Drifter 1

by Jake Henry

  “I do,” Savage said firmly. “Now shut up and listen or get your ass out the door. We’re here to work together, not fight the damn war all over again. However, if you still feel as though you need to, come and see me after the job is done and I’ll accommodate you.”

  Levi glared at him for a time before he smiled mirthlessly. “Alright, I can wait.”

  “Now the pleasantries are out of the way I’ll introduce everyone,” Wheeler said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Levi you know, the others are Curtis, Wallace, Edmonds, and lastly Roy Horton.”

  As each man’s name was said, Savage eyed them all carefully.

  Wheeler continued.“This gentleman is Savage. And before you ask, yes he is in charge and you will take orders from him.”

  They didn’t like it but remained silent.

  Savage explained what he wanted from them and his exploits when he found the stage. By the time he was finished their expressions had softened a little.

  “How much are you men getting’ paid for this?” he asked them.

  “A hundred dollars a man,” Curtis answered.

  Shifting his gaze to Wheeler, Savage said flatly, “Each man gets a thousand dollars.”

  “The hell you say,” Wheeler spluttered.

  “They get it or I don’t help you out,” Savage said bluntly. “Their lives are worth as much as mine.”

  Wheeler wanted to protest more but instead nodded. “OK.”

  The five men kept their faces passive but Savage could see the surprise in their eyes.

  “How many of you served?”

  “All of us,” said the short Edmonds.

  “Who’s the best shot amongst you all?”

  “Levi,” Curtis answered. “He was a sharpshooter.”

  It would be, thought Savage.

  “Be ready to ride tomorrow night,” he told them. “And say nothing. Better still, if you can get out of town individually and meet up outside of town, even better.”

  Savage paused before he asked, “Any questions?”

  No one spoke.

  “Alright then, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  As they started to file out of the room, Savage said, “Levi, you stay.”

  The man glared coldly at him but did as he was bid. Once everyone was gone and the door closed he scowled.

  “What do you want with me, Yank?” he asked bitterly.

  “Drop the attitude,” Savage snapped and immediately thought of his time in the cavalry. “Were you any good as a sharpshooter?”

  “Good enough.”

  “Well then, I have a job for you. It’ll be dangerous and it could get you killed. Think you might be up to it?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “What gun did you use in the war? A Whitworth?”

  Levi frowned. “Yeah.”

  “You still got it?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Here’s what I want you to do,” Savage explained. “I want you gone from here before dawn in the morning. I’m taking a gamble that when they hit the next shipment it’ll be in the same place as the last. What I want you to do is take that rifle of yours and find a place there to hole up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, although we’ll be shadowing the shipment, we won’t be close enough to stop them if they start killin’ those on board,” Savage explained. “If it looks like that is about to happen, then you can start shootin’ from long range.”

  Levi nodded his understanding.

  “Be aware of the Apaches as well,” Savage warned, “You’ll be on your own so be careful and stay out of sight.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Levi told him.

  ~*~

  The former sharpshooter left before dawn the following morning. Savage was confident that he would be fine. He’d be used to being out on his own in dangerous situations.

  The rest left the following night as planned. They met outside of town and after a few questions regarding the missing Levi they rode off.

  The stage which been retrieved along with the bodies of the dead was repaired and left the next morning. The driver, shotgun messenger, and two guards had not been briefed on the plan. The fewer that knew the better the chances of taking the stage robbers by surprise.

  Nine

  THE TELLTALE smudge of dust on the horizon told Levi that the stage was on approach. Yet he wasn’t the only one to see it. There were six riders below his position who had also caught sight of the dust cloud.

  Levi had arrived there around noon the day before and found a place to hole up around five hundred yards off the trail. He was situated on a low ridge amongst some large jagged rock outcrops and creosote bush. It was enclosed enough for good cover but open enough for a clear field of fire.

  He’d tied his horse at the foot of the backside of the ridge then made himself comfortable for the wait.

