Fighting Men

by Ralph Cotton

  “Get away from him, lady!” shouted Coots as he came running with a limp toward them, a smoking rifle in his hands.

  “Damn it!” said Candles, his horse chuffing and spinning restlessly beneath him, ready to go. Unable to even grab his horse’s reins with the cuffs on, he batted his boots to the animal’s sides and took off in an awkward jagged run across the open flatlands, hanging on to the saddle horn with both cuffed hands, his reins waving in the air beside him.

  The woman stared wide-eyed and stunned at Eddie Lane as he rocked back and forth on his knees, his face flushed and pale, a patch of seeping blood widening on the front of his shirt. “Help me . . . ,” he managed to say in a hoarse, broken voice.

  But she could do nothing, except drop the rifle, kneel down in front of him and steady him by both hands until Coots ran to them and dropped to the ground beside her. “Ma’am, you have stabbed the wrong man. This one was here trying to help.”

  “I—I didn’t know,” the woman said. She noted the rope and busted pieces of the wooden chair back still dangling from his forearm. “Who are you?”

  “I’m James Earl Coots, ma’am,” the teamster said to her as he stared at the knife blade in Lane’s chest.

  “You—you work here?” she asked.

  “I teamster freight out of here, ma’am,” said Coots. “I was visiting a friend and his dog. Those murderers killed them both.”

  Coots saw the dark shape of the deputy badge on Lane’s otherwise faded shit. “Help me lay him back easylike, so he won’t fall and gut himself,” he said.

  She reached in to help and saw the bloody bandana tied around the side of Lane’s neck from the bullet graze. “His throat is bleeding too,” she said. Then in a wave of remorse, she cried, “My God, what have I done to him?”

  “Hush, and help me out here,” Coots said sharply. “You had nothing to do with the wound on his neck. Stabbing him was bad enough.” He stared into Lane’s eyes as the two eased him back onto the ground. “You hold on, young fellow. I won’t let you die. It’d be a shame to lose you after all the good you done here today.”

  “It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault,” the woman repeated, shaking her lowered head.

  Eddie Lane looked up at her and said in a strained and failing voice, “It’s not . . . your fault.”

  “You hush up too,” said Coots. “Let’s see if we can keep you alive. You can talk about whose fault it is later.”

  Across the wide stretch of flatlands, Bobby Candles stopped long enough to look back and make certain he wasn’t being followed. Seeing nothing but his high drifting dust on the trail from the stage station, he shook his head and chuckled to himself. Man, what a strange piece of luck he’d been handed, he told himself. What were the odds that a woman would stab the man who’d probably just saved her life?

  His dark chuckle continued as he pictured Eddie Lane staggering around, the knife handle bobbing on his chest. That had to hurt, he told himself, almost laughing out loud. That poor, stupid bastard . . .

  He relaxed. Hell, there was no one trailing him, certainly not the stable-hand deputy, not with all that iron stuck in his chest. All right, he had to kill Russell and Thatcher as soon as his path crossed theirs again. For now, though, he’d have to try and avoid all of them. He knew the two would never have tried to kill him without Big Chicago’s approval.

  Now that Delbert Garr was the only man of his still left alive, he couldn’t count on anybody but himself. Garr wouldn’t stick his neck out for him. Not with his pocket lined with all the money the gang had just made from the stagecoach robbery. Garr would have changed sides. Hell, he couldn’t blame him, Candles thought. Considering the situation for a moment longer, he finally shrugged.

  All right, some things had taken a bad turn for him. Other than that, he was free as a bird. He started to lift his canteen by its strap, but the handcuffs on his wrists and his saddle horn stopped him from doing so. “Damn it,” he said hoarsely, his throat caked with dust and no way to even reach up to his bandana and raise it across the bridge on his nose. “What kind of sumbitch does something like this to a man?” he shouted back across the flatlands, knowing that no one could hear him.

  All right, stay calm, he told himself. He gripped the thick California-style saddle horn with both hands and yanked back and forth with all of his strength, not feeling it give in the slightest. “What the hell is this?” he grumbled. “Damn, lousy saddle-maker. Why’d he have to make something this damned strong?” This was stupid!

