Ride Tall, Hang High

by Chet Cunningham

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  After Handshoe killed himself, Willy Boy and his men packed up and rode another ten miles down the river to a new camp spot and put the beans back on to finish cooking.

  They all lounged around the campfire, even though it was nearly ten o’clock. Nobody wanted to turn in. Nobody wanted to talk much.

  "Thank God nobody has a harmonica," Willy Boy said, and everyone laughed. They had eaten beans and bacon for an hour and pronounced the mix delicious. There was still enough for breakfast.

  "In the morning we float into the nearest town, register it a hotel one at a time over a couple of hours, and rest up and relax and get those gunshots all looked at. We’ve got three now. "

  They all nodded.

  "Then we work hard at having a good time for a week. At the end of that time we’ll be riding out. Not just sure where yet, but we’ll head out and see if we can take care

  of one of your problems. "

  Willy Boy stopped talking then, pushed sticks into the fire and watched them burn.

  Juan Romero had been thinking about his wife Juanita and their year old baby, Ernesto. She would be at her mother’s house in Guadalupe waiting for him. There was no way he could explain how desperately he wanted to be home, to see Juanita, to touch her, to watch her dancing dark eyes and the wonderful smile she kept just for him.

  But he was here now. He had made a bargain, and even if it might have been a bargain with a small sized devil, he would honor it and do as he had agreed. If it was not for Willy Boy, right now Juan knew he would be in a prison somewhere, serving the 20 years the judge had warned him about.

  A month, six months, even a year of riding with Willy Boy and his debt would be paid. The gang would have done what it set out to do, to stay alive, and to try to right some of the wrongs that had been done to its members.

  The gunshot he had suffered today was not that serious. A flesh wound on his left arm. He had bound it up and knew it would be painful for two weeks, then it would heal and leave a scar but nothing more serious. The resolver round had cut a swath through his outer arm but missed the bone and the lead was gone. He was not concerned about it.

  Yes, he understood that now he was a wanted man in Los Estados Unidos. Wanted dead or alive. He did not have a guilty conscience. He had been defending himself. Anyway, once he was across the international boundary into Mexico he would be safe, and he could spend the rest of his days in his native land and learn to put up with its problems and petty officials and the military dictators who came and went.

  He had held such high hopes for the new land. But he found that dishonest and self serving officials were not limited to Mexico. Until he could return he would ride with the muchacho loco.

  He would do what he had to do, whether it was against the law or not. He was no longer interested in the laws of this country. Soon he would be gone and back to his family.

  He remembered the sweet soft way Juanita came to him in the night as they lay in their bed. She was so delightful, so beautiful, and so needing him.

  Sometimes they made love all night and the next morning he would get up too tired and groggy to go to work. She would call him El Toro, and he would laugh and she would tease him, and soon he was ready to go to work.

  Juan did not dare think of their small son Ernesto, almost a year old now. If he thought about the sweet, small boy, all giggles and bright brown eyes and tottering around with his first steps, Juan knew that he just might slip away in the night and ride like the wind without stopping all the way to Mexico.

  Juan stared at the fire, and saw Juanita there nodding and telling him that he was doing the right thing. Six months now or even a year, was better than forever in a gringo prison.

  Juan remembered Juanita’s beautiful face as he pulled his blankets up and pushed his feet toward the fire.

  Johnny Joe watched the fire for a time, then he stretched out and looked upward through the leaves at the stars. There were a million of them out tonight and there wasn’t a cloud in the Kansas sky to hide them. He found the big dipper and the little dipper, and then the stars began to look like the Mississippi River gambling stem wheelers and side wheelers.

  Someday he would get back to them. Right now he had bought into this game and he was determined to stay in the game until the final pot was awarded. It might help him get to San Francisco. He shook his head. Getting to the big town was no problem.

  For $200 he could buy a ticket to San Francisco. His problem was getting enough cold, hard cash ready to get into the game with Francis X. Delany. It would take $1000 for his weekly game.

  Johnny Joe would need $10,000 at least, to go up against Delany in his big Christmas Poker Spectacular. In it each man put up the ante, from $10,000 to $30,000 and they played until one man owned all of the money. The game was usually limited to 12 players.

