In that case, Stringer accepted, and gladly.
The lawmen gathered their horses for the second, less comfortable leg of the journey on the dreary morning of the twenty-sixth. Three pack mules were laden with bedding and an optimistic amount of food for the return. Kullander the freighter handled the two-mule team that carried the dismantled Gatling. Delaney sat beside him as a sort of shotgun guard.
With a handshake from Whittemore, Stringer assumed position at the head of the group, Mincey to his left, Leduc to his right, and gave the word to move out. Justicia was within eighty miles to the northwest, and they had three days to make the hill country.
Old Testament justice would be meted out, and, one way or another, the rampaging of Gabriel Kings would be at an end. Whether the final verdict was rendered by some earthly judge or the Creator himself, that wasn’t Caleb Stringer’s department, and neither was it Paul Leduc’s or Walt Mincey’s or Pat Delaney’s.
They just had to arrange the meeting.
Kings was seated at a table on the ground floor of a Fort Sumner saloon, his back to the stove that warmed the insides of the adobe structure. The floor was hard-packed dirt, the coffee, boiled water poured over old grounds, and the whiskey, corn. It was by no means a lavish establishment, but it suited his purpose.
Brownwell sat to Kings’s left, scooping pinto beans from a plate, while Yeager, to his right, nursed a coffee. Seated directly across from Kings was a small, shifty man wearing a beat-up derby hat.
It was just past the mid-morning hour, the day after Christmas, and there were echoes of civilization coming in from the two-wagon street beyond the doors. A sharp whistle preceded the crack of a whip as a muleskinner got his team into motion. Townsfolk pleasantly greeted one another as they bustled past, full of holiday conviviality. From next door there came the honest, pleasurable sounds of a hammer and saw.
The man in the derby was H. E. Simmons, the same H. E. who had telegrammed Kings two weeks prior. He was Kings’s informant in the New Mexico Territory, a man who made a living any way available to him—none of them legal. He was neither intelligent nor brave enough to rob banks or trains on his own, but he had been run out of numerous towns for various underhanded dealings, once for trying to sell a buckboard full of freshly painted gold bricks for $200 apiece.
His acquaintance with Kings originated several years before, when the outlaw posted Simmons’s bail—what had landed Simmons in jail that particular time, neither remembered. They met at the local bar afterward, where Kings made an offer of occasional partnership and a cut of the proceeds of any operation in which Simmons might be called upon to assist. That day had finally arrived, and at just the right time. Pickings were slim in Fort Sumner, and so was H. E.’s billfold. He’d been only too eager to scout out the settlement of Justicia for Kings.
Simmons ground out his cigarette on the underside of the table and leaned forward, speaking in a voice heavily accented with the inflection of a native of the upper East Coast, somewhere far, far away from Fort Sumner.
“There’s a big eastern mining company diggin’ around up there. Magnate’s got it in mind that all the silver ain’t quite played out. Ain’t struck the mother lode yet, but, even so, the paymaster heads out once a month, carrying ten thousand to pay the miners.”
“Deposited where?” Kings asked.
“Savings bank on the corner of Third and Chivington. North end of town, between the dry-goods store and some old empty building.”
“Doors open for business at what time?”
“Not likely to on New Year’s Day, Mr. Kings.”
“Why I plan on strikin’ the bank New Year’s Eve.”
“In that case, nine o’clock,” he said. “Employees start arrivin’ a half hour before.”
“That’s when we’ll arrive, then. Describe the place.”
“It was built by a fella from St. Louis. Got pretty red-brick walls, two teller’s cages, and the vault’s in the rear of the building. I got a look at the box when I went in. Sizable, but it shouldn’t be anything your man can’t take care of. Seward, was it?”
Yeager glanced at Kings. “Tom . . . uh, Tom ain’t with us any longer, Sim.”
“Dave Zeller, neither,” Brownwell said.
They had spoken, but Simmons looked to Kings when he asked, “They the ones I read about in the paper a little while back? I’ll be damned. Never have put too much stock in what the papers say—especially ’bout you boys—and I didn’t then. I’d’a sworn the paper said one of ’em was only injured, though.”
Brownwell glanced uneasily at a very quiet Kings. “Fact of the matter is, Zeller and Seward won’t be joinin’ us in Justicia.”
