The Avenging Angels

by Michael Dukes

  With his left hand Kings reached inside his coat for the week-old telegram. The dateline read Fort Sumner, New Mexico Territory.

  COME ON UP STOP WELL WORTH THE TRIP STOP H. E.

  Who could say if this excursion would indeed be well worth the trip, and who knew what the next few days would bring—glory and satisfaction, or death and defeat? Kings never had to worry about the steadiness of his hand before a job, and he’d never given much thought to the subject of his own death, never really feared it. But he feared it now.

  Now, he had something to live for.

  She would be waiting for him, as always. He finally recognized the pain his absences caused her, the nightmares that tortured her. He never wanted to bring her grief again, though he was well aware of the paradox of his present venture. A lot could happen in a week . . . a hell of a lot.

  Geographically, their destination was approximately eighty miles downcountry from the Colorado border. It could well be called a town by now, no longer just another frontier mining camp scraping a chance at prosperity out of bare rock. The craggy, mesa-dotted terrain around Justicia had at least one stage line running through it and was littered with homesteads and ranches, though there were quite a few miles between neighbors out past the town limits. Indian attacks that had been so worrisome a few short years ago had become a rarity, as most of the hostiles had either been pushed to the south or interned on reservations.

  From where Kings sat it was a two-hour ride west along the tracks to El Paso, where they would await the four o’clock train that would take them on the second leg of their journey across the New Mexico line, and then north some two hundred and sixty miles to Fort Sumner, where they would make contact with this H. E.

  From there, they could afford to catch their breath and sleep on feather beds for a day before horseback-riding another three, northwest to Justicia. At that rate, they would arrive no later than December 30, with plans to make their move the following morning, a day ahead of schedule. In doing so, Kings hoped to even the odds by catching the waiting lawmen somewhat off guard and in mid-preparation.

  The unfortunate case of John Allen Blake was forgotten, and the more recent bad business with Frank Wingate had been cast aside like old coffee dregs. Kings could not let the same rage that had overwhelmed him upon discovering Zeller’s body continue to infect him over the next week, though he supposed he might have a right to feel some anger. What was required of him on this mission, rights aside, was composure, a clear mind, efficiency. Anger, coupled with a hunger for vengeance, would only yield sloppiness, and that could lead to failure.

  The train finally pulled in, but it would be another fifteen minutes before it got under way again. Each new passenger was required to fork over another five dollars to secure passage for their animals. Watching from the platform, the ticket seller took note of how even the cowhands, who otherwise looked to be down-at-heel, paid the fee without question.

  Kings, the last to arrive, was last to board. Beneath him, the train was huffing steam into the wind. For a brief moment, his eyes caught and held with the ticket seller’s, then he moved inside the coach.

  The westbound jolted into motion while Kings was still on his feet. His men had scattered about the car, some even moving on to the next one down the line. He found Brownwell in the smoker. The 12:30 had now reached top speed, so Kings stationed himself in an empty window seat, lit a cigar, and watched the pale landscape sweep by.

  The train had scarcely gone fifty yards before the ticket seller ducked back inside the depot and was dictating the most urgent of messages to the telegraph operator. He might have been a simple man who sold tickets at this small, next-to-last stop on the Sunset Route, but he was no fool. Knowing the faces and other distinguishing features of the state’s many criminals was not a part of his job description, but he had always known the day would come when it proved useful. The face on one of the posters below his ticket window and the face he had seen beyond it might have differed slightly, but the description below the rough sketch matched. There was the sickle-shaped scar on the man’s left cheekbone and the crooked little finger on his right hand. His black hair was graying, and the artist’s rendering lacked the mustache and chin-beard, but there was no doubt in the ticket seller’s mind that he had just come within arm’s length of Gabriel Kings, the most famed outlaw west of the Pecos.

