by Phil Dunlap
***
“Pa, Mayor Billings has posted a reward of one thousand dollars to anyone who can best that bully, Brazos Boone. We could sure use that money. Fact is, I could maybe ask Miss Emily to marry me. That’d be enough to buy a little land, buy a few head of stock, and build a cabin,” Charley Pike said as he hurried up the steps and breezed into the little two-room cabin he shared with his father up in the craggy hills at the edge of town.
Buffalo Jack Pike frowned at his son’s ramblings. He had long wished he could have made a better life for Charley, his only offspring, but fate hadn’t bestowed on him the riches he came west to find. After the war, he had contracted to hunt buffalo on the plains for a big company back east, but he soon discovered he wasn’t the only one out there dropping the wooly beasts. The market was flooded with too many hides in no time, and he quickly went broke. Then he tried placer mining in the mountains of Colorado, but that, too, proved to require more luck than effort. He was down to his last few dollars when he met and married a lady of modest means who had inherited several thousand dollars from her banker father. The two of them managed to go through the money quicker than either had intended, and his wife died when Charley was born. There was barely enough left for him to raise the child and buy this scrubby piece of land on the edge of Chesterfield. His cabin sat about two hundred feet up on the side of the rugged hill, nestled among the boulders and mesquite. He hired out to nearby ranchers whenever they needed a man who could hit a mountain lion with a rifle from a half-mile away. Shooting seemed the only thing Buffalo Jack was ever really good at. Now, his only son is talking about going up against a known killer for a few dollars. And for what? A girl.
“You’re talkin’ crazy, Charley.”
“Pa, I’ve seen him, and he ain’t so fast. He’s just clever. He buffalos the other fella into showin’ his play before he’s ready. He’s fast, sure, but he’s also a bluffer. I can take him.”
“Charley, I won’t listen to more of this talk. You ain’t goin’ up against that yahoo, and that’s that.”
“I’m nineteen years old, Pa, and you can’t stop a fella from doin’ what he feels is right. When I get the money, I’ll share it with you, alright. But I figure there’ll be plenty left over for me and Emily to get hitched.”
“That’s not your brain talkin’ all this nonsense. It’s all them desires and needs you got inside just achin’ to get out. Well, I had them needs at one time, too, and they made me do things I probably shouldn’t oughta. But I never put my life in jeopardy.”
“Pa, I–”
“What about Emily? Have you given any thought to her feelin’s? She backon’ you in this reckless venture?”
Charley hung his head. He knew exactly what Emily thought of his idea. But, it was true, his needs were weighing heavier on him than all the common sense preached by his pa or by Emily. He knew he just had to do this, had to shoot down Brazos Boone, had to prove something. Not only for the money, not only for Emily, but for other things, too. Things felt, but unsaid. A determined look on his face spoke much about this young man and his eagerness to ride the wild stallion, chase the whirlwind, conquer the doubt–youthful doubt.
He strapped on his Colt single-action Army revolver, checked the cylinder, and walked away from his father. Buffalo Jack followed him outside, watched as he saddled his horse. Seeing the resolve in his son, this time Buffalo Jack spoke with a new and different voice, not of desperation, but of cool instruction.
“Charley, you listen to me, and do exactly as I say. You understand? I reckon I can’t stop you from goin’, but I might be able to save your life.”
When Buffalo Jack said listen, Charley knew enough to listen. He climbed into the saddle, turned and leaned on the pommel.
“Go ahead, Pa, I’m listening.”
“If you’re dead set on callin’ the man out, then do it so he has to meet you on your terms. You stay in the street. Don’t go inside the saloon. Inside you’re at his mercy, outside, he may be at yours.”
“Okay, I call him out, then what?”
“You want him in the sunlight, not back in the shadows. Get him out where you can see him plain, real plain. And don’t even look like you’re goin’ for your gun until you have him where you want him. He won’t draw first, but the least excuse will have him pullin’ that hogleg. You understand?”
