by Chuck Tyrell
Comstock watched Stryker, interested in his answer to the Kid’s question.
“That’s what our posse’s for, Kid.”
“Lots a posses ride out big and come back petered out, with nothing to show for the ride but tired horses.”
“How old’re you, Kid?” Stryker’s voice held a chuckle.
“Don’t see as it matters how old I am,” the Kid said.
“You got that right. No gunhand’s gonna stop to find out how old you are before he blows your heart in two.”
The Kid didn’t look Stryker in the eye. “I’ll take care of myself,” he mumbled.
“You’d better, Kid. Ain’t nobody else gonna do it. Including me.”
Jimmie put a hand to the grips of the nickel-plated Colt Peacemaker at his side. Comstock watched, a piece of hardtack halfway to his lips.
“Kid,” Stryker said. “I know you’re of an age where talking by an old man like me goes in one ear and out the other. But let me tell you one thing. I’ve see you practicing with that Peacemaker, working at getting it out fast and slick. But Kid, how quick you jerk that six-gun out ain’t what makes you a fast gun. It’s really in how quick you decide to kill a man and get your six-shooter out to pull the trigger. Ain’t no other reason to pull a gun. None other than killing whatever you have to, man or beast.”
“A man’s gotta practice, and I’m getting purty good at gunwork,” the Kid said. “I truly am.”
Stryker gave the kid a long look, then flicked a glance at Comstock. “Yeah. I reckon you are, Kid. Let’s hope it works out all right in the end.”
Milt had a little fire going and a small coffee pot sitting on coals to one side. “Want me to water your ‘paloose, Stryker?” she said.
“You and me on watch at midnight, Milt. I can take care of my own mount, thank you. Obliged for the offer, though.”
“Taking a bit of a roundabout way to Moapa, ain’tcha?”
“Milt, I don’t want to take the same road as them outlaws. Just as soon they not know about us until the time comes.”
Milt nodded. “Makes sense. Coffee?”
“I reckon, if it’s ready.”
Milt raised her voice. “Coffee’s on. Bring yer own cups.”
Stryker went to the appaloosa for his battered tin cup. He held it out to Milt. She pushed her kepi back on her head, folded a square of sacking into four, and used it to grab the coffee pot handle. “Come and get it,” she said, her voice just short of a holler.
She poured Stryker’s cup about two-thirds full. “More if it lasts,” she said. The Kid and Fletcher Comstock stood with cups ready, but Weldon Higgins sat on the ground where he’d gotten off his horse.
“Weldon?” Milt said. “Coffee?”
He shook his head, then scrubbed his face with both hands.
“You OK, Higgins?” Stryker said.
Higgins nodded, his fact still in his hands.
“He’s missing John Barleycorn,” said Fletcher Comstock.
“Yeah.” Stryker gulped a mouthful of coffee. “Good mud, Milt. You’ve done this before.”
“Gimme a bean,” she said, “An’ I’ll give you coffee. If there’s water, that is.”
“Mind taking some out to Cap? There’s probably a cup in his things.”
“You got it.”
Fletcher Comstock said, “Do you think the Shadow Box Gang will try to surprise us at night? Is that why you’re setting up watches?” He rubbed at his sore butt through his California pants.
“Fletcher, we’re in wild country. Not like being in town all day. We’re at least twenty miles from Silverton and anything might happen. And yes, if the Shadow Box Gang knew we were here and what we plan for them, they’d hit us and hit us hard.”
“What are we watching for besides those outlaws?”
“Paiutes. Mohaves. Anyone moving at night’s not a good sign.” Stryker raised his voice again. “You all’ll want to drag your saddles and stuff off the horses. I’ll put out a picket line and you can tie the cayuses to it with enough room for them to pick at the grass, what little there is of it. We’ll grain ’em in the morning. It’ll get cold so you’ll want your blanket rolls. Eat from your own supplies. If you’ve got nothing, come talk to me.”
The camp settled down. The fire died down to coals. Milt made another pot of coffee for the night watch. Kid Leslie cleaned his Peacemaker. Weldon Higgins sat with his arms around his knees, rocking back and forth. Cap Grant stood watch in silence, his back against the bole of the oak tree he’d chosen as cover. Comstock wondered if Chicoueno would be able to go all the way without any water.
