking him. Then he gave a dark chuckle and wagged his gun barrel toward the line of hills ahead to their right, along the border. “Up there,” he said. “We’re going to get high up and out of sight—wait for the message to get to your flunkies that we’ve got a wire around your neck. We’ll tell them we’ll start twisting it tight if they don’t come up with what we want.”

  “Which is . . . ?” Siedell let his words trail. The train slowed more, coasting along on its own now.

  “Never you mind, King Curtis,” said Anson.

  “Damn it, man,” Siedell said. “I keep telling you I hold the purse strings. Tell me how much, we’ll settle this thing and go on about our business!”

  “I’m not just doing this for the money, King Curtis,” said Anson. “I want everybody to know what I did. I want folks to know that while your people were getting ransom money together, two men showed up with the bodies of Bard and his pals draped over their saddles.” His eyes gleamed with madness. “Won’t that be dandy?” he said. “Nobody will know it was me collecting their reward until it’s all over—too late to do anything about it.”

  Siedell only stared at him, not knowing what to say.

  They both turned at the sound of Ape Boyd stepping in through the front door, a telescope in his thick hand. The train slowed down to a crawl.

  “Jim Purser made it here with the horses,” Ape said. “Looks like somebody winged him. Want me to go on and kill him?” he added bluntly.

  “No, Ape, for God sakes,” said Anson. “Jim did what he was supposed to do. Why would we kill him?”

  Ape shrugged and eyed Siedell up and down as his next possible target.

  “Just thought I’d ask,” he said. “I looked back along the rails. Nobody’s caught up with us yet. And I broke down the big gun. I’m ready to carry it down and load it on a horse.”

  “Good, then,” said Anson. “Get Holt and the others ready.” He glanced at Siedell. “Tell them our little train ride is just about over—”

  Before he got the words out of his mouth, one of the men, Dan Brody, stepped inside the car.

  “Bo,” he cut in, sounding urgent. “We’ve got two men following us, riding hard. Holt and Jenkins are keeping an eye on them.”

  “Detectives? They’ve caught up to us so soon?” Anson said. He gave Siedell a curious look.

  “That’s impossible,” Siedell said confidently. “Horses don’t stand a chance against iron and steam.”

  “It’s not detectives,” said Brody. “Holt said it’s Max Bard, and some fella he’s never seen.”

  Anson looked concerned, but only for a second. Then his face split with laughter.

  “This is too perfect,” he said. “I thought I’d have to lure Max Bard here—get word to him that I have you under lock and key.” He shook his head as he laughed. “How did he know? Do you hombres smell each other coming?”

  “Want me to go kill them?” Ape asked, getting excited all over again.

  “No, Ape, not just yet,” said Anson. “Go load up and let’s get moving. I’ll give Max just a quick whiff of his ol’ pal here when we ride away. That’ll draw him up to where I want him.” He looked at Siedell and asked, “Does that sound like a good idea to you, King Curtis?”

  Anson saw Siedell look a little frightened for the first time since the whole bloody business had started.

  “Listen to me, Anson. I don’t want Max Bard around me,” he said, his voice different now, sounding more serious than before. “If he gets near me he’ll kill me. Then you’ll get no ransom, maybe no reward money either, if he gets away after I’m dead.”

  “Take it easy, King Curtis,” Anson said. “This has all been thought out and is going as planned, except for ol’ Max showing up so soon. I still don’t understand that.” He shook his head as if in amazement and continued, saying, “I’m not letting anything happen to you, unless you try to get feisty on me and I have to put a bullet in your head.”

  “I’m not going to try anything stupid, Anson. See to it that you don’t either.”

  See to it . . . ?

  Anson gave him a hard, sharp stare.

  “I’m sorry,” Siedell said quickly, wanting to take the sting out of his prior statement. “But this changes things for me. As far as I’m concerned you can consider me your partner until Max Bard is dead.”

  Anson kept his temper in check.

  “He will be real soon, King Curtis,” he said. “You can count on it.”

  Chapter 20

  At the same rise where Max Bard and his remaining men had stopped their horses an hour earlier, Sam and the two sheriffs reined their horses down and looked at the hoofprints that had led them there. The tracks they’d followed had split up. Two riders had taken off down toward the rails on the sand flats below. Three more sets headed off and down toward Gnat in the opposite direction. On a warm afternoon breeze the smell of wood smoke wafted up from along the tracks.

  “They split up right here. Why?” Stone queried the Ranger and Deluna. “Two of them rode off following a train?” he asked with a puzzled look on his face. He now wore Parker Fish’s boots, having followed the dried blood and found Fish’s body in the rocks.

  Sam sat staring off in the direction of Gun Hill. He saw a heavy drift of dust looming upward on the distant horizon.

  “Good question,” he said quietly. “The answer might be riding this way.” He reached back under his bedroll and pulled out his telescope. Deluna and Stone also studied the rising dust.

