by Ben Bridges
‘Grab them right in front of fifty gunfighters?’ Jessica asked with heavy sarcasm.
‘By the time they reach Cascade, they’ll have already put fifty or sixty miles behind them. It’s my hope—my belief—that the newsmen will want to enjoy a few home comforts before they press on. That’s when we’ll take them.’
We?’.
My face hardened a little. ‘I can’t do it alone, so I’ll be looking to you men for volunteers.’
‘I’d go with you if it wasn’t for this damn’ bullet-wound,’ Ernie Franklin said with genuine frustration.
‘I’m game,’ said Tragg, and his wife laced one of her arms through one of his, and squeezed it affectionately.
‘I’ll go along,’ said Mayberly. ‘If you think I’ll be of any help.’
Quickly, no doubt sensing that the situation was getting away from her, Jessica called for order, then said, ‘This plan of yours might sound very well, but just how do you propose to reach Cascade if all the trails in and out of Fairfax County are being watched?’
I could almost feel the enthusiasm of the men in the crowd evaporating. ‘At the moment, the Association can only lay claim to so many men. It’s my guess that Linderman will concentrate them on the trails to the south. If we ride north, a small group of us travelling under cover of night, we can then swing back, around them, and come onto Cascade from the east.’
Ernie nodded, and a man named Hamilton said, ‘That sounds reasonable.’
‘Well, I’m not sure,’ Jessica countered. ‘It’s my belief that we should attack the Association now, when they least expect it, and before their reinforcements get here.’
Her eyes fixed challengingly on mine, and I said mildly, ‘Let’s put it to the vote, then.’
Her nod was businesslike. ‘All right,’ she replied. ‘A show of hands. All of you people who favor my notion, raise your hands.’
There was a moment of hesitation. Then, tentatively, a hand came up, and another, and one more. Jessica said impatiently, ‘Come on, there. You women have got as much of a say in this as anyone else.’
A few more hands showed, but not many. Finally, now beginning to face defeat, Jessica said, ‘All those who think Colter’s got the right idea?’
It was no contest. Palm after palm showed almost at once. Even Ethan raised his hand.
Jessica looked mad enough to spit. She came right out and said, ‘You fools,’ and that comment won her absolutely no further support at all. There was some more shuffling from the men who felt awkward at having gone against her. Then, after a heavy sigh, Jessica said, ‘All right. We do it Colter’s way... God help us.’
She turned to me then, and dropped her voice so that only I could hear her. ‘It seems that you’re in command now. Tell us what to do and we’ll do it. But if it all goes wrong and any of these people get hurt...well, I might just come gunning for you myself, Colter.’
Chapter Eight
It had been an eventful day, one way or another, and once the settlers had decided upon the course we must take, it grew even more hectic, for there was still much to do.
I selected the five volunteers I considered to be most suitable for what lay ahead, and then we set about equipping ourselves for the trip. We needed good horseflesh, a wagon and team for the pressmen, supplies and decent weapons, just in case.
As one, the settlers pitched in to help. Those who could, gave freely, The rest slapped our backs and wished us Godspeed. There were some tearful farewells, and then the settlers dispersed, leaving the rest of us to wait for dark.
It took its own sweet time coming, but eventually the afternoon waned, the sky burned with a resplendent sunset and soon after that night sent out gray feelers to take its place.
Still we waited, though the urge to move out was now strong in all of us. And then, heading towards midnight, I rose and said, ‘Saddle up.’
We did so in silence, and about twenty minutes later we pulled out, my five-man army (one of them, Daniels, driving the wagon), Jessica Dunbar and I.
I watched Jessica riding ahead through the moon glow. She worried me. She was a loose cannon, and I did not feel that I could fully trust her. But she knew the country better than any of the men, so I had no choice: she had to come along with us.
