Brothers in Arms

by Philip McCormac

  ‘Rodents you say? Even better. I’ve got two prisoners with me. You reckon this root cellar of yours is secure?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘I would be much obliged if you would let me use it for one night.’

  ‘Is more comfortable in the dormitory,’ ventured the keeper.

  Sheriff Patterson shook his head.

  ‘It’s not comfort I’m after. The more uncomfortable the better. That rodent infested cellar sounds just the place.’

  The sheriff returned outside where his deputy was watching over his two charges.

  ‘Gentlemen, I got good news. We got first class accommodation arranged.’

  Behind the station they found heavy wood doors at ground level held in place by a sliding bolt. The keeper was there ahead of them opening up. His grin was sickly as he watched the sheriff push his protesting prisoners into the dark interior. The doors were slammed shut.

  Butch Shilton and Joe Peters found themselves inside a totally black hole that reeked like a cesspit. Ignoring the yells of protest from Butch the sheriff and his deputy retired to the bar for refreshments and eats.

  ‘Joe, I been in some holes but this beats all other holes into a steer’s backside.’

  The root cellar was nothing more than a pit dug into the earth with the wooden trapdoor to keep it secure. Cautiously they felt their way around their dungeon. At the rear of their tomb they found a collection of barrels. Butch rapped on a barrel with his knuckles and sniffed the rancid air.

  ‘Joe, will you pinch me? I want to know if lack of food has caused me to hallucinate. Have we, or have we not, landed ourselves into a moonshine mill.’

  Joe could hear banging and gurgling noises as his companion explored further. Suddenly a large jug was pushed into his hand.

  ‘Try a taste of that.’

  Joe sniffed cautiously.

  ‘Well it might be moonshine – then again it might be buffalo urine.’

  Butch chuckled.

  ‘You could be right. I reckon I’ve drank worse stuff in the past. What the hell, I’m gonna try it anyway. Maybe it will get me sloshed outa my brain. Take my mind of the next ten years of my life.’

  There came the burble of someone drinking deeply.

  ‘When Sheriff Patterson comes to collect us in the morning I reckon to be totally insensible. He’ll have to rope me in that there saddle.’

  Butch could feel his stomach gurgling unpleasantly as the raw liquor swilled into his empty innards. He burped loudly. Beside him Joe sipped cautiously.

  ‘It might go to our heads on an empty stomach,’ Joe observed.

  The slurping noises from his companion continued unabated.

  ‘Aaah, happy are they incarcerated in root cellars for they shall inherit the root nectar.’

  6.

  The sun came up bright and early bathing the way station in a harsh white light. It had the promise of being a blistering hot day. Sheriff Patterson groaned and tried to open his eyes. His stomach grumbled unpleasantly and he felt the stirrings of his bowels. He sat up in the bunk and saw his deputy wide-awake and staring at him from the next bunk.

  ‘Goddamn, what the hell that fella puts in that beer of his? I guess some of those rats he reckons is down there must have crawled inside the barrels and drowned. I feel like my stomach wants to claw its way outa my ass.’

  He groaned loudly.

  ‘I’m getting too old for this. The only reason I took on this mission was to see my cousin Jim Slater what’s governor at the prison.’

  He rolled out of the bunk and scratching furiously he disappeared out the back door. The deputy sat up, yawned, stretched and scratched. Then he followed his boss outside.

  The lawmen were at breakfast when they heard the horses approaching. Sheriff Patterson had prodded at the stodgy beans before pushing his plate to one side and with a look of distaste sipped at the vile-tasting, dark brew the owner assured him was coffee.

  A plump Indian woman worked in the kitchen while a young half-breed girl with vacant eyes and slovenly dress and manners served at tables. Before they retired for the night the proprietor had offered the women to the two lawmen for a modest sum.

  ‘One is my wife and the other my daughter. They will warm your bed for you.’

  Sheriff Patterson had been tempted to send the women to entertain the prisoners incarcerated in the root cellar. As it was he declined all offers and the prisoners were left to contemplate their fate alone and in the dark.

