by Matt Cole
‘I’m only thinkin’ of Milly, cuz,’ Solly said.
Henry opened his mouth to retort, but then did not. He had forgotten that Solly had received word at Fort Wilson that his wife was seriously ill up at Cibola Hills. Henry had agreed to take the gang to their hideout up near Cibola Hills right away, so that Solly might visit his Milly. He wouldn’t do this for any other man, but big Solly was special.
‘Damn!’ Henry snapped. Then he shrugged and said, ‘All right, we’ll go north as we agreed.’
‘Thank you, cuz,’ Solly replied with sincere gratitude.
He was humbly grateful. He was a giant of a man and a mad-dog killer, but with Henry Lowe, he was unfailingly deferential. Henry Lowe was a man who scared everyone, even his own father.
‘But I will send some boys back to take care of these Daniels brothers,’ Henry announced. ‘Bad enough having old Blythe trackin’ us from border to border without somebody else chasin’ us for three hundred miles!’ The calculation seemed to aggravate him even farther. ‘Gila,’ he said to the wolf-faced cousin who came closest to himself in lethal ability, ‘pick out a bunch of the boys right away, and. . . .’
He stopped when he saw his uncle shaking his grizzled head. ‘What’s the matter with you now, old man?’
‘You are dividing your forces, Henry,’ Uncle Birch counselled. ‘No good military commander ever does that. You have said so often enough yourself.’
‘Judas Priest! We have lost men down there! We could even have lost Rhonda! You remember her, don’t ya?’
The old man looked grim and solemn. ‘I kinda figure we have already lost her.’
Doc, and two more of Henry’s cousins, looked shocked at the old man’s declaration.
‘That a crazy thing to say, Birch,’ Doc protested. ‘Rhonda’s harder to kill than any man I’ve ever known.’
‘I am just goin’ by what we have heard,’ Uncle Birch defended. ‘Tex here says these Daniels brothers was waitin’ for ’em and had the knoll all staked out. They opened up like it was back to Shiloh with all the fences down.’ He shrugged. ‘He saw two of our boys die, and he said the shootin’ stopped not long after he rode off. To me, that means the fight was over and the ambushers carried the day.’
He paused to nod to Henry.
‘If you have lost one brother tonight, why risk losin’ another?’
There was a war going on inside Henry Lowe. He had fought the same battle before. It was conflict between his natural ferocity and his canny, tactical brain. The main reason his gang had survived so long was due to Henry’s cool head in a crisis and his ability to think and plan.
This trait finally manifested itself again now.
‘All right,’ he said tightly. ‘I will just send a scout back to check on Rhonda, and we will keep on to Cibola Hills. We will take care of these Daniels brothers later, if they are still around later.’ He shook a finger at Solly. ‘And don’t you forget you owe me one.’
‘What you say, Henry,’ Solly replied.
CHAPTER 8
PAY THE TOLL
Rain sluiced against the trail-house windows, a cold and sleeting rain that carried on its breath the chilling promise of early snow. The heavy downpour had wiped out all tracks and forced the brothers to seek sanctuary in the trail house. Leaning on the plank bar with a shot glass in his hand, Frank showed no signs of dejection.
‘We don’t need tracks,’ he was saying. ‘We know where they are headed.’ He took a slug of warming whiskey. ‘Cibola Hills.’
His brothers did not seem to share his confidence. Urban’s death still hung heavily upon them. They had killed one of their mother’s murderers, but they had lost one of their own in the process. Casey stared into his glass while Virgil kept glancing out of the window at the trail, like he was wishing he was on his way back home.
‘How far to Cibola Hills?’ Hugh asked the seedy bartender and learned that it was two days ride due north of their current location.
‘You’ll be lucky not to run into snow up there in Wyoming,’ the old man warned. ‘I can feel it in my joints.’
‘Hell,’ Frank mocked, ‘that means we’ll have to turn back. Snow!’
‘I guess it would still be warm in Missouri,’ Virgil remarked.
‘Missouri,’ Casey echoed. ‘Sounds kind of strange just to say it now, doesn’t it?’