  Not just any 12, but men of some reputation. Honest men who wouldn’t cheat, and—since Delany had final say on who got to play—men Delany thought he could whip.

  Getting there was only a minor part of the story. But if they could loot a bank or two, and he could pick up some small change at neighborhood saloons, he might have enough to make a stab at it. Might.

  For this he needed the Professor. Not necessarily the rest of the gang, but the Professor would be the key. When the right time came he would make a pitch to the Professor. They would go fifty-fifty partners with the chance of earning a return of ten-to-one on their money.

  When they went into town the next day, Johnny Joe would spend his time gambling. He still had most of the $400 they had split after the bank. If he could boost that up to $1,000 over the next week, he would have the start of his entry fee.

  Now he could think of little else down the road but San Francisco. He was in this game until the last card was played, or some smart bounty hunter broke up the game with the ace of spades, the death card.

  For Johnny Joe there was no going home. His father had fought in the big war for the south, and as a result lost his small plantation and all of his buildings and animals. A Yankee patrol had burned it to the ground when one of the darkies had taken a shot at the dreaded Bluebellies.

  His father had been killed in the war, his mother fled from the house after they started burning it down and he lost track of her. He couldn’t go home.

  That’s when he realized that he no longer had a Derringer. Any gambler worth his fancy vest had to have a hideout gun. He would invest in one as soon as he found a gunshop that had one to his liking. He preferred the .22 caliber size. It was highly effective and bluffed as good as a .45. The .22 caliber Derringer was one-third the size of the larger weapon and could be carried in a variety of locations.

  Johnny Joe Williams toyed with just where to carry his new weapon. He could have a tailor sew a special pocket in his vest for it, so it lay inside his jacket and on the outside of the vest.

  Or should he carry it lower? He stared at the stars again, saw one turn from red to blue and back to red again, and decided it was time he went to sleep.

  Gunner Johnson sat up as long as Willy Boy did, then when their leader lay down, so did Gunner. He turned on his side so he could see Willy Boy but didn’t know if he was sleeping or not.

  Gunner felt the wound in his leg. It hurt all the time now. The bullet had gone all the way through his left thigh. It hurt to walk, but he wouldn’t let on. He had to help protect Willy Boy.

  The big man scowled at the sky. He didn’t see why people were always trying to hurt them. They were just trying to mind their own business. Course they did have to find that bad bounty hunter who killed Willy Boy’s pa. That they had to do. Maybe they would find him soon.

  Gunner thought back over the past two or three weeks and he couldn’t remember a time when he had been any happier. He was riding with Willy Boy and he felt important. He had a job to do and he could do it.

  He frowned as he watched Willy Boy sleeping soundly now. He wasn’t exactly sure what his job was, but he alw
ays helped. He found wood and got the horses and put out the fire. In town he watched Willy Boy and walked near him and frowned at anybody who looked mean at Willy Boy.

  Yes, sir, just about the best job he’d ever had. He didn’t care if it ever ended. Out here in the country, or in town with Willy Boy, it was all fine with him. He sat up, looked around camp, but everyone seemed settled down, so he lay back down, closed his eyes and went to sleep almost at once.

  The Professor had seen Gunner sit up. He almost said something but the big man laid back down.

  The Professor had been trying to figure out just what he should do. They were away free and clear. He could tell Willy Boy that he had done his duty to the group, served his time helping them and now they all were out into the brave new world.

  He could tell Willy Boy that he really didn’t want to be a part of the gang. If he did he would form his own, maybe three of them, including one woman, and they would specialize in doing banks and riding the train between jobs and staying in fancy hotels.

  He didn’t really like living off the back of a horse and sleeping on the ground. It was fine if he had to ride away from a posse or an angry bank owner, but for the most part he would rather play the part of a city slicker bank robber.

  Still, the West was his best territory. What little law there was came up short or ineffective. The banks themselves were simple to rob and escape, without a lot of fancy safety devices and guards and alarms and shotguns in drawers.

  He turned over, not ready to go to sleep. Still, if the bunch would help him turn that Colorado bank inside out, he would really be delighted. It would take at least five men to rob that one. It wouldn’t be a closing time job. It would be a high noon affair with shotguns pumping out lead and windows crashing and get away horses out behind the bank.

