by Ralph Cotton
“That’s right, Ranger,” said Thorn as if reading the ranger’s thoughts. “I’m Captain Cadden Thorn, United States Marines . . . emeritus, by choice, of course.” His right hand touched the handle of his sword in a sign of respect.
“Of course,” said Sam. Now that he’d noted the eagle globe and anchor, Sam also noted the big military-style holster strapped across Thorn’s abdomen, its leather flap closed over the butt of a big Colt horse pistol.
“Ranger Burrack!” the town sheriff called out from the boardwalk. “Pardon me for barging in if you two are not all finished shooting the living hell out of my town, but just what the blazes is going on here?”
Sam turned to the boardwalk as the sheriff stepped down and walked forward. “Mr. Thorn, this is Sheriff Paul Braden,” Sam said. To the sheriff he said, “Sheriff Braden, this is Cadden Thorn, a bounty hunter trailing the same gang I’m after.”
The sheriff and the bounty hunter gave each other a respectful nod.
“Those damn Black Valley Riders,” said Braden, looking away from Thorn and down at the bodies strewn on the dirt street. “I should’ve known.”
“I would have come to you first if I’d had the time, Sheriff,” Sam said. “But while I had these three gathered close, I figured I best get it done.”
“Except for Parsons, Sheriff,” Thorn cut in. “We shot him.”
“We? Who’s we?” Braden asked, looking all around.
“My partner, Sheriff,” said Thorn. He gestured a nod in the direction of the rise of dust as it neared the dirt street from the stretch of sandy flatlands. “Here he comes now.”
Chapter 2
As the younger bounty hunter rode up onto the dirt street, Sheriff Paul Braden said in a lowered voice just between himself and the ranger, “Who are these two bounty hunters, Burrack? Why have I never seen them before, or at least heard of them?”
“You know as much about them as I do, Sheriff,” the young ranger replied. “I’ve never laid eyes on them before.” He nodded at the man riding toward them. “I only know that this one kept me from catching a bullet.” Having noted the sword hanging from Thorn’s saddle horn, he now saw the handle of a shorter sword sticking out of the younger man’s bedroll.
“Well,” Braden said with resolve, “bounty money is payable to whoever earns it.” He looked at the bodies on the street. “I still don’t like the notion that somebody can ride into my town, rub out three men and leave here with a poke full of cash for doing it.”
“Two of those dead men I killed, Sheriff,” Sam replied quietly.
“That’s different,” said the sheriff. “You’ve got a badge given to you by the Territory of Arizona, giving you the authority.”
“And they’ve got a bounty poster, which guarantees any man a reward for bringing these outlaws to justice, Sheriff.” Sam met the sheriff’s eyes as the young bounty hunter reined his horse down a few feet from his partner. “When the territory puts a price on a man, they know somebody’s going to try to collect it.”
“Point taken,” said the sheriff, turning his attention to the bounty hunters as the two stepped down from their saddles.
Sam noted that the young bounty hunter waited until Thorn’s boots touched the ground before swinging down himself. When the two stood facing the ranger and the sheriff, the young Cubano stood a step behind Thorn, the big Swiss rifle in hand.
“Gentlemen,” Thorn said proudly, “I’d like you to meet my associate, Mr. Dee Sandoval.” To the Cubano he said formally, “Mr. Sandoval, meet Sheriff Paul Braden and Ranger Samuel Burrack.”
“Sheriff Braden, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” the Cubano said respectfully, touching his gloved fingertips to the brim of his dusty hat.
Braden returned Sandoval’s greeting, touching his own hat brim in response.
Turning from Braden to the ranger, Sandoval said in a quiet voice, “Ranger Burrack, I have heard much about you. It is an honor to meet you.”
“The honor is mine,” Sam said in the same courteous tone. “I’m obliged to you for saving my life.” He gestured toward the body of Bobby Parsons lying in the dirt, where a wide puddle of blackening blood surrounded his head. Then he looked out at the distant hill line a good thousand yards away. “That was some good shooting,” he added.
Sandoval only nodded.
