The outlaw was away—presumably in Arroyo de las Vegas—but he’d be back to this place soon enough. Once he and his man stepped off the ugly, ancient flying ship, Bardwell and the boy would already be moving to put a quick end to the madness the man had created here in this peaceful desert setting.
Bardwell closed his eyes wondering what the tiny hamlet had once looked like with its shady tree-lined street and cabbage and corn growing in the nearby fields, children running in every direction and good cattle grazing in the hills.
The lawman could see it as plain as the day before him, an ideal place to settle down and start thinking about the spread that he always wanted. He could buy a small place at the edge of town to start, hire a couple of out of work cowboys to help. Maybe he could retire or at least partially retire from this life that he was living? A smile touched the corners of his mouth.
He opened his eyes. It was all gone, nothing more than a dream. Below, the settlement at the edge of the desert had no trees or green grass. No children played happily in the shade with their mothers looking over them. There were no fat cattle in the pastures and no bright paint on the buildings any longer.
Any trees the place might have once had were burned years ago along with the fence posts that may have once corralled the cattle. Most of the windows down there were boarded to keep out a fierce summer sun and paint was nothing more than a chalky memory that faded a little more with each passing year.
Come the morrow, none of it would exist any longer. In time, the ash from the burnt buildings would blow away and the stone foundations would be consumed by the shifting desert sand. Broken Hill would be wiped clean off the map in just a matter of minutes once he and the boy got started.
“What do you think, Boss?” Curtis said awake, walking up the hill to join Bardwell in his surveillance of the desert settlement.
Bardwell tossed out the remains of the cold coffee. “I think that like you, I’d like to get on the way back home to Sacramento.”
“This time tomorrow,” Curtis said. “Should see us well to the north of here?”
“I reckon that we’ll be in the saddle and headed north by sunup,” Bardwell said, nodding his agreement with what his partner had said.
“Two or three days up to the border,” Curtis asked. “I can’t wait to get my hands on some good smokes.”
“The tobacco’s not so good down this way either,” Bardwell said.
Curtis looked off across the desert valley. “It’s a shame that there won’t be nothing left of the place when we ride out, Sir.”
“How do you figure?” Bardwell asked.
“Well,” Curtis started. “I don’t rightly know, but it doesn’t seem right. The memories and history for those that might have once lived here?”
“Yeah,” Bardwell said. “The memories of your parents shot up on Heroin and smoking long grass, maybe the sister that they sold one winter to buy more dope from McDaniel and his kind? Lying in a cold bare shack with nothing more than a filthy blanket, to keep the winter winds away or watching those around you starve, while the elders squander their earnings.” The lawman paused looking down the hill. “Yeah,” he said. “Those are some memories?”
Curtis nodded his agreement.
“It will bring closure to a good many souls, both living and dead,” Bardwell said, turning for camp.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The lawmen had a light meal of dried beef and hard bread as they laid around the small fire. Coffee, or what could pass for coffee, boiled in a can over the coals, the blankets had been rolled and tied behind saddles for the trip north across the borderlands.
It would prove to be a long trip, but worth it for the lawmen riding into their home state of Sacramento.
Bardwell spit his tobacco juice into the fire as Curtis stretched out in the grass puffing at the stub of a cigar.
“We might as well get some rest before we have to start in,” Curtis said, with his eyes already closed.
“Good idea,” Bardwell said, leaning back against a small tree and closing his eyes also. The lawman thought of home or what used to be home, Silver Creek where he had a little place with good water and a few head of cattle in the pasture.
There was once a good woman there also, but she hadn’t been for a while now? It was hard for a woman to be married to the law, everyone knew that.
Back then old Bob James was the go-to man in Sacramento and young Daniel Bardwell was as good as his right hand. It seemed James had the balls and tracking ability and Bardwell provided the firepower when things turned south. Times were different then and the tin star lawmen weren’t home but twenty-five days a year.
“I’ll be home in three days,” the young lawman with a five-pointed tin star pinned to his chest said. “I promise honey, just three days.”
“I’ve heard it too many times before Daniel,” the woman said. Her name was Maylene and it seemed that she’d had enough of her man being on the trail night and day, winter and summer. “My daddy tried to warn me against marrying a lawman,” she said in frustration. “I only wish that I would have listened.”
Deadeye Bob James was in the saddle and turning his mount down the dirt road. Bardwell’s horse stood nearby. A tired sun was dropping into an even more tired western sky.
“It’s my job, Honey,” the young lawman said, with tears forming in his eyes.
“You go ahead, Daniel,” she said. “I’ll not be here when you return and don’t go expecting to change my mind as it’s already been made for me.”
“Come on, Son,” James said, starting down the road and away from the house.
“Three days, Maylene,” Bardwell said, climbing aboard to follow his superior, James. The woman may have waited the three days. Young Daniel Bardwell had no way of knowing as he didn’t make it home for nearly three weeks the way things turned out that trip. Much like this trip, Bob James had gotten his man only to be met by a dispatch rider on the way home.
