Webb's Posse

by Ralph Cotton

“That’s enough out of you, Benson!” Sergeant Teasdale commanded. “Get yourself back there twenty yards and guard our rear.”

  “Our rear?” Benson looked confused. “Sergeant, everything from me back is our rear. I can guard it from where I sat—”

  “Shut up, Benson!” Hargrove bellowed. “Come with me!” He grabbed the young soldier’s horse by its bridle and jerked it along beside him. In the gray morning, Teasdale and Frieze heard him chastise the young man as they rode farther back. “The hell’s wrong with you, Benson?” Hargrove growled at him. “You never say something like that to a badly wounded man!”

  “I thought it wasn’t that bad,” said Benson. “He said himself it’s just an in-and-out wound.”

  “Never mind…. Just shut your stupid face!” said Hargrove.

  As Hargrove’s and Benson’s voices faded, Trooper Frieze tried to sound as if nothing was wrong. “Soldiers always have to bicker and bellyache, don’t they, Sergeant?”

  “How bad is it getting, Trooper Frieze?” Teasdale asked instead of answering him.

  “Aw, heck, Sergeant. Like I said, it ain’t nothing,” Frieze offered bravely.

  “On the square, Trooper,” said Teasdale. “I need to know so I can figure it into our plans.”

  “On the square then,” said Frieze. “It’s the strangest feeling I ever had. It wasn’t bad at all till the past couple hours…. Then, Lord have mercy, this fever hit me all at once. I swear I never felt nothing like it before in my life.”

  “All right then,” said Teasdale. “You just hang on. We’ll get the doctor in Little Sand to treat you. We’ll leave you with him a few days, just until you’re past the fever stage.”

  A silence set in. Then Frieze said, “What if this fever hangs on and gets worse? I’ve heard how it is to die of blood poison.”

  “Blood poison? Who said anything about blood poison?” said Teasdale. “You might come out of this sicker than a dog for a few days, but that’s a long way from—”

  “Begging your pardon, Sergeant Teasdale,” said Frieze, cutting him off. “I thought we was still talking on the square here.”

  Teasdale stopped himself and let out a breath. “Sorry, Trooper. You’re right. This is still on the square. As fast as that infection came on you, we haven’t a moment to waste getting you some medical attention. But we will be in Little Sand by mid-morning at the latest. Hang on till then, all right?”

  “I’ll sure try. You count on that,” said Frieze. “I can’t say that I feel like I’m dying…. But I swear, this is the damndest thing ever.” His voice nearly gave in to the deep shiver in his chest, but he managed to hold it off. “I hate the thought of living through a bullet wound only to die from the sickness of it. It don’t seem fair somehow.”

  “Quit thinking about dying. Put the fair part out of your mind too, Trooper,” said Teasdale. “A few days from now, you might be laughing about this.”

  “Suits me, Sergeant,” said Frieze. “Dying ain’t exactly something I ever planned on doing.”

  “That’s more like it,” said Teasdale. “I need you to stick in here real tough for me. Will you do that?”

  “You know it, Sergeant,” said Frieze, making an effort to sit taller in his saddle.

  “Good man.” Teasdale heeled his horse forward, this time speeding it up a bit.

  By the time they reached the outer edge of the valley where the settlement of the Little Sand River stood, the sun was high and boiling. Entering through broken-down timber gates on a narrow path that ran between rows of shacks and crumbling adobes from a time long past, Teasdale raised his hand and once again stopped the other three soldiers in their tracks. From a tall pole just inside the broken gates, the body of a man clad in buckskin swayed back and forth on the hot, still air. Thirty feet farther along the thin path, another body hung from a similar pole, this one with a feed sack down over its head.

  “Those dirty murdering bastards,” Sergeant Teasdale whispered. He turned to Hargrove and Benson. “Get up there and cut them down. Frieze and I will go raise the townsfolk from hiding.”

  “Stay where you are,” said a voice from behind the burnt remains of a hide wagon. “Nobody does nothing till we say so!”

  “Easy, sir,” said Teasdale, raising his hands chest-high in a show of peace. “We’re soldiers.”

  “So was that last bunch came through here,” said the voice. “Look what they done.”