A three-quarter moon came up, turning the land into a blue monochrome vista. The creosote bushes and bursage looked like brushy balls, dots across the landscape. Members of the posse had given their horses a drink and now the animals spread out as far as the picket line would let them. Some chomped on bursage, others found salt grass at the bottom of a little wash. None showed any sign that they detected approaching danger. Everyone settled down in their blankets, using their saddles as pillows. Everyone, that is, but Weldon Higgins. He still sat hunched over, his arms around his legs.
Stryker finished his biscuit and, chewing on the jerky, went to unsaddle Higgins’s horse. After he’d tied the sorrel to the picket line, he hauled the gear over to Higgins and dropped it next to him.
“Anything to eat in them saddlebags?” Stryker said.
Higgins said nothing. He just hugged his knees and shivered.
“I’ll get you a biscuit,” Stryker said, but Higgins shook his head.
“Don’t want you starving on me, Higgins.”
Higgins shook his head again and rested his forehead on his knees. Stryker walked away, leaving Higgins to fight his own demons.
Midnight came, and Stryker went to wake Milt.
“I’m up,” she said when he got close. “Where do you want me to watch?”
“You take Cap’s place by the oak tree, Milt. Take your long gun along.”
Stryker heard the hard woman walking away. It always surprised him how loud ordinary noises were in the desert night. He slipped away toward the clump of rocks he’d picked as his own watch spot.“You’d better learn to be quiet,” Stryker said. “Otherwise, you’ll be a dead ’Pache.”
All sound stopped.
Stryker stood motionless, his Bowie in hand. He’d assumed the sounds were from Dred. Now he wasn’t so sure. He backed into a corner made by two boulders that stood half again as high as his own head. Moonlight made the little clearing among the rocks almost as bright as day.
Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. No cricket. No owl. No nighthawks. Stryker waited. When Dred was sure of the situation, he would show himself.
Dred, the Seminole black man, stepped into the little clearing, a huge Arkansas toothpick in his hand. Only the glint of moonlight on the blade of his long knife gave him away.
“What’s up?” Stryker said, his voice loud enough to carry to Dred’s ears only.
“Come.” Dred disappeared.
After a moment, Stryker made his way silently to where Dred had been. No sign of the Seminole, but there was also only one way to go. Stryker went.
“This way,” Dred said, his voice barely reaching Stryker’s ears as he came to the edge of the rocks.
Dred sat beneath an overhang in a little arroyo that ran north and south. There was just enough room for Stryker to sit beside the Seminole.
After he was in place, Stryker repeated his question. “What’s up?”
“Time to go half a day north and west.”
“Moapa Springs?”
“Not quite.”
“Why?”
“That’s where the outlaws stopped.”
“They still there?”
Dred shook his head and Stryker was able to catch the movement.
“Then where did they go?” Stryker said.
“West.”
“Where can we catch ’em?”
“We should go to wher
e they stayed.”
“We’ll leave at dawn.”
“Now.”
Stryker stared at Dred. Dred stared back. “Now,” he said again.
“Now?”
“Earlier is better.”
“OK.” Stryker strode toward the now cold fire. He didn’t try to be quiet. “Milt. Cap. Kid. Weldon. Fletcher. Up. Now. Saddle your horses. We’ll ride, and we need to go fast.” He plucked his own gear from the ground and took it to Speckle. Leaving the blankets on the ground, he bridled the horse, then saddled it. As he rolled up his blankets in the ground tarp, others began getting their horses ready. When all the mounts were off the picket line, Stryker untied it, coiled it like a lariat, and tied it to his saddle. His rifle fit in its saddle scabbard along the appaloosa’s ribs. His Remington Army revolver sat deep in its holster. He mounted.
Moments later, Cap Grant and Kid Leslie pulled their horses up beside him. Weldon Higgins still fumbled with his saddle. Milt Robbins was ready, but kept an eye on Higgins.
“Milt, you see that Higgins makes it onto his horse without leaving nothin’ behind, can you?”
“Yo,” Milt said, like a cavalry trooper.