  “That’s a lot of horses coming,” Deluna said in a wary tone.

  “Can you make them out yet, Ranger?” Stone asked Sam.

  “I can,” Sam replied, gazing out through the lens. “From the black suits and tan dusters, I make five of them out to be detectives.” He paused and then said, “Detectives in some big trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Stone asked.

  “Their horses are blown,” Sam said, still studying the situation closely. “They’re leading them, trying to rest them some.”

  “That’s a lot of dust for five men leading tired horses,” Deluna offered.

  “It’s not their dust,” Sam said, still
looking. “The dust belongs to a bunch of riders farther back behind them.” He took the lens from his eyes and handed it to her. She looked out and found the riders and almost gasped.

  “The detectives are going to get ridden down and slaughtered,” she said. “We can’t let that happen.” She lowered the lens and looked at Stone and the Ranger.

  “Come on,” Sam said, already turning his dun toward Gnat’s town limits below them. “If these five don’t get fresh horses and extra guns real quick, they’re dead.”

  The three rode hard down the sand rise and across a short stretch of ground into the small mining town. On the street, townspeople stood looking off at the heavy dust drifting across the sand flats. Seeing the badges on Sam’s and Sheriff Deluna’s chests, the people drew close while the three reined their horses down outside the gates of a livery barn corral.

  “Is there something we can do to help, Ranger?” one townsman asked, knowing the Ranger and the woman sheriff being there must have something to do with the coming riders. They eyed Stone as if he might have been the Ranger’s prisoner.

  “This is Sheriff Deluna from Resting and Sheriff Stone from Big Silver. I’m Ranger Burrack,” he said quickly. “We need fresh horses for some detectives who are about to get killed out there.” As he spoke he leaped down from his saddle and threw the corral gate open, Deluna and Stone right beside him.

  An elderly livery hostler hurried forward from the barn, hearing the Ranger.

  “Take what you need, Ranger,” he called out. “Is that Apache coming out there?”

  “No,” Sam said. “Outlaws.”

  “Just as bad these days,” the liveryman said. “There goes some right now. I knew when I saw them.” He pointed Sam’s attention east of town where Cross, Worley and Rudy Bowlinger raced away upward toward a pine- and rock-covered hillside.

  “They came here for fresh horses,” Sam said, “and now they’ve got them.”

  “I wouldn’t have sold them horses except they were pushy as hell about it,” the old man said.

  Sam knew they had no time to think about the Bard Gang right now. He walked past the livery tender and began stringing horses with a coil of rope he took from around a corral post.

  “Keep tabs, mister,” he said to the livery tender. “We’ll be back to settle up with you.”

  “Obliged if you do, Ranger,” the liveryman said. “These are all good horses, straight here from across the border—not stolen though, no, sir!” he added quickly, realizing he was talking to a lawman.

  “I understand,” Sam said, hurrying, getting the string of horses ready to go. He pulled a knife from his boot well, sliced through the rope and threw the rest of the coil to Deluna and Stone. “Each of you take a couple of separate strings in case we lose some.”

  “Good idea,” Stone said. As he let out some rope and ran it around a horse’s neck, a young boy tugged at his trousers. Stone looked down at him.

  “My pa says you can turn yourself into a wildcat and you kill chickens,” the boy said.

  “A wildcat?” Stone said in disbelief. “Your pa’s crazy, son! I used to turn into a wolf and kill sheep. But I quit doing it. Tell your pa I said so.” He looked up from the boy and around at the faces staring at him. “Did you all hear me? I quit,” he said in a raised voice. He kept working with the rope as he spoke, slicing a length off the coil for himself and pitching the remaining coil to Deluna.

  * * *

  On the flats the five detectives tried pulling their thirsty, worn-out horses a little faster. But the horses had nothing more to give. Seeing the large cloud of dust, and having heard the sporadic gunfire behind each time another of their ranks had given up and fallen behind, the detectives knew what awaited them if they fell back. So they struggled on. These were younger detectives, less experienced men who’d only recently joined Siedell’s security force.

  “Somebody . . . ought to be bullwhipped,” a young man named Riley Soots panted, “thinking we could . . . keep up with a train on horseback.” His wire-rim spectacles were coated with thick sand dust.

  “Save your breath, Soots,” said a slightly older detective named Dallas Carson. He looked back at the dust. “I expect a bullwhipping wouldn’t mean nothing . . . to the man who gave that order right now.” He jerked his horse along by its reins, seeing the outline of the riders move into sight ahead of the rising dust.

  “Jesus! Here they come,” another young detective cried out, seeing the figures closing in on them.

  “Take these horses down! Get behind them!” shouted Carson. “It’s our only chance!” As he spoke, the first bullet from an outlaw’s rifle streaked past, followed by the sound of it. Carson twisted his horse’s head as he tapped its foreleg with his boot. The tired horse staggered down onto its knees, then rolled over onto its side.

