Fighting Men

by Ralph Cotton

  “You’ll get used to it here,” Myers said. “I liken this job to being a prison guard. Only difference is our killers and thieves are running loose, with money to spend. Instead of us protecting society from them, we protect them from society.” He grinned. “It’s sort of the way hell would have it.”

  “I don’t believe in hell,” Stroud said flatly. Looking back down, he said, “I could’ve sworn I heard a horse. . . .”

  “You might have,” said Myers, standing, blowing out a stream of smoke and dusting the seat of his trousers. “There’s some prospectors and hermits travel these trails of a night.” He walked over beside the young gunman and looked down. “There’s even a small tribe of Utes who come to the Roost now and then selling cactus buttons, loco weed and whatnot—”

  No sooner had Myers spoken than he crumbled forward as Stroud heard the smack of a rifle butt and looked around at him. “Damn!” said Stroud, seeing Dahl standing behind the knocked-out older gunman. But no sooner had Stroud himself spoken than he also crumbled to the ground.

  Lane looked at Dahl in the grainy morning light and said, “So far so good.” He stooped and dragged Stroud back from where he’d landed dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. “I’m glad we didn’t have to kill them.”

  “No need,” said Dahl. “We’ll tie them around a tree and take their horses and boots. By the time they get loose and walk back to the Roost, we should have freed Hatton and be gone.”

  “If he’s still alive,” said Lane.

  “He’s still alive,” said Dahl. “The Shay brothers aren’t going to kill a man like J. Fenwick Hatton unless they have to. They’re going to want to make some money off him.”

  “You sound mighty sure of yourself, Teacher,” said Lane.

  “I don’t mean to sound arrogant,” Dahl said. “But I know men like the Shays, and I know men like Hatton. They are a lot alike in a lot of ways. In a test of wills, they better not underestimate J. Fenwick Hatton. He didn’t get rich by being weak or stupid.” He stooped and dragged Myers back from the cliff edge and across the campsite to a tall cedar. “I’ll wager that by now he’s working on a plan for freeing himself.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Lane.

  When the two had seated the knocked-out gunmen back to back on either side of the thick cedar trunk, they tied them with a coil of rope Stroud carried around his saddle horn. While Lane pulled the two men’s bandanas up over their mouths and tightened them, Dahl stepped over and poured the remnants of a pot of coffee onto the low campfire and stamped out the remaining embers.

  Mounting the two men’s horses, they rode the switchback trail down to where their own horses stood waiting in the new morning light. They dropped the saddles and bridles from the gunmen’s horses and shooed the animals away. Then they stepped atop their horses and rode away toward Robber’s Roost.

  The bear was back. In the hours before, Hatton had heard the door creak open, and he’d heard the heavy footsteps of the animal as it walked out of the darkened room. But moments ago he’d awakened from a guarded sleep as once again he’d heard the door creak open and close. He’d heard words whispered in Spanish; he’d heard the rattle of the chain fastened to the bear’s thick leather collar.

  Now, lying back against the wall, his eyes closed, feigning sleep, Hatton smelled the bear. He heard the large animal breathing, licking, lapping, sucking and grunting. Without moving he opened his eyes slowly when he heard the door close and heard boots walk away.

  In the early light he saw the bear down on its belly, its lowered head busily gnawing with its bare gums. This time, unlike earlier, the bear was also chained to the floor. Straining for a closer look, Hatton saw the shredded boot lying beside the bear’s bobbing, twisting head. Then he swallowed a tight knot in his throat when he recognized the human foot in the bear’s bloody, slobbering mouth, its paws holding the calf of the leg as it ripped off the smallest toe and crunched it in its toothless jaws.

  All right . . . This was what the Shays thought it would take to break him . . . ?

  Hatton held his head over to one side and closed his eyes. He tried not to hear the bear going at its gruesome breakfast, gnawing the stub of the leg on the plank floor. But these were not sounds and smells that he could easily block out. He took a deep breath and waited for a moment, collecting himself, before he let out a long, gut-wrenching scream, and watched and listened for boots and voices on the other side of the door.

  Behind his desk, Emmen Shay grinned wisely and stood up before Hatton’s first scream ended. When the old Mexican and Brady Shay started toward the door to the small room, he stopped them with a raised hand.

