by Sam Clancy
‘If I come in there after you, there is no way you’ll be alive once it’s all over!’
The answer was a gunshot that hissed close to Ford’s ear, which only served to irritate the deputy even more.
The hammer of the Peacemaker was thumbed back as it dangled near Ford’s thigh. He set his jaw firm and strode towards the Gutshot Saloon with a deadly purpose in each step.
Fletcher emerged from an alley to Ford’s right, a cocked six-gun in his hand. The weapon roared, and splinters were chewed from an awning upright behind Ford. The deputy fired once, and with a cry of pain, the once sheriff of Crofton threw his arms in the air and went down.
One bullet left.
When Ford pushed in through the batwings, the interior of the saloon erupted with gunfire. Those within earshot might have thought a full-blown battle had broken out in the two-storey establishment. But once the abrupt flurry of shots ceased, a single gunshot sounded.
Only then did a heavy silence descend upon the town, an eeriness punctuated by the clunk of boots on floorboards. They stopped momentarily, before the squeak of dry hinges indicated the opening of the batwings once more.
Ford stepped out on to the boardwalk and halted. Blood still dripped from his fingertips, this time forming a small pool on the scarred and dusty planks. In his right hand was the empty Peacemaker.
Ford looked up and down the street. He could see townsfolk emerging tentatively from their various places of refuge. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he said out loud, ‘Damn, I hate Texas.’
Chapter 2
When Ford rode into the town of Three Forks, Texas, United States Marshal Walton Grimes was sitting in a wicker chair out front of his office, enjoying the morning sun.
Grimes was a solidly built man in his forties with dark hair and moustache. With intense outlaw activity in Three Forks for some time, he’d been transferred there about a year before to sort things out. He’d requested more marshals to help out, but those pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Then word had come from his old friend Bass Reeves, that his son was on the way and to use him as he saw fit.
Ford’s reputation had preceded him through various channels and the marshal was pleased for the help. When the bodies started to pile up, he began to think that Ford could be really useful.
Word had been filtering out of Crofton for a while now about Bartlett and his influence over the town. And when Grimes had heard about Ortega showing up there, well, the opportunity was too good to pass up.
He’d sent Ford.
Now the marshal from up north was riding up the main street, a string of nine pack-horses in tow, attracting all manner of attention from the townsfolk as every horse was carrying a ripe corpse draped over its back.
The stench of death reached Grimes well before Ford did. The marshal screwed up his nose at the assault on his sense, and climbed from his chair. Once erect he walked out into the street.
When Ford drew level on the blue roan, Grimes’ face pinched in disgust. ‘What in tarnation are you doing trailing all that?’
‘All that as you refer to it, is what you sent me to Crofton for. Sure, you sent me there to get Ortega. But you knew what else I would find there, didn’t you? Well, here they are.’
He dropped the lead rope to the ground and turned the roan away.
‘Hey, where are you going?’
‘For a bath,’ Ford called back.
‘What about these? You can’t leave them there.’
‘Yeah, I can.’
Grimes looked at the body-laden horses, and in spite of the stench, gave a mirthless smile. Ford may not be there for long, but he sure would make the most out of the situation. And for that reason, he already had a notion of where to send Ford next.
A little town called Dent.
The Cow Hide Saloon was busy that afternoon when Grimes found Ford. Cowmen were bellied up to a long bar as they talked about their week, while here and there a soiled dove was draped over one of them, helping to part them from their hard-earned cash. Cigar smoke built up steadily with each passing hour, and before the night was out, would hang thickly in the air like an early morning fog. Behind the bar, a squinty-eyed keep known as Bill was kept busy moving back and forth filling empty glasses and providing fresh bottles.
Both marshals sat in a far corner, out of the way but still able to keep an eye on things. Not that town stuff was their problem. Three Forks had a sheriff for that. But old habits die hard.
Ford put the half-empty glass down on the scarred tabletop and looked curiously at Grimes. He cocked an eyebrow and asked, ‘What did you say the name of this town was?’