“I understand,” Charley said. “I’ll see you later, Pa, and I’ll be bringin’ back a pile of money.” He grinned as he clucked his horse to a trot down the trail back into town.
Buffalo Jack went back inside the cabin, got down on the floor next to his bed, and tugged at the leather straps binding a long wooden box. He undid the clasp, and eased open the lid.
“Well, old friend, I haven’t seen you for ten years, or so. I got a little job for you. Hope you’re up to it once more.”
***
Charley rode into Chesterfield at about noon. The sun blazed down with a ferocity that often chased children and small animals inside. He dismounted about four doors down from the saloon, tied his horse to the railing, and strolled down the center of the street, looking calm and sure of himself. Emily gasped as she watched her Charley, a Colt revolver strapped to his side, and a determined look on his face. She started to go outside to try talking him out of what she surely figured he was up to. But her father grabbed her arm before she could open the door.
“No, child, a man has to make his own path, win or lose. You wouldn’t want to be tied to a fella with no backbone.” Emily wilted at her father’s words. She stood at the window with a tear in her eyes, wringing her hands, and silently praying that he’d come out of this alive.
Charley stopped in front of the saloon and called out to Boone. He waited for a few seconds, then called out again. This time, he added something about being afraid of walking out to meet another shootist. He waited another couple seconds, then said, “C’mon out, Boone. You can’t be afraid of a boy, can you?”
Boone appeared at the batwing doors, looked out both ways, and stepped gingerly outside as if he feared there would be a committee of gunmen out there ready to shoot him down the moment he stepped off the boardwalk. Since it appeared he would be facing only one man, boy actually, he continued forward into the street. Charley carefully kept his hands away from his Colt.
“Boone, the town seems to want to be rid of you, so much so they have offered a reward for your body with a hole in it. Of course, if you’d rather not take me on, I reckon it’d be acceptable for you to just mount up and ride outta town. But you better make up your mind real fast.”
They stared at each other for a moment, then Boone broke into his trademark smile. To Charley’s amazement, it was at that very moment when Boone’s head exploded, his body thrown backwards nearly five feet. He was dead before he hit the ground. Then the sound of what could only be described as a small cannon echoed down from the mountain like thunder, bouncing off the clapboard sides of buildings, and rattling windows.
Charley’s expression was as wide as a full moon. He swallowed hard as he found he couldn’t take his eyes off Boone’s grotesque body lying in the dirt. People slowly came out from the protection of their homes and businesses, approaching the scene as timidly as they would a freshly-killed puma, slightly fearful that it was all a mirage and that the victim would again come to life and take out his wrath on them. But Boone didn’t move, couldn’t move. Brazos Boone would never again hold sway over others, never again threaten a man’s life, never again pull the trigger on a lesser gunman.
The sound of the undertaker’s wagon approaching brought the truth of what had happened into the full light of day. People slowly found their voices and began congratulating Charley on his quickness.
“But I never–” he started to say, but was halted by Emily’s father who had walked to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Silence is a virtue in situations like this, son. Take my advice; accept the reward and return to your home. It will all become clear w
hen you talk to Buffalo Jack.”
Charley was stunned by Emily’s father’s words, but he did as he was told, his insides a quagmire of fear, surprise, wonder, elation, and a hundred other feelings he couldn’t yet sort out. As he accepted a bank draft from Mayor Billings, he saw Emily standing in front of her father’s store, beaming with pride at what had happened. She smiled and waived at him as he rode slowly by.
***
Buffalo Jack Pike replaced the Sharps 1877 model Creedmore rifle into the velvet-lined walnut case. He lovingly cleaned the forty-five-caliber weapon prior to placing it back into storage, taking care to fold the rear sight so as not to damage it. That sight was designed to allow a true marksman to accurately hit a target at 1300 yards. That’s about the distance from the Pike place to the street in front of the saloon in Chesterfield.