Fletcher Comstock finally got his horse ready. He mounted and came up behind Stryker. Minutes later, Milt and Higgins were ready to go.
“We follow Dred,” Stryker said. “Cap, you and the Kid guard us from the rear. Milt, you and Weldon ride in the middle. Me and Comstock’ll lead out. Ready?”
He got murmurs of assent and the sound of horses shifting positions.
Dred waited at the arroyo. Stryker stopped Speckles, halting everyone else.
“We go,” Dred said, and took off at a brisk trot.
The Seminole ran in knee-high Apache moccasins, a leather breechclout, and a doeskin vest-like shirt. He carried a Yellow Boy Winchester and a bandolier of ammunition. His Arkansas Toothpick hung from the bandolier beneath his arm. His pace kept the horses at a brisk trot. No doubt the Seminole could run a cavalry mount into the ground.
They hit the rawhide spread just before dawn. No slinking or hiding. Dred just walked into the ranch yard ahead of Stryker’s posse.
Stryker stepped down. “This it?” he said.
Dred grunted. “Outlaws gone,” he said. “Maybe yesterday, noontime.”
“So why are we here?”
“They killed the man,” Dred said. “Woman … .”
“What about the woman? The rancher’s woman?”
“Aoo. Maybe she lives.”
“Where?”
Dred waved at the shack. “In there,” he said.
Stryker took a deep breath, and for the first time was aware of the coppery scent of blood. Not fresh, but there just the same, along with a taint of corruption. The season was early, so meat didn’t spoil quickly, but there was a taint. “The man of the house is dead then?”
“Him and one outlaw,” Dred said.
“Let’s see to the missus first,” Stryker said. He automatically checked his Remington. “Milt,” he called. “Come with me. Hurt woman in the house.”
“Yo.” Again Milt gave him the cavalry call of affirmation. She dismounted and ground-tied her horse. By the time Stryker reached the cowhide door of the shack, Milt was right behind him.
Inside, the cabin reeked of blood and feces. The woman on the bed looked hardly human. Her battered face was a mass of cuts and bruises. Her blonde hair was matted with blood and vomit. A torn dress lay on the packed dirt floor. A scrap of blanket covered her hips and upper thighs.
“What do you think, Milt?”
“Sumbitches needs the living hell beat outta them,” Milt said.
“H-h-h-help,” the woman said in a tiny voice.
“You hang on, honey,” Milt Robbins said. “You just hang on. Matt, get me some water. Hot would be good. And see if someone can find some lavender. You know, that plant what looks like mint but has purple bell-shaped flowers. Grows on the sunny side of arroyos and stuff.”
Stryker left the cabin to get what Milt needed.
Outside, a fire was already going and a coffee pot full of water sat close by. Stryker pointed at it. “Hot?” he said.
“Will be directly,” the Kid said.
“When it steams, take it in to Milt. Pour it into a kettle or something. I’ve got to go find some lavender.”
“Saw some,” Dred said. “I will get it.” The tall black Seminole strode off, moving away from the little creek toward the ridge that rose behind the little house.
Stryker went back in. “Hot water coming up, Milt. Dred’s gone for lavender.”
Milt’s face was wet with tears.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Stryker said.
She held out a small plate with a bloody lump about the size of Stryker’s thumb on it. “Those monsters made her lose her baby. Don’t know how far along she was, but this here’s her child.”
Once Milt said what it was, Stryker could see the tiny head and the beginnings of appendages. He had to turn his eyes away, and he couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever have a son or daughter of his own. He had to find the Shadow Box Gang. They had to pay. Not only for what they took from Silverton, but for those they killed and those they injured and for the future of the tiny being on the plate in Milt’s hands.
“I swear,” Stryker said. “I swear. The Shadow Box Gang gets no more mercy from me than they gave that girl.”
“First, let me do what needs to be done,” Milt said. “Then we gotta decide what to do with her.”
Chapter Six – The Avenging Angel
Stryker’s posse stopped where the trail of the Shadow Box Gang turned to avoid the little town of Moapa, south of Moapa Springs.
