by Sam Clancy
The balcony ran all the way along the front of the saloon so Ford knew he needed to be careful. Pick the room with no light was the best bet. So, he did.
He eased the window open, stepped on through and started to pad across the room towards the light he could see beneath the base of the closed door.
‘I’ll give you ten seconds to tell me what you’re doing before I blow your damned fool head off,’ growled a deep voice.
‘Just passing through, friend,’ Ford said.
‘Funny way to be passing through,’ the man said. ‘I got me one of them theory things.’
The room was dark enough that the only thing Ford could see was a large lump in the bed.
‘Well, hurry up and spit it out because there’s something I have to do.’
‘I figure you’re going to break out that feller they got tied up in the next room. Am I right?’
‘Maybe.’
The man swung out of bed. ‘Good.’
‘What are you doing?’ Ford asked, puzzled.
‘I’m going to help.’
‘You what?’
The man started to dress. ‘The name’s Isaiah White, and if I don’t miss my guess, you’d be that marshal feller, Ford, they’re all talking about.’
‘I ain’t got time for this, White.’
‘My next guess is that you’re going to be headed for the swamp. Only way you might have a chance of getting out. Am I right?’
‘Yes, damn it.’
‘Good, then you need me. I grew up in the swamps. I know a lot of trails that others don’t. So, I’m coming. You need my help.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t like Charlie Dent and his brood.’
‘What about the one in the next room?’
‘Cort? I hear tell he’s a ranger. I changed my opinion of that one.’
White had finished and was dressed. He picked up a rifle from beside his bed and Ford realized that when he’d entered the room, the man hadn’t been armed.
‘Well, come on, let’s go get him. What are you waiting for?’
Ford shook his head. Could it get any worse?
Chapter 7
The hallway was well lit but empty. Ford slipped out of the doorway with his Colt in his fist, ready to fire at whatever target presented itself, his Winchester at his side. He eased himself along the wall, White behind him. In the light, he finally got a better look at the man who wanted to help.
White was unshaven, had long hair, and was every bit of six feet tall. He wore ragged clothes and sported no six-gun, just the rifle. Before Ford entered the room, he said to White, ‘Keep an eye out. I’ll be a few moments. You see a Dent, fix him.’
Ford tried the handle but the door was locked. He looked back at White, and said ‘I hate to do this.’
He drew back his right leg, and with all the force he could generate, drove his boot heel against the door. Wood splintered from the frame and the door itself flew back with a crash. Ford stepped into the room and saw Cort sitting on the bed.
‘Come on,’ Ford snapped. ‘I’m getting you out of here.’
Cort Dent didn’t need to be told twice. He came off the bed and moved with stiff strides towards the doorway.
‘Who are you?’ Cort asked.
‘Ford.’
‘The marshal? The one who’s been raining down hell on this fair town?’
Ford grunted. ‘I’m sorry about your kin.’
‘Don’t let that worry you. Whatever they got, they deserved.’
‘You fellers done with your howdy-dos in there?’ White asked. ‘If you are, we’re about to have company.’
Ford gave Cort his Winchester and they moved out into the hallway. At that same time, a figure appeared at the far end, at the top of the stairs.
Ford squeezed off a shot and the man was flung back against the wall. Ford didn’t wait to see what happened next, but instead, turned and followed the others into White’s room. The three of them emerged on to the balcony and looked around. Behind them, they could hear footsteps and shouts as their pursuers got closer.
‘What now, Marshal?’ White asked, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
‘Over the edge,’ Ford snapped and climbed over the balustrade.
Before the other two men had made it halfway, he’d dropped to the ground.
White and Cort Dent landed beside him, the former grunting after a hard landing. A shout from within the saloon drew attention to them, and the batwings burst open.
Charlie Dent stood there like a giant sequoia. He saw the man who’d killed his boys, and the son he wished he’d never had, as they stood there together on the street. His face turned into a snarl and he brought up a six-gun in his hand. ‘Now you’ll pay, you son of a bitch.’