His thoughts took him back to another time, another place many years ago during a war that had nearly torn the country asunder. When he was a part of Berdan’s Sharpshooters, Jack Pike had perfected his long-range shooting abilities to a fine art, as many a rebel officer found out the hard way.
Charley stood nearby, as his father carefully shoved the box back under his bed, still shaken by what he’d seen.
“Pa, I’m sorry for getting’ all puffed up and thinkin’ I coulda taken that Boone fella. Maybe I could, maybe not, but I’m grateful you stepped in when you did. I ain’t never seen a look in a man’s eyes that I saw in Boone’s.”
“It’s a father’s duty to lend his son a hand, now and again, Charley. Don’t you forget that when you have a son of your own, which I figure could be sooner than you think, the way things are going.”
Charley blushed at the thought of his becoming a father anytime soon, but then, he did have a pretty good stake sitting in the bank, and a pretty girl who was sweet on him, and, well, who could tell about those things. Yep, Charley Pike might just have a pretty good future, after all.
***
RALEY’S REVENGE
Thomas G. Raley was the best-damned rifle shot Clinton County had ever seen. And, since his part of the country was taking a particularly brutal pounding from the Yankees, it seemed the best course of action was for him to get involved. And he did. Clean up to his elbows. No matter the risk to life and limb, even though he was only nineteen. And, over the objections of his doting mother, he signed up to join his older brother’s squad of Tennessee Volunteers, a rag-tag bunch of irregulars whose main purpose was to create havoc among Yankee troops. It was a cobbled together bunch of misfits that had little formal education, hand-me-down uniforms with more holes and tears than an old dishrag, and no training in the finer points of warfare. But they could shoot and that was what counted in late 1864, when hope for victory was slowly eluding the Confederacy. Without any officers, and only one sergeant (elected to rank by the other members of the unit), they were turned loose with General Lee’s blessing, along with a rucksack stuffed with personal needs, and a rifle and enough ammunition to get them through a month’s conflict. Just go out there and give’em hell, was the only formal orders they ever heard.
“If they got on a blue uniform, shoot ʼem,” said a regular army officer as they were hustled off, with little hope of significant success. Hit and run, destroy supply lines, trains, bridges–whatever target might present itself in the wake of advancing Union soldiers. That was the intent. And it was assumed, though never spoken, that these dirty, uneducated ruffians would just get themselves killed quickly, although the hope that they might get lucky and take down a few bluecoats lingered in the minds of some diehard optimists and officers without the time to spend training misfits best suited to long days walking behind a plow and mule.
Thomas Raley and his brother, Edward, worked well together and had begun to amass an enviable record of successful raids, a surprise to all but themselves. Nothing spectacular, but certainly damaging to the Bluecoats, if only in a small way. But on one particular day, a Captain they’d been ordered to report to presented them with some serious difficulties. Raley was nervous about the particular terrain, since it tended to favor cavalry rather than foot soldiering. Cavalry officers were harder to bring down, since they were often constantly on the move. Slowly advancing foot soldiers were easier targets. Raley knew his squad would be counting on his keen eye and accurate shooting to change the odds in their favor, no matter in what formation the enemy showed itself. Adjusting to the situation was his main objective. And his primary order had been to kill the damn Yankees wherever and whenever he found them. Raley figured he was about to get the opportunity to do just that. But at what cost?
He sat ever so quietly on his perch, a stout limb three-quarters of the way up in a massive oak tree. His butt was getting tired from sitting since before dawn, legs wrapped tightly around the limb in case he fell asleep, remaining dead silent so even birds wouldn’t notice him and hush their songs. The slightest movement could catch the eye of Yankee scouts sent ahead to seek out any sharpshooters. Tom, as everyone called him, knew he couldn’t take any chances on being seen. His squad depended on him to take out the ranking Bluecoat officer and scatter his men. The Yankees were reportedly moving toward the creek below Barker’s Hill. His job was to keep the blue bellies from reaching the railroad trestle over the creek before Raley’s squad had time to plant dynamite beneath the timbers to bring the damned thing down. The rail had been bringing fresh Yankee troops to the front faster than the Rebs could shoot them. The train that was expected would be bringing the largest contingent of blue bellies yet.