  Outside they could hear horses pull into the yard. The sheriff idly watched the door. To the background noises of blowing horses and jingling harness a gaunt elderly man stepped inside and stood to one side of the door and surveyed the room. He had deep set eyes like pieces of agate imbedded in his skull. His lower face was covered with an unkempt greying beard. A wide brimmed hat shaded his face. For no reason he could place Sheriff Patterson felt a tiny shiver of apprehension run up his spine.

  ‘Welcome, welcome, my friend,’ the fat man behind the bar called.

  Only then did the gaunt man move towards the bar. One by one the rest of his crew followed. As each of the other four men stepped inside the room the sheriff’s disquiet grew.

  Unaware of the tension growing in his boss, Uncle John worked steadily at the unappetising mess of beans - from time to time slurping noisily from the tin mug of vile-tasting coffee.

  The old man’s four companions were all much younger men. Two of them sauntered to a table behind the sheriff and straddled chairs. The other two joined the old man at the bar and placed themselves each side of him facing into the room. They stared unblinking at the lawmen. They had the same cold, cruel expression as the old man.

  The fat man behind the bar slid tin mugs in front of his new customers. There was a slight tremor in his hand as he picked up an earthenware jug.

  ‘Good homebrew, gentlemen.’

  ‘When’s the stage due?’

  The man’s voice was sibilant and throaty. It reminded Sheriff Patterson of a wind searching the cracks of a deserted house.

  ‘Stage should be along anytime now. Can I fix you breakfast while you wait?’

  The tremor in the fat man’s hand had transferred itself to his voice.

  ‘Dave, watch outside for the stage.’

  The man to the left of the leader turned and took the jug from the unresisting hand of the barkeep. He was at least six foot tall and rangy with a slightly pudgy boyish face. Without a word he strode to the door and went outside. The gaunt man turned his attention to the lawmen. Slowly he appraised the two men and then tramped across to stand before their table.

  ‘You looking for someone, marshal?’

  In spite of his disquiet regarding these men Sheriff Patterson was not a man to be cowed easy. He eased back in his chair, very conscious of the weight of the twin Remington pistols nestling in their holsters. Casually his hands dropped to his lap.

  ‘What’s it to you, fella?’

  He did not think it worthwhile to point out that he was a sheriff and not a marshal. The face before him was lipless. There was a gash where the lips would have hung.

  ‘Just curious, marshal.’

  It was a mistake for the sheriff to have forgotten the two men behind him. A wiry arm snapped round his neck and tightened hard against his throat. The sheriff grabbed at the arm. At the same time he kicked out with his heels and went backwards in his chair. The hold on his neck never slackened. Uncle John began to rise from his seat when he felt the pressure of a Colt against his temple.

  ‘Just you carry on with your breakfast, fatty.’

  With his deputy staring on, powerless to intervene, Sheriff Patterson was struggling helplessly against that strangling arm-lock. His eyes bulged and his mouth gaped open as he slowly choked. Desperately he clawed at that unyielding arm. It was like grappling with a tree root. His struggles grew feebler as the chokehold held fast. At last the old man lifted a hand and the pressure eased off.

  Sheriff Patterson dragged
in air, his mouth agape. During the brief, frantic struggle sweat had beaded on his forehead. He was sitting on the floor with his attacker squatting behind him keeping an arm around his neck. Breathing hoarsely the lawman stared with hatred at the old man before him.

  ‘I like polite people, marshal. When I ask a question I expect an answer. Now just tell me what you’re doing here.’

  Breathing heavily the sheriff swallowed a few times before replying.

  ‘Go to hell. My business is no concern of yours.’

  The rigid limb around his neck began to tighten but the old man again held up a hand. His eyes turned to the deputy. Uncle John was still sitting at the table. There was a frightened look on his fleshy face as the gravity of their situation sank in.

  ‘You the deputy?’

  Uncle John nodded, his eyes wide with apprehension.

  ‘Tell them nothing,’ Sheriff Patterson snarled, still defiant.