Before Ford could react, the Winchester in Cort’s hands fired. Orange flame belched from the gun’s muzzle and the elder Dent staggered as the slug punched into his chest. Cort levered and fired again, the second bullet slamming home not far from the first.
Charlie dropped to his knees, shoulders slumped.
‘Pa!’ a voice shouted and Gray Dent appeared behind his father. He saw the fugitives before him and cursed. Fighting to bring his own gun into line, he was stopped dead when a .45 slug from Ford’s Peacemaker hit him flush in the chest. Gray Dent was dead before he hit the floor behind his father.
Immediately, the large front window of the Dent Saloon exploded outwards on to the boardwalk as a hail of bullets tore through it.
Behind them, more men spilled from the saloon and fired shot after shot. At their head was Jake Dent.
‘Kill them! Don’t let them get away!’
More gunfire rocked the main street of Dent. Ford swivelled and fired a round from his Peacemaker. It missed the older Dent, and instead slammed into Mart, one of his two remaining brothers.
‘I’m hit, Jake!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m . . .’
A second slug from the Colt cut him short as it hammered into his forehead.
Jake fired wildly at his brother Cort, but his bullets whipped past the ranger without striking home. Then Joe Dent gave a wild yell at the sight of his fallen father, and fanned the hammer of his six-gun uselessly. His bullets went everywhere except at their intended target, and it gave White time to sight and fire.
Joe Dent went up on to his toes as the slug burned deep. A second slug from White, and Joe Dent’s life came to a violent end.
That left Jake Dent. He stood there, still firing, eyes rolling wildly in his head, a snarl etched on his face as he fired again at his traitorous brother.
A slug clipped Cort in the shoulder and spun him around. Jake cried out with glee and drew back the hammer for the killing shot. But he was suddenly thrown back as the Peacemaker in Ford’s fist crashed and the bullet smashed into his chest.
The deputy marshal fired again and put the last of the wild Dent brothers down.
The thunder of gunfire died away, but the three men in the street held their guns ready just in case. Then the batwings swung open and an unarmed Hogue Polsen emerged.
‘I ain’t got a gun, Cort.’
‘You’re under arrest, Hogue,’ Cort told him.
Ford said, ‘I reckon we’re done here. No need to go into the swamp after all, now.’
Ford tightened the cinch on the blue roan before turning to face Cort. ‘Will you be all right here cleaning things up?’
Cort nodded. ‘Yeah. Without the old man, they’ll toe the line.’
He shifted his gaze to Gracey. ‘You never did tell me what you and him was fighting about.’
She moved forward and kissed the deputy marshal on the cheek. ‘Maybe one day I will.’
Suddenly Bowen appeared with a bay horse. ‘I’m ready,’ he said in a jovial voice.
‘For what?’
‘To come with you, of course.’
‘Oh, no. You tag along with someone else.’
Bowen looked disappointed as he watched Ford climb aboard the roan. ‘But . . .’
‘No buts. You’ve haunted me enough already. Go write a story about a ranger.’
Cort held up a hand. ‘I have no wish to be famous. Bye, Josh.’
Ford said, ‘I’ll be seeing you.’ And then he turned the roan and eased him into a trot.
‘You old son of a bitch, you set me up! Again!’ Ford fumed at Grimes.
‘I see you’re back,’ Grimes said.
‘Yeah. No thanks to you,’ Ford snapped. ‘You might have told me that two marshals had gone there before me. And one of them happened to be your son.’
Grimes nodded and seemed weary all of a sudden. He walked across to his chair, sat down, and stared at Ford. ‘What happened to Dent?’
‘He’s dead. They’re all dead. But by Christ they did their best to put me in the ground.’
Surprise registered on the old marshal’s face. ‘You killed them all?’
‘I had some help from a Texas ranger by the name of Cort Dent.’
Surprise registered on Grimes’ face. He nodded. ‘You’re right. I should have told you. But I wanted revenge on that scum so bad I could taste it. I’m sorry, Josh. I used you because Bass said you were good.’