“Cap, Kid, Weldon, Fletcher,” Stryker said. “Can you go with Dred? Follow the Shadow Box Gang, but don’t get too close. Me and Milt will take the missus over to Moapa. Cap, you’re the leader, but you listen careful to whatever Dred’s got to say, hear?”
“Count on me, Matt. I’ve lost men in battle, and that’s something that never rests easy on a commander’s soul, even when he’s commanding only a company.”
“I know, Cap. You’ll get the job done. Don’t try to take the Shadow Boxers. They’ve got Maggie Brown and Elly Nation, and we seen what they’ll do to a woman. Don’t take chances, and don’t get those two hurt.”
“I hear you, Matt.”
“Keep on their trail. We’ll catch up with you quick as we can.”
“Yo,” Timothy Grant said.
The posse split. Stryker, Milt Robbins, and a young woman named Mercy moved on toward Moapa. She’d come around enough for Milt to find out her name was Mercy Taylor, and that she and her husband Harlan belonged to an organization she called the “Moapa Ward.”
The town’s main street paralleled the Moapa River, which almost everyone called “Muddy.” Strangely, there was no saloon on the main street, only a general store with the initials ZCMI painted on its false front. Stryker halted Speckles at the ZCMI hitching rail, and Milt and the travois stopped alongside.
Stryker dismounted, draped the appaloosa’s reins over the hitching rail, and went into ZCMI. Before he’d gotten more than three steps into the store, a young man in bib overalls and an apron called out. “Afternoon, stranger. What can we do for you this fine day?”
Stryker made sure his badge was in plain view. “I’m Matthew Stryker, deputy marshal over to Silverton. We’ve been chasing a gang what calls itself Shadow Box. Let me ask you something.”
The young man nodded. “Shoot,” he said.
“Know a young couple name of Harlan and Mercy Taylor?”
“Surely do. They’re just wed. Hitched around Christmas time by the bishop. Don’t think they’ve made it over to St. George yet. Why do you ask?”
Stryker took a deep breath. There was no way to make the news sound any better. “We come by the Taylor place,” he said. “Young Harlan is dead. We buried him out back of his place. A gang called Shadow Box took turns with Harlan’s wife. Looked li
ke Mercy killed one of the gang with a shotgun, then they took it out on her.”
Stryker rubbed a rough hand across three days’ growth of whiskers on his cheeks and chin. “Mercy Taylor was with child,” he said. “She lost it.”
“Dear Lord,” the man said. “Dear, dear Lord.”
“Mercy’s on a travois outside. It would be good to get her into a proper bed where someone can take care of her.”
“Yes. Yes. Of course.” The young man thought for a moment. “I’ll go tell Bishop Westfall.” He ran from the store, throwing his apron aside as he went.
Stryker followed him outside, but the youngster was gone before he got to the street.
“Rest easy,” he said to Milt. “The boy’s gone for a bishop named Westfall. I reckon they’ll be someone around who can take care of the girl.”
Milt had dismounted to give Mercy a drink of water. “You drink as much as you can hold, girl,” she said.
Mercy opened her eyes a crack. “Thank you,” she said. “God must have sent you. I’m sure he did.”
“I’m just an old girl who holds the lines of a team a lot better than she can hold onto a man. But never you mind. Bishop Westfall will be here directly.”
Mercy’s eyes flew open and a wild look came over her face. “Bishop Westfall? Oh, no. Oh, no. I can’t talk to him. Just can’t. Can’t.” She broke down and sobbed.
“There, there.” Milt patted Mercy’s arm. “There, there. You don’t have to talk with him if you don’t want to.”
A short, thick man came running down the street with a bonneted woman in a billowing print dress and pioneer bonnet following close behind. Milt had time to take half a dozen steps in his direction, so she intercepted him several feet away from Mercy. “Bishop Westfall?” she said.
The man almost skidded as he stopped. “Yes. Yes. I am Mahonri Westfall.”
“Mercy’s been hurt bad, Mr. Westfall. Her body’s hurting and her heart’s hurting. She’s gonna need some good understanding, sir.”
The woman hurried up to Milt and Westfall. “Bishop. What is this about Mercy Taylor?”
Milt said, “Mr. Westfall, missus, I think it would be best for you to speak to Marshal Stryker. Then do what needs to be done for little Mercy.”