Frank stared into each of his brother’s faces, slowly moving from one to the next.
‘You boys wouldn’t be runnin’ out of steam by any chance, would you?’
The brothers all said or at least mumbled, ‘No.’
They insisted that there was still plenty of steam, but they were not overly convincing to Frank.
‘Well, if you are, there is the door,’ Frank said, coming to his full height. ‘We are not in the army, and no man’s here because he has to be. Go if you want to.’
They looked at him, and he had never seemed taller. He had been through all they had, but he looked untouched by it all. Last night, by the river, they had seen him in action as never before, an implacable force with twin guns dealing death. It was Frank who had sighted the approaching enemy, had set up the ambush and was responsible for their victory. If they had been a little sickened by the way he had dealt with Rhonda Lowe, they had no difficulty rationalizing his actions in the light of what they were doing, and especially, why.
Whether Casey, Hugh or Virgil were losing some of their original wrath was not overly important at that moment. What was important was that by quitting now, they would be letting Frank down, and in a way, even failing the memory of their dear mother.
When Frank rode off an hour later, his three surviving brothers were at his side.
The journey to Cibola Hills occupied two days. They neither saw nor heard anything of their quarry.
On their arrival, they rented a cottage in the river town. While his brothers rested and recovered from ten days of hard travel and danger, Frank Daniels took a walk downtown, to the Dirty Shame Saloon. He proceeded to play the drunk and told anyone who cared to listen that he was on the dodge, and no better than he should be.
Cibola Hills was a tough area and a town with no law, where close-mouthed men minded their own business and strangers were treated warily. But Frank was a patient man when he had to be, and adept at getting people to talk. He continued to play the fool and treated the bar to drinks. Every now and then he slipped in a word or two of sympathy about a ‘young woman hereabouts who, they tell me, is dyin’ of the fever.’
‘That would be Milly Murdock,’ one of the saloon’s drinkers affirmed.
Once the name Murdock was given air, patient Frank did not find it hard to slip the name ‘Lowe’ into general conversation.
Even so, it was getting on towards night before his free booze had loosened tongues sufficiently for them to talk that Cibola Hills was more fearful than admiring of the outlaw band, and that most citizens were none too proud to have the wife of one of the bunch’s most notorious members as a resident.
‘Milly Murdock is a nice enough lady . . . or was,’ a man confided, already putting the woman into the past tense. ‘But her husband is nothin’ more or less than a butcher.’
‘How right you are,’ Frank slurred.
Solly Murdock was one of the five. Four now. Rhonda Lowe was dead with a black pebble on her chest. The Daniels brothers intended that Solly Murdock would be the next to go.
Frank burped and gazed at the drinker with what appeared to be blurred eyes.
‘But surely those outlaws never bother you good folk hereabouts?’ he asked. ‘I mean, they are wanted from one end of the country to the other. They wouldn’t dare, would they?’
‘Oh, they have been here,’ he was told. ‘Not often, but often enough. So as big Solly can visit with Milly, you understand?’
Frank had already figured that. He put on a disbelieving look.
‘Are you tellin’ me those outlaws would dare show their faces here in this town?’
Th
e drinker shook his head, and it was then that Frank heard a local rumor that the Murdock Gang had a hideout someplace west of town, in the sprawling Cibola Hills the town had been named for.
The kid was curious all right.
‘You’re not goin’ out tonight, are you, Frank?’ he demanded as Frank took his mackinaw off the elkhorn rack in the corner. ‘Hell, a goddamn fish would drown out there.’
Rain hammered on the iron roof. It spilled from overflowing guttering and sluiced down the drains. This was the worst night a man might encounter in six months – and Frank Daniels loved everything about it.
He was calm and casual as a man could be as he shrugged into the heavy weather coat that made him look as big as a house. Smile creases showed at the corners of his eyes as he took down his Stetson and knocked it into shape with the heel of his hand.
‘Got me a date to take my mind off Urban, kid,’ he said. His eyes went distant. ‘You should see her. Hair the color of cornsilk, eyes like a Utah lake in summertime. . . .’ He chuckled. ‘Well, you get the general idea, I reckon.’