  The telegraph operator in Austin was roused from his half-slumber when his machine chattered to life. Once he transcribed the message, he was out the door and into the chilly afternoon air, dashing pell-mell for the capitol building. The message in his hand read:

  G. KINGS AND 7 MEN ON TRAIN TO E. P. STOP CONTACT OFFICE THERE POSTHASTE STOP REQUEST INFO ON REWARD STOP

  The governor’s men found Stringer checking his horse’s hooves in the livery. He was in his shirtsleeves, hatless, and his gunbelt hung from a shovel hook on the barn wall. Gray hair tousled, eyes squinting, he looked anything but an officer of the Texas Rangers.

  “Captain Stringer,” the taller one said, “the governor just received a telegram. Kings was spotted on a westbound train a little less than an hour ago. Seven men boarded with him, but it wasn’t clear if they were all in his company. We’ve made contact with the depot in El Paso, told them to notify us as soon as his train pulls in, and let us know where he’s headed.”

  “Governor told us to tell you he thinks Kings has taken the bait,” added the second.

  The captain straightened, seemingly unaffected by their report. The governor’s men traded confused looks as he guided his horse rump-first into the stall, collected his hat, and reached for his gunbelt. His footsteps were shuffles. They’d anticipated a different reaction, but they didn’t know this was how it was with Stringer.

  He slung the long-barreled pistol about his waist, adjusted it so that it rested just to the front of his hipbone, and finally acknowledged his visitors with a raised chin and resolute voice. “Well, gents, we best get a move on.”

  Stringer, Leduc, and the Pinkertons had to sit and wait at the telegraph office for another three hours before they got confirmation that Kings was indeed headed north. Now was the time to move quickly. The Refuge possemen were on standby, and as soon as the awaited telegram was received, Delaney sprinted for Smith’s Hotel to rally them.

  It was late in the afternoon by the time they all assembled at the railhead. Their window of opportunity forbade the slow, overland horseback route across peaks and canyons to Justicia. It was absolutely essential that the lawmen board a fast train for the initial lap.

  Because of the positive impact their task would have on business, a wire from Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railway president Thomas Nickerson declared that he had personally arranged for the lawmen to be given right-of-way over all other traffic. He had also secured a special unit of passenger and stock cars for them, asking only that they repay his kindness with success.

  Leduc supervised the loading of horses, pack mules, and the necessary equipment. When he finished, he joined Stringer under the depot porch, where he faced their volunteers.

  The faces of the men, seven in all after Jensen bowed out, were singularly etched with dour anticipation. Uncertain of what lay ahead, these civilians had made it plain their safety was expendable if it meant a safer frontier for their families and any who came after them.

  Stringer opened by saying, “You all know why we’re here, and what we have to do. Our job hasn’t changed. We’re to apprehend Gabr’el Kings and bring him before a judge for his crimes. Lookin’ around, I’d say we have a slight advantage in numbers, and we’ll have a sheriff and a few deputies on our side when the time comes. Now, I know it felt good to do what we did to Tom Seward and Dave Zeller, but for all that’s holy, boys, don’t you for a minute underestimate this man. He’s spent most of the last twenty years on the run and should’ve died more deaths than any of us by now, so whatever you think he’s capable of . . . expect more. If any of you are havin’ second thoughts, I wish you’d leave n
ow.”

  When no one moved, Stringer continued. “I guess I don’t have to tell you, then, that we ain’t headed to no church social. That’s why I do appreciate you showin’ up. I’ve never been a married man or a father like some of you are, but I know the courage it took for you to come here this mornin’. Therefore, I won’t do you the dishonor of sugarcoatin’ things. I do not know what’s in store for us. I do not know if this is just another wild goose chase; if it’s glory awaitin’ us at the end of this trip or failure. I don’t know how many of you are gonna come back to your wives and kids. What I do know is that I’m right honored to have you men ridin’ with me.”

  He scanned the rows of eyes and saw the same sentiment reflected back. “Now let’s go and make them wives and kids proud, by God.”

  They boarded and were under way within thirty minutes.

  The four o’clock train departed relatively on time and was now chugging steadily under a black night sky. Ageless New Mexico was beginning to take shape as this loud portent of industrialization passed through it. A coyote paused at the peak of a snowy outcrop to watch the iron horse pass, curious and unafraid as any good scavenger, before continuing on its way through the brush.

