by Jake Henry
Savage climbed down from the bay and walked over to the stage. Above the door was a hand-painted sign which read: Silver Ridge Stage Lines.
He looked inside and saw that the passengers were dead. Both were male and had been well armed.
Savage stepped back from the coach and examined the ground around him and it struck him that things seemed to be too clean. Someone had taken the time to erase all traces of disturbance.
Something seemed not right. If it were Mescaleros, why kill all of the horses? Why leave guns and ammunition on the men in the coach? And why …? he stopped. There in the dust as clear as day, was a heeled boot print.
Off to his left, a quail took flight, flapping furiously as it launched itself from a clump of creosote.
Savage froze. Something had startled it and his immediate conclusion was the Mescaleros he’d seen earlier. His first thought was for his horse and then the Winchester. Although he had the Remington on his hip, it only carried six shots. Trying to reload while he had Apaches trying to lift his hair could prove fatal. The Winchester, on the other hand, had fifteen shots and would be ideal.
Only ten yards stood between him and the bay. He turned and walked slowly towards it. A flutter of movement to his right his eye.
Without hesitation, he dived and rolled. An arrow whistled past overhead and flew harmlessly into the surrounding desert.
Savage completed the roll by coming up on one knee as another arrow stuck into the earth in front of him. The Remington came out in a fluid draw as he sought a target.
From the brush in front of him emerged an Apache, dressed in a loin cloth, shirt, and knee-high moccasins. He was armed with a bow and paused to draw the string back.
Savage snapped a shot off in his direction and the Indian cried out with pain. He dropped the bow and clutched at his stomach. Another .44 slug finished him off.
Turning, Savage lunged towards the mare in a desperate play to get the Winchester. A gunshot sounded and he felt the round pass close. Damn it, he cursed to himself. At least one of them had a gun of some description.
His hand slapped the stock of the Winchester and Savage ripped it from the saddle scabbard. He whirled and saw that two more Apaches had emerged from the desert landscape. One of them was the warrior with the gun, a rifle. These were closer this time and he could see their paint-daubed faces.
Hurriedly, Savage jacked a round into the Winchester’s breech. He threw it to his shoulder and fired at the Apache with the gun but wasn’t quick enough to stop him firing.
The slug from the Mescalero’s rifle missed, though not by much. There was a hollow thunk behind him and the mare let out a high-pitched shriek of pain. The slug Savage fired, however, didn’t miss and the Apache was flung back by the .44 caliber slug. He flopped like a rag doll into the dry desert sand and didn’t move.
Shifting his aim, Savage worked the lever and fired once more. Again he was too late and the arrow loosed by the Mescalero scored a bloody furrow along his left rib cage. It made him flinch and the shot that he fired flew wide.
Working the lever again, Savage lined the foresight upon the Indian’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The kick from the Winchester drove back against his shoulder and through the gun smoke that partly obscured his vision, he saw the Apache fall.
Three down, and by Savage’s calculations, there should be two more. With the Winchester still tucked against his shoulder he looked for the others but saw no one. Then he heard the drum of hoofbeats that faded in the distance. They had left.
Savage remembered the bay and spun about to see the mare on the ground. He hurried to her and knelt by her side and examined her wound. Her breathing was labored and she had a rattle deep within. The stray bullet had entered just behind her fore-shoulder on the right side. There was nothing more to be done so he got to his feet and placed the muzzle of the Winchester an inch from her forehead and squeezed the trigger As the adrenaline started to wear off, Savage suddenly became aware of the burning sensation on his left side. He looked down and saw the bloody tear in his shirt.
Now he was afoot in the desert. Unless …
He walked over to the brush where the Apaches had come from, checking their bodies as he went just to make sure.
Savage walked through the mesquite about twenty yards then it opened out into a small clearing. There, hobbled together, were three horses. In their rush to get away, the remaining Mescaleros had left them behind.
