Payback at Big Silver

by Ralph Cotton

  Pulling himself up the side of his desk, the awakening sheriff saw Boomer give a final push and fall out of sight into the alley behind the building. Colt in hand, Stone collected himself quickly. He ran out the front door and around the corner of the alley beside his office. He arrived at the rear of the building in time to see Boomer push himself up from the ground, Dobbs pulling him by his arm.

  “Hold it, both of you!” Stone shouted. He fired a warning shot over their heads, hoping it would hold them in place. But it didn’t.

  “Run, Freddie!” Boomer shouted, giving the smaller outlaw a shove to get him going. Yet, as Dobbs turned and ran, instead of running himself, Boomer started stalking toward the sheriff with his big arms spread like a standing grizzly.

  “You can’t shoot me, Sheriff! I’m unarmed,” he shouted. He started coming forward quicker, forcing his huge body into a powerful run.

  You’re wrong, Boomer, Stone said to himself, standing his ground, his smoking Colt cocked out at arm’s length toward the large charging man.

  The sheriff’s first shot hit Boomer in his broad chest, yet the impact only staggered him. Boomer kept coming. Stone fired again; this time the shot hit Boomer in his right shoulder, and again Boomer staggered. But he still wouldn’t be stopped. He roared in pain and rage and kept coming.

  Stone stood firm, but he knew if Boomer didn’t fall soon the big man would be upon him. He fired again—fourth shot, he reminded himself as the Colt bucked and belched fire into the grainy darkness. The bullet only grazed Boomer on the inside of his upper arm. But the sting of the four bullets was catching up to the big man. He stopped and swayed in place, feeling warm blood spread down his chest, his arm. He bellowed like an enraged bull; he lowered his head and lurched forward again. There was now no more than fifteen feet between them. Stone stood firm, cocked the pistol and fired.

  Shot five, he told himself. He saw Boomer’s lowered head lift up with a jolt as the bullet struck it dead center. In the moonlight he caught a glimpse of Dobbs on his knees farther along the alley.

  “Don’t shoot!” Dobbs shouted in a shaky voice, seeing Boomer fall at Stone’s feet like a downed buffalo. “I give up! It wasn’t me. It was all his idea!”

  One bullet left. . . .

  Stone glanced down at Boomer, then back at Dobbs. Smoke curled and rose from the barrel of his Colt. He noted the steadiness of his hand as he raised the big warm gun and cocked it in Dobbs’ direction. The Colt in his hand felt right—he felt right, he told himself. Balanced, steady, everything aligned. . . . He eyed down the barrel sights at Freddie Dobbs, who held his hands over his head in surrender. There it is, Stone told himself, his aim locked in, his finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Don’t shoot, Sheriff,” the Ranger said, sliding to a halt behind him, his Colt out and cocked, as it had been since he heard the first shot resound along the alleyway to the livery barn. “Ease it down,” he added, realizing he’d found Stone on that last split second before bullet hit bone. “You can do it.”

  Stone waited a second longer; then he lowered the Colt until it was pointed straight down before laying his thumb over the hammer and uncocking it.

  “That was close, Ranger,” he said in a quiet, steady tone. Along the alley they both saw townsmen appear out of the darkness. Lowering his voice, he said, “He wouldn’t stop. He just kept coming at me. I couldn’t turn and run.”

  “I know, Sheriff,” the Ranger replied quietly. “A man that size, you did the only thing you could. Reload your Colt and holster it. I’ll get Dobbs and put him back in his cell.” He looked up at the ripped-out window frame, then down at Boomer’s body. He shook his head in regret.

  “Boomer Phipps got too big for everything around him,” he said.

  • • •

  It was midmorning when the Ranger stepped atop his dun, a lead rope to Dobbs and Boomer Phipps’ horses in hand. Boomer’s big body lay wrapped in canvas, tied down over his horse’s bare back; Dobbs sat slumped, his arm back in the sling, his free hand cuffed to his saddle horn. Sheriff Stone stood on the boardwalk out in front of his office, a warm coffee mug in his left hand, a cigarette pressed between his lips. The bowed misshapen window bars leaned against the building awaiting the town blacksmith. On the boardwalk lay a short pile of broken rock and mortar cement from around the window frame.

