by Ralph Cotton
“Dang,” said Baldhead Paul, “he’s right, that’s not nearly enough. Did we make an unwise move, coming to join you fellows?” He smiled, his crossed eyes seeming to look in no particular direction.
“Things will start getting better real soon,” said Buddy. “To tell the truth, Curly Joe had grown so attached to Geneva Darrows’ pudenda, he sort of let this business go to seed on us. Bank tellers have gotten belligerent, local law has gotten sassy as hell. Bobby Candles had to shoot the Cottonwood sheriff.”
“Well, good for Bobby,” said Buddy Short. He sighed and shook his head. “That’s a damn shame about Curly Joe getting so stricken over Geneva Darrows, although I had my thoughts that he might be slipping. That’s why brother Epps and I cut away from his gang last fall. He’d gotten awfully sloppy. Then I heard about the Hatton girl getting shot. I figure Curly wasn’t long for this world, him or Sattler either.”
“Yeah,” said Chicago with a sad look, “and poor Pete Duvall.”
“And don’t forget Lou Jecker,” Buddy Short reminded him.
“No, sir. How could I ever?” said Chicago. “I wasn’t with them long . . . but they become my pards. I can’t help but feel like—”
“Anyway, all that sad stuff is over and done with,” Buddy Short cut in, realizing it was all just so much hot air. “And now we’re back and ready to do whatever it takes to get this gang together.”
“Hear, hear!” rallied Baldhead Paul. He gave a broad grin. “I’m busting to get started.”
“We’ll get started soon enough,” said Chicago. “Right now we’ve got the deputy sheriff of Cottonwood hounding us. That’s where Candles is, him and a couple of his men. Up there, takin’ care of business.” He gestured toward the high trail where moments earlier they’d heard rifle fire.
“Damn,” said Buddy Short. “He must be tougher than barbwire if it takes that much shooting to kill him.”
“I don’t care how much shooting it took,” said Chicago, “so long as he’s dead. We’ve all got better things to do than to get pinned down here by some half-simple sheriff’s deputy.”
As the men talked back and forth, from a distant hillside far out of rifle range, Eddie Lane stared down at them through a battered telescope he’d taken out of the dead sheriff’s saddlebags and brought along with him. He couldn’t shoot any of them from here. Too far away . . . , he told himself. But he could watch them, count them, figure out who was who among them. He looked from face to face at the new arrivals. These were men he had no fight with, unless they sided with the sheriff’s killers.
As he watched, he saw the three men, one with his arm wrapped in a bloody bandana, ride back down from the higher switchback where he’d fired at them. He followed Candles with the telescope, seeing that the man’s usual cocky smile and demeanor were gone now. That’s good, he told himself, remembering the confident smugness the man had about him all the while he’d ridden with the sheriff’s posse.
Making fools of everybody, Lane reminded himself. But not now. Now he was starting to get to him, to all three of them, he thought, collapsing the telescope between his palms and staring down for a moment through his naked eyes. One dead, three to go, Sheriff . . . , he said to himself, as if giving a report on his progress. All he had to do was stay alive, be careful and be patient, he could picture the old sheriff telling him.
So far so good. The one who’d called himself Newton would have been dead right now had Lane’s foot not slipped in loose dirt and rock when he’d made his shot earlier. But mistakes happened, he reminded himself. He wouldn’t make that one again.
The most important thing in winning a fight with these kinds of odds against him was position, he told himself, realizing that this too was something he’d learned from the wise old sheriff. Well, he now had position, and he wouldn’t give it up. From up here he could pick his chances, swing down like a hawk and kill another one of the sheriff’s murderers, until he had them all culled out from among the gunmen gathered below.
Chapter 11
Sitting atop their horses on the trail, still partly covered from above by brush and rock, Big Chicago watched as Candles led his two men down off the trail. Chicago saw this as a chance to better himself by lessening Candles in the eyes of the three newly arrived gunmen. As Candles and his men nudged their tired horses toward him and the others at a walk, Chicago smiled to himself.