Two were wiry Indian ponies and the other was a sorrel. He chose the latter because it was most likely the one to be saddle-broke then set the others free.
After a brief struggle, Savage managed to retrieve his saddle from the bay and onto the sorrel along with the rest of his gear. Once he was finished, he climbed up onto the horse. At first, it skittered sideways at the unfamiliar rider but once he was aboard, the animal was fine.
He turned the horse towards Silver Ridge and put it into a loping canter. With any luck, he’d reach town before the sun dropped below the horizon.
~*~
The main street of Silver Ridge showed two typical architectural styles. The timber structures had large false-fronts that hid buildings of varying sizes.
In contrast to these were the adobe buildings were built with a mixture of mud and straw or even manure made into bricks, then were slow dried in the shade to reduce cracking.
Three of the timber buildings were saloons. Each establishment had its name on a large hand-painted sign above their second-floor windows. The Cactus Rose, the Mine King, and the Lucky Strike.
People stopped on boardwalks to stare curiously at the stranger dressed in the cavalry pants and buckskin jacket, then went on about their business doing last minute jobs before the sun went down.
Silver Ridge stood at the foot of the Chisos Mountains and had come about from a silver strike six years before. It was surrounded by miles and miles of desert country and the town’s main water source was a spring that rose near the edge of town.
The first stop on Savage’s agenda was to the local sheriff. He needed to inform the law about the stage he’d found earlier in the afternoon and while he was there, he would ask about Brooks. After that, he would see to the sorrel.
The last red rays of sunlight were stretched out across the sky when Savage found what he was searching for.
The Silver Ridge law office was a plain timber building with a veranda out front. It was double story with the jail cells upstairs. It also had a large sign painted in bold red letters that said, Sheriff’s Office.
Savage looped the reins over the hitching rail out front and wearily climbed the steps. He crossed the boardwalk and walked in through the door.
“Can I help you stranger?” a tall man with red hair asked.
Savage nodded. “You can if you’re the sheriff.”
“Tip Morton,” he greeted. “And you are …?”
“Jeff Savage,” Savage offered as he looked around the jail. It was a sparsely furnished space with two chairs, a scarred desk, a gun rack on the wall and a cabinet for papers. In the corner was a pot-bellied stove and the room was lit by a single lamp.
But it was the stove that interested Savage the most. Or the smell of freshly brewed coffee that emanated from the battered pot on top.
“What can I do for you, Savage?”
“I could use a coffee if you don’t mind.”
Morton stared blankly at him for a moment then nodded.
Alright,” Morton said and he found a cup and tossed it to Savage. “Help yourself and while you’re at it start talkin’.”
As he poured the steaming liquid into the cup, Savage said, “About half a day out I came across an upturned coach. Sign on it said it was a Silver Ridge stage.”
“Damn it,” Morton cursed. “The bastards have done it again. It was Apaches wasn’t it?”
“It looked that way,” Savage allowed. “But …”
“Hang on a moment,” Morton said stopping him. Then he called out, “Shelby? Get in here.
”
A young man entered from a back room. He was medium size and build and had a badge pinned to his vest.
“What’s up, Tip?”
“Go and get Baxter and Wheeler,” Morton ordered. “They’ll be at the Cactus Rose. Tell ’em that it is to do with the stage.”
“Again?” asked Shelby raising his eyebrows in surprise.
“Yes, again. Now get goin’.”
The young deputy rushed out the door and was gone.
Morton turned his attention back to Savage and explained, “Morg Baxter owns the stage lines and Hap Wheeler bosses the Silver Bullet mine. If you’re goin’ to tell me what you found then you may as well tell them at the same time. Saves you repeatin’ yourself.”
“Fair enough,” Savage agreed. “While we’re waitin’ for ’em maybe you can tell me somethin’?”
“If I can.”
“Duane Brooks, do you know him?”
