Taggart's Crossing

by Paul Bedford

  Jacob Stuckey lay flat out on the ferry’s timber decking. It didn’t occur to him that the last thing the outlaws might want was for him to be dead and feeding the fish. The craft was more or less stationary, some few yards away from the south bank. That way he was able to avoid the buffeting of the main current, but could not be surprised by anyone coming out of the Indian Territories. He was trembling with anxiety over the condition of his friend and the situation was only compounded by his enforced inactivity. And yet, he was obeying John’s last command to ‘get onto the river’ and so far nothing had happened to change the good sense in that.

  Russ Decker stared down at the big bastard and cursed fluently. Thanks to him they had one man paroled to Jesus and the ferry exactly where it shouldn’t be. Taggart deserved to be dead, but fortunately he wasn’t. He had actually been incredibly lucky. The bullet had grazed his skull and his face was mottled with powder burns, but he had survived to be of some use to his attackers.

  ‘Heave some river water over the son of a bitch and get him on his feet,’ the outlaw ordered.

  As one of his men hurried off to comply, the gang leader turned towards Lansing. ‘If this turns into a stand-off, we’ll be the losers by it. There has to be some kind of posse looking for us and we sure as hell can’t get across that river without the ferry. Even if we risked it and spread the gold across the five of us, it’s odds on we’d lose some in that current.’

  His sidekick regarded him thoughtfully. ‘So we blow bits off of him until his partner brings the ferry back, is that it?’

  Despite the situation, Decker laughed out loud. ‘For a youngster you catch on quick, don’t you?’

  Lansing grunted unhappily. ‘I wish I was still a young un. I’d tread a different path and that’s no error.’

  His boss regarded him darkly. He really was beginning to have doubts about his commitment, but now wasn’t the time to provoke a confrontation.

  At that moment, a bucket of chill water descended on Taggart’s smarting features and he coughed and spluttered on the floor of the cabin. As the liquid flowed off him, it was tinged with blood from where the bullet had creased his skull. With his eyes open and wits returning, the ferry operator glanced around until his gaze fastened onto Russ Decker. Anger was evident, but there was something else as well. They were the eyes of an intelligent man and that made him dangerous.

  ‘You can glare at me all you want, big man,’ Decker snarled. ‘But right now, we’re holding all the aces and all the guns, so walk softly.’

  ‘Not all the aces,’ Taggart responded quickly. ‘Otherwise I’d be dead and you low-lifes would be over in the Nations.’

  Decker’s eyes narrowed menacingly. That was the second time he’d been directly referred to as a low-life and the experience hadn’t improved any. ‘All right, you. Get vertical and step outside. Keep your guns on him, boys. This here’s a real dangerous man.’

  Silently and unaided, Taggart staggered to his feet. He stood for a few moments, unhindered by his captors, but swaying slightly until his head cleared. Only then did he venture across the threshold. Before him lay the mighty Arkansas. His ferry waited close to the far side and his heart momentarily lurched when he couldn’t immediately spot Jacob. Then he noticed his partner’s horizontal figure on the deck and he smiled with relief. That satisfaction proved to be short lived. A gun muzzle was suddenly pressed against the side of his head and he heard the distinctive double click of the hammer being cocked.

  ‘You with the one arm,’ Decker bellowed out. ‘If you value your friend’s life, you’d better get that ferry back here, pronto. Otherwise I’m going to turn his head into a canoe. Savvy?’

  Minutes passed and the question hung in the air unanswered, until at last the outlaw leader hissed in Taggart’s ear. ‘Did he lose his tongue along with his arm, or does he just want you dead?’

  The big man turned his head slightly against the pressure of the revolver. ‘That damned war changed him. It affected his mind as much as his body. Why not let me talk to him? He trusts me.’

  The outlaw stared at him for a long moment, before finally nodding slowly. ‘I guess it can’t hurt. But no tricks, or it’ll end badly for both of you.’

  Returning his gaze to his prone partner, Taggart drew in a deep breath. He was very conscious that what he said next could get them both killed. ‘Jacob, you hear me?’

  The response was instantaneous. ‘I hear you, John. What have I to do?’