Twenty days later when Bardwell arrived home to patch his marriage, he was met by a father-in-law in mourning. Maylene—it seems—had saddled a horse for the ride to her folks’ place in the city. The horse must have spooked and thrown the young woman to the ground. Maylene Bardwell was a good rider, but she hit her head on a rock and there was nothing to be done for the distraught young woman or the child that she carried.
After all these years, the lawman still loved the young woman, although he was no longer that young man that he once was. A brief smile touched his lips. He was so full of life back then, so full of piss and vinegar. There was a great big world out there and so much life ahead of him then.
The boy—Curtis, reminded him of that young man with no fear and life still ahead of him, but that was then, this was now. Come morning they’d have to get into Broken Hill unnoticed and find Black McDaniel if they could destroy the flying ship all the better. Bardwell wanted to put the torch to as much of McDaniel’s enterprise here in the desert as he could.
Arresting the outlaw would put a dent in the trade, that was for sure, but leaving the pilot and the flying ship behind intact would only invite some other renegade to open up shop and take over where McDaniel had left off. There were plenty of places where a man could pedal the goods.
Authorities had known of the illicit drug operation here on the fringes of the borderlands—badlands—between Sacramento and the New Mexico territories all along. As long as McDaniel kept from robbing banks and killing folks back home, they were more than willing to turn a blind eye.
Hell, Bardwell was sure that they knew of the sex trade also but chose to keep quiet just as long as old Black stayed down here in the desert and well away from the state. The name would come up in some circles among the lawmen, but no one had ever really been dispatched to deal with the man. Now the orders were in Bardwell’s hand and clearly stated TO BE TAKEN DEAD OR ALIVE.
Bardwell and Curtis didn’t operate by the book as many of the others in Sacramento did. They preferred to work instead i
n the gray area of the laws. The authorities saw to it. Every once in a while something would come up that required a strong hand and a stronger will. When it did, it was Bardwell and his young apprentice that would be summoned to ride out and smooth the situation down some.
***
Curtis drifted away during the afternoon in the cool of the shade dreaming of a woman. He dreamed of no one woman, in particular, just a woman. Maybe it was the redhead in Alamogordo or the little brunette that had led him up the stairs in that Tulare whorehouse. To the boy, it didn’t matter, just that it was a woman that held his mind.
Much like a stubborn old mule, his superior, Bardwell kicked his way into Curtis’s thoughts. Franklin Curtis thought back to the day he and Sacramento lawman Dan Bardwell first met.
It was midsummer and hot. The lawman had ridden in alone on the trail of a pair of dark gentlemen. As luck would have it, the lawman made it to town the night before the desperadoes rode in. Bardwell was busy in talking with folks and explaining the situation they could expect if the lawless came this way.
Sweetwater—where the water was anything but—was the name of the dry little river town. Tension mounted as the two outlaws and the lawman faced off in the street right there in front of God and everyone. The Methodist preacher man, himself new in town, stepped out into the one dusty lane leading through town to offer his hand.
“Are you sure that you’re up for this, Father?” the lawman asked. “These fellows will play for keeps.”
The preacher man smiled. “I do some of my best work behind these pistols, Son,” he said, beginning to laugh.
It was right there and then that young Franklin Curtis decided that he wanted to be a lawman from Sacramento with a five-pointed tin star pinned to his chest. The boy grabbed up his Winchester and stepped forward. Three against five, it was that day.
Curtis didn’t figure that much would happen, maybe some cheap talk and threats and then logic would prevail with the lawman leading away those that he followed.
One of the outlaws got to talking out the wrong side of his mouth and Curtis lowered the long barrel of his rifle. The gunfight was on. Folks cowered behind what cover they could find in the river town as eight men exchanged lead in a fight to the death.
The lawman slung his pistols with a deadly accuracy that Curtis had never witnessed killing three outright. Curtis had claimed the life of one man with the preacher taking the other.
“Thank you, Son,” the lawman had said. “You have a talent behind that rifle and I may be able to pull some strings if you ever go looking to get out of here?”
He still had a year of school to finish up with and managing to talk the old gentleman that he worked for into letting him go. There would be more schooling once he reached the city and there was the matter of money and a place to sleep once he reached the place.
A letter was hastily written and sent via post. Days turned into weeks, then into months as he waited for word. Would the old lawman even remember him after all of this time?
One rainy morning, the figure of a lone man riding a good horse and leading another was seen closing from the north. The man wore a long black duster and black hat to match. He had a pair of blue Navy Colts at his side and another pair draped over the saddle horn. A long rifle held its place in a worn leather scabbard, it was the lawman.
“Are you ready for Sacramento, Son,” the lawman asked, reining in and dismounting.
Curtis laughed. “The question is, Sir,” he asked. “Is Sacramento ready for me?”
Talking as they walked to the town’s only livery, rain began to fall gently at first. It would be three days before the lawman rode out with the young man in tow. Curtis bunked up at Bardwell’s place at first until he could gain a bed at the academy in the city and a seat in the next class of lawmen working their way through the system.