  The arm tightened just enough to choke off any more speech.

  ‘Where you from, fella?’

  The deputy swallowed nervously.

  ‘We’re from Hinkly, just a few days ride from here.’

  ‘Who you trailing?’

  ‘We ain’t after no one. mister,’ Uncle John stammered.

  ‘What you doing here then?’

  ‘We… we’re after taking some prisoners to the penitentiary. Honest to God, mister. We ain’t looking for trouble.’

  ‘The state pen,’ the old man mused, nodding in satisfaction.

  The deputy was not to know the man interrogating him, misinterpreted his answer. His understanding was that their prisoners delivered, the lawmen were returning home.

  ‘You see the reason I asked was I thought you just might be after us. Not that we’ve ever done anything for the law to be going after us. It’s just I got a suspicious mind. Lawmen have a habit of thinking we’re wrong ‘uns.’

  He shook his head in regret.

  ‘Can’t be too cautious in a distrustful world like the one we live in.’

  Turning back to the fat owner of the way station he asked, ‘What’s in there?’

  He pointed to the door at the back of the room.

  ‘I have bunks in there. You want to stay the night I charge you a dollar and that include meals.’

  He fixed a nervous smile on his features.

  ‘Women are extra.’

  The old man turned back to the lawmen.

  ‘Take them in back. Find something to rope them to the bunks. Cut up sheets if you have to.’

  ‘Please,’ whined the sweating proprietor. ‘Do not cut up my bedding. I find you some rope.’

  ‘You’re overstepping the mark fella,’ the sheriff snarled, still defiant. ‘Assaulting law officers and imprisoning them is a serious offence. If you ain’t wanted by the law already, you surely will be now unless you let us go right now and I might be persuaded to go lenient on you.’

  A curt twist of the head and the sheriff and his deputy were hustled from the room

  ‘They give you any bother slit their throats. I want no shooting. We’ll deal with them after the stage gets here.’

  7.

  The six-footer who had been sent outside to watch for the stage poked his head inside the door.

  ‘Stage coming, Jabez,’ he called then blinked owlishly at his companions seated at the tables eating breakfast.

  ‘You all having your vittals while I have to stand outside in this consarned heat and keep lookout,’ he said plaintively.

  ‘Dave, you had that there jug of homebrew for your breakfast. What more you want?’

  The one who answered was the stocky youngster who had held Sheriff Patterson helpless in the neck-lock. The half-breed girl sat on his knee and he had his hand inside her buckskin top. The girl seemed in no way disturbed by the attention she was receiving. Her vacant eyes gazed into the distance. The youngster with the girl had taken off his hat exposing short, blond hair. Though he was not very tall he looked brutally strong with barrel chest and muscular arms.

  ‘Fellas you know what to do.’

  The old man stood up as he spoke. He turned and addressed the way station owner.

  ‘Fat Man, what happens when the stage arrives?’

  ‘The passengers come in here for refreshment while the driver changes the team.’

  His agitation showed plainly on his chubby face. Sweat ran freely down his face and body and he mopped constantly with a dirty rag. It was the same cloth he used to wipe the grubby bar top and the vessels in which he served his dubious refreshments.

  ‘Who gets the new team ready?’

  ‘Usually my wife and daughter do that.’

  ‘Right, tell them to get out there and get the team ready.’

  ‘Sure thing, mister.’

  The blond youngster had pushed the girl unceremoniously from him and was standing putting his hat in place.

  ‘You like my daughter, kid?’ the barkeep asked, then wished he hadn’t spoken.

  Small, dark, mean eyes bored into him.

  ‘Who you calling kid?’

  ‘N… no offence, mister. I… I just though you and her were getting a mite friendly.’

  The barkeep’s voice faded away as he felt a knot of fear closing up his throat.

  ‘Shut up and get them females out in that yard.’

  The way station keeper tried to call out to his wife but found his vocal cords had seized up. With blanched features he turned and stumbled to the kitchen door. He gestured feebly to someone inside.

