Stryker's Posse

by Chuck Tyrell

  Geebee scrambled to his feet and kicked Junior Saxenhausen. “Git up. Boss’s rampaging.”

  Junior woke quicker that Geebee, but he’d not noticed Flapjack Kranz’s pistol shots either. Both Shadow Box men had been deep into their sleep, fully confident they’d not be attacked and they’d been still sleepy from the two bottles of whiskey that made the rounds amongst the gang.

  Bowman stood spraddle-legged by the saddles where Maggie and Elly should be sleeping. With his head down and his arms akimbo, he thought things over.

  Flapjack came back into camp. “Apaches. Gotta be Apaches. Or Paiutes. Maybe Mojaves. Ain’t no white man’d do that kinda thing to a man. Never would.”

  “What?” Geebee and Junior said almost together.

  “Scalped Billy Bob. Stuffed his pecker into his mouth, too. Sliced his gut open so everything could roll out. Coyote got at his guts. I shot the cur. Don’t reckon Billy Bob hurt much, though. Whoever done it sliced his throat all the way to his backbone.”

  Flapjack faced Bowman. “Boss. Whatta ya think? Them redskins still around? They gonna sneak in and kill us all? Are they?”

  “We ain’t gonna wait around to see,” Bowman said. “We’re going back to Silverton and shoot that town up good. Make ’em pay for Billy Bob and Rastus … and Big Ed. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll put that town right down on its good-for-nothing knees.”

  “Back to Silverton? We got all the gold they had, boss,” Flapjack said. “An’ the gold ain’t what got Billy Bob and Rastus killed, it was Induns. They don’t give two hoots about gold.”

  “The women run off, didn’t they?” Bowman growled out his words through clenched teeth. “Could be them Injuns got ’em. It don’t matter no more. Silverton’s what started all our bad luck, and I say we pay ’em back.”

  “We gonna carry that gold back where they can rob it off us?” Flapjack sounded uneasy.

  “I’ll cache it. I’ll put it where I’m the only one who knows where it is. No one in Silverton’ll find it. Ever. Only me. I’m all who’ll know.”

  Flapjack and Geebee exchanged glances. “Well. If you say so, boss,” Flapjack said. “But wouldn’t it be good if you told us’ns whereabouts you put the gold? Just in case, I mean.”

  Bowman stared each man down. When all of them were studying the ground, he spoke. “I’ll cache that gold. I’ll put it where no one can just run onto it by accident. I got a tally book, and I’ll write where the gold is. Nobody what don’t know nothing about the Shadow Box Gang would have even a little idea of where it is. But any of us would know, sure as hell ain’t about to freeze over.”

  “OK, Boss,” they chorused, but didn’t seem enthusiastic about what Bowman said he would do.

  “Awright. You all get the horses saddled. I’ll be back directly.”

  “OK, Boss. Don’t let no Indun ketch you like they done with Billy Bob ‘n’ Rastus.”

  Bowman grunted. He shouldered the heavy saddlebags. Each held a dozen gold bars. He took half a dozen strides toward the place where the arroyo deepened as it thrust its way up the hillside, away from the Muddy. Then he stopped. He set the saddlebags down, unstrapped one and took three ingots from it.

  He buckled the saddlebag up again, and returned to where the other Shadow Boxers waited. He handed one ingot to each. “40 ounces,” he said. “A bit over eight hundred dollars. Hang onto it, just in case. You’ll want to be careful turning that gold into cash, though. Just saying.”

  None of the three said anything. Each clutched a gold ingot as if it were a life saver.

  “I’ll go cache the rest of the gold then,” Bowman said. He strode back to the saddlebags, shouldered the gold, now slightly over fifty pounds, and made his way into the arroyo.

  Chapter Eight – Save the Girls

  Maggie Brown and Elly Nation huddled by a small fire. Kid Leslie, Cap Grant, Weldon Higgins, and Fletcher Comstock stood around, staring at the fire, though the coffeepot had long since boiled and they’d all had a cup, except Elly.

  Dred trotted into camp first. Then Stryker and the rest of the posse, plus Gideon Rockwell, rode in.

  “Good to see everyone in one piece,” Stryker said. “And Maggie, thank you for watching out for Walt’s daughter.”