  As Teasdale and the other three soldiers watched cautiously, a half dozen men and women stepped out from behind the smoking pile of charred wood and bent metal bracing. In front of them stood a portly older man dressed in greasy buckskins. He carried a big fifty-caliber buffalo rifle in the open crook of his left arm. His dirty thumb lay across the cocked hammer. At his moccasined feet stood a skinny spotted hound with its hackles raised. The dog held a low, steady growl in its throat.

  “I differ with you, sir,” said Teasdale. “The men who did this were not soldiers. They’re a murdering band of thieves called the Peltrys.”

  “I know all about them,” said the old man, lowering the rifle an inch now that he had a better look at the men and their dusty uniforms. “It’s Moses and Goose. I knew them back when they were snot-nosed babies. Pity somebody didn’t mash their heads back then, save the world all this grief.” He gestured a hand toward the body hanging from the first pole. “That’s Rance Stofeild. He cut new trails with Bridger back before this land had ever seen a white man’s footprint on it. Sonsabitches have no respect for nothing anymore.”

  “We’ll help you cut him down,” said Teasdale. Behind him, Hargrove and Benson stepped down from their saddles and helped Frieze to the ground. Three men and a woman rushed forward and assisted Frieze. “Is there a doctor here?” Teasdale asked.

  “No,” said the woman, “but I’ll see to him.” They hurried Frieze away toward a whitewashed shack.

  “Thank you kindly,” said Teasdale, tipping his dusty cavalry hat. “I’ll be right along, Trooper,” he said to Frieze.

  “They like to call themselves Southern guerrillas,” said the old man, continuing on about the Peltrys, “but Rance lost two grandsons who fought for the Stars and Bars, and he wasn’t about to hear the Peltrys pretend they were decent Southern boys. He called the Peltrys what they really are, and it got him hung. I oughta have done something…. But I didn’t.” He looked ashamed and remorseful.

  “Now, you stop that kind of talk, Campbell Hayes. There was nothing you could do,” said a matronly woman standing close behind him. She looked at Sergeant Teasdale as he stepped down from his horse. “He stood up to them when they first got here, and one of them knocked him cold and tied him to a hitch rail.”

  “It was the first time in my life I felt just plain powerless,” said Campbell Hayes, his glance going up to Rance’s body hanging in the air. “What a hell of a time to go flat in my old age.” He looked back at Teasdale. “But by God, sir! If you’re hunting them polecats, I’m going with you.”

  “Ordinarily, sir, I would be glad to have you join us,” said Teasdale. “But as you can see, we’re hard-pressed and ill-outfitted for this task. I won’t jeopardize your safety.”

  “My safety be damned, Sergeant,” said Campbell Hayes, looking up to where Benson, who had shinnied up the rough wooden pole, had taken a pocketknife from his trouser pocket and begun to cut through the taut rope holding the dead man suspended above the ground. “I just want to kill the Peltrys and watch Stofield’s hound, Junior, piss in their dead faces,” On the ground, the dog recognized his name and deepened his steady growl. “What put you on their trail anyway?”

  “We’re part of a guard detail,” said Teasdale, “accompanying a gun wagon to the camp up in the hills. We had a Gatling rifle that was supposed to keep the area safe from Mescaleros this winter. The Peltrys hit us yesterday. These men and myself are all that’s left of the detail.”

  “I saw that Gatling gun,” said Campbell Hayes. “Good thing the Peltrys weren’t smart enough to get
it working. They tried spraying this whole settlement with it. Seems like the army would better protect a weapon that fierce.”

  “Yes, I agree,” said Teasdale, leading his horse along in the direction the townsfolk had taken Frieze. “By the same token, you’d think a weapon that fierce would be capable of protecting itself. And it would have, if it hadn’t kept jamming on us. But that’s all water under the bridge now. I have to get that gun back and take down the Peltrys in the process.”

  “Then you best be prepared to ride into Old Mex,” said Campbell Hayes, walking along beside him, keeping his eyes turned away from the sight of his dead partner’s body hitting the ground like a sack of feed. “They hole up in the north…. The Federales in the provinces turn a blind eye to their thieving, cutthroat ways so long as they keep their noses clean over there. Everything for the right price, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Teasdale. He seemed to consider things for a second, then he said, “If I have to cross the border, I will. Can you tell me where we might get fitted with some civilian clothes around here?”