“Yeah,” Morton allowed. “I know him. Wild one like his brother. Haven’t seen him since he rode out to fight in the war, though. Why?”
“I heard tell he was comin’ back here and I thought I might look him up,” Savage lied and took a sip of his coffee.
Morton looked at Savage suspiciously.
“What about his brother, might he know?”
“If you can find him,” Morton snorted. “Though if he shows his face around here I’ll lock him up.”
“Why?”
Morton was about to explain more when Shelby returned with Baxter and Wheeler.
“Damn it to hell, Tip,” the middle-aged Wheeler fumed. “Shelby says it’s happened again. Is it true?”
“It appears so,” Morton confirmed. “Savage here found the stage.”
“Well man, out with it,” the solidly built Baxter snapped. “Tell us what you found.”
“Before you start, there is one thing you should know, Savage,” Morton interrupted. “There was ten thousand in silver on that coach.”
That would explain their behavior, Savage thought to himself.
Savage told the men about the events of the day including the gunfight with the Mescaleros.
“Good show,” Wheeler sneered. “That’ll teach the bastards to steal the company silver. Was there any sign of it?”
Savage shook his head. “Nope. And I don’t think it was Mescaleros who stole the silver and killed those men either.”
As Savage drank the last of his coffee all eyes turned in his direction questioningly.
“But you just told us that the men were scalped, shot full of arrows, and to top it off they damn well attacked you where it happened.” Baxter reminded him furiously.
“That’s right,” Savage acknowledged.
“Well, hell,” Wheeler snapped. “I don’t know about you Savage, but from where I’m standin’, that is a mighty strong case. Don’t know how you drew your conclusion.”
“You’d better explain yourself, Savage,” Morton urged him. “What makes you so sure it weren’t Mescaleros?”
“First off, tell me about the other robbery.”
“It was pretty much the same as the one you’ve just told us about,” Morton elaborated. “Horses shot, men scalped and shot full of arrows.”
“Anything else to suggest Apaches done it? Any tracks?”
“What more do you want?” Baxter snorted derisively.
Savage ignored him and Morton said, “There were no tracks at all. But that’s somethin’ the Apaches would do, blot out their tracks. They wouldn’t want us followin’ them back to their camp.”
“That’s true,” Savage agreed. “But before the war, I worked with a freight outfit that used to run through the Big Bend country and we tangled with the Apaches some. And …”
“And what?” Wheeler interrupted sarcastically. “Get to the point.”
“And there are four things I learned about them.”
“Like what?” Wheeler snapped impatiently.
“One is that Apache just don’t shoot horses for somethin’ to do. They just take ’em. Yeah, they might shoot one to stop the coach but not all of them,” Savage pointed out. “Two is, why didn’t they take the guns and ammunition? The ones that attacked me had one rifle between them. If it was them then they sure as hell needed them. The third is why would they take the silver? They don’t need it.”
“And the fourth?” Baxter asked.
“Is when did Mescaleros start wearin’ heeled boots?”
Eight
A HEAVY SILENCE descended over the room as the four men took in what Savage had just told them. He waited while they were deep in thought.
It was Morton who broke the silence.
“Could it have been someone from the stage?”
“All of the tracks were wiped out, even around the bodies,” Savage explained. “Except they missed one. A heeled boot with a square toe and a piece out of the sole.”
“And you’re sure that it wasn’t the Mescaleros that done it?” Wheeler asked.
“As sure as I can be without being witness to the robbery itself,” Savage assured him.
“That does it,” Wheeler snapped furiously. “It has to be him. That son of a bitch came back like he said he would.”
“Hold hard there, Hap,” Morton advised the mine boss. “You can’t be sure.”
“It has to be who?” Savage inquired.
“Elmo Brooks,” Wheeler seethed. “The bastard said he’d be back after I fired him from the mine. He was skimmin’ some of the silver. But of course, we couldn’t prove it so I fired him anyway.”