  “Who’s that?” Maggie waved a hand in Rockwell’s direction.

  “Calls himself Gid Rockwell,” Stryker said. “Some say he’s the Mormon’s avenging angel.”

  Tears came to Maggie’s eyes, but she made no move to wipe them away. “There wasn’t a thing I could do, Matt. Not a thing. I had to stay outside and listen to that girl Mercy scream. It was hell, Matt. Puredee hell.”

  “I reckon you did what you could, Maggie. And you got Elly out. We’ll get you back to Silverton just as quick as we can.”

  Maggie put her head to Stryker’s chest. “I just couldn’t do anything, Matt.” She hit his chest with a fist. “Not one thing.” She hit him again. Thump. “Nothing I could do.” Thump. Thump.

  “She’s alive, Maggie. No baby, but she’s alive. Mormon folks at Moapa’re taking care of her.”

  Head against Stryker’s chest, Maggie nodded.

  “Ma’am,” Gid Rockwell said. “Not as if it’s up to me, ma’am, but as a kind of representative of the Saints, could I say that we thank you for helping one of ours?”

  Maggie nodded. “Thanks,” she mumbled into Stryker’s chest.

  “Now. We’ve got to get you and Elly back to Silverton,” Stryker said.

  “Coffee’s hot,” Maggie said in a little, teary voice. “At least have a cup before you go riding off.”

  “Obliged, Maggie. Certainly obliged.” Stryker raised his voice. “Those of you with cups, hold ’em out to Maggie. She’ll put coffee in them.”

  While Maggie poured, Stryker called Dred, Cap Grant, Weldon Higgins, and Milt Robbins to him. “Dred, please lead the women and these men to Silverton. We’ll go after the gang and try to get them before they get to the Colorado. When we’ve caught them, they’ll either come along to Silverton or be dead.”

  Dred gave a tiny nod.

  “I’ll be going with you,” Rockwell said. “I’ve got a feeling the good Lord wants a blood atonement from those you call Shadow Box men.”

  Stryker took a step toward Rockwell, his face set in hard lines. “Rockwell, you listen to me. If those men surrender, we take them to Silverton. They’ll hang, probably, but we’ll let the jury decide. You got that?”

  Rockwell shrugged. “I’m going along,” he said. “We’ll see what happens.”

  “Suit yourself,” Stryker said.

  “Fletch,” he called.

  “Yeah?”

  “How you holding out?”

  “Saddle sore, but nothing serious,” Comstock said.

  “I’d like you to go back to Silverton with Dred and the women.”

  Fletcher shook his head. “Those thieves still have gold from the bullion room. That’s my responsibility.”

  Stryker gave Comstock a long look. “OK, Fletch,” he said. “Come along.”

  So Stryker’s posse once more split in two. Cap, Milt and Weldon gathered with the women to follow Dred back to Silverton. Stryker, Comstock, and the Kid rode toward the Shadow Box camp on the Muddy, nearly a dozen miles southeast. Gideon Rockwell came along behind.

  Stryker’s half posse rode hard. They passed the Shadow Box camp in the dead of night, not even checking to see if the two men Dred butchered had been buried. They had no doubt but that the Shadow Box Gang had continued along the Muddy, heading for Pearce’s Ferry. They stopped to water their horses and give them a little time to crop at grass that grew near the Muddy’s banks. “I’ll have a look around,” Stryker said. “Make sure we’re on the trail of them owlhoots.” He walked straight east from the river, headed for the hills that stood about a half mile off. If a man wanted to make time to Pearce’s Ferry, he’d want to lope down the flat land bordering the river. Naturally that’s where Matt Stryker looked first.

  “They ain’t comi
ng this way,” Rockwell said.

  Comstock stood close to the brown horse he’d ridden all these miles. It felt like his pants were stuck to his butt and thighs, probably with blood. Damn. Humans were not designed to ride horseback. He clenched his teeth at the pain. He wasn’t about to show a weakness in front of Stryker, or Rockwell, for that matter. He caught Rockwell eyeing the seat of his pants. “I’m all right,” he said, standing a bit straighter. “Just a little bit saddle sore.”

  “I reckon you ain’t rode a horse in your life, greenhorn,” Rockwell said. “But you’re hanging in there. Hope you know which end of a gun the bullet comes out of. I surely do.”