  In his anger, he shouted and jerked and pulled wildly, but it didn’t help. He raised a boot and stomped his heel repeatedly against the saddle horn. Still nothing. “Damn it! Damn it, Damn it to hell!”

  Finally, his anger spent, he settled himself down and looked closer at the saddle horn and slid the clamped cuff up and down on it. All it needed was a fraction of an inch for the iron cuff to turn over the top flat head of the saddle horn and pop right off. But that fraction of an inch might just as well be a mile, he told himself, his throat getting drier, more caked with dust, his face and eyes starting to itch and burn from dust he could not wipe away.

  Son of a bitch . . . He couldn’t even guide his horse, he reminded himself. Taking a long, deep, calming breath, he nudged the horse forward, his reins dragging in the dirt behind him. He recalled a water hole at the base of the hills a full twenty miles north into the badlands. With any luck the horse would head there on its own once it caught the smell of water.

  In the long shadows of evening, three riders moved up as quietly as ghosts onto a rock shelf overlooking the water hole that Bobby Candles had spent most of the day trying to reach. The three had watched horse and rider meander across rock and sand and through stands of cactus and bracken until finally reaching the water’s edge.

  “At last, this asshole gets here,” said a half-breed desert bandit called Dad Lodi. “What the hell could he have been searching for out there?”

  “I do not know. But we have never waited this long for this little in my life,” said a one-eared Mexican widely known as Pie Sucio, or Dirty Foot in English. They looked Candles up and down from fifty yards above him, seeing nothing of much value to him, except the tired, sweat-streaked horse.

  “He is not wearing a gun, Dad,” Dirty Foot went on. “We should split him open and step all over his insides for keeping us waiting this way.”

  The third man, a desert-hardened gunman named Frank Dorsey, eyed Candles closely as the cuffed outlaw swung down from his saddle holding the horn and shook the saddle back and forth until he was finally able to pull it down the tired animal’s side. “Jesus . . . ,” said Dorsey, watching the strange sight. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”

  The horse stood in the shallow water, drawing thirstily, paying Candles no regard as the choking, dust-caked outlaw pulled the saddle down the horse’s belly, hung from it, twisted his face to one side and lapped at the water like a dog.

  “I can’t wait to hear this one’s story,” Dad Lodi said flatly, nudging his horse forward quietly, down toward the water hole.

  Hanging under the horse’s belly, Candles didn’t see the three riders slip up on him until he heard the cock of a rifle hammer and froze for a second, knowing the helplessness of his situation. “Easy, boy,” he whispered to the horse, to make sure it didn’t spook and take off with him cuffed beneath it.

  “Who taught you how to water a horse?” Dad Lodi asked. Beside him the other two sat staring at Candles with rapt interest.

  Candles turned his head slowly and looked at the three desert hard cases from his position under the horse. He didn’t offer a reply, but none was expected. Instead he watched in silence as the three came forward, their horses at a slow walk, and spread out in a half circle, surrounding him.

  “Look,” said Frank Dorsey, “he’s handcuffed to his saddle horn.”

  “I bet he had something to do with all that shooting we heard earlier, from the stage stop,” said Dad Lodi. He stopped th
e closest to Candles. He stepped down and picked up the horse’s dangling reins from the water. He bowed slightly beside the horse, his hands on his knees, and looked Candles in the face.

  “Would I be wrong in thinking there was a stagecoach robbery out there today?” he said.

  Candles knew these men were bandits. “Yes, there was,” he said, taking his chances.

  “It didn’t go real well for you, did it?” Lodi said flatly.

  “No, it went bad,” said Candles, hanging beneath a horse but still trying to look calm and in control of his situation.

  “So, now you’re headed for Robber’s Roost to lick your wounds,” Lodi continued.

  “You’re calling it about right,” said Candles. “A lawman ambushed us.”

  “Us?” said Lodi. “How many were with you?”

  “Oh, eight, nine maybe,” said Candles.

  “And one lawman ambushed you?” Lodi said. He rose slightly and gave his two companions a bemused look.