  Levi thought about his horse laying dead where he’d been hobbled. Earlier that morning, soon after sunrise a band of twenty Mescalero’s had ridden close by on the backside of the ridge.

  As soon as his horse caught the scent of the other horses he’d started to get fractious. Rather than have the Indians become aware that he was about, Levi had chosen to do something he felt was his only option. He quickly scrambled off the ridge, placed a hand over the animal’s muzzle, and with his knife, had slashed its throat.

  He hated doing it but knew it was better than being slow-roasted.

  The Apaches rode on blissfully unaware of the white man upon the ridge.

  The six outlaws arrived just after noon and took up their positions in the brush to the side of the stage trail. Then they settled down to wait, with no knowledge or hint of the man who overlooked their position.

  Levi’s only problem after that were the vultures. The large carrion eaters who could smell out a meal from just about anywhere. It seemed that it was only a short while before the first one appeared, then another, and another. Circling high above and spiraling lower ever so gradually.

  But before any attention could be drawn to the ridge and beyond, the smudge of dust had appeared.

  Levi watched as it grew bigger until he could finally make out the stage at the base of the billowing cloud. It stood out like a giant beacon against the blue sky.

  If the Mescaleros are still around they’ll see that for sure, he thought to himself.

  Down below, the outlaws readied themselves and as the stage drew closer they emerged from the brush and spread out across the trail to block the swaying vehicle’s passage.

  Levi could see the driver haul back on the reins and the stage was almost stopped when a gunshot sounded and the offside leader buckled.

  The stage came to a lurching halt. The driver and shotgun messenger threw their hands into the air and both guards from the inside of the coach climbed out.

  They threw their guns down and stood beside the stage. One of the outlaws ordered the other two down and soon all four men were grouped together on the rutted trail.

  Levi slid the Whitworth rifle forward, cocked the hammer, and brought the rifle up to his shoulder. Its barrel rested on a metal fork to keep it steady.

  The Whitworth rifle was actually a rifled musket of British manufacture. It had been used by Confederate sharpshooters in the civil war and fired a hexagonal .451 caliber bullet.

  It had a range of fifteen hundred yards but was quite accurate anywhere up to a thousand. At five hundred yards, Levi would have no trouble hitting whatever he aimed at, especially with its Davidson scope mounted on the side.

  He watched in horror as one of the outlaws, still seated on his horse, raised a six-gun and fired at the driver. The flat report came quickly and the man was thrust backward and fell in a heap on the ground.

  Levi trained the Whitworth on the shooter of the defenseless driver.

  “Go to hell,” he whispered hoarsely and squeezed the trigger.

  ~*~

  Elmo Brooks shifted his aim and lined the six-gun up on the messenger. He
thumbed back the hammer and …

  His head exploded.

  By the time the bullet from the Whitworth punched into the outlaw’s skull, the report finally reached the men’s ears. Blood sprayed over an outlaw named Hudson who was beside Brooks’ horse when his leader’s head blew apart.

  The six-gun fell from lifeless fingers and he toppled from the saddle and landed with a dull thud.

  “Elmo!” Duane screeched at the sight of his brother’s body.

  “Where the hell did that come from?” one of the other outlaws shouted.

  Duane Brooks whirled about and saw the pall of powder smoke that floated up from the ridge.

  “Up there!” he shouted and pointed to where Levi was situated.

  The former Confederate sharpshooter was a very competent man with the Whitworth, and due to limited numbers, only the best had been issued with one.

  Though it was a musket and slow to reload, an experienced man like Levi could fire three rounds per minute. After twenty seconds, the rifle roared again.

  This time, Hudson’s chest blossomed red as the slug passed through and killed him instantly.

  “Take cover!” Duane Brooks bellowed.

  The four remaining outlaws dove for cover amid the rocks and brush just off the trail. The three men from the stage, surprised by the events, recovered and scooped up their own weapons. They took cover on the other side of the trail and started to fire at the outlaws.