  Comstock didn’t answer. He led Chicoueno to the river, let him drink, then removed his bridle and tried to fix a lariat around his neck so he could graze.

  “Let me show you how to tie that lariat,” Rockwell said. “Never hurts to learn.”

  Comstock made no retort, but held the loop end of the lariat out to Rockwell.

  “Thing about making knots,” Rockwell said, “you wanna be able to undo the dadgum things later.” He held out the loop end. “Now, you could just make out this loop and slip it over your cayuse’s head. That’d work fine unless something spooked him, and then he might choke.”

  “So?”

  “So you make a dutch bowline.”

  “Dutch bowline?”

  “Yep. Here.” He tossed the end of the lariat over Chicoueno’s neck. “OK. You’ve got the loop end on the far side of the horse and the rest of the lariat in your hands.”

  He stepped up next to Chicoueno, patting him on the neck and telling him to “Take it easy now, old man.” He reached under Chicoueno’s neck and brought the loop end to the near side. “Now. You’ll want to make a loop like this in the long end.” He brought the lariat down and around over his left hand so there was a loop standing with the short end of the lariat dangling across the loop away from the horse. “You take the loop end of the lariat, put is through the loop on the inside, take it around the rope standing behind the little loop, then thread it back toward yourself. See?”

  Rockwell pulled the bowline tight so Comstock could see how it set. “Got that?” he said.

  “I reckon.”

  “Then you do it.” Rockwell swiftly undid the bowline, retrieved the lariat, and held it out to Comstock.

  Comstock took the rope and tried to do what Rockwell had shown him. The first time, it didn’t turn out right. Nor the second. But the third time, with Rockwell’s coaching, he got the bowline tied right. He couldn’t help but smile at his success.

  “There you go,” Rockwell said. “Something you’ll never forget.”

  “Well done,” Stryker said.

  Comstock hadn’t noticed Stryker return. “How long you been standing there watching?”

  “Quarter of an hour, maybe,” Rockwell said. “Pays to be aware of what’s going on around.”

  “It does at that,” Stryker said. “But maybe you’re too sore to keep a watch out. How’s the behind?”

  “Sore.”

  “Let’s see.”

  Comstock turned around.

  “Blood coming through. Better drop your trousers. I’ll get some liniment.”

  “Saw some prickly pear back aways,” Rockwell said. “Want I should get some?”

  “That’d be good.”

  Comstock stood waiting. Chicoueno cropped grass. Rockwell rode back along the trail. Stryker got a bottle of Ballard’s Liniment from his saddlebags, along with a square of flannel.

  “Drop your pants,” Stryker said when he returned. “There ain’t no women in camp, so don’t be bashful.”

  Comstock complied.

  “You want me to cut that union suit? Or do you want to peel it down?”

  “I’ll take it off,” Comstock said. “Might as well.” He shrugged out of his coat and shirt. Unbuttoned the one-piece union suit and peeled it down. He sucked in his breath when the union suit separated from the saddle sores on his butt and inner thighs.

  “You shoulda said something.”

  “Didn’t want to bother.”

  “Liniment’s gonna sting some,” Stryker said.

  “I can take it,” Comstock said, but he hollered some when Stryker slapped the liniment-soaked flannel on his raw rear.

  “Bless the Almighty!”

  “That’s one way to say it,” Stryker said.

  “Be gentle,” Comstock said.

  “What for? It ain’t me what’s making you hurt. And the liniment will help in the long run.”

  Comstock bowed his head, hands on his knees, and ground his teeth. About the time the liniment quit stinging, Rockwell came riding back with four big prickly pear ears.

  “Need to burn the stickers off these ears,” Rockwell said.

  “Do without,” Stryker said. “Don’t want a fire.”

  “I’m betting them outlaws never got this far,” Rockwell said. “No telling where they are.”

  “No telling,” Stryker said. “That’s for sure.” He took his Bowie from its sheath over his left hip. “Gimme,” he said, holding out a hand.

  Rockwell gingerly handed him a prickly pear ear.

  Holding the ear between thumb and forefinger, careful not to pinch any of the stickers, Stryker skimmed the thorns off it with the razor-sharp edge of his Bowie. He split the ear, then held the Bowie out to Rockwell. “We’ll need another, I reckon. You split it?”