Still, she was a more than able guide. She led us north, through the lonely night, across broad, shortgrass plains and through stands of Douglas, larch, ponderosa and lodgepole. We trotted on through verdant valleys with the wagon creaking along behind us, and by dawn of the following day I was pleased to see that we had come a fair piece, and encountered no-one.
We holed up during the daylight hours and tried to catch up on lost sleep. That night we put ourselves through it all over again, only this time we were trending east, beginning the vast swing that would help us to avoid any possible confrontation with the Association men.
Just before dawn on the third night, Jessica—who had taken to scouting ahead— came galloping back to report that our destination lay just beyond the next timbered rise. It was encouraging news. We followed her back the way she had come and regarded the quiet town in the growing light.
As far as we could see, Cascade was just another frame- and brick-built scab on the rolling flats below. Its streets were narrow and wheel marked, still deep in shadow at this time, and lacking the order of those back in Beaver Dam. The commercial district, which occupied the centre of town, was a jumble of mismatched and different-sized structures piled one upon another, with only a little more uniformity to the residential quarters that surrounded it.
Two sets of railroad tracks cut right through the town, with a station-house on the southernmost outskirts. The tracks uncoiled from the south in four glistening lines, and then curved away to the west on the other side of town.
Quickly I studied the layout of the place, committing as much as I could to memory. Beside me now, Jessica said, ‘Well? What’s the plan?’
I told her, sketching in details as I went along, and afterwards Aaron Mayberly and I rode down towards Main Street while the others turned back into the pines and found themselves a decent campsite.
Entering town, Mayberly and I dusted our horses towards the far end of Main. Storekeepers, setting out their wares and sweeping down boardwalks, gave us only the most cursory appraisal.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Colter,’ muttered Mayberly.
I did not reply, but inside my head my voice was saying, I hope so too.
I had spotted a middling-sized hotel that overlooked the station house. Now we reined up outside, dismounted, went in and rented a first floor front room. As I had hoped, the room afforded us a good view of the station house: we would be able to see everyone who came and went.
Edgy and apprehensive, I told Mayberly to get some rest, that I would take the first watch. Then I pulled a chair over to the curtained window and settled myself as comfortably as I could to wait.
As it turned out, we waited through the whole of that day and right through the night that followed, each of us spelling the other after a four-hour shift. One train came through, but it was heading south, so we took little notice of it. The following morning a train shushed in on a cushion of steam from the north, but it wasn’t the one we were waiting for.
The day wore on. Time passed slowly. Mayberly went out to stretch his legs and get something to eat. I sat in the chair, still trying to tell myself that this could and would work. I leaned forward, peered through the lace, traced the railroad lines back into infinity, but nothing moved out there, no trace of steam riding the sky, no piercing whistle carrying on the hot wind.
A couple of hours later Mayberly said softly, ‘I think they’re coming.’
Hurriedly I joined him at the window. A big black loco was swaying up from the north, steam obscuring its spinning wheels, thick black smoke belching from its diamond-shaped stack. Our eyes followed as it slid alongside the weathered platform, the loco, the tender, two day cars, two slat-sided livestock cars,
a caboose.
Yes, I thought with a sudden rush of anticipation. This is it.
The train squealed to a halt. The cars knocked against each other and then settled back. Men began to jump and climb down, easing the creases out of their spines. My skin chilled as I saw Ward Jameson among their number, yelling orders in a voice like a parade-ground drill-sergeant.
Still more men flooded down off the train, hard case-types all, with low-slung handguns and rifles in scabbards. Soon you could not see the platform itself for them, for there were easily the fifty Linderman had promised me.
At my side, Mayberly whispered, ‘Oh, Lordy.’
Then our attention was claimed by six men in check shirts and derby hats who climbed down off the first car with worn leather bags in hand. Mayberly said, ‘Is that them? The newspapermen?’
I nodded slowly. ‘That’s them.’ Then I turned to him. ‘You’re sure Jameson doesn’t know you, Aaron? He won’t recognize you if he sees you?’