  “Hold it,” Emmen said in a lowered voice. To the Mexican he said, “Edwardo, you chained the bear down when you gave her the leg, didn’t you?”

  “Sí, just like you told me to do,” the bear handler replied, standing, his small rock-chipping pick in his hand. “Always it is better to chain Louise when she is chewing something. Or she will let no one near her but me.” As he spoke he pitched his small pick and a broken rock back into the bucket.

  “Then what’s our hurry?” Emmen asked smugly, looking at Brady. “Let’s let Mr. J. Fenwick Hatton know how it feels to stare death in the face.”

  “Hatton is not a young man, brother Emmen,” said Brady. “What if this scares him to death? Then we’ll get nothing out of this . . . no letter, no money.”

  From the other room, Hatton screamed again, this time longer.

  “I believe you worry too much, brother Brady,” said Emmen. “Listen to that. Hatton has the lungs of a buffalo.”

  “Help me! Help me!” Hatton screamed from the other room. “I’ll write the letter, I’ll tell you who to send it to! For God’s sakes, please! Get me out of here!” His scream was followed by a long, loud bawl of protest from the big sow.

  “There,” said Emmen with a dark grin, grasping the door handle. “I do believe he’s coming right around.”

  When a few more screams had resounded and a few more tense moments had passed, Emmen finally relented and chuckled and reached out for the door handle.

  Hearing the door handle turn, Hatton, who had been leaning against the wall screaming, hurriedly rolled himself into a ball on the plank floor and lay trembling and sobbing as the door opened and the Shays and the old Mexican bear handler walked in.

  “Do I hear you correctly, Hatton?” Emmen asked in a taunting voice. “You’ve had a change of heart? You want to write the letter we discussed?”

  “Any-anything you want!” Hatton sobbed, his face buried in his arms on the floor. “I’ll write the letter. I’ll pay you anything you want. Keep that bear away from me. I don’t want to die this way. . . .” His words trailed away in a long, terrified sob.

  “There, there, Hatton, calm yourself down,” Emmen Shay said, consoling him with a pat on his sobbing back as he grinned and winked at his brother. “We’re not going to feed you to this bear. Not so long as you do everything we tell you to do.”

  “Yeah,” Brady said, getting in on it. “Don’t be like that hardheaded sumbitch the bear was just finishing off. He thought he could double-cross us Shays and do as he damned well pleased. But just look at what it got him.”

  Edwardo walked over to the bear, unfastened the chain from the floor and grabbed the wet, bloody leg from her mouth with a sucking sound. He led her grumbling and growling out of the room into the office. “All right, now,” said Emmen, “the bear is gone. You sit up and pull yourself together.”

  Hatton rolled up from a ball and leaned back, his face in his hands. “Just tell me what it is you want me to say.”

  “First things first,” said Emmen. He and Brady helped Hatton to his feet and led him out to the office. “Who is the person we need to contact?”

  “That—that would be my assistant, Mr. Carlton Farris,” Hatton said. “But I’m afraid he’s a long way from here.”

  “Oh, we won’t let that bother us” Emmen said. “We’ll just ha
ve to remind him that you’ll be awaiting a response, while we keep you chained to the bear.”

  Brady Shay stepped in with a smile and set pen and ink on the desk. “Have a seat, Mr. Hatton. We’ll help you choose your words just right.”

  Turning to the old Mexican who stood holding the bear’s chain, Emmen said, “Take that stinking bear out and wash her down. Mr. Hatton here is going to be chained to her. We certainly want him to see our hospitable side, don’t we, Edwardo?”

  “Sí, of course,” said the old bear handler. He jerked on the bear’s chain and led her toward the rear stairs. As he left by the rear door, a guard hurried up the stairs and knocked on the front office door.

  “Yeah, what is it?” Emmen asked, throwing the door open.

  “There’s a rider out front, Mr. Shay,” said the guard, a shotgun cradled in his arm. “He managed to slip in here right under the trail guards’ noses.”

  “Oh, really?” said Emmen Shay. Instead of going down the stairs right away, he first walked to a front window, grabbing Hatton on his way. Peeping down at the lone figure sitting atop the big chestnut bay, he said to Hatton, “Does this one belong to you?”