  “All depends,” said Hayes. “Am I going with you or not?”

  “What about your business?” asked Teasdale. “The buffalo won’t wait for you to get back here.”

  “The buffs are about played out anyway,” said Hayes. “Besides, I’m short a hide wagon now…and skinning ain’t a one-man job. Hadn’t been for Stofield, I’d have drug up from it two seasons back. I know the northern hill country over there, if the fight goes that far…which I know it will.”

  Thinking about it as they walked along, Teasdale looked down at the dog staying close to Hayes’ heels. “What about your partner’s dog? Is there anybody here you can leave him with?”

  “Anybody here in Little Sand would be honored to keep Junior,” said Hayes, “but I wouldn’t think of leaving him here. He’ll be worth his weight in gold to us in the Mexican wilds. After what they done to his master, Junior will sniff us out a Peltry from a mile upwind.”

  “Just keep him out of my way,” said Teasdale, passing a glance down to the skinny canine. “Gather what supplies you can find for us,” he said. “Whatever these folks can spare.” He stopped dead in his tracks as if just reminded of what the Peltrys had done. “Are these folks going to be all right?”

  “Why, hell yes,” said Hayes. “They was ready to shoot your eyes out if you and your lads weren’t what you should be. Fighting people are whole people, I always say.” He grinned behind his long silver beard.

  “All right then. Be ready to ride as soon as I see how the trooper is doing.”

  “He ain’t going with us, the shape he’s in, is he?” Campbell Hayes asked, looking astonished by the prospect.

  “You saw him,” said Teasdale. “You tell me where you think he’s going.”

  “Ummph.” Hayes winced and grunted under his breath. “It’s a damn shame, a young feller like that. Does he know how serious it is?”

  “He knew it before I did,” said Teasdale, shaking his head. “I never seen a wound go bad that fast. We cleaned it with water the best we could. Still, it didn’t help. One of my troopers said it was full of blue wool from his shirt.”

  “Nothing makes any difference when a man’s time is at hand, Sergeant,” said Hayes. “The Lord calls it the way it falls. I’ll get to gathering up those supplies.”

  Teasdale stopped a few feet from the whitewashed shack and spun his reins around the hitch rail. As he stepped up onto a rickety boardwalk, the woman who had taken charge of Trooper Frieze met him at the open doorway and motioned him inside. “Wait right here, Sergeant. We’ll have him cleaned up in no time.” She turned and left the room.

  Teasdale paced back and forth across the plank floor until the woman appeared again a few minutes later. “He’s asking for you, Sergeant,” she said in a low whisper. “You best come on in here quickly. This poor boy is in a terrible way.”

  Inside the small room, Teasdale took off his hat and stooped down beside the cot where Frieze lay, shirtless now. His pale chest glistened with sweat, and the color of the skin surrounding the bullet hole had turned puffy and bluish green. The young soldier looked into Teasdale’s eyes, trying hard to keep from shivering. “Don’t know what the fuss is all about, Sergeant,” he said. “I can ride once I get a shirt on and get some water in my belly.”

  “I want you to lay still here, Trooper,” said Teasdale. “These folks will take good care of you.”

  “Stay here?” Frieze offered a weak chuckle as if the sergeant were joking. “I can’t stay here. What about the Peltrys and our Gatling gun?”

  “We’ll take care of it, Trooper,” said Teasdale. “You need to rest and get rid of this infection. Do you understand me?”

  Trooper Frieze saw the resolved look in Teasdale’s eyes and felt cold terror move through him. “No! I’m not dying, Sergeant! Don’t even think it! It’s bad luck thinking it!” As he spoke and tried to raise himself up, firm hands seemed to appear out of nowhere and pressed him back down onto the cot. He looked into the faces of the townfolk gathered around. In his fevered state, he pictured them as grim angels of death. “Mother of God, no!” he screamed. “Don’t leave me here! Don’t let me die! I can’t stand it!”

  “Don’t fight the hand of the Lord, young man,” said the lady’s voice, soothing and frightening at the same time. Frieze looked at her face as Sergeant Teasdale backed away from the cot. Behind Teasdale, Hargrove and Benson came into the shack, Benson closing the blade of his pocketknife. “Hargrove!” Frieze pleaded. “Don’t let him leave me! Tell them I’m not dying! Please tell them!” Sweat glistened on his pale, trembling face.