There was no answering smile from Casey.
‘You ain’t seein’ no female,’ the youngest Daniels brother accused. ‘Why are you lyin’ to me, Frank?’
Frank’s smile disappeared. He fitted his hat to his head and gave the boy a flinty-eyed look.
‘Anybody ever told you that you talk too damn much sometimes, kid?’
Casey shook his head. ‘Mainly you.’
‘Don’t you go on gettin’ sassy now. I’m old enough to be. . . .’
‘Yeah, you’ve told me that before. Old enough to be my grandfather.’
Frank’s face showed surprise. ‘Grandfather? Father, that is.’
‘Who cares? You are old. I’m young, and you are lyin’,’ Casey stood firm.
Frank nodded to himself. He knew what Casey’s game was. He was trying to goad him into revealing what he was up to. He would not get angry with the boy. Not tonight. There would be anger all right, but it would not be directed against any one of his brothers.
He clapped the boy on the shoulder.
‘Get some rest, Casey. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.’
‘Let me come with you, Frank?’ Casey pulled away from the shoulder clap, then added, ‘Please?’
‘Sorry, kid.’ Frank could not risk his young brother.
‘It is that risky?’
‘I didn’t say anything about risks. I just don’t want you to tag along, is all.’
‘You missed your callin’, brother,’ Casey flared, flushed with disappointment. ‘You should have been an attorney, like Hugh. You are a natural liar.’
Frank just grinned and went out, the freezing rain beating against him as he heeled the door closed. Lights from the stables reflected in the pools of water as he went down the steps. Beyond the lights, the night was black with the storm approaching, but he knew what he was doing and where he was going.
The liveryman watched him curiously as he saddled the dark brown thoroughbred. ‘Must have a set on yourself goin’ horsebackin’ on a night like this, big feller!’
At another time, Frank Daniels might had told the fellow to mind his own business. But not tonight. He felt too good.
‘I’m the restless kind,’ he said, swinging up. ‘You know how it is?’
‘No, I sure don’t,’ the liveryman said with a shrug.
‘Adios, then.’
The man stood scratching his gray thatch as Frank rode out. Then he closed the doors, cutting off the light.
Frank Daniels rode alone into the darkness.
Just how he liked it.
The weather was just as foul up in the Cibola Hills as on the flats. The great plains sloped east from the Rocky Mountains, extending south from Canada and covering the eastern parts of Wyoming. Much of it was short-grass prairie land, with the Cibola and Black Hills being the major exceptions. It wasn’t going to stop Solly Murdock from riding, either. Henry said it was all right for him to go visit his dying wife, just so long as he was careful. The outlaws hadn’t seen any sign of pursuit around the area, but they could not afford to be too careful.
Big Solly Murdock was not afraid. Although a long way from being the smartest man in the gang, he was one of the strongest and meanest, for sure. The cussedness in his make-up seemed to spring from some deep physical well. When his anger was up and the blood running hot, he was as dangerous as a runaway. He could be emotional on occasions, and that was his mood tonight as Uncle Birch Murdock walked with him as far as the cave where the horses were hidden. Solly was fond of his wife. She was one of the few people he knew who did not believe he belonged in a cage.
‘She’ll come through,’ Uncle Birch assured him, his face a mass of wrinkles in the lantern light as Solly saddled up. ‘You’ll see. And don’t you stay with her too long, hear me? It ain’t safe for any of us to be wanderin’ around on our lonesome until we deal with them Blue Springs Creek pilgrims.’
Solly did not even hear him. His thoughts were with his wife, Milly.
‘You listenin’ to what I’m saying to you, Solly?’ Uncle Birch asked.
Solly nodded and then muttered, ‘Sure.’
‘You be careful,’ Uncle Birch Murdock said as he shook his head in Solly’s direction.
Solly turned his big, beefy face towards the older man.
‘Nobody better mess with me tonight, Birch. If they do, I am as likely to rip their guts out and feed ’em to the fish in the river.’
The bad old man chuckled. He liked that sort of talk. He understood it. Violence and crime were the cornerstones of his existence. The curious thing was the fascination they still exerted over him despite his years.
