by R. W. Stone
The group at my table were playing fairly evenly, which is to say they were all trying to cheat each other in some form or another. I folded some hands early on, took only modest pots on others, and passed the time waiting for just the right hand.
After three hours of play, the girls entered the room through the back door. They all had the same expressions of extreme sadness on their faces. I noticed they still wore the same dresses as before, but it seemed to me they were trying to maintain an air of cleanliness.
Hank Thompson walked in right behind them. I studied his face in exact detail and subconsciously tapped the shotgun at my side. I watched him point out a small stage that had been set up in the back of the saloon. Three girls climbed its two steps and lined up in a group. I wondered what had become of the fourth woman.
Five men appeared from the other side of the room and went over to the side of the stage where a small piano had been positioned. One of the men sat down, and the others reached behind the piano and pulled out a banjo, a violin, a guitar, and a bass fiddle. They started playing, and then the girls, after a forceful cough from Thompson, began to sing.
They were nowhere near as good as the normal singers were in such places, but I reminded myself they were not professional saloon girls and were scared to death. I was both saddened and furious, but at the moment there was very little I could do. I noticed one of the trio nudging the other, and the girls began looking my way. I caught them focusing on me, and I shook my head as subtly as I could to stop their staring.
I quickly looked back down and resumed play. Eventually I had just the right combination of cards. One of the men folded his hand early, the other, a big bearded man named Jamison, threw down three queens, and Blake smiled and showed his hand. Three eights and two kings, a full house. As he was reaching for the pot, I touched his hand and dropped four sevens.
The pot was large enough to make me look good and prove my gambling savvy, but not large enough to provoke a gunfight. Besides, Blake had been cheating, too. As far as he could tell, I had simply gotten lucky. Since I had made no earlier protests about all the good hands he drew, I hoped he wouldn’t suspect I was on to his bottom dealing and playing to it. He looked at me long enough to make me tense up but finally smiled and allowed me to take the pot.
“Nicely played,” he remarked.
“Well, everyone gets lucky now and then.” I relaxed.
“Iffen you believe in luck,” he stated coldly.
I played the next two hands, purposely losing a modest amount each time, and then got up from the table.
“I’m not walking away rich, but at least I killed some time without having to pay for it,” I commented.
“Still lots more time left in the day,” Jamison responded.
“True, but I need to stretch my legs, and besides, I want to talk to Thompson.”
“Be careful of that one,” Blake said quietly. “No back up or give in him. He runs this place tighter than Dick’s hatband. Even Royce treads lightly around Hank, and he’s meaner than a pit viper.”
I touched the brim of my hat and nodded. “Right. Got it.”
I walked over to the bar just as the girls were finishing up the small repertoire of songs I was willing to bet they’d been forced to learn. I proceeded to order a beer and then walked to the far end near the stage. As the three came down off the stage and passed by, I raised my beer mug and said in praise: “Nicely done. Reminds me of good times with my Uncle Ben back home in Grierson’s tavern.
The tallest of the three, obviously Colonel Grierson’s niece, quickly put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. I turned away. With all eyes in the room on them, I couldn’t just let them stop to carry on a private conversation. Any message would have to be passed to them by me very carefully.
I walked over to Thompson at the other end of the bar and offered to buy him a drink.
“In this place anyone who’s buying’s got something on their mind,” he said firmly. “Let’s have it.”
“All right,” I replied. “I’ve been pondering the layout here, and I think I might be able to help. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”
“My back’s just fine as it is. What did you have in mind?” he asked.
I took a swig of the beer and wiped my face on my sleeve. “I’m thinking I’m not getting any younger, and sooner or later the law, even as bungling as it usually is, might actually catch up with me. No way in hell I’m doing any more time in the hoosegow.”
“Chance you take in our line of work,” Thompson replied, shrugging. He called the bartender over and ordered a beer. “Put it on my friend’s tab,” he ordered. “So you were saying something about scratching my back?”
I nodded. “I have access to some gaming tables that I think might fit nicely into this set-up. After all, what’s a town without a full-fledged professional gambling operation? I’ve got a wheel of fortune, craps tables, roulette, the whole works. You help me get started, and I’m willing to give you a piece of the action … as mayor.”
Hank Thompson looked at me long and hard. “Oh, I’d get a piece of the action whether you were willingly offering or not,” he remarked with a smirk. He thought a moment before nodding in agreement. “Might be a good idea at that. Men can get mighty bored just playing cards all winter. So what do you need from me, besides my permission?”
“Well, the problem is I need a wagon to go get them, and there are only a few in town. Apparently Curly and his friend Flip have a lock on ’em.”
“Why don’t you just get one in the town where the tables are stored in?”
I shook my head. “Who says they’re being kept in a town?”
He took off his hat and scratched his head. “So where are they?”
“Hidden out of sight,” I said. “Well hidden. Won’t tell no one where for obvious reasons, but I will tell you that two years back, a wagon train of … shall we say ill repute … got robbed and all its goods removed to a safe place. Included in that lot were all the trappings to set up a full-scale gambling hall. I know where that lot was stashed. Problem is I need a wagon to haul it, and I don’t want to buy one in some town where my picture’s plastered on every barbershop and sheriff’s office. Get the idea?”