  “Gather up into a circle,” Carson shouted in a parched and weary voice. “Hurry now, men!”

  As more shots zinged past them, the detectives did as they were told. With their horses’ bodies providing cover, they heard the gunfire grow heavier, the bullets right above their heads whining sharply through the dry desert air. Carson counted fourteen rifle cartridges in a leather pouch he’d hung over his shoulder. He knew the other men were no better fixed for ammunition than himself.

  “Hold your fire until they are right upon us, men!” he shouted, looking all around their small circle. He jerked a small pair of binoculars from his coat pocket and wiped dust from them. To the rear, he saw another rise of dust, more riders pounding toward them.

  “They have us surrounded!” he shouted. But then, raising the binoculars to his eyes, he found the figures in the circling lens and caught the glint of the badge on the Ranger’s chest, the silver-gray sombrero. “Wait, these are not Anson’s men. It’s that Ranger, Burrack, from Nogales. He’s bringing help—they’re bringing us horses!” But even as the men heard the good news, the firing from Anson’s men grew heavier. A horse let out a loud grunt, then fell limp as a bullet struck its neck just below its head. Another horse screamed in pain as a bullet sliced through its saddle and bored into its back. One by one, the rest of the horses whinnied in pain.

  Even through the heavy gunfire, the Ranger and the two sheriffs heard the sound of the dying animals ahead of them. The three pounded on toward the hapless detectives.

  “Move to my right, start firing,” he called out, handing Deluna the two-horse string he led beside him. Both Stone and Deluna knew they were out of range, especially Stone with only his big Colt; but they did as the Ranger told them to do, both of them also leading fresh horses beside them.

  As the sheriffs swerved their horses to the Ranger’s right and began firing, Sam slid his dun down to a halt and quickly drew the scoped rifle from under his bedroll. With a firm tap of his knees and a twist of the tightened reins in his hands, he brought the animal down onto its side. He stepped off the horse expertly at the last second and dropped down behind it. As heavy firing continued, he leveled the scoped rifle out across the dun’s side. He took a second to rub a gloved hand over the dun’s flank; then he took aim through the scope and locked on to one of the riders at the front of the outlaws.

  The man, Marvin Poole, flew from his saddle in a spray of blood. The riders near him veered away as Poole’s blood stung and splattered their faces. One of the veering riders, Randy Meeks, had barely got his horse straightened when the Ranger’s second bullet raised an identical spray that sent him down, horse and all. Man and animal rolled in a tangle of limbs, reins and leather as dust billowed around them. Seeing their two sidekicks fall within seconds of each other, the remaining gunmen dropped back, reining their horses down and circling away.

  “To hell with all this,” Lyle Cady shouted at his brother, Ignacio. “If they want to shoot us, they’ll have to shoot us in the back.” The two turned their horses and rode straight away from the other gunmen. “To hell with Stone and th
e bribe money. Don’t stop till we’re out of the territory!”

  Seeing the two racing away across the sand, other gunmen broke away and took off. A gunman named Frank Castor, whom Anson had put in charge of the riders, had to shout above the gunfire from the pinned-down detectives and the three riders farther back who had come to their aid.

  “Split up. There’s only five left!” he said. “We did what Bo wanted! Get out of here!”

  Even as Castor shouted, one of the men flew sidelong from his saddle, a bullet painting the dusty air with a spiraling ribbon of blood. The remaining men had seen enough. Ducked low in their saddles, they jerked their horses around and pounded away, Castor right alongside them, holding his hat down on his head. He only glanced back once, past the detectives, at the black dot of man and horse lying prone in the distance.

  Wise decision . . .

  Sam raised himself onto his knees behind the dun and waved a hand back and forth, signaling Stone and Deluna to stop shooting. As they stopped, and in turn as the detectives’ gunfire waned, they all watched Anson’s men ride farther way in their own billowing dust. The detectives were too spent and thirsty to celebrate their victory; they slumped onto their dead horses and for a moment lay as still as stone.

  Sam rubbed the copper dun’s side again, in appreciation. Then he stood, reins and rifle in hand, and nudged his boot to the dun’s rump.

  “Let’s go, Copper,” he said. He threw his leg over the saddle as the horse stood up under him.

  After he met Stone and Deluna on the way, the three rode to where the detectives were starting to stand up and look all around, in disbelief that they were still alive.

  “Man, are we glad to see you, Ranger!” said Dallas Carson, dusting himself off. His horse was one of the few left alive, yet the worn-out animal took two tries at rising onto its hooves as Castor tugged its reins. “We were goners, sure enough.”

  Sheriff Deluna rode in close and handed a full canteen down to him. Carson took it, uncapped it with a shaky hand and took a long swig.