  Rockwell took the knife and went to work on another ear. Stryker stepped over to where Comstock stood, hands on knees, bare butt to the wind. “Gonna smear you right good with cactus juice, Fletch. It’ll help some. You’ll have to hang bare for a few minutes while it dries.”

  “Um,” Comstock said.

  Stryker rubbed the raw side of the prickly pear ear over half of Comstocks butt, then smeared the other half with the remaining part of the ear. “Nother ear?” he said.

  “Coming up,” Rockwell said, handing over a split ear.

  Stryker rubbed the gooey raw side of the ear over the inside of Comstock’s left leg. He dropped the ear half and held his hand out for its mate. Rockwell put it in his hand, and Stryker rubbed cactus goo over the sores on Comstocks right leg. “There. Good,” he said. “Just let ’em dry.”

  All Comstock could do was stay put, bare butt and all.

  “Outlaws didn’t come this way, did they?” Rockwell said.

  “Didn’t.”

  “That rules out the ferry, then.”

  “Does.”

  “Now what?”

  “Back to their camp to pick up the trail instead of trying to second-guess ’em.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Rockwell and Stryker squatted, chewing on jerky and hardtack, doing as a man learns to do, eating when they chance comes, resting when there’s a spare minute, betimes sleeping on the back of a horse.

  Chapter Nine – Dead Man’s Notch

  Dred led half of Stryker’s posse toward Silverton. Not by the straight route, but by a way that would give them places to rest, water to drink, quails and rabbits to hunt if necessary, and caves and fissures in which to hole up when the time came. There was no hurry to reach Silverton, so the Seminole chose the easiest way.

  Just west of Dead Man’s Notch, Cap Grant called a halt. He beckoned Dred over. The Seminole came to stand by the shoulder of his horse. “I don’t like the notch,” Cap said. “Likely place for the Shadow Box Gang to lie in wait.”

  “Why?” Dred said. “They ride for a place to cross the Colorado. Pearce’s or the Calleville ferry. I think they want to go to Mexico to spend gold.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Pays to be careful.”

  “I’ll go first,” Dred said. “If someone shoots at me, ride away. Fast.”

  Cap nodded. “We’ll stay a quarter of a mile behind.”

  Dred stared at Cap. “Good,” he said. He turned and trotted toward Dead Man’s Notch, a crack in the Mormon Range that stood between the Muddy and Virgin Rivers.

  Mi
lt came up alongside Cap Grant. “What’s going on,” she said.

  Cap thrust his chin at the steep stone walls of the notch. “They don’t call that Dead Man’s Notch for nothing,” he said. The Old Spanish Trail goes through it. Quickest way from Santa Fe to California.”

  “Dred’s going down the middle,” Milt said, “but it seems to me we oughta stay against one side or the other, or split up and go down both. Me and Maggie and Elly will take the south wall, and you and the men can take the north one.”

  Who knew what freak of nature made Dead Man’s Notch, a path of sand wove through the Mormon Mountains, climbing slightly from west to east. Walls of stone towered on each side of the sandy trail, rising fifty to a hundred feet, then the mountains rolled away to the northwest and southeast. Dead Man’s Notch got its name from the Howard Early Expedition that followed the Old Spanish Trail from Santa Fe to California in the early fifties. Somewhere in the middle of the notch, the pathway takes an S-shaped turn. Early’s men came from the east, and took special care moving through the S. As they trudged around the second curve, they came upon a jumble of sun-whitened bones. The arrows and spears that killed them were still there. Rusted helmets and breastplates lay with the bones. Early’s men found only human bones, though the Spaniards, for Early assumed the bones were Spaniards’, most certainly were mounted. Early’s men buried the bones and scratched a cross in the stone wall above their grave. “Buried a dozen people, judging by their skulls,” Early wrote in his journal. “Left their bones to guard Dead Man’s Notch.”

  “Milt, I think you women had better take the north wall,” Cap said. “And make sure you keep under the overhang.”

  “Yo,” Milt said. “Come on, Maggie, Elly, let’s get on the road to Silverton. Through the notch, and then fifteen or twenty miles. Let’s go.” The women followed Milt single file, riding astride their horses with skirts hanging loose around their legs. The overhang of the rock wall shielded them from anyone that might be on the northern heights.