  Now they were trapped between two points of fire. As the battle began to heat up, neither side saw the rising dust cloud in the distance.

  ~*~

  “I told you I heard gunfire!” Wallace exclaimed as the sound reached them.

  “I guess you were right,” Savage declared and heeled the sorrel solidly.

  It leaped forward from a trot into a gallop. The other men followed suit and soon left a large plume of dust in their wake.

  The shots were louder now and they knew they had arrived. As they rounded the corner of the trail, the stage was there in front of them. Beside it lay the bodies of three men and Savage was instantly alarmed that they had arrived too late to save the men from the coach.

  Without hesitation, Savage drew the Remington from its holster and led the men into the thick of battle.

  From behind a rock, a man leaped to his feet and started to fire at the new arrivals. He managed two shots before Savage put him down with a slug to his torso.

  Another man who was sheltered behind a jagged rock raised up to fire, and a bullet from Wallace spun him around.

  The outlaw went down on one knee, his body numb from the impact of the lead. The second shot from Wallace killed him.

  There was a cry of pain to Savage’s left. He glanced over in time to see Roy Horton crash to the ground with a slug in his chest.

  Incensed at the sight of his friend going down, Curtis spurred his mount forward into the brush after the outlaw who’d fired the shot.

  Savage saw him disappear, then his riderless horse emerged a short time later.

  Cursing, Savage looked around for another target and found one, totally unaware that the man he was looking at was Duane Brooks.

  While Savage was shooting at Brooks, Wallace whittled the outlaws down by one more, which left only two. Brooks and a tall outlaw called Black.

  Suddenly, Savage’s hammer fell on a spent chamber. Brooks looked at him and smiled coldly. He raised his gun and sighted on the helpless man in front.

  The smile died on his face as a bullet from the Whitworth burst from his chest in a shower of red. Brooks lurched forward a few steps then halted. His mouth opened and blood flowed freely down his chin.

  Like a tree being felled in a forest, he tilted forward and only stopped once his face hit the dirt.

  “Don’t shoot! the remaining outlaw screamed as he threw his hands up in surrender. “I give up.”

  The gunfire fell silent and Savage dismounted, his empty Remington still in his hand.

  “What’s your name?” he snapped.

  “Black,” the outlaw answered. “Clint Black.

  “Who was your boss?”

  “Elmo Brooks,” he told Savage.

  “Where is he?”

  Black pointed at the body on the trail.

  “What about his brother?” Savage asked hopefully. “Was he with you?” Without a word, Black indicated to the dead outlaw who’d almost killed Savage.

  He went across and stared down at the open, sightless eyes of Duane Brooks. He stayed that way until the image was burned into his brain then he turned and walked away.

  As he did so, Levi appeared from the brush carrying the Whitworth. Savage caught his eye and nodded. The ex-sharpshooter did the same. Neither spoke a word.

  Savage kept walking.

  Now there were four men left to kill.

  ~*~

  Wheeler and Baxter couldn’t have been happier with the outcome. So much so that they seemed to forget that three men had died bringing the outlaws to heel.

  “Here’s your money,” Wheeler said as he tossed it on the worn desk in front of Savage. After his late return to town the night before, he’d slept fitfully then risen early and joined Wheeler and Baxter in Baxter’s office at the stage depot. It was a small room, sparsely furnished, but with large windows which admitted ample light.

  The money landed next to a quiver of arrows and a hand-crafted bow that he’d retrieved from one of the outlaw’s horses.

  Savage scooped up the bundle of notes and stuffed them in his pocket.

  “Did them dead fellers have any family?”

  “Why?” Wheeler asked cautiously.

  “If they do, then they should get the money that’s comin’ to ’em,” Savage stated.

  The mine manager was about to protest but thought better of it when he saw the expression on Savage’s face.

  “I’ll see that they get it if there are any,” Wheeler said almost morosely.