  The sight of Sherman Dahl surrounded in a half circle by the armed town guards stunned Hatton for a moment, causing him to hesitate. When he did speak he wasn’t certain what to say. “Why, no, he doesn’t work for me—”

  “Sure he does,” Emmen concluded, cutting him off. “You stalled too long.” He gave a short grin and shoved Hatton back to Brady, who quickly seated him and held him down in his chair with a big hand on his shoulder.

  “One word from you, Emmen,” the guard said, “we’ll blast this jake into the next territory.”

  “No, not just yet, Charlie,” said Emmen. “I want to hear what this man has to say.” He adjusted his Colt in his holster and walked toward the stairs.

  Chapter 23

  Sherman Dahl sat on his horse facing a gathering of armed town guards. His rifle stood from his lap, its butt resting on his thigh. As soon as Emmen and the guard accompanying him stepped out onto the boardwalk, the other town guards cleared a path for them and stood with shotguns and rifles in hand. A few feet away stood Bobby Candles and his three desert bandits. A few feet from them stood Big Chicago and his three remaining men.

  “Who the hell are you, and how’d you get past my guards at Saverine Pass?” Emmen asked. On the balcony overhead, Brady Shay watched through the barely opened door.

  “I’m Sherman Dahl. I work for J. Fenwick Hatton, the man you’re holding here.”

  “The Teacher . . . ,” Shay said as if in reflection. “I’ve heard of you.”

  “I’ve heard of you too,” Dahl said. “You’re one of the Shay brothers.”

  “Aye, I’m Emmen Shay,” he said, giving a touch to the brim of his derby hat. “Now, what about my guards up in the pass?”

  Sherman gave a nod in the direction of Saverine Pass. “We didn’t kill your guards. We tied them to a tree to keep any rifle shots from tipping you off.”

  Emmen gave a stiff, mirthless grin. “You did neither them nor me a favor by sparing their lives.” His expression turned curious. “When you said ‘we,’ how many men are you talking about?”

  Rather than give Emmen Shay a number, Dahl let the question pass. He gave a glance toward Big Chicago and his men and said to Shay, “Enough to take down what’s left of the Curly Joe Hobbs Gang, Chester Goines and all.”

  The cage guard, Ulan Hayes, whispered to another guard beside him, “Hear that? There’s a posse out there. They followed Big Chicago here.” He inched away until he stepped inside the saloon.

  Big Chicago cut in and said to Dahl, “I don’t go by Chester Goines anymore, Teacher.” As he spoke he grew bold enough to step forward and lay a hand on the big Colt in his waist sash.

  Dahl did not let the gesture go unanswered. He lowered his rifle barrel halfway toward Chicago until the testy gunman lifted his hand away from his gun butt and let it fall to his side.

  “Easy, now, the both of yas. I’ll stand for no trouble in the Roost,” Emmen said firmly, “unless it’s trouble of my own making. I offer sanctuary here, for any man on the run who can afford it. I won’t have that sanctuary violated. If you’ve any bark on toward Big Chicago, take it up with him after he leaves here, but not before.”

  “I understand your situation,” Dahl said. “That’s why I didn’t ride in here shooting.”

  “What did you hope to accomplice riding in here, Teacher?” Emmen asked.

  “I told you,” said Dahl, “I work for J. Fenwick Hatton. I know your men brought him here. I came to take him home.”

  Emmen gave a dark chuckle. “I hate to disappoint you, Teacher,” he replied. “But your Mr. Hatton is not leaving the Roost—not just yet anyway. He’s too busy to leave right now.” He grinned again, took his cigar from his mouth and blew out a stream of smoke. “He’s in the midst of writing a letter.”

  “A ransom letter . . . ,” Dahl said without having to be told.

  “Good guess, Teacher,” said Emmen Shay. He gave a sweep of his hand toward the inside of the saloon. “You are welcome to come inside, accept our hospitality while he writes the letter. I’ll even have a man grain and water your horse.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “Of course, as soon as he has the letter composed, you’re going to deliver it to his man, Carlton Farris, and see to it my demand is met. Deal?”

  Dahl only stared at him.

  Emmen shrugged and said, “I’m certain Mr. Hatton’s people will want to give me what I ask for. Hatton himself has decided to be most generous.”

  “I want to see him,” Dahl said in a mild but firm tone. “I want to see that he’s all right.” He still made the offer of cooperating with the Shays.