Simmons seemed to have trouble accepting this, and looked to Kings as a drowning man would a branch just out of reach. There was more than a hint of apprehension in his voice. “You mean to say that just the, what, five of you plan on takin’ this bank? Six, including me?”
Yeager answered for Kings. “No, no, we brung three capable fellas along with us. They’ll do their part, and that makes nine.”
Simmons’s relief was still registering when Kings posed another question. “How big’s the opposition?”
Kings had already explained, briefly, the resistance they would face in the lawmen to whom all this could be accredited, but he needed a firm idea as to the kind that awaited them in Justicia.
“You mean Shepherd? Well, I expect you heard of him, but what most folks don’t hear is that he’s got quite the entourage to back him. One of ’em’s this big colored fella who won’t go to the outhouse without a rifle in hand. Scary thing, givin’ guns to coloreds.”
He cackled at his own joke, thinking surely that would garner a similar reaction from former Confederate soldiers, but to no avail.
Simmons cleared his throat and continued. “From what I saw, there was two deputies in town and then there was Shepherd himself, but it turns out there were three more that weren’t in town—rounding up horse thieves, it seems. So that makes six men in all. Somethin’ caught my eye was that the ones in town was wearing their sheriff’s badges but more or less acting as city marshals, making their nightly rounds. They take an interest in town business and regulate it, which makes me think they’re the only law in town. Sort of all-encompassing, if you take my meaning.”
“Well, ain’t that interestin’,” Brownwell said, folding his arms on the table before him. “Sounds to me like Tom Shepherd’s got the town in a stranglehold. Treed ’em with a weapon more powerful’n his gun—reputation.” He glanced at Kings. “Could be we ought to’ve pinned on a badge a long time ago.”
“Easier pay,” Yeager said dryly.
Simmons was almost vehement. “Oh, there’s nothing crooked about Shepherd’s operation, no, sir! He’s runnin’ a tight ship up there, but he’s a God-fearin’ man now.”
Kings traded looks with his lieutenants. Curiosity aside, the information only confirmed what they had suspected. On top of the expected posse, they would have to contend with an efficient and seasoned group of lawmen. Well, that was just fine. It wasn’t like they hadn’t come prepared.
Kings stood and paused with a hand on the back of his chair. Brownwell and Yeager, as though run by the same motor, did likewise, but Yeager, still holding his cup in both hands, seemed reluctant to leave the saloon’s relative warmth. Kings looked down at Simmons, who was still in his seat.
“Sim,” he said, “take us by the gunsmith’s.”
Outside, the sun was beating down hard, steadily melting some of the snow that hadn’t been cleared from the streets. Kings, Brownwell, and Yeager walked down the middle of the thoroughfare like they owned it, scarcely making way, even for the occasional man on horseback. Simmons, as though embarrassed to be seen in their company, slinked along the boardwalk. They turned the corner onto Second and, a few doors down, entered Rose’s Armory.
Once inside, the men fanned out to avoid exposing their backs to the door. Simmons, hesitant, moved out of the open
doorway when Kings waved him forward and motioned to stand beside him at the counter. The sight was not unlike a father beckoning his anxious boy, though a son might have been more eager to watch his father buy a gun.
A man who could have only been Mr. Rose greeted them with a ready smile. He was wiping his oil-streaked hands with a cloth. “Yes, sirs? How can I help you?”
Kings spread his palms on the countertop. “My friends and I are goin’ shootin’ in the Rockies. Like to take a look at your wares.”
The eyes of the proprietor, who was obviously a huntsman himself, brightened. “Shootin’, you say.”
Kings nodded. “What would you suggest in the way of rifles for a fella”—he clapped Simmons on the shoulder—“who’s never been on a hunt before?”
“Well, now, that depends on what sort of game y’all expect to hunt.”
“Elk, mostly, though I expect to run into smaller game up there,” Kings replied. “This buffalo coat I’ve got on is a bit on the aged side. I’d like to bring down a bull if I can.” He nodded at the mounted deer’s head on the wall. “Impressive.”
“Is, ain’t it? Look at the tines on him. Not my kill, though. I ain’t hunted a day, seems like, since we come out here.”
“I already got a damn rifle,” grumbled Simmons.