‘Dent.’
‘And the name of this feller is. . . ?’
‘Hiram Dent.’
‘That’s what I thought you said. This ain’t going to be a job like the last one you sent me on, is it?’
‘Weeell . . .’
Ford rolled his eyes. ‘Uh huh. Who is he? Is the town named after him or something?’
‘No, not after him,’ Grimes said truthfully.
Ford picked up the whiskey glass. ‘That’s something.’
‘It was named after his pappy.’
The empty glass smacked down on the tabletop again. ‘Son of a bitch, Grimes. Are you set on killing me or something? I bet the damn town is full of Dents. The hombre has probably got ten brothers waiting to shoot anyone who comes after him.’
‘Oh, no. No, not at all. That’s an exaggeration if I ever heard one. He only has six.’
Sarcasm dripped from Ford’s voice. ‘That’s just wonderful. I can see the headstone now. Here lies Josh Ford. Shot full of holes by Dents.’
‘Have you finished?’
Ford growled as he picked up the two-thirds full bottle of whiskey and poured another drink. ‘I’m only just getting started.’
‘Listen, Josh. Hiram Dent shot a sheriff over in the town of Hadley. He needs to be brought in. His pappy is the orneriest son of a bitch I ever knew. He’d do anything for that boy of his. Including shoot any lawman who came after him.’
‘Well, why haven’t you brought him in yet then?’
‘I sent two marshals after him in the past two months. The last one was sent back to me wrapped up in barbed wire and tied to his horse. Your pa said you were good at what you do. And going by what you did over in Crofton, I’d have to agree with him. Yes, the job is dangerous. Your pa said you were the best. That’s what I need.’
‘And what if all these Dents try to stop me? I want to be clear on how far you want me to go to bring him in. A job like this, I can’t have my hands tied.’
Grimes’ face became a harsh mask. ‘You do whatever it takes. Even if you have to kill them all to do it. I’m beyond caring.’
‘Where do you want me to take him? Assuming I take him alive, that is.’
‘Take him to Hadley. He’ll be tried there. The new sheriff’s name is Pete Newey. I’ve met him, seems like a decent feller.’
‘What do you want me to do after I drop him off there?’
‘Hang around for a few days and make sure there’s no trouble. I’m not saying there will be, but them Dents are a breed of their own. Like as not they’ll follow you there and try to break him out. And don’t go into the swamp.’
That got Ford’s attention. ‘What swamp? Where is this Dent anyway?’
‘Harrison County.’
Ford shook his head in bemusement. ‘You mean Texas, Louisiana, border swamp?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Let me guess. Snakes, gators, big hairy swamp men?’
‘Brewsters.’
‘What?’
‘They’re called Brewsters, and trust me, you don’t want to go into their swamp.’
Ford nodded. ‘Anything else?’
Grimes reached across the table to grab the bottle so he could refill his glass. ‘Nope. I think that’s enough. Don’t you?’
Ford grimaced as the wound on his arm gave a twinge, and he thought about t
he myriad of unfortunate possibilities that could occur with the whole situation.
A grim smile touched Ford’s lips. ‘Nope. I’d say that was more than enough.’
‘Cheer up, you’ll be fine.’
A flattened hunk of lead chewed splinters from the corner of the building where Ford was sheltered and whined harmlessly past the deputy marshal as he jacked another round into the Winchester’s breech.
‘I sure wish people would damned well stop telling me I’ll be fine, all the time,’ he growled in a low voice.
‘You don’t really think you’re going to get out of town do you, Marshal?’ the voice of young Hiram Dent cackled from behind him. ‘Not alive, anyways.’
Ford snapped and fired a shot across the street at a crouched form scurrying towards some water barrels. ‘Shut up, Hiram.’
The man screamed and stumbled forwards on to his face. He lay there unmoving, and Ford could only assume he was dead.
Hiram Dent flared. ‘You son of a bitch. That was my cousin, Joey.’
A snarl of rage escaped Ford’s lips as he snapped off another shot. ‘I wish someone had told me about your cousins before I came here. Damn it!’