“We heard all the shooting,” he said to Candles. “Where’s that deputy’s body? Did you leave him lying dead over the edge of the trail the way you did the posse scout?”
“Posse scout? What’s he talking about?” Baldhead Paul Crane said under his breath to Epps Short.
“Hush, maybe we’ll find out,” said Buddy Short in the same lowered tone.
“We didn’t get him yet,” Candles said, sounding annoyed by the question.
“Yet?” said Chicago. “You mean all that shooting I heard, and that one man the three of yas were after, flat got away, unscathed, as they say?”
“I’ll scathe his ass the next time I see him,” Garr offered.
“Next time, huh?” said Chicago. He looked the three up and down, then said, “Maybe next time I’ll send Russell and Thatcher here. No offense, Bobby b’hoy, but you three haven’t impressed me much today.”
“The man is high above us, and I have one man with a bad arm,” Candles offered. “We’ll get him next time he sticks his head up.”
“I know you will. Right now you look like he’s worn you out.” Realizing he’d said enough for the time being, Chicago turned a hand toward the Short brothers and Baldhead Paul Crane before Candles could offer anything more in his own defense. “Anyhow. Look who showed up to join us while you three were fooling around up there shooting at shadows.” He grinned, knowing he was needling Candles just enough to keep him from being able to make an issue over it.
The wounded Dayton Oak gave Chicago a hard stare and said sharply, “I wouldn’t exactly call what we were doing up there fooling around, unless I was prepared to ride up and give an account of myself.”
“That’s enough, Oak,” said Candles, cutting him off, knowing anything Oak said would make it look as though he didn’t have control of his men. “Get down and rest some in the shade, get your arm looked after.”
The Short brothers and Baldhead Paul gave one another a look, each of them seeing the tension between Chicago, the new gang leader and Bobby Candles, the wannabe who was out to take his place at the drop of a hat.
“Not to step on anybody’s toes here,” Buddy Short said to Big Chicago and Candles, “but we didn’t ride all across the territory to get shot at by some stray-calf deputy whose sheriff got sent to hell.”
“Yeah,” said Baldhead Paul, his crossed eyes staring in a way that oddly looked as if he were staring individually at every man there. “We’re more what you might call working outlaws.”
Epps cut in, “We’re itching to rob something straightaway. If we come at a bad time, you let us know. We could just as well ride on, maybe check back up with you when you’re all more settled in with one another.”
“Whoa, fellows,” said Chicago. “We’re ready to rob something first thing in the morning. Don’t let this little situation throw you off of us. We’re as ready to rob as we were when Curly Joe ran this bunch.” He turned a harsh look to Candles for support. “Ain’t that the truth, Bobby?”
“Hell yes, it’s the truth,” Candles said. “You fellows came at the right time.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” said Buddy. He grinned proudly all around. “Anybody who knows me and brother Epps knows that we’re nothing if not workingmen.”
“Same goes with me,” said Baldhead Paul, the same beaming grin on his broad, hairless face. “So, just what play have you got in mind, Big Chicago?”
Chicago looked back and forth, making it up as he went along. “Call this a hit-or-miss, or even a practice run. But I figured we’d hit the relay station this side of the badlands. If we get in there, keep our he
ads down and wait for the northbound stage, there’s a good chance they’ll be carrying money up to the mines.”
“A good chance?” Buddy said.
“I told you it’s hit-or-miss,” said Chicago. “But it you’re itching for action, that’s what I’ve got for you today.” He stopped talking and looked back and forth between the Short brothers and Baldhead Paul.
After a moment of silence, Buddy Short shrugged and said, “Yeah, sure, why not? Like you said, it’s practice. We’ll all get to see how well we work together without Curly Joe at the lead.”
Russell, who had been sitting quietly while the others spoke, finally said to Chicago, “That relay station is over thirty miles from here, if anybody’s interested.”
“I know how far it is, Russell,” said Chicago. “I figured we’d get there in the night while nobody can see us coming. Come daylight, us and our horses will all be out of sight. No shotgun rider is going to be expecting anything when they roll in for fresh horses.”