  Stone parked a cough drop in his cheek and took the cigarette from his mouth.

  “Hard to believe any one man could rip out a cell window that way,” he said, toeing the rubble as he spoke. He looked out at the huge body of the outlaw, and the horse standing beneath it.

  “You had to see it,” Sam agreed, also looking at the broken rock and bent window bars. Freddie Dobbs sat listening with a sore smirk on his face.

  “Sure you don’t want to bury that big rascal here?” Stone nodded toward Boomer’s horse. “I bet his cayuse would be well obliged to you. I’ll give you an affidavit that he died here, attempted jailbreak.”

  “I’d sooner turn him in at Fort Hamlin, let them do all the paperwork,” Sam replied. “Like you said, it’s hard to believe it happened, let alone trying to put it all down in writing.”

  Stone nodded and sucked on the cough drop as if considering the matter.

  “Yeah,” he said, “that’s true. I best let everybody get used to me not being a wolf awhile longer, before I go making any wild-sounding statements.”

  “You shot him down in cold blood, is what I plan on telling anybody who’ll listen,” Dobbs said, straightening in his saddle. He looked back and forth between the two lawmen as they just stared at him. “That’s right, I will,” he continued. “I saw the whole damn thing. I’ll tell them he was unarmed, hands in the air, trying to surrender—”

  “That’s enough out of you, Freddie Dobbs,” Sam warned. “We’ve already talked about this. Anything else you’ve got to say, tell it to the judge in court. Anything else you feel like saying, you stop first and ask yourself how you’d enjoy a pistol barrel across your jaw.”

  “You better think about this, Sheriff,” Dobbs warned, undaunted, ignoring the Ranger. “Tell this Ranger to let me go. Once we ride away, it’ll be too late. Anybody wants to hear what happened to Boomer Phipps, I’ll give them a whole earful. You all but emptied your gun in him—him only trying to give himself up. Lie about it all you want, Sheriff, I’ll set things straight, is what I’ll do!”

  Sam and Stone looked at each other.

  “Every word I said is true, Ranger,” Stone said. “He come at me and kept coming—”

  Sam raised a gloved hand, stopping him.

  “You needn’t explain yourself again, Sheriff,” he said in a quiet tone. “Boomer tried buffaloing me the same way when I arrested him. Luckily he went down before he got close enough to do any damage.”

  “That’s it, stick together,” Dobbs said. “That’s what you law dogs always do.”

  “Let’s go, Freddie,” said Sam. He gave a sharp yank on the lead rope, causing Dobbs’ horse to jerk sideways almost out from under the outlaw.

  “There was no cause for you doing that,” Dobbs said sorely, readjusting himself in his saddle. “Whatever happened to free speech in this country? I see a miscarriage of justice, I ain’t allowed to speak out about it?”

  “You’ve got a right to speak out,” Sam replied. “I’ve got a right not to listen.” He looked at Stone and shook his head, indicating that this was what he had to look forward to all the way to Fort Hamlin.

  “Have a good trip to Fort Hamlin, Ranger,” Stone said with a wry, knowing grin.

  Sam backed his dun a step, drawing the two other horses along with him.

  “I’ll see you on my way back, Sheriff,” he said to Stone.

  Stone shook his head. His cigarette back in his mouth, he tapped nervous fingers on his gun butt.

  “You don’t have to come back on my account, Ranger,�
�� he said. “I told you I’m all right here without being checked on.”

  “I know you’re all right, Sheriff,” Sam said, touching the brim of his sombrero. “I’ll be passing through here anyway. Can I stop and water my horse if I’ve a mind to?” He eyed Stone closely.

  Stone stopped tapping his fingers and let out a breath. He touched his hat brim in return.

  “Begging your pardon, Ranger,” he said. “I might still be a little jumpy. You’re always welcome here. I’ll see you on your way back.”

  The Ranger nodded and backed the horses some more. Turning the animals, he rode at an easy gallop along the dirt street, Dobbs and Boomer’s body riding right beside him. As he passed the front of the Silver Palace Saloon, Silas Rudabaugh, Clayton Boyle and Donald Ferry looked out through the wavy window glass beside their table.

