by R. W. Stone
“Let me buy you a beer. I’ll tell you my plan, and you can make any suggestions you like.” I cautioned: “Just so’s ya know, I usually never discuss things like this. I’m making an exception ’cause it’s your family and our army, but remember, one blabbermouth and it might get back to the ones I’m after. I don’t much fancy letting the enemy know any of my moves.”
“Makes sense,” two agreed aloud.
“Anything else?” the first lieutenant asked.
I thought a minute. “Could use a good pair of army binocs.”
“The store sells a couple of good ones,” the second lieutenant told me. He turned to the store clerk. “Show this man the binoculars you have for sale. Let him pick any pair he wants, and put it on my account.”
“Much obliged,” I replied. After throwing down a few more brews, I asked the sergeant for the picture he had shown me. “I know how much it means to you, but it just might help me get her back.”
“In that case, gladly,” the sergeant replied.
“Just sign your name on the back. First name only, and nothing else.”
“Sure, anything for Eileen. Like I said, she’s all I got.”
“Any other pictures would help,” I mentioned.
The men gathered around, and I unrolled a map. We discussed my idea for an hour or so and tossed down a few more beers. Then the group thanked me and reluctantly returned to their duties.
Later that evening I requested a final meeting with Major Parks to let him personally know I would accept the job and to discuss my plan with him. I also requested he inform Colonel Grierson by telegraph that his wishes were being fulfilled but urged the major not to explain how. While I had no reason to doubt the honesty of most telegraphers, I felt there was no need to allow that sort of information to float around out there among all those loose wires. Better safe than sorry, especially when it comes to my own hide.
As far as I was concerned, whether Major Parks agreed with me or not was irrelevant. It was my own survival I was worried about. That, and carrying out my mission successfully in order to repay what I felt was, as simplistic as it may sound, a debt of honor to an old commander.
“There is one last favor you can do for me, Major,” I said as our discussion was coming to an end.
“Anything within reason. What do you need?”
“Can you get the base to print me up a poster by morning?”
The major smiled. “If there was ever a complaint about how I run things, it would be that I issue too many memorandums. We keep our printer busy here, no doubt about that. One more sheet of paper shouldn’t matter much. What do you want it to say?”
I looked at him seriously. “I need a wanted dead or alive poster printed with information about me on it. Say, for robbing a Wells Fargo station and shooting the guard.”
At first the major looked puzzled but then quickly caught on. “You need proof to avoid suspicion amongst the outlaws.”
I nodded. “Where I’m going, the badder the better.”
“I’ll make sure you have what you need by morning,” Major Parks said, extending a hand. “And good luck to you.”
“I expect I’ll need it. Thank you, Major.” I got up and left the room.
I stayed overnight in the barracks and rechecked my supplies.
The following morning, just before I left Fort Russell, I met up with Corporal Daniels. As I mounted the Appaloosa, he handed me a canteen. I looked at him, rather puzzled.
“Thanks, Alec, but I already have a canteen full of water and a big water bag on the mule. I’m good for now.”
“I’m sure Sergeant Hackworth would want you to take this with ya,” the corporal explained, smiling. “A little something from the Emerald Isle. Something to ease the aches and pains on the trail.”
I unscrewed the cap and sniffed the canteen’s contents. It almost made my nose run and my eyes water. “Must be about ninety-eight proof Irish … er … water.”
“Just about,” he answered with a chuckle. “Good luck, Badger. Wish I were going with you.”
I looked out the gate and to the horizon and shook my head. “No you don’t, Alec. Trust me, you don’t.”
Chapter Nineteen
I drew a line on the map from the watering station where the train robbery had taken place straight across to where the Hole-in-the-Wall pass was supposed to be located. Then I drew a second line from Fort David A. Russell to a point on the map halfway across the first line. My intent was to ride to a place that would cross the gang’s path about halfway. I wasn’t counting on meeting the outlaws on the trail. I knew by now they would be too far gone for that ever to succeed. I did, however, want to come up right behind them in order to verify my suspicions.
The kidnappers would have ridden hard and straight toward what they perceived to be a safe haven. That would be especially important to them since they would be traveling with four unwilling women. Somewhere along that route, I should be able to cut sign. Then I would know for sure if I was on the right track.
I had another reason for riding in this direction. If my calculations were correct, sooner or later I’d have to enter that same pass. I knew no one on the right side of the law had ever made it through there alive, so I had to have an edge, a hole card if you will.
By heading directly up the second line I’d drawn on the map, the one that took me north, I’d ride right through the town of Bighorn Gulch. I knew the place all too well and believed I’d find someone there who could provide me with the necessary information I needed to help me get in and out of that pass alive and in one piece.
Just as I had calculated, three days of hard travel north brought me to Bighorn Gulch. It was one of those small towns that were springing up all over the territory. At the time I couldn’t help but wonder if this one would eventually make it or not. Half tent and half wood, part corral and part shops, it seemed to me the town couldn’t decide if it was going to mine or subsist on cattle.