“Sounds good to me,” Baldhead Paul said, his crossed eyes a-glitter at the prospect of robbing something.
“Then we ride in tonight,” said Chicago. He jerked his reins and pulled his horse around toward the trail and said over his shoulder to Candles in a voice filled with authority, “Bobby, you and Garr hang back, look after Oak’s arm wound. Catch up to us when you’re finished.”
Candles and Garr seethed as they watched the others ride away. But they kept their mouths shut and rode over to where Oak sat with his open canteen between his knees. Having washed the bandana, he sat ready to wrap it back around his wounded arm. “Help him out,” Candles said to Garr. “I’ll be over here watching the ridgeline in case that deputy is still sneaking around up there.”
Garr just looked at him, knowing as well as he did that the deputy had already moved off along the trail ahead of them.
In the evening light, Eddie Lane watched the procession of gunmen from atop the high trail ahead, keeping in front of them, anticipating them, moving in the same direction. To the unknowing eye it might have looked more like the gunmen were following him instead of the other way around. When darkness fell he realized he would no longer be able to tell if the men had made a camp or kept moving forward in the night.
Rather than risk his horse on the rocky switchbacks, Lane made a dark camp, slept lightly and resumed his tracking as daylight crept above the distant horizon.
At a fork in the trail where he saw the fresh hoofprints had turned north in the night, he turned with them. But instead of staying in sight on the stretch of flatlands ahead of him, he circled wide and rode along the trail in the cover of morning shadows. When he spotted a low-lying log and adobe relay station through his telescope, he realized that was where the gunmen were headed. Where they were headed . . . ? No, he told himself, collapsing the telescope and putting it away. He booted his horse up into a faster gait along the rocky trail. They had ridden all night. They were there already.
Inside the relay station, a teamster named James Earl Coots sat staring down at the body of his pal Norman Beale, the depot manager. Beside Beale’s body lay the body of his aging red hound, Oscar. “What kind of son of a bitch kills a poor old half-blind dog?” Coots said, in disgust. He stared coldly at Big Chicago, who had been the one to commit the foul act.
No one answered.
Dried blood had crusted down Coots’ forehead, all the way from his hairline to his wiry beard. His hands had been tied behind his back; his lowered eyes shifted back and forth on the gunmen keeping vigil on the trail from inside the shuttered windows.
“You sonsabitches ought to be real proud of yourselves, killing Norman and Oscar,” Coots said, not the least intimidated by the many guns brandished inside the small room. “I’ve know this man damn near all my life. He never harmed a fellow human being in any manner, thought, word or deed. Oscar neither.” He spat in contempt. “Then here comes you bunch of turds.”
Candles said over his shoulder from the cracked open front door, “Shut up, old man, before I have Garr bend a rifle barrel over your head.”
“I’d like to see you untie my hands and try that yourself,” Coots said.
Realizing how bad this made him look to the others, Candles turned his rifle toward the old teamster. He didn’t intend to shoot Coots, but he hoped to scare him enough to shut him up.
“That’s enough, Candles,” said Chicago, a little more authority in his voice than was actually needed. “I said no shooting, I meant it.” He stared at Candles and went on. “You’ve been in this game long enough that I shouldn’t have to tell you.”
Candles just looked at him. Big Chicago knew he wasn’t going to pull a trigger and give up their being here. He’d only wanted to call Candles down in front of the men. This son of a bitch . . .
At a front window, Buddy and Epps Short each gave Candles a skeptical look, shook their heads and turned their eyes back toward the trail. Baldhead Paul spat, ran a thick hand across his lips and grumbled under his breath. But before another minute had passed, he said with a dark chuckle, “Here comes that fat little piggy, ready to get itself scalded and cooked.”
The gunmen watched the big Studebaker stagecoach roll up into sight, stirring dust on the rocky trail.
“If you fellows knew what’s good for yas, you’d hightail it out of here now, while you’ve got a chance. In case you didn’t hear, the last men who crossed paths with J. Fenwick Hatton got themselves hunted down and killed like the dogs they were.”