Ford had arrived shortly after noon, badge in his pocket. There was no point riding into the lion’s den advertising the fact that he was a lawman.
After a few discreet enquiries, he’d ascertained who Hiram Dent was and proceeded to arrest him.
Ford thought he’d planned it well. Find Hiram Dent, put him on a horse that Ford supplied, and ride out of town before things heated up too much. That was before he’d found out about the cousins, uncles, aunts, and every other damned Dent in the black hole of a town.
He could only assume that it was one of them who’d shot the horse he’d brought along for Hiram, which lay in the middle of the street, along with another Dent. Anyhow, it was too late to worry about that. Somehow he had to get Hiram out of town without getting himself killed.
Ford looked at the bodies in the street. With Joey now out of action, the tally had risen to four. Which, by his calculations, still left far too many Dents and their kin to deal with.
That was not counting the old man and his hired ranch hands. Ford guessed he wouldn’t be far away. Then he could most likely count on a swift but violent death. Something to look forward to.
Somehow Ford needed to gain the upper hand long enough to get the kid out of town and away from his kin.
Too late. The thunder of hoofbeats could be heard above the gunfire and this concerned Ford no end. For the sound to be heard meant. . . .
The riders swung into view around the dogleg in the main street. At their head rode a grey-haired man on a white horse.
‘Great. Your old man knows how to make an entrance, Hiram.’
‘Are you pissing in your boots already, Marshal?’
Ford figured the patriarch to have somewhere in the region of twenty men with him. Too many for him to shoot it out with.
Quickly, he glanced about for somewhere suitable to hole up. Then he spotted it. A false-fronted shop across the street with a big yellow sign above the awning which read: DENT SUPPLIES.
Ford turned around and walked across to where Hiram was seated, hands tied behind his back. He leaned down and grabbed him by the collar.
Ford dragged him erect. ‘Get up.’
His actions brought forth a string of curses. ‘What the hell are you doing, lawdog?’
‘Just shut up and do what I tell you. Come on, horse.’
Then, with the barrel of the Winchester pressed firmly against the back of Hiram’s head, they walked out into the open, the blue roan close behind.
As they stopped in the middle of the rutted main street, Ford heard voices shout, ‘Hold your fire!’
The riders hauled back on their horses’ reins and brought them to a noisy halt. Ford saw the deep lines in old man Dent’s features, just before a large cloud of dust kicked up by the horses engulfed him and Hiram.
The dust cloud was so thick that to the naked eye it was impenetrable.
‘What the hell?’ one of the riders cursed out loud.
Through it all, the gravelly voice of Charlie Dent could be heard. ‘Spread out. Get ready for when this dust settles. And for chrissakes, watch where you’re shooting. If any one of you hits my boy, I’ll skin him alive.’
‘I can’t see nothing, boss,’ one cowhand complained.
‘Me neither,’ another said.
‘Just wait, damn it,’ Dent growled. ‘It’ll clear directly.’
Clear it did, and before them was an empty street.
‘Christ, where the hell did they go, boss?’
Chapter 3
Hiram yelped loudly, his cry filling the dim interior of the supplies store. ‘Son of a bitch! He bit me!’
‘If you don’t shut up I’ll let him bite you again.’
The mean-tempered blue roan snorted. The horse was far from happy about being cooped up in such a confined space.
Ford looked at the man who ran the store. ‘We’ll be out of here soon.’
From where he stood at his serving desk, the man nodded. Ford turned to look out the window and by the time he looked back, the store owner had emerged from behind the counter with a sawn-off shotgun in his hand.
A cheerful shout from Hiram filled the room. ‘That’s it, cousin Jeb. Shoot the son of a bitch.’
The Peacemaker in Ford’s hand came up and roared to life. The .45 caliber slug punched into Jeb Dent’s chest, knocking him backward, discharging the shotgun into the ceiling as he went down.
Hiram’s face fell. ‘You just keep killing my kin, Marshal. But you can’t kill us all.’