  Inside the dining car, the sound of rattling dinner plates and mealtime chatter could be heard, fair if not first-rate cooking smelt, and eight or nine passengers seen. Kings and Brownwell were among them, dressed like lawyers but eating like Southern farmers—chicken breasts with grits and coffee. No one, not even the conductor who had strolled by earlier, was suspicious of the way their talk quickly died whenever someone strayed too close.

  When he finished eating, Kings sat back to stare out the window into the nothingness beyond and so, into his own reflection. He absently tugged at his beard as Brownwell wiped his mouth.

  “I think we oughta go over it one more time,” Brownwell suggested, as he had countless times before, “how we’re gonna tackle this ’un . . .”

  Kings nodded, still locked in a staring competition with himself. If he concentrated hard enough, he could see his father in the pane.

  Brownwell proceeded, ticking the participants’ names off on his fingers as he went. “All right, then—you, me, and Andy head into the bank on NewYear’s Eve, day ahead of time, in the hopes that we catch these boys off guard. There’ll be some of ours close by outside, makin’ sure we’re the only ones inside at the time, keepin’ watch for this—” He chuckled then. “Say, what did the papers call ’em, Gabe? Gabe?”

  Kings seemed to awaken, blinking as he turned his face toward Brownwell.

  “Off somewheres else, was ya?”

  “ ‘Super posse,’ ” Kings replied, as though he had been exorcised of some spirit of diversion and was now free to carry on. “Papers called it a ‘super posse.’ Makes you wonder if this country is starved for heroes.”

  Brownwell tried for a joke. “I thought that’s what we were—Robin Hoods of our time, you, me, and the James boys.”

  “Robin Hoods, huh? Tell me, Leroy—when was the last time any one of us gave our money to the poor? Someone other’n a whore or faro dealer? Only a damn fool would set stock by them lies. See where that guff got young Johnny Blake.”

  Brownwell frowned. “You all right?”

  Kings hailed the waiter for a refill. When he looked again at Brownwell, stirring a sugar cube into the coffee, it was as if a shade had been drawn over his face. His eyes were clear and focused, his features stiff and robbed of any emotion other than what the moment demanded.

  “If you recall, General Lee was outmanned and outgunned at Fredericksburg, but he routed the federals in a way that hadn’t been seen since Bull Run. This posse’s gonna be lookin’ to run the tables on us, but you watch—it’s gonna be Fredericksburg all over again, and I’ll tell you why.”

  “I’m all ears, pard.”

  “A fella might get the notion that the reason we’re goin’ to this place is to account for what they done to our boys. I’ll not deny that’s part of it, but it ain’t all. Tell you the truth, it’s got somethin’ to do with their nerve. Their sonovabitchin’ nerve. They bit off more’n they could chew this time, the damn government, and we’re gonna prove it. For us to ride in and take this bank, which we will do, will be to ride into the pages of history.”

  Brownwell knew he was facing a different man from the one with whom he had sat down to supper. He was, in spite of himself, awed by the coldness in his friend’s eyes. “Oh, make no mistake,” he said slowly, “you’ve earned your place, Kings.”

  The Virginian lifted his cup for another swig. “And even if this ain’t the party we expect, if I’m wrong about this ‘super posse’ bein’ there . . . Well, so much the better.”

  They sat talking for a few minutes more, putting all thoughts of the job aside. When they finished their last cup, Kings declined Brownwell’s offer of a nightcap back in his compartment, and they parted with backslaps. Kings left a few dollars on the table for the waiter and roamed for a while, moving from one coach to the next. He tipped his hat to a well-dressed older man who lingered in one of the cars, reading a book under a lamp.

  He found Hardyman Foss alone in the smoker. With his chair angled to face one of the windows, he had the makings in his lap but didn’t look up until Kings dragged a chair over and sat down.

  “How you doin’?” Foss asked.