  “Yeah, one, but with a Winchester repeater and a raised scope,” Candles offered. “Anyway, he caught all of us by surprise, killed a couple of our men and captured me. I got away, but as you see—” He jiggled the iron handcuffs. “Not before he cuffed me to this blasted saddle.”

  Lodi shook his head in contemplation. “Then, just when you thought you had got away clean, damned if you didn’t run into us.”

  Candles caught the threat in Lodi’s words, but he ignored it and said, “Running into you men might be the best thing that could have happened to all of us.”

  “Oh, really?” Lodi looked engrossed in what Candles had to say. But then he grinned and flagged the other two in closer with his dust-caked hand. “Come over here, boys. He’s going to tell us how lucky we all are.”

  “This is no yarn, mister,” Candles said, knowing he had only a slim chance of talking his way out of this. “We got more money off of that stagecoach today than I’ve ever seen come out of a strongbox in my life. That’s the honest truth.”

  “Congratulations, you must be awfully proud,” said Lodi. He pointed the tip of the already cocked rifle into Candles’ face.

  “No, wait! Please!” said Candles. “We can have all that money, the four of us!”

  Lodi grinned. “We can? How?”

  “I know where they’re going,” Candles said.

  “So do I,” said Lodi. “They’re going where everybody goes. They’ll lie low in Robber’s Roost. Emmen and Brady Shay will hide them out there until it’s safe for them to leave. Meanwhile, all the whores and gaming tables will be busy taking most of that money away from them.” He grinned. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  “Listen to me,” said Candles, talking fast to save his life. “If one lawman can ambush them, think what four of us can do. The way you fellows know these desert hill trails, this will be easy pickings.”

  “Yeah?” Dorsey asked, stepping closer. “Then why is it we need you?”

  “Because you three don’t know the Shay brothers the way I do.” Candles stared at him. “The Shays say you sand bandits don’t have enough money in your pockets to hold you steady in a windstorm.”

  “Sand bandits. Now, that hurts,” said Lodi with a thin, tight grin.

  “Get me loose,” said Candles. “We’ll hit them before they get to the Roost. With the kind of money I’m talking about, Robber’s Roost will treat you like close kin. I know the Shays. I can do this for yas.”

  “What do you say, fellows?” asked Lodi. “Want me to shoot this peckerwood, see if it would shut him up? Or you want to take this stage money he’s talking about?”

  “We can shoot him any time,” said Dorsey. He reached in, took Candles by his shoulder and dragged him up, saddle and all, until he stood beside the horse. “I wouldn’t mind seeing how our betters live. I’ve heard they’ve got a bathtub in the Roost you stretch all the way out in.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Dirty Foot.

  “All right!” said Candles, feeling better by the second. “Has one of you got a saw, an ax, something I can use to get this damn saddle horn—”

  As he spoke, Dirty Foot reached out, took the saddle horn with both hands and gave it a hard twist to his left. The saddle horn gave a loud screech and snapped off into his hands. Candles stared at the broken saddle horn in disbelief. “Son of a bitch . . . ,” he said in awe.

  Chapter 14

  New Mexico Territory

  Inside the hacienda, Lilly Jones did not see a lone rider from Silver City stop at the barn and hand Sherman Dahl a written message. All she saw was the stir of dust drift past the window as the rider touched his hat brim, turned his horse and rode away, not even taking time to water his animal before making his trip back to town.

  Odd . . . , she said to herself.

  When she stepped out onto the porch and saw Dahl walking toward her, she noted the grim, serious look clouding his brow. As he came toward her, Dahl folded a piece of paper and slid it into his shirt pocket. “What is it? Who was that?” she asked, gazing out as the rider grew smaller along the dusty, winding trail. “Is everything all right?”

  “He’s only a messenger for Mr. Farris, J. Fenwick Hatton’s man,” Dahl said. “Hatton is still shaving close to trouble. I’ve got to go back out.”

  “But you’re not yet well from your last job for Hatton,” Lilly replied. “What does this man expect from you?”

  “Chester Goines has robbed three different places that Hatton has interests in,” said Dahl.