‘I told you before. I’ve never met him in my life.’
‘All right.’ I settled back reluctantly. ‘Well, you know what to do. Follow the newsmen. See where they go. But keep your distance and don’t make it obvious. As soon as they settle somewhere, come and fetch me. I’ll do the rest.’
While he grabbed up his hat, I turned my attention back to the station house. Jameson’s not-so-little army was congregating around the livestock cars now, waiting to claim their mounts, and Jameson himself was down at the other end of the platform, conversing with the pressmen. Jameson pointed down the street and the reporters nodded, then turned away and left the station house behind them. Jameson watched them go, then started up towards the livestock cars, doubtless to oversee the unloading.
I said to Mayberly, ‘All right, the coast’s clear. Good luck.’
I heard the door close softly behind me.
I watched the pressmen cross the street in a strung-out line, talking among themselves. Well, I’d hoped they would break away from Jameson’s toughs at the earliest opportunity, and they had. But for how long? Below, I saw Mayberly step out on to the street, kill some time by adjusting the tilt of his hat and hitching up his pants. Then he set off after our quarry.
I sighed. It was all in the lap of the gods now...but knowing that gave me no comfort whatsoever.
Mayberly was back inside fifteen minutes. He said, ‘They’ve gone into the Redwing Saloon. You know that big place on the corner of—’
I nodded and reached for my hat. ‘I know the place. They’ll be staying there for a while?’
He nodded back. ‘I figure so. They ordered drinks, and I heard the bartender say he’d fix ‘em some salt pork and succotash.’
Already at the door I said, ‘All right, Aaron. Saddle up and ride. Tell Jessica and the others I want the wagon out behind the Redwing in twenty minutes.’
‘Will do. Uh, Mr. Colter...’
‘Yes?’
He looked embarrassed. ‘Watch out for Jameson, won’t you?’
‘I will. You see all those horses tied outside the Blue Tiger?’ It was a saloon a few doors up, alongside the station house. He nodded again. ‘That’s where he and the rest of them went to slake their thirsts,’ I said.
He looked relieved.
I went downstairs and out on to the street. The mid-afternoon was scorching-hot. I turned right, started up towards the Redwing, trying to decide how best to handle the task before me.
The saloon loomed ahead. I pushed inside, out of the sun. I hesitated to one side of the batwings until my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Then I looked around the place. It was big and clean, and because it was the middle of the afternoon, there weren’t all that many customers, just a few loafers at the bar, and a bartender setting bottles out on shelves in as artistic a display as he could manage. I saw the newsmen gathered at a round table in the far corner, and quickly crossed the sawdust towards them.
When I was near enough, I took off my hat, swept my fingers up through my hair and said quietly, ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Would I be right in saying that you are the journalists travelling on to Beaver Dam?’
They slid around on their chairs to regard me. What they saw brought frowns to their indoor-pale faces. A tall, narrow-featured man with long sideburns and round eye-glasses like Mayberly’s said, ‘And what business would that be of yours, pray tell?’
I took a deep breath. ‘My name is Ash Colter, gentlemen. And if you will put your trust in me, I believe I can give you an even bigger story than the one you have come here to cover...’
It all took time, far longer than I’d allowed for. At first the reporters were skeptical, as befitted their profession—but they were curious too, and it was their curiosity I kept appealing to as I spoke quickly in low, earnest, persuasive tones.
Before we went very far, I had to prove that I was indeed who I claimed to be. As much as I hated to squander precious minutes, I gave them something of my history, of Jack Page and the Snake River Shootout, of taming Elton, Kansas and Yellow Creek, Territory of Dakota. I told them about scouting for Custer, of fighting the Cheyenne and Sioux and, latterly, rustlers like John Kidd.
At last I drew back my jacket to show them the distinctive .442 in the holster at my hip and said levelly, ‘I assure you, gentlemen—I am the Gunsmoke Legend.’
