by Cole Shelton
Luke looked at the disused barn twenty paces down the street. Usually shut and bolted, the old wooden doors were slightly ajar, a thin dark slit between them. He lifted his Peacemaker and fired just as a rifle muzzle protruded. Luke’s bullet ripped between the two doors and thudded into flesh and bone. Rodrigo, the Mexican he’d caught on his land earlier today pitched forward, splintering the doors as he crashed headlong between them and lay sprawled in the dust.
The thunder of Luke’s shot reverberated over Spanish Wells.
‘Thanks, Tim,’ Luke called out as the major left his place of concealment on the front porch.
The Confederate major, clad in his old grey uniform, must have abandoned his crutches because he now had the strength to come limping towards him unaided by his wooden props.
‘Don’t mention it, Luke,’ Wallace said, hobbling along the path. Finally reaching the gate, he explained, ‘Heard that Irish fella, O’Neill, bawl out at the top of his voice to Sierra Cooper, our neighbour two houses down from here.’ He hesitated. ‘I reckon you spoke about her that night in the way station.’ When Luke remained silent, he continued, ‘Well, O’Neill hollered out the wedding was off because they had to take care of you. The whole street heard it. After that, he ordered the greaser to hide over in the old barn and ambush you as you rode on past. Now, I wasn’t going to let that happen, not after what you did for Elizabeth and me.’
‘Like I said, I’m beholden to you,’ Luke said gratefully.
‘Hell, they must sure want you dead,’ the major said. ‘They’re staked out all over town just waiting for you.’
‘They have their reasons.’
‘I used to tell my Confederate soldiers not to ask why, but just fight,’ Tim Wallace recalled seriously, ‘so I’m not going to ask questions myself.’ He declared stoutly, ‘I’m riding in with you, Luke.’
Luke retorted, ‘This isn’t your battle. It’s mine.’
‘Now you listen to me,’ Wallace admonished sternly. ‘I’m a Confederate major; you’re just a Billy Yank private. My boys might have lost the war but I sure still outrank you. So no goddamn arguments, Private Dawson!’ He turned and yelled a command. ‘Elizabeth, my horse!’
Responding, his wife led his already-saddled horse from where she’d been holding its bridle ready for Tim’s summons. Luke hadn’t figured on this. As far as he was concerned, this was his fight and Wallace didn’t need to repay him for rescuing his wife from that lecherous swine in the way station. In any case, the major had already done enough by warning him about the Mexican hidden in the barn. However, the Confederate officer was obviously a determined man.
‘You sure?’ Luke asked.
‘Damn sure.’
Luke waited as Wallace painstakingly hauled himself into the saddle. His old wounds still ached and the worried expression on Elizabeth’s face betrayed how she felt. Nevertheless, like Luke, she understood.
The two men rode together up the silent street. After they’d passed Sierra’s home, the curtains parted and the bride’s face was framed between them. Her complexion was as white as the wedding dress she’d just put on.
Luke rode just ahead of Wallace and reached Main Street. There were no boardwalk loungers. In fact, the street looked deserted. No horses were tethered to tie-rails, no piano music floated from the Lucky Deuce. All shops had their doors shut and some were bolted. Only the chapel door remained wide open. Banners inviting everyone to come to the wedding had been taken down.
Dallas Zimmer emerged from the Spanish Wells Hotel and stood under its front balcony. ‘Dawson!’ Zimmer’s bellowing voice echoed out over the silent town. ‘Dawson, we need to talk!’
Zimmer seemed to be alone but Luke wasn’t fooled. In fact, he glimpsed a shadow high in the chapel belfry and Wallace murmured a warning that further down the street there was a furtive movement between the two stone wells. Furthermore, for no apparent reason, a covered wagon stood across the head of Buffalo Alley.
Luke called back, ‘What’s on your mind, Zimmer?’
‘Let’s have a drink like two civilised men.’
Luke told Wallace to keep a watchful eye on the wagon.