  “Did you fellers find out who was givin’ out the information?”

  “We have a fair idea who it was,’ Wheeler answered. “That outlaw you brought in didn’t know the man’s name but he gave us a good description.”

  “Where are you goin’ from here?” Baxter asked.

  “Over Presidio way,” Savage told him. “There’s another of Carver’s men over there. His father has a ranch. Feller by the name of Hunter.”

  Both men glanced at each other and Savage caught the look that passed between them.

  “What is it?”

  “This Ranch, it wouldn’t be the Bar-H now would it?” Baxter inquired.

  Savage nodded. “That’s the name I was given.”

  “You’d do well to stay away from there,” Wheeler warned him. “Byron Hunter is a tough old coot with plenty of men to back his play. If it’s his son you’re after, maybe you should ride wary and take the long way around. Maybe … ”

  Wheeler’s voice trailed away when he saw the expression on Savage’s unshaven face.

  “Maybe what?”

  “All I’m sayin’ is just be careful,” Wheeler told him by way of explanation. “From what you told us, Hunter’s son needs killin’. But to do that, you have to be alive. And he ain’t all he seems to be.”

  Savage was intrigued. “How so?”

  “Hunter has himself a big ranch over there, with lots of beef wanderin’ the country.” Wheeler elaborated. “Thing is, while the war was goin’ on and not long after it, there was not much money in Texas beef. Still, ain’t. But Byron Hunter always seemed to have money. Word is that he was sellin’ guns over the border.”

  “That don’t concern me.”

  “Well it should,” Wheeler snapped. “He’s a bad man and if he gets so much as a sniff of what you’re up to, then he’ll take you apart.”

  “Let him try.”

  It wasn’t a boast of bravado but an indication of how Savage felt. He was determined not to let anything get in the way of exacting his revenge on every one of his wife’s killers.

>   Wheeler stepped forward and thrust out his right hand. “Best of luck.”

  “Thanks,” Savage said, taking the rough dry hand in his.

  “Hope you get to finish what you started, Savage,” Baxter said genuinely. “But like Wheeler says, watch yourself.”

  “I plan to.”

  Savage walked out of the office and saw Levi standing next to the hitching rail, waiting.

  “Did you get your money?”

  “Yeah,” Levi nodded. “Are you leavin’?”

  “Just as soon as I can.”

  “You want some help?” the ex-sharpshooter asked.

  At first, Savage was surprised and then he shook his head. “Thanks, no. It’s somethin’ I gotta do on my own.”

  Levi nodded that he understood. “Yeah. Be careful.”

  “I’ll be seein’ you,” Savage said.

  “Yeah, maybe. Just do one thing. Get rid of them blue-belly duds you’re wearin’. The next man who sees you wearin’ ’em might not be as understandin’ as me.”

  Savage smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

  Levi shrugged. “It’s your hide.”

  The two men shook and Levi left him standing there. Savage was back on the trail before noon.

  Ten

  “RIDER COMIN’ IN,” called a gangly cowboy who sat on the top rail of the corral.

  Ten sets of eyes turned to look out across the flat at the stranger on the sorrel as he came closer to the ranch yard.

  “Who is it?” called the solid, gray-haired man standing on the veranda of the large ranch house.

  “Don’t know Mr. Hunter,” shouted another cowboy. “I ain’t never seen him … Holy Hannah.”

  “What is it?” Byron Hunter demanded.

  “It’s a damned Yank.”

  “Get your rifles, boys,” Hunter ordered. “We’ll give the sonuver a warm Texas welcome.”

  Each of the cowhands scrambled towards the bunkhouse to grab their rifles except for the one still on a bucking chestnut in the corral, breaking it.

  “What’s goin’ on Pa?”

  Byron turned and looked at his son. Chase was a tall man of twenty-five. He was thinly-built and had blond hair like his mother had had. But she was gone now. She took sick with a fever while her son was away at war and died.