In his position, he could make out the slightest movement of any troops making their way through the woods in an attempt to keep Tom’s squad from getting back to their own lines after spending nearly five hours setting the charges under the bridge over Rocky Ford Creek. He was counting on killing the lead Yankee officer with a clean shot, throwing the riders behind him into confusion long enough to allow a getaway for himself. If he missed, or barely wounded the officer, he knew he was doomed. He was well aware of the hazard of being a sharpshooter. But when a man is the best at what he does, he learns to live with any consequences.
A distant sound. Not a sound of the forest, but something foreign that quieted the birds. It was a barely discernible buzz, almost like summer locusts announcing their emergence. At first, he couldn’t believe his ears. It sounded as though singing was coming from a narrow wagon trail that wound its way through the woods, punctuated by saddle squeaks and harness rattles keeping time with the music. He searched for signs that infantry was sneaking through, trying to divert attention from the real threat, the main force. He saw no movement at all in the thick stands of oak, maple and poplars that formed a perfect cover for an attack. He looked back to where the music seemed to be coming from. His position gave him a commanding view of both the road and the woods. Would the Yankee column be foolish enough to ride straight into the clearing without flanking cover?
Quite unexpectedly, a dozen Yankee infantrymen burst into view, singing, laughing, and taking their sweet time coming toward him as if there were no possibility of a Confederate soldier within a hundred miles. He lifted his rifle, cocked it, and readied himself to pick off the first officer he saw. He patiently waited before pulling the trigger.
He sighted down the barrel of the Spencer and smiled at the irony of it all. Today, some unlucky Yankee officer would fall to Raley’s deadly aim. Tom had lifted the Spencer from a dead Bluecoat cavalryman at his first battle. It was a fine, reliable seven-shot repeating carbine that made climbing into trees or crawling through tangles of underbrush much easier than the single-shot long barreled rifle he’d been issued..
He held his fire until the solders came closer. What he saw was an advance squad, or, more likely, some rabble who’d become separated from their unit. They were nearly directly under him when it became obvious that no officers accompanied this bunch. That’s when it all began to make sense. No officer, not even a lowly lieutenant, would have tolerated all that loud singing and rowdy behav
ior. But what were these men doing heading deep into Confederate territory without leadership? He didn’t even see a sergeant. From his perch, Tom could see that his own squad had heard the Yankee soldiers and were responding by hunkering down behind a fencerow and some fallen logs, taking up positions that afforded them a commanding view of half the valley. If the Yankees continued on their present course they would be cut to pieces, and soon.
Were these foolish men actually trying to create a diversion? Or were they there simply by an accident of fate? Tom scanned the forest again and again. If a diversion was what the Yankees were aiming for, then a more formidable force, probably mounted cavalry, would come pouring through the trees at any moment. He strained his eyes to see anything, the slightest flash of light reflected off highly polished brass, a sound from a canteen sloshing water as it hung from a saddle horn, anything. Even a cough, a sneeze, some thin sound to give away the enemy’s intentions, that’s all he needed. He sat motionless for what seemed like an hour, but in truth was barely more than a minute. He turned to see his squad quietly taking aim on the unsuspecting advancing Yankee rabble. He went back to keeping his eyes on the woods.
Just then, the silence was shattered by a volley of rifle fire. Bullets rained down on the Yankee soldiers and they fell like dominoes. The shooting lasted only thirty or forty seconds. Every Yankee soldier lay dead or dying on the muddy field. Tom’s squad rose up from behind their battlements to view their victory. As they began to cheer, Tom saw it all clearly: The Yankees had sacrificed their own men to get a firm location of the squad that had been tormenting them for months with their hit and run tactics.