“He’s always been trouble,” Baxter nodded.
Savage’s ears pricked. “What about his brother, Duane.”
“I already told you, he ain’t been around here since before the war,” Morton reiterated.
“What are we goin’ to do, Hap?” Baxter asked. “There’s another shipment you want gone in a few days. This one’s even bigger. Twenty thousand. Maybe we should postpone it.”
Savage thought quickly. He was certain that if this was the work of Elmo Brooks, then his brother wouldn’t be far away.
“No.”
All eyes turned to Savage.
“What do you mean no?” Morton asked.
“What would you say if I said I could get the ones responsible for it all?” Savage asked.
“How do you propose to do that all on your lonesome?” Wheeler asked skeptically.
“I didn’t say I could do it all on my own,” Savage pointed out. “You fellers will have to do your bit.”
“I ain’t so sure,” Baxter’s voice filled with uncertainty. “Why should we trust you?”
Savage shrugged. “No reason at all.”
“Alright, I’m listening,” said Wheeler.
“I am too,” muttered Morton. “This should be interesting.”
“I want you to find five men that’ll follow orders and make sure they are trustworthy,” Savage told them. “Oh, and they need to be able to shoot.”
“Why can’t you find ’em?” Wheeler asked.
“Look at me, Wheeler. I’m dressed mostly in Union blue and we’re in Texas. You work it out.”
“Alright, what else?”
“Just do everythin’ like normal,” Savage explained. “We’ll leave the night before the shipment and wait a few miles outside of town. After the stage has gone past we’ll shadow it.”
“Why do you think they’ll hit the next one?” Shelby asked.
Savage settled his steely gaze on him. “Because someone is givin’ ’em information from the inside, that’s why.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Wheeler snorted.
“Well, how do you expect they found out about the shipments if they ain’t in town?” Savage asked him. “They sure as shootin’ ain’t mind readers.”
“I don’t like it,” Baxter stated. “All your plan does is put more of my men in danger.”
“It’s a chance you’ll have to take.”
“No, it ain’t.”
“Aww hell, Baxter,” Wheeler snapped. “I’ll supply the damned men for the job.”
“What do you get out of this deal?” Morton asked.
“One thousand dollars and a chance to kill a man who needs killin’,” Savage said matter of factly.
The penny dropped for Morton. “Duane Brooks?”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t even know if he’s with ’em,” Morton pointed out. “We don’t even know if Elmo is behind it. What makes you want him so bad for anyways?”
Savage’s voice grew cold. “The son of a bitch was part of a bunch of killers who were responsible for the murder of my wife. Their boss was John Carver.”
“Don’t make this some sort of damn revenge ride, Savage,” Morton warned.
“Too late,” he told the sheriff and turned to Wheeler and Baxter. “So, do you want my help or not?”
There was a brief silence as both men looked at each other then nodded. “Yes.”
“Fine then. When is the shipment going?”
“Four days,” Wheeler answered.
Savage nodded. “Can you get the men together by tomorrow night?”
“Should be no problem.”
“Just remember to keep it quiet,” Savage cautioned them. “Or it may be us that end up on the wrong side of the ambush.”
~*~
At around nine the following evening there was a knock on the door of Savage’s small hotel room. Seven men filed in and took up positions about the room.
“You didn’t tell us we’d be takin’ up with a damn Yank,” one of the men said bitterly.
“Hold your tongue, Levi,” Wheeler snapped.
“He’s got a point,” another man pointed out.
“Shut it all of you,” Wheeler ordered. “Once I’ve told you what is goin’ on then you can make up your own minds.”
The room grew quiet after a few more murmurings.
“Right, now let’s get started,” Wheeler stated. “As you know another load of silver was taken. This time, off the stage we shipped it on.”
“Blasted Indians,” the man called Levi muttered.
“It wasn’t Indians.”
The five newcomers looked at Savage.
“Says who?” Levi demanded.