by R. W. Stone
When we made it back to the ranch, we related exactly what had happened to the other cowhands. As they heard the story, I was walking from the cabin over to the brook to fill my canteen when the cat pounced on me from out of nowhere. I fought him tooth and claw, but Old Shredder was enormous. Had it not been for Jake hearing my cries and heroically shooting on the run and scaring him away, I’d have been a goner for sure. Leastwise, that’s how we told it.
Chapter Six
The lawman got up from his desk and walked to the window. Looking out, he saw the chestnut mare with a long burlap-wrapped body draped over its back.
“You ever bring one back alive, Badger?” Jake asked.
“Never been up to me,” I responded angrily. “Anyone that wants to give up peaceably gets treated fairly. Problem is, the sort I get sent after don’t seem to act … what ya might call … reasonably.”
“Seems like there might be at least one or two that would,” the sheriff remarked sarcastically.
“Let me put it this way,” I replied. “Any of the men on those wanted posters of yours currently sleeping in the town’s hotel?”
Jake Finley went over to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. After taking a sip, he shook his head and answered: “Not a chance. And if they were, it would be a very short nap before they suddenly found themselves back here in a locked cell.” He nodded toward the rear of his jail.
“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” I said honestly. “But what if they don’t want to come along peacefully? What if they put up a fight? What then?”
The lawman answered proudly. “Then they’d have to answer to me and …” He paused
“Your firearms?” I asked.
Perturbed, Sheriff Finley frowned at me. “But every one?”
“Coincidence. Them’s only the ones you’ve seen. You’re not the only lawman in the West that I deal with, ya know.”
“I hope not,” he replied.
“Now, about the reward money,” I said, handing him a wanted poster I had pulled out of my coat pocket. “Oh, and let’s not forget the body. That mare’s getting a mite tired after lugging it all this way.”
Finley walked back to his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a notepad. He picked up a pencil, wet it with his tongue, and wrote something down. “Take this chit to the bank, and they’ll pay you off,” he explained.
I took the note and smiled. “Don’t you want to examine the deceased for identification purposes?” I asked.
Sheriff Finley smiled. “I’ll get to it later, but, in spite of your less than desirable line of work, I’ve never known you to make a mistake yet. Especially if there was a buck in it.”
“Especially if,” I agreed.
I walked over to the weapons rack and removed my holster.
As I was buckling it on, the sheriff opened his desk drawer and removed his Colt. “Let me ask you this, Badger. Why the hell don’t you get yourself a real sidearm?” He twirled the pistol. “Faster on the draw than that sawed-off and carries six rounds in a pinch instead of just the two.”
I removed my hat and rubbed my head before replacing it.
“All these years, and I never told you before?” I asked.
Jake shook his head. “Nope. Never brought it up.”
I thought out my reply. “Since I was a kid, I’ve always had a problem seeing far, and to make matters worse, during the war I took a Minié ball to the head. Ever since then I’ve had some eye-hand coordination problems on the right side. I’d fumble if I had to get cute with a small pistol.” I patted the shotgun. “Hard to miss up close with this.”
The lawman nodded. “All right, I’ll buy that, but if, as you say, you don’t see well up close, what about at a distance? Shotgun ain’t much use unless you’re close.”
I picked up the Springfield from the corner and reached into the inside lining of my coat. I pulled out a small telescopic sniper’s sight. With a snap and twist, it locked into place on top of the rifle.
“Even with plain iron sights, this Springfield will hit well out to a thousand yards, and with a telescopic sight, I have a fighting chance to see what I’m aiming at,” I explained. “I can practically read the fine print on a Bible at seven hundred and fifty yards.”
“I doubt you’d even recognize the Good Book if you saw one,” Finley replied. “But at least try one of the newer repeaters. They hold more firepower than that single-shot breechloader.”
“Yep, they do. But they are harder for me to load, and working the lever in a hurry is more of a chore for me,” I answered. “Also, the .45-70 cartridge packs more of a wallop than the .30-30 most of the repeaters use. This puts them down and keeps them down. So far this combination has kept me alive, and I see no reason to change now.”
The lawman just shrugged. “Just trying to help. It’s your funeral.”
“Not yet it ain’t,” I replied. “Take it slow, Jake. I’d appreciate it if you’d have my mule put in the livery stable next to my Appaloosa after you’re done with the body.”
“Will do,” he said.
“Oh, and any reason you know of why I can’t keep that mare of his?” I asked. “Got a mite attached to her on the trip.”
Jake shook his head. “None I can think of. He don’t have any next of kin that I know about, and I guess you earned it. By the way, where you headed?”
I rubbed my hand over my mouth. “Well, for now I’ll probably just head over to the saloon and have a beer. Then I plan to hit the hotel, clean up a mite, and have dinner.”
“A shave wouldn’t hurt none, either,” he observed. “You gonna stay in town long?” he asked.
I laughed. “Don’t worry, Mister Sheriff, sir. I’m planning to leave in the morning. Heading back to my ranch. I’m gonna relax for a while, and that’s a promise,” I said sarcastically.
Jake Finley looked relieved. Maybe a little too relieved, I thought sadly, especially considering it came from someone I generally held out to be a friend.