‘Civilized?’ Luke’s voice rang out loud and clear over Spanish Wells. ‘Do you call wiping out a whole Navajo village civilised? Well, there were witnesses, Zimmer, witnesses to you using a Gatling gun to wipe out women and kids so you could steal their land. You might have killed folks on Wild Wolf Ridge who saw and heard what happened, but there were others you missed. They know your filthy secret, Zimmer.’
‘Watch your goddamn mouth, Dawson,’ Zimmer yelled.
‘Civilised?’ Luke repeated as he slid from his horse’s back. ‘Is that what you call hiring Scurlock’s outlaw gang to murder a Navajo war hero just because you thought he might stir up trouble? I’d call it straight out cowardly.’
Realizing half the town was hearing this, Zimmer bristled with fury.
Suddenly he exploded, ‘Goddamn Injuns! Who cares about a bunch of goddamn Injuns?’
Luke replied, ‘Maybe more folks than you think.’
‘Heck! He’s yours!’ Zimmer called out.
Luke glimpsed the shadow in the belfry become Heck Halliday, who crouched beside the big brass bell with a rifle in his hand.
He whipped up his Peacemaker. ‘This one’s for Susan.’
Luke fired a single shot that smashed into the deserter’s chest, boring through flesh and bone. Halliday screamed, dropped his rifle and clutched the bell. The chapel bell clanged wildly, pealing out over Spanish Wells as Halliday swayed on his heels and finally slipped. The Triple Z hand plunged headlong to the street below where he crunched into the dust.
Rifles poked through slits in the wagon canvas as gunfire rocked the town. Pedro the Mexican was dead by the barn. However, the other Mexican who rode for Zimmer clambered to his feet behind the well by the undertaker’s parlour. He lifted two rifles and rested both on the well’s stone wall. Simultaneously, O’Neill and the Lucky Deuce’s bartender, Blundell, burst through the saloon batwings with guns blazing.
Luke threw himself to the boardwalk as bullets splintered inches from his left hip. There, on the boards, he fired lead into the swaying wagon. Meanwhile, Wallace’s Army Colt blasted the Mexican by the well, shattering his shoulder. Yelling in agony, the Mexican sagged over the stone wall, both rifles clattering against the sides of the well before splashing into the water.
Next Luke took care of the bartender, his well-aimed bullet lifting him clean off his feet, blowing his dead body back through the Lucky Deuce’s batwings. Meantime, the major backed his horse into Buffalo Street but Luke knew he wasn’t retreating. He wasn’t that kind of man. Within moments Luke heard the sudden thud of hoofs along Glory Alley. Even as Luke exchanged more gunfire with the Triple Z hands in the wagon, Major Wallace showed up where Glory Alley spilled into Main Street alongside the two wells. Wallace slid from his saddle and hobbled to the nearest well, which he sheltered behind while bullets kicked the street dust by his boots. From there, Wallace started keeping the men in the wagon busy, his bullets shredding canvas, forcing them to drop flat to the wooden floor.
Taking advantage of Wallace having the men in the wagon pinned down, Luke ran across Main Street, his gun blazing. Swearing, Zimmer backed into the hotel but O’Neill stood his ground outside the saloon, levelling his rifle. The Irishman’s first bullet whistled past Luke’s head and smacked into the law office wall. Still Luke came running at him, his Peacemaker pumping lead. Ramrod O’Neill’s second shot winged wide but his third nicked flesh from Luke’s left arm, staining his shirt with a smear of blood.
Just as Luke reached the boardwalk, O’Neill backed clumsily towards the saloon batwings. Luke’s next two Peacemaker bullets blasted into O’Neill’s chest. The Triple Z ramrod pitched sideways, toppling into the saloon window. Dropping his gun, the Irishman fell through the shattered window and crashed headlong into the fragments of glass that littered the floor.