‘Yes, you did, damn it.’
‘I figured I had to keep it quiet. Would you have gone if I’d told you?’
Ford’s gaze softened. ‘Yes, I would. All you had to do was ask.’
‘I’m sorry, son.’
A drawn-out silence ensued before Grimes opened his desk drawer. He took out a piece of paper and held it out. ‘This came for you the other day.’
‘What is it?’ Ford asked, taking it.
‘No idea.’
Ford unfolded it and read. He pondered over it when he had finished, and then screwed it up into a tight ball.
‘What is it, Josh?’
‘Bass has disappeared.’
‘What?’
‘According to this he was on a job and just vanished.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’ll head back north and see if I can find him.’
Grimes snorted.
Ford frowned. ‘What?’
‘Ever since you got here, all you’ve done is gripe about your pa and how he was an ornery son of a bitch. And yet you’re willing to drop everything to go after him.’
Ford nodded. ‘We may have our differences, and yes, he is a son of a bitch, but he’s still my pa, and I’d walk through Hell itself to bring him back.’
Part 2
Whatever It Takes!
Chapter 8
Two Weeks Later
The Sundown Saloon in Bender’s Gulch, Montana, was, as far as saloons went, reasonable in every way. The furnishings were nice, the liquor was good, the prices acceptable, and the whores still had all their teeth. Ford sat at a corner table with a half-empty bottle in front of him, his glass all but full. A whore whom he knew as Sandy, came up to him and asked ‘Can I get you anything, Marshal?’
He shook his head, ‘Not at the moment.’
‘Suit yourself.’
She left Ford to himself, and ten minutes later, the main door swung open and a man he recognized entered. The newcomer glanced around and spotted Ford at the table. He started across the room, weaving in and out of the tables as he went.
Sitting across from Ford, he nodded. ‘Josh. You made good time.’
‘Ben. Any news on Bass?’
Lanky Ben Travers shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’
‘Why are we meeting here then?’
‘It’s what the note said.’
Ford stared at him. ‘I thought you said there was nothing new.’
‘That’s right. All we got was a note to come here and have you here, too.’
‘Then tell me what you do know.’
‘Bass was working a rustling case over near Rock Flats. He informed us when he arrived, but since then, there has been nothing.’
‘How long ago was that.’
‘Just after he sent you to Texas.’
‘Hell, Ben! That was almost two months ago. Did anyone go looking for him?’
‘I did. Came up empty. The folks there remember him showing up, and then he wasn’t there any more.’
Movement across the room caught Ford’s eye, and he saw the barkeep coming towards their table. The man stopped and held out a piece of paper. ‘Feller gave me this to give to you. Said it was for you, only.’
Ford frowned and took the paper. He unfolded it and read. Once he had finished he handed it to Travers, who read it for himself.
He looked up at Ford and said, ‘This is crazy.’
Ford nodded. ‘It is.’
‘Surely you can’t be considering it?’
‘Do you see any other choice? At least we know Bass is still alive,’ he stared up at the barkeep. ‘Who gave it to you?’
The man shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Never seen him before. Wore a suit, all neat and proper.’
‘OK, thanks.’
The barkeep left, and Travers said, ‘You can’t go into Crazy Woman Hollow alone.’
‘That’s what it says. Go to Crazy Woman Hollow and brace Scar Ferguson.’
‘Damn it, Ford. That son of a bitch is a killer. How do they know he’s even there?’
‘And if I don’t go, they’ll kill Bass. I’m going and that’s it.’
‘Whatever it takes?’
‘Yeah. Whatever it takes.’
‘Then I’m going too. I’ll leave before you do and already be there when you arrive.’
Ford thought about it for a moment and nodded. ‘OK. It may be for the best.’
‘When are you going to leave?’
‘In the morning.’
‘I’ll see you there.’