“What model?” Rose asked.
“It’s a . . . Colt’s revolvin’.”
The gunsmith was visibly amused. “That relic will bring down a pronghorn, sure enough, but that’ll do nothin’ to a buff’ler but make him mad. ’Sides that, as I’m sure you’ve found, the real problem with the Colt’s revolving is the gunpowder: what it’ll do is, it sometimes gets out of the cartridges and lodges in the cylinder. Gas leaks, you pull the trigger, and next thing ya know, you’re tryin’ to put out the fire on your sleeve.”
“A Sharps, then?” Kings suggested.
“Fresh out o’ them, dang the luck. A Spencer wouldn’t be a bad idea, though. Just keep away from the buff’ler. Be like twistin’ his ear.”
Rose went to the rack that dominated the right wall. He found one of the rifles in question, and hefted it with care. He cranked the lever forward, opening the breech, and presented it to Simmons.
“It’s a fine weapon,” Simmons allowed, eyeing it at arm’s length after dry-firing it. “And, by God, you’re right about the Colt’s revolving—I rarely use it for fear of gettin’ my hand blown off.” He glanced at Kings, then at the gun in his hands. “I suppose I’ll take it.”
“You’ll be needin’ cartridge tubes,” Rose said. “You load ’em in there, through the butt. Seven rounds a tube, .56-caliber.”
Kings waited until he had returned from the storeroom with the right amount of tubes Simmons would need for a hunting expedition.
“You got a pistol to speak of, Sim?” Kings asked.
The conman, perturbed that Kings had used his name, drew his weapon in a manner that said he used it about as often as his old rifle. That was the trouble with most Westerners—nearly everyone wore a gun. Men who knew how to use a gun well were an entirely different matter.
At the sight of the pistol, Kings nearly smiled. It was a pocket gun, a hammerless Smith & Wesson. Likely a .32, good for over-or under-the-table gunplay but inadequate in every way for what awaited them. He was right to bring Simmons by here.
Rose opened the display case and arranged a Colt Peacemaker, a .44-caliber Merwin & Hulbert, and a ’75 Remington for Simmons to inspect.
As the grifter did so, the gunsmith looked again to Kings. “You fellers not from around here?”
“Sacramento,” Kings replied.
Simmons raised the Merwin & Hulbert, aimed at the deer’s head, and pulled.
“Sacramento, huh? Long ways from home to be huntin’, ain’tcha? I’d’a thought you’d get a lotta game out there.”
“Well, the valley’s gettin’ civilized, Mr. Rose, at a rate you wouldn’t believe. What with the mining corporations and all the houses and churches going up, a lot of the game’s moved on to wilder parts or higher elevations.”
“Shame.”
One would have thought that Kings and Rose were old friends by the way they each leaned into the conversation, elbows on the counter, speech as slow and nowhere-bound as a Sunday afternoon.
“Tarnation,” Rose grumped, “I’d do anything just to be able ta pack up and do what you fellers are doin’, but I got a business to run and—well, Zoe, she’d just raise holy hell the minute I started cleanin’ my old Sharps.” He rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. “You know how it is with wives.”
Kings chuckled in kind. “I do, indeed. You have any children, Mr. Rose?”
“Yessir.” The gunsmith beamed. “We got three. One of ’em’s married and workin’ on a family of his own. Decided to try his hand at the ranchin’ business a few years back and got married to a foreman’s daughter instead. I don’t blame the boy, but I’d think raisin’ beeves is easier’n raisin’ children. Don’t you?”
Rose’s laugh was infectious, and Kings was sorry he had to lie to him. “I’d have to agree with you, sir.”
Simmons signaled Rose. “Hey, partner. I’ll pay for these now.”
Kings offered his hand, and Rose clasped it with enthusiasm. “You have a pleasant New Year, Mr. Rose.”
“You do the same, Mister . . . ?”
“Kings.”
“You do the same, Mr. King. Good huntin’ to ya.”
Kings led the way out the door. Simmons seemed buoyed, not dragged down, by the added heft of his newly acquired firearms and followed more closely behind the professionals as they made for the boarding house. No one spoke until they rounded a corner, out of sight of the armory.
“Helluva gamble there, Kings,” Brownwell remarked, “givin’ that gunsmith your uncommon family name.”