Ford turned back to the window. ‘I can damned well try.’
Outside, the horses milled around, and then one of the riders pointed at the mining supplies store.
‘Damn it,’ Ford swore for the umpteenth time.
He cast a hurried glance around the store for anything he could use, then noticed the storeroom door.
The deputy marshal looked at Hiram Dent and scowled, ‘You move from here and you won’t see the sun go down.’
He glowered. ‘I know who ain’t going to see the sun go down, Marshal. And it ain’t me.’
Ford ignored him and hurried across to the storeroom door. He opened it and stepped into the gloom. Spotting something he could use, the corner of his mouth lifted.
‘Marshal!’ the voice filtered in from out on the street.
Ford snapped his head around and looked towards the window.
‘We know you’re in there, Marshal. You got five minutes to let my boy go or we’re coming in after you.’
The deputy marshal looked at Hiram who wore a confident smile once again.
This was going to be interesting.
‘God damn it, Marshal, you can’t do this! It ain’t right!’
Hiram Dent bleated like a lamb as Ford put the finishing touches to his plan. He stood back and admired his craftsmanship. He’d wrapped a rope tight around the killer’s upper body and then tucked sticks of dynamite into it at random. Chances were, if someone fired a stray round, Dent would go out with a bang. A damned big one.
‘Time’s up, Marshal!’
Ford crossed to the window and looked out. The cowboys riding for Charlie Dent had set up barricades along the road where they had taken cover. The old man himself stood out front, his posture demanding that he be answered.
‘Do you hear me, Marshal? Let my son go and we’ll let you be. Just take your horse and get the hell out of Dent.’
Ford scooped up his Winchester and walked over to Hiram. He wrapped a toughened hand in the killer’s collar and started to drag him towards the door.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Just shut up.’
Ford placed him in front of the door and then opened it. He hid out of sight to the side and then called out to Charlie Dent.
‘Can you hear me, Dent?’
‘I hear you.’
‘Just. What’s that he’s got tied to him?’
Ford looked at Hiram and jerked his head. ‘Out the door.’
‘What?’
Ford eared back the hammer on his rifle and pointed it at Hiram’s head. ‘Door. Out. Now.’
Dent took a few tentative steps through the doorway, his face beaded in nervous perspiration. ‘Don’t shoot, Pa! Don’t shoot! The son of a bitch is crazy. Lookit he did.’
‘Stop there,’ said Ford.
Hiram did as ordered.
Charlie called out to his son, his voice containing a confused edge. ‘Is that what I think it is, boy?’
‘Yeah, Pa. It’s dynamite.’
Ford stayed where he was inside. Out of sight, he wrapped a string around more dynamite to form a bundle of five sticks, figuring to use it when needed.
Charlie Dent’s voice rose in pitch. ‘What is this, Marshal? What do you think you’re doing? You’re the law. You can’t do this.’
‘Do you figure he’ll go up like a stump?’ Ford asked.
‘What?’
Ford chuckled. ‘He will if one of your men accidentally puts a bullet in one of them sticks.’
‘That’s not funny!’
Ford finished tying a knot. ‘Damn, I’ll have to find some new material.’
‘What do you want, Marshal?’
‘I want a horse for your son, and free passage out of here.’
‘So you can take him away to be hanged?’
Ford stuck a fuse in the center stick of dynamite. ‘The way I see it, you got two choices. You let us out of here and the state hangs your son. Or you can be responsible for your son’s death if the dynamite goes up.’
‘Not much of a choice.’
‘More of a choice than the peace officers who came before me got.’
‘I had nothing to do with them,’ Charlie Dent pointed out.
‘Maybe not, but I bet you knew about them.’
‘You know you’ll never make it to where you’re taking Hiram, don’t you?’
Ford finished tying the last piece of string and shouted, ‘You’ve got until sundown, Charlie. After that, we’ll come out anyway. Except I’ll be dragging Hiram behind my horse. I don’t think the law will worry how he gets there, or even if it’s in one piece.’