  Kings seemed not to have heard. He crossed his legs and watched Foss roll the paper between his fingers, lick the open edge, seal the cigarette, and light up. Foss took a drag, exhaled slowly, then squinted with one eye through the smoke.

  “You find somethin’ interesting?”

  “I just never got the hang of rollin’ my own. Myself, I always enjoyed cigars.” He searched inside his coat, found a dark leather case, and removed a maduro. He chewed off the end and asked Foss, “I don’t suppose I could bother you for a light?”

  Foss produced one and held it under Kings’s cigar until it caught flame. The Virginian blew smoke and settled back in his chair, re-crossing his legs the other way. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning.

  “I’m doin’ fine,” Kings said. “How ’bout you?”

  “Never better. Thinkin’ ’bout turnin’ in.”

  “Just thought you’d have one more smoke afore you went?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “I don’t sleep too well these days. Most the time I only get around five, mebbe six hours’ rest. I do a good deal of thinkin’.”

  “What about?”

  Kings exhaled twin jets of smoke through his nose. “Lots of things.”

  The car fell silent for a moment, then Foss said, “In all your travels, Kings, did you ever make it up to Idaho Springs?”

  “No, never did. Have you?”

  “I give it some thought. Matter of fact, I’d like to head up there after this is all over and get a good soak in them hot springs. Kicker, ain’t it? A man can stay warm in the winter and be nekkid as a jaybird at the same time. That’s quite a picture.”

  Kings allowed himself to smile as he imagined it. “It is.”

  “Yeah, way I got it planned out, I’ll just skip on up to Colorado when this is done and work my way north, one mile at a time.”

  “Well, you won’t be able to do that right away.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Considerin’ the law’s gonna be hot to catch or kill us, we won’t have time to divide the loot then and there. You’ll all meet someplace safe about a month from now and Brownwell or Yeager will give each of ya what’s due.”

  “Brownwell or Yeager? Where you gonna be?”

  “I’ll be a married man by then, Mr. Foss, and on my way west.”

  “So you’ll have already got your cut by then.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I don’t much care for that.”

  Kings turned his head a fraction of an inch. “To be honest, it don’t much matter to me if you don’t care for it, Mr. Foss. Rest assured, you’ll be paid acc
ordingly. I’ve never cheated a man out of what he’s owed.”

  “Hell if I know that for the truth,” Foss grumbled. “You could be gallivantin’ off to Canada with a bigger cut than you’re due, for all I know! Hell, if I had the chance, I would!”

  “You and I are different men.”

  “Now you’re callin’ me a cheat?”

  “No, sir, and you know it.” With that, Kings stood up. The luxurious feeling he had been enjoying was disrupted. “Have a good night, Mr. Foss.”

  Foss was stone-faced. He told himself he would keep his peace for the time being. He managed a chuckle and said, “You’re not an easy man to get along with, you know that, Kings?”

  Kings appeared to consider that. “It’s been said of me.”

  He left Foss there, and the train pushed on into the night.

  CHAPTER 19

  The lawmen spent the two days of Christmas within the high adobe walls of Fort Union, thanks to the hospitality of the commanding officer, Captain Edward Whittemore. Soldiers and possemen alike were in high spirits, and liquor was allowed to flow—in moderation, of course—on the parade ground. Stringer and the others joined Whittemore in his private quarters, where the military man filled five glasses from his private stash of Monongahela. They solemnly toasted the imminent New Year and drank another to the success of their endeavor. When the hour to retire came, Whittemore detained Stringer for a few private minutes and asked him whether he could be of any assistance.

  Stringer declined, saying he felt confident in himself and his men. He also said he did not think it would be in Justicia’s best interests if a portion of the 15th Cavalry rode off to help them arrest or shoot eight outlaws.

  Whittemore replied that he felt the same, and that he was not offering a detail of his soldiers. What he would be willing to loan Stringer was the pride of the fort, a Gatling gun that stood on a tripod on the western watchtower. Stringer was welcome to secure it to a wagon bed and take it up to Justicia if it would make his job any easier.