  “Big Chicago?” said Lilly, a dark look coming upon her face.

  “Yes,” said Dahl. “I’ve got to go finish things with Big Chicago.” He considered things and added, “I should have done it before.”

  “But you said he wasn’t one of the men who killed Hatton’s daughter,” Lilly said.

  “I know,” said Dahl. “Hatton was specific. He only wanted the killers who were there the day of his daughter’s death. But since then, things have changed. I told Hatton I’d get the man. Now I’ve got to do it.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, looking out across the land. “We’re not even settled in here yet,” Lilly said. “What about the cattle you’ve got Ben Simpson bringing all the way from Las Cruces?”

  “Pay Simpson for the cattle,” he said. “Tell him and his men to turn them out on the west grassland. They’ll be all right out there. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  “Shouldn’t be . . . ?” Lilly said.

  “I won’t be gone long,” Dahl said, seeing she needed reassurance. “I’m riding to town to meet with Farris and find out more. I’ll stop by town on my way and tell Sheriff Tucker to keep an eye on you out here until I get back,” he added.

  “Farris is in Silver City?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Dahl. “That’s where I’m headed.”

  She only nodded, knowing there was nothing to say. This was his life; she wasn’t out to change it.

  An hour later she stood on the porch with her hand shading her eyes and watched him ride out of sight. “Be careful, Sherman Dahl,” she whispered absently, repeating what she’d said only moments earlier as he’d stood with his arms around her.

  On the trail, Dahl rode at an easy gait, his bedroll and shotgun tied down behind his saddle, his Winchester repeating rifle resting in its saddle boot. On his hip he wore his tall black-handled Colt. Up under his left arm beneath his black riding duster, he wore a shoulder harness carrying another Colt, this one a smaller-frame double-action with a bird’s-eye grip. He had not replaced the bullet vest since he and Lilly had arrived at the hacienda. He hoped that was not something he would regret, he thought, nudging the horse.

  He rode on.

  Out in front of an adobe saloon in Silver City, he stepped down at a hitch rail, reined his horse, walked inside and looked all around the busy saloon. At a large round table in the far corner, Hatton’s assistant, Farris, stood up from a large table and looked toward him. Across from Farris, Sheriff Dan Tucker, aka Dangerous Dan, s
at observing patiently. Farris stepped forward as he waved a hand.

  “There you are, Mr. Dahl,” he said. A whiskey glass sat on the table in front of his empty chair. “Thank goodness, you spared no time in getting here!”

  “Not at all, Farris,” Dahl said, glancing at the sheriff, seeing what sort of revealing look the seasoned lawman might offer him. “I came straightaway.”

  Seeing the assistant offer his shaky hand, Dahl took it and shook hands with him. “I regret having to inconvenience you,” Farris said. As they stopped shaking hands, Dahl noted dark worry circles lining the man’s eyes.

  “Not at all. It’s my pleasure,” Dahl said respectfully. Of course he’d come right away. Hatton had sent him. Farris was the same as talking to Hatton himself. “What may I do for you—or should I say, for Mr. Hatton?”

  “I’m afraid it was I, sir, rather than Mr. Hatton, who sent for you,” said Farris. He looked worried. “I hope you will forgive me. Please sit down and allow me to explain.”

  “Of course,” said Dahl. As he spoke he looked at the sheriff.

  Dan Tucker remained seated but gave Dahl a polite nod. “Mr. Dahl,” he said.

  “Sheriff Tucker,” Dahl said in the same level tone of respect, touching his fingertip to the brim of his hat.

  Once seated, Dahl watched Farris seat himself and pick up a bottle of whiskey from the tabletop and say, “May I do the honors, Mr. Dahl?” He held the bottle out over a shot glass standing in front of Dahl’s chair.

  “Thank you, Farris,” Dahl replied. He watched Farris’ nervous hand pour the glass full. Then he picked it up and took a sip and set it down. He stared at Farris expectantly.

  “Without going into gruesome details,” Farris said to Dahl, “I was just telling the sheriff here what a remarkable service you preformed for Mr. Hatton a short time back. I trust you have recovered well, and are feeling fit?”