  “I always say it’s a good day when you see a lawman ride out of town,” said Boyle. “Especially one who’s dead, or soon will be.” He tipped his raised glass toward the other two gunmen. “You can start to feel the wide doors of opportunity swing open toward you.” He grinned as Ferry nodded eagerly and raised his glass high. Rudabaugh only gave the slightest tip of his glass and a wry smile.

  “To dead lawmen, then,” he said.

  The three tossed back their whiskey. Ferry picked up his frothy beer mug, took a long drink and set it down. The other two watched him wipe foam from above his lip.

  “What makes you think Burrack is soon to be dead?” he asked under his breath.

  Boyle leaned in above the tabletop, a little whiskey bent, and spoke in an equally lowered voice.

  “What makes you think he’s not?” he asked.

  Ferry just looked at him.

  “Do you know something I don’t?” he asked.

  “I know a hell of a lot that you don’t know, Ferry,” Boyle said slyly. “For instance, I know it’s a dangerous trail from here to Fort Hamlin.”

  “Stick that beer mug in your mouth, Clayton,” Rudabaugh said in a harsh warning tone.

  “I never said nothing, did I, Silas?” Boyle said.

  “No, but you’re getting too damn close to it,” Rudabaugh replied. He finished his whiskey and set the glass down with a strong bump on the tabletop.

  “Hey, pards,” said Ferry, “I’m one of us, remember? Is there something I need to know here?”

  “No,” said Rudabaugh, without taking his hard glare off Boyle. “Clayton here just likes to talk when he drinks. I warn him all the time, it’s something that’ll get him killed if he ain’t careful.” He turned his gaze to Ferry. “You’re riding with the big guns now, Donald. You’ll find sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth shut and watch what’s coming around.”

  Part 2

  Chapter 7

  Sonora Badlands, Arizona Territory

  Charlie Knapp sat beside the small cook fire watching with detached interest as Seamus Gore backhanded Ignacio Cady backward—for what, the fourth or fifth time? Maybe more, Knapp calculated to himself. Both Iggy’s Colt and his rifle lay in the dirt. So did Lyle Cady, for trying to jump in and help his brother moments ago when Gore first started smacking Iggy around. Two gunmen, Coco Bour and Tulsa Jake Testa, stood over Lyle with their guns drawn. They watched the one-sided fight with flat expressions, glancing at Knapp now and then, checking his reaction to Iggy’s getting his face battered by Gore’s big rawboned knuckles.

  Knapp gave them no reaction. Instead he eyed the spare horses the three men had brought with them and sipped from a battered whiskey flask as he watched. He had to admit he was a little amazed that Iggy was still on his feet, given the beating the big brawler was putting on him.

  Folks will fool you sometimes, he told himself.

  He capped the flask and let it hang in his hand. Iggy, trying to get a lick of his own in, swung a weak and careless roundhouse at Gore. All the brawler had to do was sidestep a little and let the missed swing drop the staggering Iggy to the dirt.

  “And that’s that. He’s had enough,” Knapp said just loud enough to be heard.

  Gore and the other two gunmen turned their full attention to Knapp. Gore wiped the back on his hand on his trousers as Iggy crawled away in the dirt.

  “I’ll say when it’s enough,” Gore called out in a New York Irish accent. He walked toward Knapp; Coco Bour and Jake Testa followed, giving no regard to the Cady brothers, or to their guns lying on the ground. “Careful, old boyo. I might be giving you a bit of the same.” He stopped ten feet from Knapp and stood with his big fists balled at his sides. Bour and Testa walked in closer and flanked him, their gun hands poised at their holsters.

  Knapp only stared at him.

  Seamus continued. “Now I’ll tell you the same thing as I told that one. We don’t break this fellow out of the prison wagon until we first see some money cross our palms.” He held his hand up flat toward Knapp and wiggled his big fingers expectantly.

  Knowing Coco Bour to be the leader of these three, Knapp looked at him as if Gore and Testa weren’t there.

  “I was told you’d get paid when the job’s done,” he said. As he spoke he examined the flask and shook it a little, gauging its contents. “If that doesn’t suit you, ride away,” he said flatly, then turned his dark eyes back to Gore. “I can do this without you.”