  “Come on, now; get a hold of yourself, Frieze,” said Hargrove. “That bullet has killed you—you know it as well as we do. Let these good people comfort you, soldier. It’s all that’s left for you to do.”

  Frieze sobbed for a second, then stopped himself and looked from Hargrove to Trooper Benson. “Tell them I’m all right, Benson! Please tell them I’m going to live.”

  Doyle Benson looked away, his eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Frieze,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “We’ve got to go, Frieze,” Sergeant Teasdale said softly. “I give you my word the Peltrys will pay for this.”

  The three soldiers backed to the door and slipped outside. Lyndell Hargrove closed the door behind them and leaned back against it. “Those rotten, good-for-nothing murderers! I won’t rest until they’re all dead.”

  “Me neither,” said Doyle Benson, running his sleeve across his eyes.

  “I’m glad you both feel that way,” said Teasdale. “Let’s see if you mean it.”

  “What are you talking about, Sergeant?” asked Hargrove.

  “You’ll see.” From the far end of the narrow path, Campbell Hayes led a big paint horse toward them, Junior the hound trotting alongside. Over his shoulder he carried a feed sack filled with dried beef, beans, coffee and flour. Sergeant Teasdale nodded toward him, seeing the pile of civilians’ clothes draped over the paint horse’s saddle. “He’s riding with us, men,” said Teasdale.

  “That old relic?” said Hargrove. “What on earth for, Sergeant?”

  “His name is Campbell Hayes,” said Teasdale, “and he knows the Mexican hill country. That’s good enough for me.”

  “The hill country?” said Hargrove. “You don’t think for one minute that we’re—”

  “That’s right,” said Teasdale, cutting him off. “I had him find us some clothes to wear once we cross the border. We can’t go over there in army uniforms.”

  Hargrove sounded stunned. “We can’t cross the border, period, Sergeant!” said Hargrove. “We’ll wind up facing a firing squad! If not theirs, then one of our own!”

  “I’m crossing,” said Teasdale. “If you don’t want to come along, that’s up to you.”

  “Damn it all,” said Hargrove. “I don’t know who’s the craziest: you for doing this or me for following you.” He turned
to Doyle Benson. “Get our horses, Trooper. We’re about to make some strange history for ourselves.”

  Chapter 11

  It was noon when Abner Webb and Will Summers led their posse onto the narrow path through the broken timber gates at Little Sand. They kept Cherokee Rhodes riding between them. Sergeant Teasdale, Hargrove and Benson looked up from busily preparing their horses for the trail and saw the six horsemen come to a halt, staring at them from twenty yards away. Having changed into civilian clothes, Teasdale suddenly realized there was nothing to identify him and his men as soldiers. “Don’t touch that pistol, Hargrove,” Teasdale warned, seeing the horsemen spread out abreast across the path.

  “Whatever you say, Sergeant,” Hargrove said quietly. His hand inched away from the holster on his hip. “But that’s Cherokee Rhodes with them. He’s one gunrunning, back-shooting, low-down sonsabitch.”

  “Duly noted,” said Teasdale. “Now stay calm.” He took a slow step sideways, away from the horses.

  Will Summers glanced up at the short stubs of rope hanging from the poles where earlier Doyle Benson had cut the bodies free. He looked around at the smoldering ashes of the hide wagon and the debris the Peltrys had left in their wake. “Does this look familiar, Deputy?” Summers asked Webb without taking his eyes off the men standing before them.

  “Yep,” said Webb, “but that’s not the Peltrys.”

  “I know it,” said Summers. “Stay back here while I find out who it is.” He heeled his horse forward, raising his hands slightly.

  Sergeant Teasdale kept his hand away from his pistol and stood facing Summers in the middle of the narrow street. “Who goes there?” Teasdale asked.

  Summers stopped his horse fifteen feet away and turned it sideways to Teasdale. “We’re a posse out of Rileyville,” said Will Summers. “I’ve got a feeling you already know who it is we’re trailing.” He sat still, watching for a reaction. “I’m Will Summers. Now, who are you?”

  Teasdale cocked his head slightly. “Will Summers, the horse trader?”