“Leroy, there’s certain folks you can lie to and some you can’t. You can lie to politicians and John Law, but not to family men.”
It came quickly to the office of Sheriff Tom Shepherd that a large body of lawmen had hitched their horses just up the street in front of the High Grade Hotel. Of course, he had eagerly been expecting them.
For his part, Stringer had intended to take a quick nap in his room before meeting with Shepherd. But because this town was no different than all the others, word spread like wildfire, which is why he found himself calling things to order within thirty minutes of arrival in Justicia.
Besides himself and Shepherd, also present were Leduc, Mincey, and two deputies—a short, red-haired white man and a tall, shaven-headed Negro cradling a Winchester. The sheriff himself was of medium height, rugged, with slate-colored eyes and a walrus mustache. His voice was soft, his manner rigid, perhaps overly courteous, and he was not at all what Stringer had expected.
Shepherd’s weapon of choice was as much a surprise as his demeanor. Stringer hadn’t seen the LeMat grapeshot revolver in some time. Confederate-made, it was a relatively unpopular nine-shot 1855 model chambered for .36 caliber. The real advantage to it was that its cylinder rotated around a smoothbore, sixteen-gauge shotgun barrel, which could be fired by flicking a switch on the hammer. Reputation and manpower be damned—with a sidearm like that, Shepherd could afford to speak softly.
After a brief introduction, Shepherd and his deputies waited for Stringer to fill them in.
He gave them a quick version of all that had transpired since October. He related again how they answered only to President Hayes, Allan Pinkerton, and the governor of Texas, and how he had in his possession a federal commission to prove it.
Stringer hated to, but he couldn’t help but scowl as he concluded, “Up to this point, though, for all our . . . omnipotence, we’ve had pretty poor luck.”
Shepherd’s Anglo deputy spoke up. “Didn’t I just read about you fellas in the paper not too long ago? Seems to me like you ain’t exactly hurtin’.”
“Neither of the men we tangled with was Kings,” Leduc said. “And we only accounted for one of ’em. T
he other made off.”
The sheriff regarded Stringer with a sober countenance. “And you’re certain Kings is comin’ this way? That this all hasn’t been in vain?”
Stringer nodded. “Matter of fact, we expect him to be no more’n two days behind us. Three at the most.”
Exchanging looks with his deputies, Shepherd crossed to the door and opened it. “Then it seems like we’ve got quite the welcome to plan for Mr. Kings. Once you’ve settled in, come by my office, Captain. We oughta devise somethin’ along the lines of a strategy.” As an afterthought, he added, “On second thought, be best if all of you was present.”
“While you’re at it, maybe you oughta convene a town meeting tonight, Sheriff.”
Startled, Shepherd glanced around to find Pat Delaney standing in the hall. The Pinkerton moved into the room, introduced himself, then informed Stringer, “We stowed the big gun down at the livery, and the others are sortin’ out their sleeping arrangements with the fella downstairs. Half of them’ll probably have to hole up at the boarding house down the street, way things are lookin’.”
Shepherd turned to his Negro deputy. “Dobie, get the word out. Anybody has an interest in their share of this town, you tell ’em to congregate at the church house tonight at seven o’clock sharp.”
Dobie nodded, all business. “Yassuh, Sheriff,” he said and hurried down the stairs. Shepherd and the red-haired deputy left shortly after.
Leduc splashed water from a pitcher into the porcelain wash basin on the dresser. “Been meanin’ to ask you, Cap—why this town, in particular? Couldn’t have picked a more out-of-theway place.”
Stringer sat down on the edge of the bed, unknotted the kerchief at his throat, and eased onto his back. He suddenly felt ancient, and in more need of a shave and a bath than he ever had in his life. “Exactly why I picked it, Paul,” he replied. “Its location puts it a far piece out of Kings’s regular circuit of operation. It’s unfamiliar to him, both the town and the surrounding countryside. On top of that, I’d heard what kinda man this Tom Shepherd was, what kind of hand he is with a gun, and I knew he’d be runnin’ a tight ship. We sent the word out, and, as dicey as this whole shindy might appear, the good sheriff sounded willin’ and able to lend a hand.”
The Avenging Angels Page 20