  ‘I know you’re a mite short-handed at the moment,’ the big man responded. There were chuckles around him, as he had anticipated and the pressure on his head eased slightly. ‘If you remember what those two Union sons of bitches left behind, you might want to make use of them.’

  Jacob raised his head slightly, as though searching for something and then nodded sharply. Without any warning, he rolled rapidly to the side of the ferry, sucked in a deep breath and simply dropped overboard. There was a splash and momentary thrashing in the water and then . . . nothing.

  ‘What the hell just happened?’ Decker bellowed out. His men were completely non-plussed, except for Mark Lansing who favoured the ferryman with a shrewd glance.

  ‘I think Russ was right,’ he commented softly. ‘You are dangerous.’

  The outlaw boss took a step backward and then viciously pistol-whipped Taggart across his face. Strong as he was, no one could resist that kind of blow and down he went. The big man was again on the ground and defenceless and this time it was Decker who took deliberate aim at him. With the muzzle pointing directly at Taggart’s bleeding face, he squeezed the trigger.

  As Jacob Stuckey dropped below the surface, he gasped with shock. It might have been summer, but the water was still damned cold. Reaching out with his one hand, he heaved his body under the ferry and stayed there for a moment, resisting the tug of the current as he got his bearings. Then, knowing what had to be done, he kicked out strongly to propel himself deeper. Although disabled and traumatized, Jacob was also robust and determined and under orders from the only man he trusted in the world. He soon reached the river bottom. It was probably for the best that he didn’t hear the single gun shot that crashed out in front of the cabin. As it was, he used his legs to help remain on the bottom and desperately searched for the discarded weapons.

  Mark Lansing’s hand struck the revolver barrel just at the moment of discharge. As the bullet slammed into earth barely an inch from his head, Taggart’s battered features received mild burns from the muzzle flash. By now his face resembled a charred steak, but at least he was still alive. Decker was beside himself with anger.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ he barked at Lansing. ‘But for this pus weasel, we’d all be across that river by now!’

  His deputy sighed wearily. ‘He was only trying to protect what’s his. And besides, what’s done is done, but if a posse should find us with yet another dead citizen it’d likely go badly for us.’ He paused, before adding, ‘You reckon?’

  Decker silently glared at him whilst absorbing the unwanted advice, before finally acknowledging that the moment for killing had passed . . . at least temporarily. ‘You want him, you got him. Have him tied up and out of my sight.’ Holstering his weapon, he returned his attention to the abandoned ferry. ‘Looks like he don’t figure on returning and time’s moving on. If that thing’s not coming to us, then we’ll have to go and get it. Seems as though someone’s set to get wet!’

  Jacob knew that he could not last much longer. His chest was tight. His head pounded from a lack of oxygen. Frantically he groped around on the river bottom. They had to be here. They just had to be. Then he felt it. A buckle. Elatedly, he seized the gun belt. Possessing only one hand, he was unable to strap it on and so instead rammed one end of the belt deep into the crotch of his trousers. His lungs felt as though they must surely burst. Recovering two rifles was out of the question, but then his searching fingers found the other holstered revolver and he knew that he had done enough. It was time to surf
ace.

  Peering up at the ferry’s solid bulk, Jacob kicked out at the riverbed and even with the extra weight rapidly shot to the surface. His head cleared water just behind the timber craft, so that he was hidden from the far shore. Gratefully he sucked fresh air into his burning lungs. The relief was tremendous and, for some considerable while, breathing was all that concerned him. Then he got to thinking about what to do next. One way or another, he had to find a way to help John and that meant remaining close to the ferry. And yet to climb up the bank behind him was to invite discovery.

  Very reluctantly, Jacob drew in one last deep breath and again dropped below the surface. Swimming with the current, he headed downstream until his chest began to hurt again. With weakness beginning to overwhelm him, he veered immediately towards the bank. Then, facing the sky, he tilted his head back so that only his face was out of the water. Breathing deeply, he carefully scrutinized the far bank. Jacob was now nearly one hundred yards away from his ferry and no one was watching anyway. Two of the outlaws seemed to be helping his friend back into the cabin, so at least John was still alive. Greatly encouraged by that, he decided to get out of the river.