Hank smiled and then laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I doubt you’re that notorious. But I do see your predicament.” He nodded again. “All right. I’ll talk to the men and get them to lend you their Conestoga and a couple of draft horses. Just lend, mind you. You don’t bring it back and there will be hell to pay, I promise you.” He then extended his hand. “The town cut is twenty-five percent.”
“Ten percent,” I replied, extending mine. I didn’t give a hoot in hell what it would be, but I needed to sound convincing.
“Twenty,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.
“My tables. Fifteen, and it’s a deal.” We shook on fifteen percent and agreed I’d get the wagon by the next day.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I walked out of the saloon and right into the middle of a firefight. Directly in front of the building and out in the center of the street, Royce Dunbar was squared off in front of another man, one I’d never seen before. Even at a quick glance, it was obvious what was about to happen. I stopped and backed up a step, my right hand resting on the stock of my shotgun.
“Nobody, but nobody steals in Broken Willow!” Dunbar ranted. He was furious.
The other man, tall and thin, with a heavy overcoat and a black flat-brim hat, was holding a Henry lever-action rifle. “You’re crazy. I didn’t take nothing what weren’t mine,” he said. “It was just my share is all.” He looked around the street nervously.
“You knew the deal all along,” Dunbar said angrily. “Anything we took from that train stays locked up until Hank Thompson personally divvies it up. Not until. You knew that when you signed up for the job.”
Appar
ently the thin man had broken into some storeroom where the spoils of their last robbery were stashed and tried to take his cut and leave. Royce must have caught him at it. I wouldn’t want to face a man cradling a rifle with just a holstered handgun, but Dunbar never flinched. The man with the rifle seemed to reconsider making a move and then suddenly jerked up the Henry and began levering it to shoot. I couldn’t have cared less about which man fell, but I was curious as to how the face-off would end. Never did I expect what happened next.
Royce Dunbar drew his Colt Peacemaker, fired, and dropped his opponent before the thin man even fired his rifle. Royce then twirled the pistol and reholstered almost before the other man hit the ground. He had actually beaten a man who was already levering a round from a repeating rifle!
I had heard of quick-draw artists who did parlor tricks, such as tossing coins in the air and beating the coin drop with a fast draw. One man I knew would put a coin on the back of his right hand and then a whiskey shot glass upside down over the coin. He’d toss them both in the air, draw his pistol, shoot the glass, and then catch the coin.
This was different, however. This wasn’t a harmless trick. Dunbar had drawn not only with blinding speed but had done so while facing an armed and deadly adversary. No wonder the town wouldn’t challenge Thompson. Not with an enforcer like Royce Dunbar.
I stepped out into the street and looked at the body. Stepping over it, I turned and shrugged. “Not bad. Don’t mind me, I’m just on my way to the hardware store.”
Royce sneered as others came running to see what had happened. “‘Not bad,’ my ass!”
While the others were dragging the body away, I went directly to the hardware store. Another man was just leaving as I went in. Flip was behind the counter.
“Problem out there?” he asked.
“Not anymore.”
Flip nodded slowly. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Sure, I need a couple of shirts and trousers for the trail. Four sets should do fine.”
He pointed to a shelf across the room. “Help yourself. Anything else?”
I thought a moment. “This hat’s getting a mite ratty. Maybe a new sombrero. Oh, and a couple of those wool pullovers for when it gets colder. You know, those little round caps that pull over your head and down over the ears.”
“I think I can find some, if you’ve got the cash. You going away?”
I nodded. “Yeah, but I’ll be back. Thompson will probably want to talk to you about it. Got a pencil and paper?”
“Sure,” he replied, retrieving them from under the counter.
“I’m gonna make a list of some sundries I want you to pack up for me. Thompson’s going to explain in more detail, but I’ll be needing the Conestoga for a while. Just put everything on the list in the wagon.” Apparently the mere mention of Hank Thompson seemed sufficient to avoid any further questions. “Oh, and I’ll be needing a shovel now.”
Flip looked around and found what he was looking for.
“Gonna use it later on the trip.”
The storekeeper just shrugged and brought one up from the back of the store.
“One last thing.”
“And that might be?” Flip asked politely enough.
“What I’m going after is buried in a large cave, and I’ll be needing the barrel of black powder that I saw last time I was here. Oh, and some primer cord for it. Just leave it propped outside behind the back door, and when I leave I’ll put it in the wagon myself. Make sure I get everything on the list. Gonna be a long haul.”
“No problem. Sure you don’t need a water barrel?”
“Nope. Too big and bulky. Got enough weight coming back as it is. The canteens I bought should do just fine,” I replied.
“Going after buried pirate treasure?” he joked.
“Oh, pirates are surely involved as far as I’m concerned, but it’s not Spanish doubloons I’m after. Like I said, Hank will explain it to you. You and Curly should go look him up after we’re done here.”