“Watch your back, ol’ son,” he offered kindly.
“Always do,” I said, tipping my hat brim. “’Bye, Jake.”
I removed the brass telescopic sight from the rifle and slid it into an inside pocket. When I walked outside, I immediately noticed the rain had subsided. Even though I wasn’t a big fan of town living, it seemed to me that it might turn out to be a pleasant evening after all.
Chapter Seven
I had just finished a long and arduous trek, trailing after a miserable low-life bank robber who had shot a Wells Fargo agent for no apparent reason, even after he had already been given the money. He was a coward and a thief, but I had to hand it to him, when it came to the Owl Hoot Trail, he was no fool and proved skittish enough to make things difficult.
It took me almost two months to find his track and to work my way around in front of him before the man finally rode into my sights. I wasn’t lying to Sheriff Finley, either. I gave the outlaw a fair chance to surrender, but he threw a shot at me that almost hit my horse and then took off at a gallop. Fortunately, a .45-70 rifle shell does a pretty fair job of stopping someone from doing whatever it is they’re doing at the time.
With the $750 reward promised from the wanted alive or dead poster, I knew I’d be able to make quite a few improvements on my ranch back in the foothills of the Medicine Bow Mountains and maybe even add some new livestock. By all rights, things in general should have been looking up for a good long while.
Funny thing is, I’d noticed that whenever you come into good weather, there always seems to be a thunderstorm just over the horizon. Seems to me every pat on the back I ever got was followed almost immediately by a kick in the pants.
I took a deep breath, coughed a little to clear my throat, and then turned away from the jail and headed toward the saloon. I couldn’t have gone more than a half a dozen steps when I heard a loud, angry voic
e behind me.
“Hey you, stranger!” the voice called.
I turned slowly, carefully cocking the hammer back on the Springfield rifle.
“This mangy mutt belong to you?” he asked.
In my line of work, it pays to notice as much as you can about people. I judged the man who was facing me to be in his late twenties. He was clean-shaven, had long brown hair, was somewhat short of stature but stocky. He was bent over slightly and holding his left leg down near the shin as if in pain. I noticed he carried a skinning knife in a sheath on his right hip and a Richards-Mason Model 1850 Army Colt .44 pistol stuck through his belt on the left side, with the butt end facing to the right, cross-draw style.
I’d seen a lot of pistols like that in the last few years. Apparently this Richards fellow, along with a man named William Mason, had worked out a way of taking old black powder percussion cap army and navy pistols and reworking them to accept rear-loading metallic cartridges. These pistols were easy to recognize, because the loading lever was replaced by an ejector rod. Richards and Mason added a breech plate with a firing pin and a rear sight mounted on it. The word was that these same two men were the gents responsible for the design of the new Colt six-shot pistol everyone had taken to calling a Peacemaker. Whoever they were, my hat was off to them for their gun savvy.
“I asked you if this filthy beast belongs to you?” the man repeated rudely.
I looked down at Lobo, who was still lying at the rail next to my horse, and shrugged.
“Don’t know as how he belongs to me,” I replied, “but he does like to follow me around wherever I go. Still, all and all he tends to be a fairly independent sort. That answer your question?”
The man rubbed his left leg and then straightened up. He walked up to me and started pointing his finger at me. “That stupid mutt just bit me,” he stated angrily.
“Down there on your leg?” I asked.
“Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?”
“Usually there are two ways people get bit,” I said. “One is on the hand or arm when they reach down to pet or grab a dog. Second is on the leg, and that mostly happens when you try to kick ’em. That what happened, mister?”
He paused a moment, as if sizing me up. “What if it was? He was blocking my way.”
I looked around him and back at Lobo, who was still lying there at the edge of the sidewalk. As I could have predicted, he never for a moment took his eyes off the stranger.
“Oh, I highly doubt that. Seems like there’s plenty of room,” I answered. “You got a name?”
“Wilkins,” he replied angrily.
“Well, Mr. Wilkins,” I continued, “next time I suggest you walk around him.”
“The hell I will!” he exclaimed angrily. He was still shaking his finger in my face. “You’re gonna pay for this.”
Before this conversation got any more aggravating, I grabbed his right index finger with my left hand, pushed it backward, and bent it almost in half down toward his body. The response was about as I’d expected. He screamed and bent forward just as the butt of my rifle stock was traveling upward from my right. He went down like he was poleaxed.
I looked down at him to make sure he wasn’t dead and then over at Lobo and yelled out: “Two seconds! We’re in town two seconds, and already you’re making trouble.” Lobo just looked up with that half smile of his and barked once. His tail never stopped wagging the whole time.
“Better come with me so he don’t shoot you when he wakes up.” I carefully lowered the hammer on my rifle and then waved my hand to him. “Here, boy.”
The massive dog jumped up as if I were a rabbit and followed me down the street to the nearest saloon. I looked back to make sure he didn’t mark his territory on the man’s body. I don’t know where he picked up that little trick, but I figured that at least for now, enough was enough.