  Using the plentiful vegetation as cover, the ferryman was soon hidden in the undergrowth well back from the river. Accepting that he would have to remain in wet clothes, he dropped to the ground and awkwardly buckled on one of the gun belts. Thankfully, they were cartridge revolvers rather than cap ’n ball, so there was a good chance that the powder would not be spoiled. It was only then that it dawned on him that to help his friend he might actually have to shoot somebody. The deep chill that suddenly assailed him had nothing to do with his unexpected swim, but to counter it he got to his feet and began walking back towards the abandoned ferry.

  ‘Brett, get back up that trail a short way and keep watch,’ Decker ordered. ‘Any movement, come tell me. And no shooting, you hear?’

  The fair-haired bank robber nodded eagerly and turned away. He was glad to be gone. Whatever his boss was planning was likely to involve water and he didn’t swim too well. In fact he couldn’t swim at all, but didn’t care to admit it.

  With Huey Soble resting his throbbing arm on a cot in the cabin and the other remaining outlaw securely binding Taggart, only Decker and his deputy were left by the landing stage. The gang boss’s expression was grim.

  ‘One of us has got to bring that ferry back,’ he announced, staring pointedly at Lansing.

  That man frowned. He wasn’t for a moment fooled by ‘one of us’ and so snapped back. ‘Why me? What about Josh? In fact, come to think of it, what about you?’

  It was Decker’s turn to scowl. ‘All Josh is good for is frightening women and children. Oh, and back shooting. We don’t know for sure that that fella over there has hightailed it for good. I need someone with at least half a brain to haul that ferry back. Without it, we’re all in trouble.’ He paused as though recollecting something. ‘And I’m not doing it, because I need to be here in case some posse turns up looking for a fight. Savvy?’

  Lansing sighed. Oh he savvied, all right. Deep down, he knew that this was really about Decker reasserting his authority and also testing to see if his ‘side kick’s’ heart was still in it. And in truth it really wasn’t any more, but nevertheless something stirred inside of Mark Lansing. He had been presented with an unmistakeable challenge that had awakened his stubborn streak. It was going to take more than any river and a one-armed man to stop him getting to Mexico!

  As Jacob watched the lone figure slip into the water from the landing stage, he began to tremble with apprehension. He now had more weapons than he could physically use, but the prospect of having to fire one filled him with gnawing anxiety. He would remember, until his dying day, the unremitting agony as the army surgeon’s blood-soaked saw bit into his mangled left arm. The damage had been caused by a spinning Minie Ball from the rifle of a Union soldier and ever since, he had lived in dread of having to get into another firefight. And yet, as he watched the outlaw dragging himself hand over hand across the Arkansas, Jacob recognized that he would just have to damn well control his fear.

  Lansing soon realized that without the thick cable, his chances of crossing the fast-flowing river would have been slim indeed and Slim had just left town. His brief chuckle at the tired jest was abruptly halted by a mouthful of water. It was also dawning on him that heaving the heavy craft back across the river was going to be mighty hard toil. Then again, if someone with only one arm could do it, then he surely could. And what of the one-armed ferryman? Had he really permanently vamoosed? It seemed unlikely. He just hoped that Decker was making good his promise to cover him with a Winchester.

  Jacob blinked nervously as he spotted the marksman on the far bank. The only thing preventing him from turning tail was the sure knowledge that John needed him. Desperately trying to control his fear, he drew and cocked his newly acquired revolver. The other gunbelt was coiled up back in the undergrowth, for use as a holdout weapon. Crouching low, he moved stealthily through the vegetation, ensuring that he kept the ferry between him and the rifleman. The approaching outlaw had almost reached the craft. It seemed as though some kind of confrontation was unavoidable.

  Mark Lansing was tiring. His arms felt like dead weights. He wasn’t used to such physical exertion. Thankfully, he was barely two yards from the ferry, but the cable ran up out of the water towards it. This meant that to avoid letting go and running the risk of being swept downriver, he would need to haul himself bodily out of the water. If there were anyone waiting for him, that was when he would be most vulnerable. Breathlessly, he paused for a moment in the chill water and rapidly glanced back. That son of a bitch had better be there!