  Emmen took a step out off the boardwalk, looked up at the balcony and called out, “Brother Brady, bring out Mr. Hatton, allow this man to see him.”

  The office door opened. Onto the balcony stepped Brady Shay, pistol in hand. Following him came the bear handler. Behind the handler came Hatton and the big bear. Hatton walked along barefoot, a chain linking his ankle to the collar of the bear.

  “I see why he’s being generous,” Dahl said to Emmen Shay. He saw the dried blood on the bear’s muzzle and around its wet, shaggy flews.

  “Yes,” said Emmen, “and rest assured, if I don’t get what I want, I’ll slit his gullet and let the bear eat him from the inside out.” He gave his short, tight grin. “You will not want to test me on this, Teacher. The animal is a man-eater.” As if to prove himself, he called out to Hatton and said, “Mr. Hatton, tell your man here what the bear had for breakfast.”

  “She—she ate a man’s leg,” Hatton said. “Mr. Dahl, I implore you. Please do as they say, and please be quick about it.” He gestured a hand toward the big bear, who stood rocking back and forth on her thick paws. “This bear could turn on me at any time—”

  “All right, Hatton, enough said,” Emmen Shay cut in with a sharp tone. “Take our guest back inside, brother Brady.”

  Dahl had listened closely to Hatton. He’d heard the fear in Hatton’s voice. Yet there was something in the voice that told him the fear was not real. Hatton was concerned for his life, of that Dahl had no doubt. But Dahl had a feeling Hatton knew he had more to fear from the Shays and their men than he did from the bear he was chained to.

  Dahl had judged J. Fenwick Hatton to be a man who would not frighten easily. What he’d just seen and heard only strengthened his opinion. Besides, he told himself, Hatton was worth nothing to the Shays dead. What kind of fool would the Shays have to be to chain something as valuable to them as J. Fenwick Hatton to a bear, unless they knew the bear was no great risk?

  “So, what’s it going to be, Teacher?” Emmen asked, sounding impatient. “Do you cooperate with me, or do I feed your man Hatton to the bear?”

  “I’m not your delivery boy, Shay,” Dahl said. “I told you I came here to get him—no ransom, no reward.”

  �
��What?” said Emmen. “You came here thinking I’d turn him over to you and get nothing in return? You must be crazy.”

  “You get something,” said Dahl. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Brady Shay, the old Mexican, the bear and Hatton all file back inside. The balcony door closed.

  “Oh? And what might that be?” Emmen asked, his gun hanging from his hand.

  “My word that I won’t kill you,” Dahl said. His rifle barrel came down slowly until it pointed toward Emmen Shay from a distance of fifteen feet.

  Uh-oh. . . . Upon hearing Dahl, Big Chicago took a quick look around the streets, doorways, rooflines, alleyways as he took a slow step back from between Delbert Garr and Bart Russell. He’d seen Dahl in action before. Dahl didn’t bluff.

  “Easy, men,” said Emmen Shay, seeing all of his town guards tensed, poised and crouched, their guns ready, aimed at Sherman Dahl. “The Teacher’s bluffing.” He raised a hand to keep his men in check. “He knows he’s dead if he pulls that trigger.”

  Seeing the look on Dahl’s face, Bobby Candles side-stepped, putting the three desert bandits between himself and Dahl. Like Big Chicago, he also took a quick look around the street.

  “Say the word, Emmen, and I’ve got him!” Zero Paige blurted out. As he spoke he raised his rifle to his shoulder.

  Seeing him, Emmen Shay bellowed loudly, “No, Zero, you idiot!”

  Upstairs, Brady Shay had just closed the balcony door when he heard his brother Emmen’s voice, followed by the sound of a distant rifle shot. “What the hell?” He hurriedly backed around the big desk to where the Mexican, the bear and J. Fenwick Hatton stood. While Brady and the Mexican stared out in the direction of the rifle shot, Hatton stooped down to the bucket of rocks and stood up with the small pick in his hand.

  “Look out, senor!” the old Mexican called out to Brady.

  But the Mexican’s warning didn’t help; it only caused Brady to turn quickly, facing Hatton. The last sound Brady Shay heard was the hard sharp clunk of the pick, as Hatton buried its four-inch spiked tip deep in the center of his forehead.