The sheriff stepped in closer to admire the big Swiss rifle in the young Cubano’s hand. “That must be some special kind of rifle, making a shot like that,” he said. As he spoke he reached out as if asking Sandoval to hand the rifle to him.
But Dee Sandoval held on to the rifle. “Are you asking me officially to surrender my weapon, Sheriff Braden?” he asked somberly.
“Well, no, not officially,” Braden said. He looked a little embarrassed. “I just thought I’d take a look at it, is all.”
Sandoval looked to Thorn as if for guidance.
Thorn ignored the matter altogether and said to the sheriff, “Will there be any difficulty in us taking our reward today?”
“None that I can see,” Braden said. “I can sign off on an affidavit, send you to the bank, get you paid and on your way, if that’s to your suiting.”
“It is,” Thorn said. “Some towns get a little edgy if we stay around after our work is finished.”
“Not my town,” Braden was quick to inform him. “But if you two are ready to push on, I’ll accommodate you as best I can.”
“Obliged, Sheriff,” said Thorn.
Braden looked to the ranger and said, “It hardly seems fair. You shoot down two killers face-to-face and get no reward.”
“I get paid to do my job. It’s fair,” Sam said, in a voice that asked for no further discussion.
“But still . . .” Braden let his words settle for a second, then nodded at the other two bodies. “What if I signed off on these two as well?” He looked back and forth between the ranger and the bounty hunters. “The three of you could settle up the reward money to suit yourselves.”
Before Sam could reply, Thorn cut in, saying, “Mr. Sandoval and I take no pay for work we didn’t do. Parsons is the bounty we have coming.”
“I understand,” Braden said quickly. He looked to the ranger. “I was only suggesting that the three of you, and even myself as far as that goes—”
“Sheriff,” Sam said, cutting him off, “these gentlemen want to get on their way. So do I, for that matter.”
Braden took on a sullen look. “In that case I’ll just trouble you three to give me a few minutes while I take care of the paperwork.” He said to the ranger, “I’ll need you to come with me, Samuel, to witness what you saw and help identify these Black Valley gunmen.”
“All right,” said the ranger, “anything to help.” Along the boardwalk he saw townsmen beginning to move forward, looking at the dead bodies strewn about in the dirt street.
“Obliged to both of you,” said Thorn. He stepped back to his horse. “You’ll find us at the Big Winner, after we attend to our animals,” he said, gesturing toward the big clapboard saloon occupying half a block along the dirt street. A giant hand-painted mug of foamy beer stood beckoning from a large sign. Beneath the frothing mug a giant pair of painted dice lay as if tumbling toward the street below. Through the open doors of the saloon, a stream of townsfolk filed out onto the street looking all around at the dead.
“Make yourselves to home,” said Braden. Looking at Thorn and Sandoval, he said in a warning tone for the benefit of the gathering townsfolk converging now from every direction, “But keep your guns holstered and your manners in check.”
Cadden Thorn gave a thin trace of a smile as he and Sandoval turned their horses to lead them toward the saloon. “Sheriff, you’ll hardly know we’re here,” he said over his shoulder.
As the two walked away toward the saloon, Sheriff Braden said to two of the gathering townsmen, “Jake, you and Charles line these bodies up. Let everybody get a good look, then haul them over behind the barbershop.”
“Sure thing, Sheriff,” ans
wered one of the men.
Looking back toward the two bounty hunters, Braden said to the ranger, “Isn’t that a marine eagle on Thorn’s hat?”
“Yes, it is,” Sam said. “He called himself a captain, emeritus.”
“Meaning . . . ?” the sheriff asked.
Staring after the two bounty hunters, noting the tall leather leghorns reaching up to Thorn’s knees, the ranger said, “Meaning, he retired his marine commission but doesn’t want to give it up just yet.”
“Yeah, I think I understand what you mean,” said Braden, also staring as the two walked through the approaching onlookers to the hitch rail out in front of the Big Winner Saloon. “It must be hard walking away from that kind of a life. I’d like to know what his story is.”
“Sandoval’s too,” said the ranger, watching the young Cuban walk three steps behind Thorn into the saloon, the big Swiss rifle still in hand.