  Jacob watched intently as the soaking wet figure wearily reached for the timber railing. If he was going to do this thing, then it had to be now whilst the other man was clinging on with both hands. And because of the stretch of river between them, his only option was to use the threat of his Colt. Mouth dry with fear, he clambered to his feet and rushed forward.

  ‘Jump back in the river and go with the current or I’ll fire,’ he shouted. ‘Please!’

  Horrified at the sudden apparition, Lansing momentarily froze. With a great flood of relief, Jacob decided that everything was going to be all right after all. There would be no shooting and no horrific wounds to contend with.

  Russ Decker watched as his man finally reached the ferry. If anything were going to happen, it would be now. After levering up a cartridge out of the tubular magazine, he tucked the ‘Yellow Boy’ Winchester into his shoulder and waited impatiently . . . but not for long. As Lansing had dragged himself out of the river, there was movement in the bushes on the far bank. It looked like the one-armed man, but Decker could not be sure because his damned sidekick was in the way.

  ‘Move, you son of a bitch,’ he angrily murmured and then fired anyway.

  The bullet slammed into the timber railing a short distance beyond Lansing’s weary body. It was far nearer to him than to Decker’s intended victim and so very definitely had the effect of spurring Lansing into action. Dropping to his knees on the decking, he grabbed for his revolver.

  Jacob watched that dreaded act with dismay. He now had to do what he had so desperately hoped to avoid. Rapidly drawing a bead on the other man’s torso, he squeezed the trigger. Instead of the expected detonation, there was merely a dull click. The river water had done its work. Misfire!

  Lansing couldn’t believe his luck, but now he had to profit from it. His right hand closed around the butt of his revolver and he swiftly levelled it at his assailant. Yet when he tried to thumb back the hammer, the river water worked against him as well. At the first attempt, his digit simply slid off the metal.

  Jacob had no such problem. Again he cocked and squeezed and this time the Colt blasted out its deadly load. The heavy bullet struck Lansing in the soft flesh of his belly. He let out a tremendous groan, released his hold on the rail and dropped painfully to his knees. It was that las
t action that saved him from falling back into the river.

  As Decker watched his man collapse, he swore violently and began to work the Winchester’s lever action like a maniac. Bullet after bullet sped across the Arkansas, until he was enveloped in such a cloud of acrid smoke that he could no longer see.

  ‘What in tarnation’s happening, boss?’ yelled Josh from the cabin’s entrance.

  ‘I fancied a nice buffalo tongue,’ Decker responded acidly. ‘What the hell d’you think’s happening, you moron? Get back inside.’

  Stepping clear of the powder smoke, he anxiously peered across the river. Lansing was still on his knees, but now doubled over. Of the ferryman there was no sign, but that didn’t mean he was dead.

  ‘Mark,’ he bellowed out. ‘Can you hear me?’

  For a moment there was no response, but then the other man slowly raised his left hand to shoulder height before allowing it to drop like a lead weight.

  Grunting, Decker continued with, ‘Is that one-armed cockchafer still alive? I need to know!’

  The answer, when it came, was bitterly disappointing and hard to swallow. Lansing made no response, but there was sudden movement in the bushes and a gunshot rang out. The bullet came nowhere near, but then a new voice rang out across the water.

  ‘Don’t send anyone else across, please,’ Jacob pleaded from the safety of cover. ‘I really don’t want to hurt anyone.’

  ‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it,’ Decker retorted indignantly. He stood for a moment and pondered. ‘So what about my man there? What happens to him?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can for him, but you stay well clear. You hear?’

  Decker glanced down at the little pile of empty cartridges that seemed to mock his apparent impotence. ‘Great,’ he snarled. ‘Just great!’ Turning, he stormed off towards the cabin, pausing only to hurl out, ‘You bull turd. I’m going to have your other arm before this is all over!’

  Arriving back in the cabin, he peered wildly at Josh and Huey. ‘It’ll be night time soon,’ he announced. ‘We’ll have to fort up here until I can figure out what to do next.’