  ‘The stage… the stage…’ was all he managed in a voice hoarse with fear.

  One by one the men drifted outside to await arrival of the stagecoach. The fat owner of the station nervously mopped at his perspiring face and neck and contemplated going out the back and clambering on a horse and riding away from the frightening men who had invaded his place. It never occurred to him to attempt to release the lawmen tied up next door. To defy this terrible band of men was nowhere on his scope of possibilities.

  ‘Maybe they’ll take a shine to the women and leave me alone.’

  With a shaking hand he poured himself a large measure of his potent homebrew.

  Outside in the baking sunshine the sinister band of men placed themselves at vantage points around the yard and waited. There was a movement from the corral and their cold eyes watched the women lead four horses to the hitching rail by the watering trough and tie them in place. The women stood waiting with the horses, nervously watching the strange men.

  Eventually the stage came into view. No one moved. The men in the yard might have been a group of passengers waiting for the stage.

  *

  Butch Shilton was lying on the earthen floor afraid to move in case the spinning in his head grew worse.

  ‘Ooooh, my aching head!’

  For a few idle moments he tried to remember why he had gotten so drunk. Nor for the life of him he could not recall why it was he was lying on the floor, in the dark, nursing the mother of all hangovers.

  He could sense movement nearby and was tempted to raise his head and look in that direction. Then decided his head might hurt more with movement. Instead he lay motionless and tried to quell the queasy feeling in his stomach.

  Gradually his returning senses detected a steady scraping and a tinny rattling. The activity had a continuous rhythm to it and he thought about what it might be. Then he knew what the noise was.

  ‘Goddamn rats.’

  He had vague remembrances of small hairy creatures clambering over him as he lay in the dark and drank himself into oblivion. He had even talked to them and they had talked back. Suddenly he wanted to scratch.

  He raised his hand and was puzzled to find his other hand followed involuntarily. For a brief moment he contemplated this strange phenomenon. There was the clink of metal on metal as he brought his hands close to his face and tried to fathom what the things on his wrists were

  ‘Goddamn manacles.’

  Memory came flooding back
and he sat up. Immediately he wished he had followed his first instinct and stayed where he was. His insides heaved and then he was puking up his guts - however nothing but a vile tasting liquid was coming up.

  ‘Oh God,’ he moaned, ‘I wish I were dead.’

  ‘Hi, Butch, how you doing?’

  When the cowboy looked towards the voice he could see a faint rectangle of light from above. The morning sun was shining and finding the cracks in the cellar doors.

  ‘Joe, what the hell are you doing?’

  Moaning softly Butch crawled on all fours towards the faint light. He could see the dark hump of someone crouched beneath the outlined rectangle. Before he reached the trapdoor he encountered a soft mound of what seemed like piled up dirt.

  ‘Joe, no sigh of that dang blasted Sheriff Patterson yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I hope he stays away a while longer.’

  ‘What you talking about?’

  ‘Butch, while you been lying there in drunken slumber I’ve been digging.’

  ‘Digging!’

  ‘Sure, I got one of them jugs that were lying around and I been using it to dig at this here doorframe. I figure it’s only set into dirt. I reckon if I dug enough the whole thing could be loosened enough to push out.’

  Butch stopped crawling and rested. A sweat had started on him and he felt the sickness rise in him again. After he had stopped retching he wiped at his face.

  ‘Damn me, Joe I feel this is a right fitting place for me right now.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I reckon it couldn’t be much worse if I’d died and this was my grave. What time you reckon it is?’

  ‘It’s early yet. I heard horses arrive a while back. Thought at first it was the stagecoach but I think it was just a bunch of riders stopping by for breakfast.’

  ‘Oooh,’ Butch moaned, ‘breakfast - what the hell’s that? Surely the sheriff is bound to feed us today.’

  His tummy rumbled, sounding loud in the silent darkness. He rubbed his hand across that suffering organ.

  ‘Mind you, the way I feel I reckon nothing will stay down. I guess I got something fatal.’