With Tim
Wallace keeping up his barrage of flying lead, Luke kept striding towards the hotel entrance. He pushed open the door and saw Zimmer at the top of the stairs, blundering towards his room. The rancher ran into room one and Luke, reloading his Peacemaker, heard the key turn in the lock hole. Luke marched up the stairs. Even as he mounted the staircase, he heard the rancher’s frantic summons from the room one balcony overlooking Main Street.
‘George! George! Where the hell are you, boy?’ Dallas Zimmer’s booming voice rang out over the town. ‘You’re the sheriff, so come out and arrest the bastard. Come out now!’
Luke reached room two.
He turned the brass handle and looked inside.
This was the room where O’Neill and two others had been changing ready for the wedding. Clothes were strewn all over the bed and hung over chairs but no one was in the room. He walked inside, closed the door and headed to where the room opened out onto its own balcony. Like room one’s balcony, it jutted out over the street. Zimmer was still on his balcony, bawling out to his sheriff son at the top of his voice. In fact, Zimmer’s urgent orders were all that could be heard. Even the guns on Main Street had fallen silent.
Stepping out on to his balcony, Luke had his reloaded Peacemaker aimed at Dallas Zimmer. The rancher didn’t see or hear him. He just kept raving at his badge-toting son, imploring him to come out of the safety of his law office and do his duty.
‘Zimmer,’ Luke called him.
The rancher froze. He stood sideways to Luke, looking straight across the street at the law office door. He was clutching a six-shooter in his right hand, the gun pointing to the balcony floor. With drops of sweat beading his brow, the Triple Z rancher jerked his head around and stared at Luke, who was just a few feet away.
‘You’ve got the drop on me, Dawson,’ Zimmer said hoarsely.
‘Reckon I have, Zimmer,’ Luke agreed. ‘You gave those Navajos no chance. It was straight-out murder. But, I’m going to give you a chance you don’t deserve.’ His tone was soft but cold as death itself as he commanded, ‘Put your gun back into its leather, nice and slowly, and I’ll do the same. Then, Zimmer, I’ll count to three.’
Sweat dripped down Zimmer’s cheeks and jaw.
‘Okay, I agree,’ he croaked. ‘I’ll sheath my gun.’
Luke watched him like a hawk.
Zimmer hesitated, then slowly turned his whole body to face him squarely while at the same time lowering his gun inch by inch towards its holster.
Luke slipped his Peacemaker right back into its leather, waiting.
Seizing his opportunity, Zimmer edged his gun right to his holster, looking like he was going to slide it in . . . until the last moment. Suddenly the rancher whipped his gun into play but Luke was ready for him. Clearing leather, Luke fired a single bullet from his hip, blasting a hole clean through the rancher’s heart, dropping him to the balcony floor. There, Zimmer lay face down, blood soaking his wedding shirt, one puffy finger curled lifelessly around his trigger.
With Zimmer dead, the Triple Z hands in the wagon yelled out that they’d had enough. The wagon shook as one by one they jumped down, watched by Major Wallace who held his rifle while still keeping a wary eye on them.
Luke ran back through room two and down the stairs where he met Wallace on the street. The Triple Z men had left their guns in the wagon and stood with their hands high in the air. After a brief word with Luke, the major dismissed them like he would soldiers on parade. Glad to be alive, they ran for their horses.
‘Zimmer was a low-down, sneaky sidewinder to the end,’ Wallace remarked on the rancher’s final attempt at deception. ‘But you were faster anyway.’
‘Couldn’t have done it without you, Tim.’
‘Luke, behind you,’ Wallace warned. ‘Law office.’
Turning, Luke saw the door inch slowly open. Luke expected to see Sheriff George Zimmer looming behind a gun but instead he saw the town’s silver-haired deputy, Kel Drake, who’d once bought a horse from him before the war. He remembered reducing the price for the dour Methodist so he could afford his circuit riding. There was no gun in Drake’s hand as he came towards them. He was a man of few words, except in the pulpit when he was known to preach one-hour sermons.