Crazy Woman Hollow sat between two large tree-covered hills and stank like the cesspool it was. Killings were a daily occurrence, along with gunfights, fistfights, drinking and whoring. No respectable person would ever be seen in such a place, dead or alive.
The mean-tempered blue roan snorted his disgust as he started along the main street. At first he baulked, but a few stern words from Ford had him moving again.
The town was a mix of solid false-fronts, and false-fronts with canvas walls. The main thoroughfare was churned and muddy from a recent rainstorm that had passed over, dumping a heavy fall.
As the deputy marshal made his way along the street, a door crashed back on a rundown place with a sign above its door. It read Casino. A man staggered out and stopped. He ran his drunken gaze over the rider who was passing. On the man’s shirt was pinned a star. Ford could hazard a guess how he got it. And he’d bet a month’s pay it wasn’t put there.
He suddenly became aware of his own badge, tucked away in his pocket. No point riding into a town like this with it advertising the fact that he was the law. It would only serve as a shiny target.
Ford found what he was looking for: a saloon, called simply Crazy Woman Saloon. At the hitch-rail out front, he recognized Travers’ horse. He eased the roan in beside it and dismounted. He rubbed the horse on its muscular neck and said, ‘Behave yourself.’
The animal snorted and turned its head to look at its rider. Ford nodded, saying ‘I’ll be back.’
Inside, the air was thick with a combination of odours. Sweat, smoke, vomit, stale alcohol. It all blended into one and assailed the nostrils.
Ford started to push through the crowd when he was approached by a whore. She wore corset and pantaloons. Both had once been white but were now a stained colour that resembled bleached bones. Her hair was a tangled red mess and her skin was pale and bruised.
‘Hey, cowboy. Buy me a drink, or something else.’
She smiled and revealed blackened teeth.
The deputy marshal almost cringed. Instead, he gathered himself and said, ‘Maybe later. I need to find Scar Ferguson.’
Alarm registered on her face. ‘Are you the law?’
‘Nope.’
‘I ain’t seen him.’
‘I told you, I ain
’t the law.’
‘I don’t care, I ain’t seen him.’
‘Uh huh.’
Leaving her there, he walked up to the bar, then turned around so that he faced the room. At the top of his voice he shouted: ‘I’m looking for a yellow son of a bitch named Scar Ferguson!’
The room went silent instantly, just shut down. Then came the shuffle of feet as the crowd parted to reveal an unshaven man no more than fifteen feet away. He was dressed in black, like Ford, but he had twin six-guns while the deputy marshal only had the one.
When the killer spoke, his voice was deep. ‘Sounds to me like you’re eager to be buried, hombre. Who are you?’
‘The name’s Josh Ford.’
A ripple ran through the crowd.
‘Seems to me I heard of you.’
Who hadn’t? After all, Ford had a reputation for getting the hard jobs done. He was like the marshals’ best of the best.
‘Most folks have.’
‘I guess they’ll be hearing about your death real soon, too.’
Ford let his right arm dangle, so his hand was near the butt of the Peacemaker. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’
Ferguson gave Ford a cold smile. ‘See you in Hell, lawdog.’
Hands blurred, and guns flashed up. However, only one of them roared. The Peacemaker in Ford’s fist crashed out and the .45 calibre slug burned deep into Scar Ferguson’s chest. He lurched back, the six-gun in his hand still pointed at the floor.
Ford eared back the hammer on his own weapon once more and the killer before him gave him a bewildered look. The Peacemaker roared again, and Ferguson fell back against a table. It flipped over under his weight and landed on its edge beside the dead man.
Before the rumblings in the crowd could start, the deputy marshal moved the Colt back and forth over them. ‘No one else moves unless you want to get buried beside Ferguson there.’
‘He can’t kill us all!’ shouted an invisible man inside the crowd. ‘Get him!’
They’d just started to surge forward when a gunshot sounded and stopped them dead. ‘All of you hold it there!’
They turned to look at the other stranger who’d arrived earlier that day. He too had his six-gun out and had fired a round into the ceiling.