Other than freight offices, a barbershop, and two general stores, Bighorn Gulch had one jail that was seldom occupied, three saloons, but no church. There was nothing particularly memorable about the place other than the fact that I knew it wasn’t overly concerned with the moral fiber of its citizenry.
I’d met the town’s sheriff a year or so ago when he was elected out of default. By that I mean no one else wanted the job. Besides, the mayor was his brother-in-law. I doubt that sheriff had ever drawn a gun in anger, let alone as part of his job. He spent more time sleeping in the jail’s empty cells and drinking rotgut than anything else.
When the dime novels talk about a lawman striking fear into the hearts of outlaws, Bighorn Gulch’s sheriff was clearly not the one they were referring to. This town was precisely the kind of place that I could count on to harbor someone with the know-how I needed to rescue those women.
I sat on the Appaloosa, staring down at Lobo. He’d been gone for a half day, and just before I reached Bighorn’s town limits, he had returned, as usual playfully barking and nipping at the horse’s hoofs.
“Lobo, behave,” I ordered, for all the good I knew it would do. The dog trotted behind the horse and mule till we came to a stop in front of one of the saloons. I dismounted and tied the horse and mule to the hitching rail.
“Lobo, guard!” I didn’t really have to worry much about him, because over the years we had done this time and time again. Because Lobo got along great with the big gelding, he actually preferred staying near him. This time I insisted on it, because I didn’t want a repetition of the incident at the last saloon we’d been to.
I didn’t give a hoot in hell about someone like that Wilkins fellow getting his leg bit, but I didn’t want Lobo wandering around, creating his usual fear and havoc. I couldn’t afford to lose any more time. Not now.
The big dog looked up at me, wagged his tail, and barked.
“
I mean it, Lobo, stay! Guard the horse!” He may not have understood my words, but he always understood my meaning.
I checked the shells in my sidearm. I always carried a 12-gauge buckshot load in the left chamber and a shotgun slug in the right. Once I was confident everything was as it should be, I reholstered it. I took a deep breath and walked into the saloon.
When you are looking for the answer as to why the sky is blue, you need the schoolmarm, so you go to the nearest school. When you want to know how to do something illegal, you head for places where outlaws hang out. And that of course meant the nearest saloon. Besides, another mug of beer never hurt anyone.
When I entered the tavern, I immediately read the room. It’s an old gambling term that refers to sizing up the competition. In this case I wanted to avoid anyone who might know me, or might hold a grudge, or get in my way. What I was looking for was a certain kind of person. The one I wanted would be right off a wanted poster.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a good memory for faces, and years of perusing posters in sheriff’s offices, banks, and post offices all over the West had sharpened that ability.
I approached the bar and ordered a beer. There was a side table at the end of the counter with a large side of cooked beef on a skewer. There were some small plates and a carving knife on the table next to the skewer. I tossed an extra coin on the bar and sliced a hunk of meat. Then I walked over to one of the tables and sat down, facing the entrance with my back to the wall. I pulled my hat down lower over my face and leaned back. As I sat there and ate, I surveyed the patrons, trying to recognize someone. Anyone.
For some reason my eyes kept drifting back to the piano player in the corner. The piano was over to my right side just to the left of the saloon door. The man played a fair tune, but even with his back to me and the silly bowler hat he wore, I knew something wasn’t right about him. For one thing, he paid more attention to the occupants of the room than to his piano’s keyboard like most other players I’d seen tend to do. Not only that, but he also seemed skittish, kind of like a stray cat when someone approaches it.
I took a sip of the beer and began pondering him. The man seemed of average build and had a small, pencil-thin mustache. He wore a shiny thin brown vest over a faded yellow shirt with two armbands. There was a ring on the middle finger of his left hand. The ring’s band had a large blue stone set in it. When he paused to wipe his head, I could tell he was balding and judged him to be in his mid-thirties.
Balding? Then it hit me.
Baldy Jones was wanted in Colorado for robbing a rural couple. Four years ago he’d tied up the young husband, raped the wife, and rode off with the couple’s meager savings. If I remembered correctly, there was a $500 bounty out on him. I guess now that he was out of the state, he felt safe.
The question was how to approach him. I could go in hard, up front in his face, and blunt, or I could be clever, friendly, and deceptive. I didn’t have much time to waste, so I decided to wing it. I’d just play whatever cards fate dealt me.
I got up slowly, walked over to the piano, and set the beer mug down on its top. “Don’t I know you?” I asked curiously.
Jones looked up at me suspiciously but never stopped playing. “I don’t think so,” he replied, shaking his head.
“Sure I do. I remember now … Soapy Johnson and I were talking once, and he mentioned you. Jones, ain’t it?”
Soapy was a young con man I had heard of. He was developing quite a reputation for himself, unsavory as it might be, but I never actually went after him. I suppose at the time I was too preoccupied with other cases. Soapy was known all across the territory for bilking old widows out of their life’s savings and for running crooked faro games. It was the first outlaw’s name that popped into my head, and I hoped Jones would recognize it.
The piano player looked up at me and squinted. I could tell the name had rung a bell even though he shook his head. “Don’t know him or you.”