Now that the gun battle was over, the bodies in the dirt street had drawn the afternoon drinking crowd away from the Big Winner Saloon. The only remaining patron, a thin, pale-faced gambler, sat at an empty gaming table idly shuffling a deck of cards. He looked toward the two bounty hunters when they stopped and stood at the bar, looking back and forth for the bartender.
“It appears that you gentlemen may have passed the bartender on his way across the street,” the gambler said in a whiskey-tilted voice. “Speaking on behalf of the Big Winner Saloon, I bid you both help yourselves.”
“Obliged,” said Thorn.
Sandoval reached across the bar top, took two shot glasses from a row of clean glasses and stood them in front of Thorn and himself. Instead of walking behind the unattended bar and taking down an unopened bottle of rye, he uncorked a house bottle the bartender had stood to the side for his single-shot customers.
Thorn picked up his glass and tipped it toward Sandoval in a toast. “Here’s to keeping up the good work, Sandy.”
Sandoval nodded. “To the good work.”
Both men raised their glasses to their lips. But before the two could take a drink, above them on the second landing a door flew open and a bare-chested gunman charged out, his big six-gun blazing.
From his empty table the lone drunken gambler sat watching as both bounty hunters spun from the bar toward the upper landing. Thorn’s big horse pistol came out of its flapped holster in one long, sleek motion. Sandoval’s Army Colt came up from a shoulder rig worn high under his left arm. Both men fired as one as shots from the gunman above them zipped past their heads.
In the room behind the gunman, a young woman let out a scream, the bounty hunters’ bullets splattering her with blood from the two exit wounds in the shirt-less man’s back.
The gunman, a thief and killer named Earl Baggett, broke through the second-floor handrail and crashed headlong onto the plank floor below, the impact of his fall jarring the entire building. His Remington revolver spun three full circles on the sawdust floor like an instrument in some deadly game of chance, then stopped and lay two feet from his fingertips. Smoke curled up from the long barrel.
“My, my,” the lone gambler said, watching quietly, not the least rattled by the roar of gunshots, the screams or the flying bullets.
Along the bar top a mug of foamy beer had exploded from one of Baggett’s shots. The impact of it had knocked over an open whiskey bottle. Beer and whiskey ran over the edge of the bar to the dirty floor. A spittoon that had been knocked over onto its side rolled back and forth on its belly until it settled against the iron boot rail.
Baggett’s dead eyes stared wide and aimless across a spreading sea of sawdust and blood. The gaping exit wounds in his back revealed fragmented remains of heart and bone matter. A cloud of gray powder smoke loomed above the bounty hunters and rose slowly into the rafters.
“Adios, Early . . . ,” the gambler said under his breath. He tipped his glass toward the limp, bloody body, then tossed back a drink of rye and went back to idly shuffling a deck of cards atop his empty table. He gave a slight shrug as the two bounty hunters turned toward the sound of his hushed voice in the ringing silence.
“I’m just paying my final respects, sir,” he said in a refined Southern accent. His words did not hint at the large amount of rye he’d drunk throughout the day.
“Friend of yours?” Thorn asked. He held a bone-handled Colt horse pistol in hand, its barrel raised upward, but poised and ready.
“My friend? Not particularly,” the gambler said. “Yet by no means would I call him my enemy.”
Thorn took note of the man’s pale skin, his loose-fitting black linen suit—a string tie above a silk brocaded vest. Near the edge of the table stood a tall, dark green top hat; a rip along the edge of its high flat crown had been repaired with black thread.
“But you do know him?” said Dee Sandoval, the younger bounty hunter. He stood three feet from Thorn, scanning along the second-floor landing as he spoke. A women’s frightened face peeped out of a narrowly opened door, then jerked back as she shut the door quickly.
“Indeed I did know him,” the gambler replied. “I daresay every reprobate on this godforsaken Western frontier knew Early Earl Baggett.” He looked down at Baggett’s body and said in a tone of regret, “I planned on getting to know him much better once he finished satisfying his more primal needs.” He sighed and laid the deck of cards down between his clean pale hands. “You appear to have put the hiatus on that plan.”
“Earl Baggett . . . ,” Thorn said, recognizing the name. “When did he ride in here?” he asked. As he posed the question, he walked over to the gambler’s table.