‘Hell, I should not be a-frettin’ about you,’ Uncle Birch said. ‘On your way and say howdy to Milly.’
Once under way, Solly began to relax some. He took a heavy plug of dark chewing tobacco from an inside pocket, bit off a big chunk and mashed it with powerful yellow teeth. That was better, he thought. A man could get too tense without tobacco or whiskey at times to settle the nerves.
Coming out of the hills that were seemingly between the eastern and western mountains, Solly eyed several relatively flat basins with gray curtains of rain sluicing over a wind-tossed landscape; the massive outlaw headed for Bridge Road, which would take him across the toll bridge and thence to Cibola Hills. The toll bridge was the only way across the river when the waters were up.
Munching on his plug of tobacco, his floppy black hat tugged down over his face for protection, Murdock rode along in a cocoon of warmth, inside layers of clothes topped off by a glistening slicker. To keep from fretting about his ill wife, Solly allowed his mind to touch on the ambush.
His stubbed lips twisted in a sneer at the thought of the Daniels. Anybody who figured they would ever get the better of the Murdock Gang had another think coming. Henry Lowe, since his takeover as leader of the gang, and the rest of his followers, would still be thriving after all the lawmen, bounty hunters and outraged civilians had turned up their toes.
The Bridge Road was deserted, as expected. Water ran off it in furrowing streams. Occasionally, lightning shimmered and flickered above, revealing the river.
Soon Murdock could hear the roar of the water in the gloom ahead. Then he glimpsed the dim light of the toll booth and felt in his pockets for change. It used to be five cents. He would not be surprised if it had gone up. It had been that long since he had been home.
As he approached the booth, he could make out the silhouette of the toll man ahead.
What a job, Solly thought. Cooped up in a booth hardly big enough to swing a cat, with the rain pouring down and probably no more than half a dozen customers all night long. Compared to that, riding the owl hoot was paradise.
Solly Murdock whistled through his teeth to alert the man. The booth door opened and Solly reined in, offering the coins.
‘How much?’
The toll man did not reply, just fixed him with what Solly Mu
rdock thought was a queer look. The toll man was very big, with shoulders like a barn door. His face was bronzed deeply, and his square jaw was like a rock. Solly thought vaguely that dull, inactive work did not look like it was doing the man any harm.
Then the toll man extended his hands towards him, but not to take his money. Instead, Solly saw that the man was holding out a leather photograph case, opened. The light fell on it, and Solly saw the photograph: an elderly woman with kind, warm features. She was gray-haired and smiling in the photograph.
Familiar.
The elderly woman they had killed in Missouri.
The Daniels!
In that blinding moment, before he could even move, big Solly Murdock knew that he was dead – for the shaved end of a second, his mind ticking along with astonishing clarity and calm, recognizing the inevitable, almost as though ready to accept his fate.
Then primitive reflex took over, and an animal cry tore from Solly Murdock’s throat as he tore at his slicker, trying to reach his holstered pistol.
But Frank Daniels pulled his .45 and shot Solly in the chest. He shot him again in the neck as Solly swayed in the saddle, no longer trying to get his pistol. The horse was leaping away in fright, and the outlaw was falling from the saddle.
Miraculously, Solly Murdock was still alive. There was so much primitive power in his big body that he was actually able to push his torso up out of the mud and lift his ashen face to Frank, trying to say something.
Looming gigantically above him, Frank Daniels fired until the huge body lay face down under the uncaring rain.
Frank produced a small black stone and dropped it on the corpse. The water pooling around the body was turning pink in the light from the toll booth.
Solly Murdock would be searching for water coins to pay the toll across the River Styx now.
CHAPTER 9
A STUDY IN MURDEROUS FURY
Henry Lowe kept prodding the huge corpse as though unable to comprehend that Solly Murdock was really dead. Nobody else gathered in the old barn had any trouble accepting the fact. They had seldom seen anybody so shot to hell as the former strong man of the bunch. Half his skull was missing, and only half his face was left. Just looking at the corpse, one could feel the fury that had gone into the killing. Big Solly Murdock had not been so much assassinated as obliterated.