Chapter Eight
The Tomahawk Saloon was hardly what you would call elegant, but it certainly was busy. It was conveniently located halfway down the main street of town, and while that location definitely helped with business, the main draw was the fact that the place had a stage in the middle of it with a three-piece band and a chorus of five women who all sang. If you could call their caterwauling singing, that is. They also danced some without falling over much. The patrons really seemed to enjoy the show, but then again, most of them were usually drunk. Truthfully, if you were sober, the sight of that chorus line would probably make you shudder.
Oh, sure, I’ll freely admit I’m no great shakes to look at, but the faces on these lovely ladies would not only stop a clock, they’d make the hands go backward.
Disregarding the possible consequences, I pushed myself through the batwing doors and held them open to allow Lobo to follow me in. I found a corner near the front door that was unoccupied and motioned for him to hunker down there. “Down and stay,” were the only commands I needed. I can assure you, we had been through this routine many times before.
Someone watched us enter and addressed me in a rather gruff tone. “I don’t think they allow dogs in here,” he remarked.
I looked him over quickly and then just stared him in the eyes without saying a word. He tried to hold my gaze for a moment and then dropped his eyes. That’s when I knew there would be no more problems on his account.
“But I guess they’d make an exception for your dog,” he said somewhat timidly. I just nodded back at him. “Besides,” he added, “it ain’t no skin offen my nose. I ain’t the owner here.”
“No, you’re not,” I agreed. I walked right past him and over to the bar and never glanced back. It’s not that I took anything for granted, but sometimes it’s best not to let them see you sweat, as they say. Besides, the crowd’s reaction to anything out of the ordinary and the large mirror in front of me would have tipped me of any potential problem.
“What’ll ya have, mister?” the bartender asked.
“Something to calm both the thirst and the spirit,” I replied, leaning the Springfield upright next to my leg at the bar.
“Beer it is, then.” He smiled. “Just tapped a fresh keg.”
“Sure you did.” I laughed.
The barkeep seemed to be in his fifties and wore one of those long waxed handlebar mustaches. What little hair he had on his head was combed straight back and held in place with hair slick. He had a big belly that wasn’t totally hidden by the greasy apron he wore. In general, though, he seemed a pleasant enough fellow. He grabbed a glass mug off a pile of them and walked over to the tap. After wiping the glass with his apron, he filled the mug to the top with just the right amount of suds and slid the glass down the bar.”
“Catch,” he said. “Show’s about to start in a moment.”
I nodded my head. “Sure wouldn’t want to miss that, now, would I?” I replied.
“You been here before, I’d guess,” he remarked, chuckling.
“On occasion.” I nodded again with a smile.
“Well, they may not be much to look at, but they is pure female.”
“Pure?” I asked.
“Well, female at any rate,” he said, grinning. “Name’s George, if ya need anything else.” He turned to help another customer, and I turned the other way, facing toward the stage.
The musicians were already in place and had begun playing what I believe was an old Irish tune called “The Minstrel Boy.” People in the saloon were moving around in order to get a better view of the show, and waiters were carrying trays over their heads loaded with mugs of beer, whiskey glasses, and the occasional plate of sliced jerky.
I settled back and began to relax. The atmosphere in the Tomahawk was always lively and not too rowdy for my taste. I took a long swallow of beer and had to admit that George may have been telling the truth about it being a fresh keg. Or maybe I was just thirsty. Either way, it was just fine.
I
had just set the glass down on the bar and was turning to order another when there was a shout, and the saloon doors burst open.
“Where is he? Where is that low-life son-of-a-bitch?” someone yelled.
I turned quickly to see that man who called himself Wilkins barge through the door. Our eyes locked, and he went for the pistol in his belt. One of the women in the room screamed, and I knew my rifle would be of little use. It was too hard to get to, and I simply didn’t have enough time. I would have gone for my scattergun, but he drew that hogleg of his with incredible speed. There was no way with my limitations I could match his draw.
“Lobo! Gun!” I yelled.
The big dog that had been resting right next to those doors sprang up at the man and sank his teeth into his forearm just behind the pistol. A single shot rang out, but fortunately Lobo’s attack had deflected Wilkins’ aim up and over to the left. The bullet just shattered a lamp hanging on the wall without hitting anyone in the crowd.
I don’t rightly know how a wolf bite compares to a dog bite, but in this case I suspect the man got the worst of both worlds. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the bone didn’t snap. At any rate, he dropped the revolver quicker than a hot potato. The pain was so great the scream stuck in his throat.
“Lobo! Leave!” I commanded. Had I not given the command, he would have ripped the man’s arm off and then proceeded to do the same with the rest of his worthless body. “Leave” was his off command. I’d figured out over the years that when someone is bitten, they’ll usually yell something like “Stop it!” or “Get off!” By using the word “Leave” instead as a command, I could almost guarantee that I would be the only one controlling that big wolf hybrid.
As I expected, Lobo let go and came to my side. Wilkins was stooped over and holding his bloody arm. The pain on his face told me I had no need for my gun. I just walked over and booted him through the door and into the street. I turned back to the bar and retrieved the rifle. Motioning to George the barman, I tossed some coins on the bar. “That should cover the drinks and the lamp. Sorry about all the fuss.”