  “Oh?” said Gore, stepping forward. “It looks like I will have to knock this one around some.”

  Knapp raised a hand as if asking for a second. Gore stopped in his tracks. Without another word, Knapp slipped the flask inside his duster as if to protect it. When his hand came back from inside the duster lapel, he held a big revolver he’d drawn from a shoulder rig.

  “Hey—!” Gore shouted in protest. But his words cut short as the big revolver bucked once in Knapp’s hand. The gunman hit the ground with a fountain of blood spewing straight up from his chest. Before Bour and Testa could respond, Knapp’s revolver turned, recocked and aimed at Bour’s chest. Knapp stood silent, braced ready, nothing else to say.

  “Whoa, now,” Bour said in a low even tone, seeing that he and Testa had been caught off guard. “I should have said something sooner. Gore can be a little pigheaded at times. Obstinate, I’ll go so far as to say.” He nodded and looked at Testa. “Am I right, Jake?”

  “Oh yes,” Testa agreed, “obstinate to a fault, I have always said.” They looked at the dead man lying with his mouth wide-open, the fountain of blood having fallen to a trickle on his chest.

  “Seems cured enough,” Knapp said in an unreadable tone. He kept the revolver pointed, smoke curling up from the tip of the barrel.

  “Shoot the son of a bitch again!” Iggy said, he and his brother staggering to their feet. He picked his Colt up, cocked it and sauntered unsteadily over the body in the dirt. His face was raw, red and swelling on either cheek. Blood seeped from his nose down his upper lip. Lyle and the other two watched as he fired two shots into Gore’s head. The dead man’s head bounced with each shot. Lyle stepped in and laid his hand down atop Iggy’s Colt, stopping him from firing again.

  “Let it go, brother,” he said. “He’s as dead now as he’ll ever be.”

  Bour and Testa stood easier as Iggy uncocked his Colt and shoved it down into his holster, easier still as Knapp lowered his revolver and kept it in hand.

  “All right, then,” said Bour, turning from the Cadys back to Knapp, “all this being settled, maybe we ought to get down to the job at hand.”

  “Are we square on when you get paid?” Knapp asked, eying the two closely.

  “We’re square as a knot,” said Bour. “Right, Jake?” He looked at Testa for support.

  “We are for sure,” Testa said. “Point us at that prison rig and watch what we do. Edsel Centrila wants his boy out of jail, we’ll get him out.”

  Knapp uncocked the gun hanging at his side.

  “Glad we could work it all out,” he said. He loo
ked at the Cadys and gestured down at Gore’s body in the bloody dirt. “Drag him off somewhere. We’re making camp here. I don’t want critters toting his guts back and forth all night.”

  The Cadys looked at each other, not liking the idea of them having to drag the dead man away. But they resolved to keep their mouths shut.

  “Let’s go, then,” Lyle said. “You get one arm, I’ll get the other.”

  “This son of a bitch,” Iggy said under his breath. He looked at the wide-open mouth as he bent and grabbed Gore’s limp wrist.

  As the two dragged the dead man off into a nearby stand of rock and sand, Bour and Testa turned to Knapp.

  “No offense,” Bour said, “but are these two the best you could come up with on short notice? I could have brought along a couple of my nieces had I known.”

  “You know the Cadys?” Knapp said.

  “I expect everybody knows the Cadys,” Testa said. He shook his head in disgust.

  “When I saw them,” said Bour, “I started to turn my horse around and head to Abilene, truth be told.”

  “Mr. Centrila said bring them, so I brought them,” Knapp said. He eased his revolver inside his duster lapel and pulled out the tin whiskey flask. “I figured the more guns the better if we get into a scrap.” He took a sip of rye and passed the flask to Coco Bour. “Although I don’t look for that to happen. I’m looking for an easy go of it. Kill a couple of guards, shoot the lock off the wagon door—ride out of here.”

  “That’s our thinking too,” Bour said. He took a sip of rye and passed the flask to Testa. “When does all this happen?”

  “First thing come morning,” Knapp said. He reached for the flask as Testa lowered it from his lips. “So this is all of the drinking until it’s over. I’m keeping one of you watching this trail the rest of the day and all through the night, in case the wagon comes by sooner.”