“We heard all about it,” Chicago said, him and the men giving each other knowing looks. “You mean to tell us that Hatton owns this stagecoach line too?”
“Mr. Hatton owns everything—stagecoaches, railroads, banks, cattle and hotels,” said Coots. “If I can think of anything else he owns, I’ll tell you, first thing.”
“Well, I’ll be damned, men,” said Chicago. “It seems no matter which way we turn, we keep bumping heads with J. Fenwick Hatton.”
“You won’t bump heads with him long,” said Coots. “He’ll find out who did this. Then you can say hello to his regulator.”
“His regulator?” said Chicago, as the big dusty coach rolled closer to the station. “Now, just who might his regulator be?”
“They call him Teacher,” said Coots. “Seven weeks ago he killed Curly Joe Hobbs, his gang, whore and all. Just him, all by himself.” Coots grinned, with no idea whom he was talking to. “He’ll be coming for all you turds, soon as Hatton hears about this.”
“They’re rolling into the yard, Big Chicago,” said Epps Short, reporting on the stagecoach.
“Good,” said Chicago. “Nobody makes a move until they walk through the front door. Russell, you and Thatcher get out back, circle around and get that stage under control so they can’t make a run for it.” He looked over at Garr and said, “Gag the teamster. If he makes any noise, cut his throat.”
Hearing the gunman call Big Chicago by name, Coots shut up and stared in silence as Garr walked over to him from the window, a knife handle standing in his boot well. “Don’t make me have to clean your belly off my blade, mister,” Garr warned. He pulled Coots’ faded bandana up around his mouth and drew it tight.
Atop the big stagecoach, the driver, Milton Donahue, brought the horses to a halt and sat back on the long brake handle. Beside him, Charlie Stevens, the shotgun rider, said warily, “Something ain’t right here.”
“Yeah,” said Stevens, picking right up on Donahue’s concerns. “Where is old Oscar? He never misses greeting a stagecoach.”
As the two looked all around warily, from inside the stagecoach a man called up, “Are we going to disembark from this ship of torture? I fear the young lady here is quite in distress.”
“Quiet inside!” the stage driver barked down in reply. He slid a second shotgun from under the driver’s seat and said in a lowered voice, “Watch your step, Milton. I’ve got you covered whilst you look things over.”
“It might be nothing, but I’ll feel better
checking first,” said Donahue, swinging down from his seat and walking toward the relay station door.
Inside the stagecoach a businessman named Lawrence Eddington fidgeted impatiently in the seat. “What’s taking so long out there?” he said to the man who’d been shouted out by the driver.
“I dare not ask after that last harsh recourse,” replied the down-in-the-heels implement peddler named Karl Sanderson. “But apparently they feel there is something amiss here.”
“Yeah, something is wrong,” said Eddington. He drew a small Navy Colt from inside his suit coat and held it poised at his side. “Indians, I’ll wager. There’s every kind of murdering, bloodthirsty savage in this part of the territory, Apache, Cheyenne—”
“Ahem.” The peddler cleared his throat with deliberation and cast a slight nod toward the young woman seated across from them.
“My apologies, ma’am,” said Eddington, catching himself. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
The peddler cut in, saying to her, “This is exactly the sort of situation I was alluding to last evening when I said a young lady should not be traveling unescorted in this barbaric wilderness.”
Across from the two men, a young woman named Rachel Meadows closed a book she’d been reading and looked out the open coach window and back and forth across the barren land. “Mr. Sanderson,” she said, “this is the nineteenth century. A woman has every right to travel alone and not expect to be mistreated or judged unladylike for her action.”
“Of course, forgive me,” said Sanderson, tipping his frayed-brimmed bowler hat. He and Eddington looked at each other, then cast their interest back toward the front of the relay station as the shotgun driver reached out a hand and shoved the thick plank door open.
Something was wrong here indeed; she felt it in her bones. From the far hills to the left, she saw a tiny black speck riding toward them at the head of a tall rise of dust. Indians? She didn’t think so. Whatever it was, she had to be ready to fend for herself, if these armed men weren’t able to keep the stagecoach safe.