I leaned in closer. “Look, I’m sure it’s you, Jones, and I need a favor. I’m in a big jam.”
“Sorry, I cain’t help you.” He was emphatic.
I took out a double eagle and slapped it on the piano. “Would this help?”
He looked at the coin. “Depends on what you need?” he replied quietly. His hands never once left the keyboard.
“I got a posse and at least one bounty man hot on my trail, and I need to get through the pass. You know … that one out in Johnson County. I’ve heard of it but have never been there. Soapy told me that if someone doesn’t know how to get through, they get dead real quick. I thought maybe you could help. I can’t risk getting caught. I ain’t gonna do no more time!” My tone made me sound desperate.
The piano player shook his head violently and whispered: “Look, I’d like to help, but I can’t. If I ever told the wrong person and it got out, all the gold in the hills wouldn’t save my skin. I know how those folks operate. Nope, no siree, that’s one secret I’m taking to my grave.”
At least now I was sure of one thing. Jones knew the way into the pass. I gave it one more try. “Even for a friend of Soapy’s? Even for someone on the lam?”
“Son, I wouldn’t tell you even if it was for my own mother.”
I shook my head and returned the coin to my pocket. “All right, let’s do this another way.” I slammed the piano cover down. Hard. Right on his fingers.
Baldy screamed, but when I sat down on the edge of the lid, his scream caught in his throat and turned to a whimper. “No information, no fingers.” I shrugged. “I figure if they’re not broken by now, the lack of circulation ought to ruin your music career pretty darn quick.”
Jones’ face was twisted in pain. I actually thought he was going to puke. Instead, tears started flowing, and he started whining. “Please, God, let go. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Once the bartender noticed that the music had stopped, he looked at us, realized what was happening, and started to bend over. Before he could retrieve whatever weapon he had hidden behind the counter, I drew my shotgun and cocked it. I pointed it at him and then moved it around the room. “This lowlife is my brother-in-law. I come to fetch him home to Sis. It’s family business, so back off or eat lead!”
The bartender stood back up, and after a moment’s hesitation, the rest of the room returned to its normal activity. I stood up and grabbed Baldy Jones by the collar, hauled him up, and ran him out the door. Around the corner was a small alleyway, and I pushed him in there and shoved the shortened express gun under his chin.
“By now I guess you’ve figured out I ain’t one to piss off. You tell me what I need to know, and if I even see you blink, or if I don’t believe you for whatever reason, I’m gonna separate your head from your shoulders with this.” I pushed up a little with the shotgun barrel for emphasis.
“It’s simple!” he cried. “Once you get to the Hole-in-the-Wall, you tie a bandanna to your horse’s bridle. You ride in carrying your rifle or pistol held up high in your left hand. Any lookouts see that, they let you through. If not, you won’t stand a chance.”
“And getting out?” I asked, pushing his chin up a mite.
“Nobody cares about that. Hell, why would they?”
“That’s it? All there is to it is just letting the lookouts see how you carry your gun and where you tie a lousy bandanna?”
“I swear to God Almighty.” Jones whimpered. “But ya gotta do both.” Given the situation he was in, I was inclined to believe him.
“Come with me,” I said, lowering the shotgun and spinning him around. With the gun at his back and my other hand on his neck, I pushed him out the alley and over to the sheriff’s office.
“What are we doing here?” Jones asked, surprised. “I thought you said you were on the run?”
“Sorry,” I said, shrugging. “I lied. Only place we’re running to is the jail.”
The sheriff got up and hurried over with the key to the lock.
“Who the hell are you? You can’t talk to me like that. I’m the law here,” he insisted.
I spun around and shoved the sawed-off under his nose. “Really? Then what’s this murderer and rapist doing in your town calmly playing the piano like he don’t have a care in the world?”
“Him?” the sheriff asked foolishly.
“You see any other piano player around here?”
The sheriff shook his head. “You sure about him?”
“Do your job, and check the wanted posters if ya don’t believe me.” I was angry. “Hell, half of them are probably still over there in those unopened envelopes on your damn desk.”
The sheriff looked at the shotgun I still held pointed at him.
“So what do you want out of all this?” he asked quietly.
“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, Sheriff. You’re gonna find the poster on him, and then you are gonna notify the authorities listed on that poster. Then you are gonna keep this man in jail till they come for him. Understand?”
The lawman just nodded silently.
“One more thing. I don’t want him out even to take a piss! Feed him soup through the door if you have to, but don’t let him out. And don’t let anyone … and I mean anyone … talk to him unless they’re wearing a marshal’s badge. You understand?”
The lawman stood there dumbly and again just nodded.
“You do that and you can keep the reward all for yourself. That and the bragging rights to this hardened criminal you just caught.”
The man looked back at me as I holstered the shotgun. “Reward, huh? Well now, that sounds reasonable.”
“And I don’t want any discussion as to how he got here,” I added. “Any folks from the saloon ask, just tell them you recognized both of us from recent posters. Unfortunately, I got away. Understood?”