“How might I know such a thing as that?” the gambler asked in reply. He cleared his throat, reached over and refilled his empty shot glass from a bottle of rye. He tipped the bottle toward Thorn and glanced toward a chair across the table from him.
Thorn declined the drink, but he pulled out the chair and seated himself. “It strikes me you would know just about everything that goes on around here,” he said. Raising his holster flap, he slid his big horse pistol into a belly-style rig running across his lower abdomen, leaving the flap open. Leveling a curious gaze, he added, “As a matter of fact, you look awfully familiar yourself.”
“Don’t try buffaloing me, sir. It won’t work,” the gambler said. “And be careful saying that you’ve seen me before. That would imply that you have been in the same places I’ve been—something you might not want to freely admit in Christian company.”
“I meant it,” said Thorn. “You look familiar, though I can’t say from where.”
“I might look familiar, sir, but I am not,” the gambler said with finality on the subject. He gave a faint smile and said with satisfaction, “I watch and I listen, as my vocation requires.” He raised his glass, sipped at the rye, then set the glass down. “I’m Tinnis Lucas, at your service,” he said. “And you . . . ?” He gazed expectantly, awaiting a reply.
Thorn just stared at him.
The gambler gave up. He made another shrug and looked the bounty hunters over.
Military man . . . , Lucas said to himself. He knew their type. Oh yes, he thought, he knew their type all too well. . . .
Behind Thorn, Dee Sandoval remained standing, positioned quarterwise to the second-floor landing. He kept a watchful eye along the line of doors beyond the broken handrail, particularly the one where he’d seen the women’s face, as he punched out the smoking empty cartridge from his Colt and replaced it.
“So, you two are soldiers of the sea, I take it,” the gambler said, seeing the same bearing, the same preciseness and economy in the young man’s demeanor that he saw in Thorn’s.
Without answering, Thorn stared straight into Tinnis Lucas’ eyes and went back to his original question in the same tone of voice. “How long ago did Earl Baggett ride into town? Which way did he come from?”
The gambler shrugged and said reluctantly, “Earlier today. I’m afraid I neglected to check either my watch or my compass.” He avoided Thorn’s stare, as if a
voiding it might make it go away.
But it didn’t. Thorn’s eyes demanded more answers.
Lucas put him off, gesturing a nod at Thorn’s hat brim. “I’m familiar with that eagle and anchor insignia from back in Charleston Harbor.”
“Good for you,” Thorn said. “Who rode in with Baggett?”
“My goodness, man!” said Lucas. “How many questions are you going to ask me?”
“As many as it takes,” said Thorn. “I don’t want to think you knew that man was going to try to kill us and you weren’t going to warn us he was there. That would be upsetting.”
“Yes, I can allow as how it would,” said Lucas, his face looking more and more concerned, as if his whiskey was suddenly leaving him flat.
“Who rode in with Earl Baggett?” Thorn asked again. He slipped the long horse pistol back out of the belly holster and laid it atop the table pointing at the gambler.
“Come, now, Mr. Thorn,” Lucas said drunkenly, “you wouldn’t harm an unarmed man, would you?” He started to reach up and open the lapel of his black linen suit coat. But Thorn leaned forward, reached over the table and stopped him.
“I don’t know any unarmed men,” said Thorn, opening the gambler’s lapel himself and pulling a short Colt Thunderer from a shoulder harness beneath Lucas’ left arm.
“I was going to take it out and disarm myself,” Lucas said, his cool demeanor starting to change, grow less confident, a little edgy and unsettled.
Thorn inspected the Thunderer, hefted it in his hand as if to get a feel for it. He looked the ivory-handled gun over. “Who rode in with Earl Baggett?” he persisted.
“Come on, gentlemen, please,” said Lucas, raising his hands chest high in a show of peace. “A fellow can get himself killed spreading too much information around in this blasted hellhole.”
“A fellow can get himself pistol-whipped with his own gun too, if he’s not careful,” said Sandoval.
“I’m through talking,” Thorn said.
“Bravo, sir. I feared the end would never come,” the gambler said.