‘Sheriff Zimmer was about to open the window and shoot you in the back when you crossed the street,’ Drake said. ‘I’ve known for a long time that Zimmer and his son were involved in evil. I turned a blind eye for far too long. May God forgive me! Today I figured it was about time I did more than just preach righteousness. I did something. I stuck my gun into George’s back, took his rifle and marched him to a cell. The court will deal with him.’
Luke shook hands with him. ‘I’m beholden to you, Kel.’
Doors were opening; folks were beginning to come out on Main Street. A whiskery old timer started sweeping glass from the front of the Lucky Deuce and Undertaker Uriah Kemp, rubbing his hands together, came striding down the street with tape measure in hand. Spanish Wells was returning to normal. Luke thanked Tim Wallace once again, promising to call when he next came to town.
As Luke made ready to ride, Deputy Drake stood outside the law office.
‘See you in church,’ the Methodist invited.
There was a wry smile on Luke’s face. ‘Maybe.’
He rode back down Buffalo Street.
Sierra, still in her wedding dress, was on the front porch.
When she saw Luke, she ran to her fence. Her eyes were red, her face wan but she was strangely composed.
‘I did what I had to,’ Luke said quietly.
‘I know,’ Sierra acquiesced. Eyes downcast, she admitted, ‘Dallas wasn’t a good man. I just liked the notion of being Mrs Sierra Zimmer but I made a mistake. A big mistake. I’ll learn a lesson from this.’
Luke acknowledged her with a brief nod.
As he kept riding, she followed him inside her fence and suggested, ‘Luke, later, when this all settles, if you’d like to come calling, I wouldn’t say no.’
‘So long, Sierra,’ Luke said, heading for Sundown Valley.
It was a week later when Luke Dawson stood under the big arrowhead pine where his brother had lost his life. He looked down over Sundown Valley. Cain Zimmer, having inherited the Triple Z from his brother Dallas, had acted with speed, hired more hands and removed all of the cattle back to the ranch. He didn’t intend to have a fight with Luke Dawson so that’s where they’d stay.
The Navajos had returned. Here, on the edge of Wild Wolf Ridge, Luke saw the three new hogans they had just built on the same grass where their village had been destroyed. Soldiers from Fort Beaver had escorted the last members of the Armijo clan safely across Apache territory, leaving them here to start a new life. There was only a handful but the tribe would grow.
He heard Annie’s footfall behind him.
‘That blueberry pie’s baked and waiting,’ she told him.
She’d been cooking for him daily, visiting the new cabin he’d raised over the remains of the old one. She’d been helping too, proving pretty handy with the hammer and nails. Today she wasn’t wearing what she usually had on. The deerskin blouse and pants had been replaced with a home sewn blue cotton blouse and matching dress. Luke stood there wide-eyed. He didn’t need to say a word because Annie knew he was admiring her.
‘Made them myself, same as the blueberry pie that’ll get cold if you don’t come inside now,’ Annie coaxed him.
But he needed no coaxing. They walked together through the tall grass and ferns, past the half a dozen new horses he was getting ready for breaking in. They entered the cabin, he sat down and she began to slice the pie.
‘Been thinking, Annie,’ Luke said seriously.
‘So have I,’ she said, her shiny eyes meeting his over the table.
‘You’re spending a powerful lot of time here on my horse ranch.’
‘I know,’ Annie said. She chuckled. ‘Widow Rose told me certain folks are talking about us.’
‘I’d like to give them somethin
g to really talk about,’ Luke said.
‘Oh?’
He pulled her to him and kissed her long and hard. ‘Deputy Drake said he’d like to see me in church. Been thinking about that. Been thinking about going to church . . . and having you stand beside me in front of the preacher.’
‘Yes, Luke, yes,’ she cried happily.
Annie came into his arms again, and by the time they came to eat the blueberry pie it needed a lot of reheating on the potbelly stove.