Instructors had spoken of the boy being paired with the out of date Bardwell as a poor choice for the both of them. Bardwell had worked alone for years and boy was known to push the boundaries set for him. No one gave the pairing more than a year. Curtis was a good student and had graduated at the top of his class and was natural with a shooting iron in his hand. In time, after he and Bardwell had decided to call it off, he could return to the city and work from there. Maybe in time, he would instruct the younger ones in the ways of the law.
That all seemed to have been so long ago. After these last few years of riding with the old man, Curtis felt at home for the first time in his young life. He liked the old man and the old man liked him.
Now the tin star lawmen had written orders that read TO BE TAKEN DEAD OR ALIVE. Curtis didn’t know for sure what his superior had in mind come the morrow, but he knew that there would be hell to pay for McDaniel and some of the others in the desert settlement of Broken Hill. One thing that he knew for sure, there wouldn’t be much left of the little town when they rode off come sunup.
Bardwell was known to work within the gray areas of the law and the boy was okay with that.
***
“You reckon that we better start thinking about the job ahead of us?” Bardwell asked, stoking the little fire. A fresh can of coffee boiled in the coals. The daystar was setting fast in a fiery sky behind the range.
“I guess so,” Curtis said.
Bardwell had his weapons laid out on a wool blanket in various states of assembly. He poured his dented tin cup full and went back to oiling the weapons now that the boy was awake.
Curtis got to his feet and walked down the creek a piece to see about the horses. The animals had more or less had the last few days off as they watched over the desert community and formed a plan. Come the morrow, they wouldn’t be so lucky. In twelve hours—God willing—they’d all be making a run for the border, hopefully with no one behind shooting as they dodged behind one hill or the next.
The young lawman pissed to clear his mind and started back for camp. Bardwell wasn’t in a real talkative mood just now and Curtis knew better than to disturb his reflecting state. Curtis removed his weapons for a quick going over. It would do neither of them good if any of the hardware misfired once they were in harm’s way.
“You think McDaniel will keep to his schedule?” Curtis asked after his firearms had been reassembled and put away. He smoked at one of his cigars looking across the fire in the darkness.
“I hope so,” Bardwell said. “Like you, I’d like to head north too.”
“We should know in just a few hours, huh?” Curtis asked. A cool breeze blew from the north and west now that the sun was down.
Bardwell had out his timepiece winding it. “In a couple more hours,” he said. “We probably should think of gathering up the horses and getting them saddled for the night?”
“Are you hungry, Sir?” Curtis asked, reaching out a cotton sack of hard bread. He wasn’t very hungry himself but knew that the night ahead would be a long one.
Bardwell took one of the crackers and sliced off a piece of cheese before handing the bag back to him.
“Not really,” Bardwell said. “But we should eat something. It could be a long time before we get the opportunity again?”
“You ever get over the nerves of waiting this kind of thing out?” Curtis asked.
“No, Son,” Bardwell said. “I’ve been at this since I was younger than you are and I don’t know that I’ve ever gotten used to it.”
Curtis nodded.
“I’d just as soon run up on the fellow,” Bardwell continued. “And start shooting it out than sit around waiting for the chance to strike. It sure makes fellow feel old.”
“Sir,” Curtis said. “You are old.”
Bardwell smiled tossing the remaining cheese in his hand at the boy sitting across the fire. “Give it time, Son,” he said. “And you’ll be old too. Just give it time.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Midnight found the lawmen awake and sitting under the trees at the top of the hill, waiting as it seemed they had been for some time now. The night was
pitch dark although the sky was filled with stars down to the eastern horizon.
The horses had been saddled and led up the hill closer to where the lawmen watched from the hilltop. Bardwell and Curtis had been careful to tie the animals down the hill a few paces to keep them from the ever watching the electric eyes of the flying ship on its return.
In the desert valley below, Broken Hill was silent. No one moved in the darkness. Bardwell scanned the settlement with his field glasses. Straw and wood had been placed in a semicircle to be lit once the flying machine was heard across the dark night. The torches had been brought out and placed for its arrival, but were not lit for the moment.
By two o’clock, a few were seen stirring in the settlement. Here and there, a torch was brought up and a few of the fires kindled. Curtis looked over at Bardwell nodding.
Bardwell continued to slice shavings off a stick that he had carried up the hill earlier. He stopped to cut off some tobacco before going back to the chore. Both lawmen sat quiet listening to an even quieter night. Not even the coyotes howled at this hour.
“You hear that?” Curtis asked.
“No,” Bardwell said, looking across the valley to the east in the direction, he expected the flying machine to arrive from.
“I do,” Curtis said. “It’s that flying machine.”
The lawmen remained quiet. A distant thumping sound could be heard drawing closer in the night.
“I hear it now,” Bardwell said.
On the valley floor, the fires and torches were lit. The lawmen expected the return flight would just be the two of them, McDaniel and his pilot. They’d know soon enough.
Sound from the flying machine drew closer across the desert, but could not be seen. Both lawmen scanned the eastern sky from the heavens to the horizon and nothing. Curtis pointed. The electric lights had been switched on sending great shafts of electric blue to the desert floor below.
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