Convinced, one of them muttered, ‘Good grief.’
Having proved my bona fides, they next asked me about the story I was promising them, and I told them as much as I thought it would take to whet their appetites. I promised to take them into Fairfax County to see the truth of the matter for themselves. I said I would let them interview the men and women who had suffered at the hands of the Association and its hired thugs.
I broke off once, when the bartender called for them to come and get their grub, and when they were seated back around the table, inspecting what had been dished up for them with near-comical mistrust, I told them that a wagon was even now waiting for us behind the saloon—but that they must come now, if they were coming at all.
Sensing a big story, three of them expressed interest. They had no love for Jameson, they said, and did not care for the company of gunmen—present company excepted. The other three, though...they weren’t so sure it was the right thing to do. They weren’t to know, of course, that I was fully prepared to take them all at gunpoint if I had to, for I could not chance leaving any of them behind to raise the alarm.
Luckily it didn’t come to that. In the end, all the situation required was a little.. .manipulation.
‘Very well, gentlemen,’ I said, addressing the three who were willing to come with me, still looking anxiously over my shoulder every so often lest I be discovered by Jameson. “The truth about what is really happening in Fairfax County is yours, and your editors and readers will applaud you for it. If you will just bring your bags...?’
From the corner of my vision I saw the others exchanging guarded looks. Clearly they did not want their rivals to fetch home the bigger story. But if they also took the initiative, shunned the Association’s invitation and came with me...?
One of them said, ‘Aw hell—all I can lose is my job.’ And another threw down his fork and reached for his valise. ‘You’re right, Millar. Besides which, anything’s got to be better than eating these slops.’
I was under no illusions as I hustled them out through the backdoor, past a row of rickety one-holers and on through a gap in the surrounding fence to the wagon and the tight-faced, armed crew flanking it. I had appealed to the pressmen’s curiosity, and I daresay my name and involvement in the matter played a part in influencing their decision, too.
But in the end, the rights and wrongs of it made no real difference to them. Ambitious like all their kind, the only thing that mattered was getting the big story, the one that could establish or confirm their reputations.
That made it something of a hollow victory, I suppose—but a victory, nonetheless.
So far our luck had run good, but I knew we weren’t
out of the woods yet. It was only a matter of time before Jameson came looking for the journalists. When he found out what had happened to them he would be after us, and his army of cut-throats would be right behind him.
As they clambered awkwardly into the wagon, I saw with relief that Mayberly had saddled and fetched my horse. I mounted up and joined Jessica at the head of our small column. She looked profoundly unimpressed by the slightly dazed-looking reporters.
There was no conversation between us. We simply pulled out, moving as fast as we dared, and just kept going, because the only way we could possibly make this work was to build up a sizeable lead and maintain it.
We rode northeast, away from Cascade, and although I fell back to watch our rear, I saw no sign of pursuit. We travelled on through what remained of the day, spelled the horses reluctantly at sundown, then pushed on, moving only a little slower. And over the next two days my companions and I gave the newsmen the truth of what had been happening in Fairfax County.
It was a sorry catalogue of beatings and intimidation, of unprovoked moonlight raids, the confiscation of other men’s stock and the burning of their property. Steel showed them the marks he still bore from the beating the Association gunmen had given him. They were awful. And Mayberly told them all about what had happened to the Franklins, how Ernie himself had nearly died.
The newsmen blanched, realizing now that I had not exaggerated the situation.
Indeed, it was all very different from what they had been led to believe.
Jessica added nothing, but when she took a turn checking on our back trail, I told them all about what had been done to her and Ethan.
‘Can you prove all this?’ asked one of them from the back of the wagon, while the others scribbled it all down on tablets of paper.
‘I can prove it,’ I replied.
‘Then I think I speak for us all, Mr. Colter,’ said he, ‘when I say that we will take it back to Helena with us and press for a full congressional hearing into the way the Association has abused its power. You will have justice here, I promise you.’