“When are you planning on leaving?”
“Tomorrow might work. Planning to leave in the early morning so as not to ride the pass at night.”
“If Hank Thompson says it’s all right with him, I’ll have the wagon loaded and ready by late this afternoon.”
I took a roll of bills out and paid him. “If there is anything still owed, Hank and I will settle up with you when I return.”
“Looks like this’ll do just fine,” the storekeeper replied as he pocketed the money. “As long as we get the wagon back later.”
I left the shop, planning to return to my tent. I needed some privacy to reflect and rest. As I was adjusting my hat to avoid the sun’s glare, I noticed three men who seemed to be staring my way from across the road. With the sun in my eyes, I couldn’t get a clear view of them, but I did notice that one of the men had his arm in a sling. Another spit a wad of tobacco off into the dirt.
They seemed to be focusing on me specifically, but at the time I just thought it was my imagination. After a while in a place like this, you begin to feel like everyone is watching you. The group broke apart, and the men all walked away. Since none of the men in that particular group had pointed at me, made any threatening gestures, or even moved toward me, I thought nothing more about them.
When I stretched out on the cot back in my tent, I remembered the old saying that a man’s strengths are also his weaknesses. Thompson had set up an outlaw town that insured his safety, but at the same time, it would provide me the cover I needed to help get the women out.
After all, with the possible exception of the tent where the women were being kept prisoner, there shouldn’t be any roving sentries or guards at night. Why would there be in a town where there was no law to keep? That same sense of false security could work to my advantage if I planned things right.
I didn’t know if any of the women could drive a wagon team, so I had to form two separate strategies. In one, I would drive the wagon, and in the other, I would roam around on my horse. I fully expected to be pursued, so I had to take that into consideration as well. I would need to deal with any guards found around the women’s tent, and finally, I had to get the timing right. That would be crucial. I needed enough time to carry out my plan, and, above all, I had to be finished before everyone else in town was awake and wandering about.
I calculated it would take about five hours to finish all my preparations. That meant starting just after it turned dark and being finished and prepared to leave town well before dawn. There wasn’t much else I could do at the moment, so I pulled my hat over my eyes and took a long siesta. In the army you learned to grab some sleep anytime the opportunity presented itself. If I was to be up all night, I would need all the rest I could get.
Chapter Twenty-Five
One trick I had learned in the army was to think about and repeat a specific time over and over to myself before falling asleep. I don’t know if it works for others, but if I go to sleep while thinking, say, eight in the morning, I’ll wake up at that precise time. I don’t know if it is some sort of internal clock but it works. Since I didn’t want to risk sleeping through the night, I kept repeating the same time over and over. Once again it worked for me, and when I suddenly came awake, my pocket watch confirmed the time for me. It was finally dark enough for me to get started.
I got up, cleared out my possessions from the tent, and started for the livery stable. Just as I’d hoped, nobody was around, so I quickly saddled my horse and packed up the mule. Then, as quietly as I could, I walked them out of the barn, mounted the Appaloosa, and rode out behind all the buildings. I went first to the hardware store where, just as I’d hoped, the Conestoga was hitched up to a team of two big draft horses and loaded with all the supplies I’d ordered.
I tied the mule to the back of the wagon and then secured all the extra canteens I’d ordered to the back of m
y saddle. I put the loop of primer, or detonation cord, over the saddle horn where the lariat would have normally gone, and then removed the blasting caps I’d requested from the wagon. I checked them and made sure they were all safely padded. Then, I carefully put them in my saddlebags next to the sticks of TNT I’d found back at that miner’s shack. I next took a kerosene lamp out from among the supplies and hung it, too, from my saddle.
Finally, I picked up that small barrel of black powder and remounted the horse. I rode out of town as quietly as I could, but, although I knew nobody would really notice any small sounds I made, the clinking of those canteens and the lamp against the saddle sounded like a brass band to me.
I had a specific destination in mind, one that I had noticed on the way into Broken Willow. There was a slight narrowing in the roadway that led into town. It was far enough from town to avoid suspicion of any sort and far enough from the pass so as not to be seen by any sentries that might be hidden up in the rocks.
After about fifteen minutes of riding, I reached the precise spot I had in mind. I dismounted, ground-tied the Appaloosa, and began my preparations by pouring the black powder from the barrel into the canteens.
It took about an hour to finish the job, and when I was done, I rode on ahead toward the pass. I had to get by the sentry, but it was about 1:00 a.m., and thankfully, there wasn’t a full moon out. It was pitch black, just the way I wanted it.
I had previously rubbed some black mud on my hands and face to provide cover in the dark and was dressed in a black coat and shirt. I also made sure not to wear any shiny buttons or anything else that might show up at night. Perhaps the sentry was napping, I don’t know, but as I sneaked around his post in the dark, there was no challenge of any kind.
I went to the rock face, ground-tied the Appaloosa, and then climbed as high as I could. When I was finished with the preparations that I had planned previously, I climbed back down and then rode quickly back to town. I had used up about five hours, but so far I had gone undetected.