  All of that, five men and a lot of luck, and they could get away with $20,000 cash. He grinned. Now that was a figure that he could appreciate.

  He turned over again. Hell, he wasn’t sure what to do. He’d lay around the next town, case the bank, play a little, find out the quality of the ladies of the evening, and see if there was an unhappy wife he could make smile again.

  Then when Willy Boy decided what was next on the agenda for the gang, he’d figure out if he wanted to go along with it or cut out on his own again.

  That determined, the Professor winked at the north star and promptly went to sleep.

  Eagle had been sleeping once. Something awoke him. He didn’t move but his senses came alert and he watched what he could see from where he lay on his side. He could scan about half of the camp and see three of the sleeping men.

  The noise came again, a thin ripping sound. He sat up cautiously, his hand closing around his six-gun. The sound was near the spot where the food sat in the gunny sacks.

  A glimmer of moonlight slanted through wavering leaves and he saw the culprit. A squirrel jumped out of the burlap sack after chewing a hole in it. The squirrel had been tearing open one of the paper sacks, probably one that held dried fruit.

  Eagle wondered about Idaho. He wanted more than anything to get to Boise and look over the Fourteenth. There would be men in the unit that had been there the night his father and his family died. One trooper told him that most men spent their whole 20 years in the same regiment.

  He would not rest until he had avenged his family’s death. It was his duty as a Comanche. Even if he was part white eye now, he still had deep feelings and beliefs rooted in the Comanche culture.

  A warrior did not walk away from a wounded friend. A warrior did not let the death of a friend go unpunished. He must punish those who cut down his family even after they all had surrendered.

  He lay down again and let the anger flow out of him. He cleansed his spirit, he let the positive powers renew his strength. He purified himself.

  A moment later he saw a night hawk slanting through the sky blotting out the stars on its trek. The lowly night hawk could make the heavens change!

  Willy Boy. The kid was a terror. He knew what he wanted and he would get it. He would eventually catch Deeds Conover and torture him to death. But the young man was also vicious and cruel and seemed to like to see men suffer. That, Eagle did not approve of.

  A battle was a battle. Warriors fought like warriors, but most of life was not a battle. Willy Boy was always at war with everyone.

  He had to get to Boise. He still had almost all the $400 from the bank robbery. That would be plenty to get to the railroad and buy a ticket to Idaho or as close as he could come. He could find Boise.

  Had he paid his debt to Willy Boy yet? Had he paid him back for saving him from a hangman’s noose or a quicker death in prison? He would know soon.

  Willy Boy had not gone to sleep yet. He had seen Gunner watching him. A few kindnesses in the jail cell and the man had become his slave for life.

  Willy Boy thought back over the last two weeks. Much had happened. They had broken out, they had hung together and defeated the best that the law and bounty hunters could throw against them.

  Was it over? Was this phase of the Willy Boy Gang through? Or did they go to settle with the needs of other members, and rob banks and trains and stage coaches as a profession? It was something to think about.

  A trip to Idaho, a stop in Colorado, a run to Mexico to leave Juan, and along the way, the Professor leading them to the best banks to rob. Maybe even a trip all the way to San Francisco to help Johnny Joe.

  It was so tempting. Deeds Conover was still out there, alive and breathing. He had to be put under the sod. But Willy Boy knew he had taken a good swing at the man. They had hurt him and sent him running. Now perhaps it was time to look at the other members of their little band. To help them in their own quests.

  Perhaps.

  Willy Boy knew they had a week ahead to play, to eat, to drink, to find a woman who didn’t say he was too young. They would eat and sleep and enjoy themselves. Then in a week he would decide what they would do.

  Whatever it was, he knew that he wanted to keep the Willy Boy Gang together, keep as many of the men as he could. They had forged a talented and working group of men into a deadly force. They could take what they wanted.

  Willy Boy grinned and went to sleep. He knew that there was going to be more heard from the Willy Boy Gang. He was certain of it, and that made him grin even broader.

  Here's a Chapter for you from the next in the Outlaw series:

  Six Guns

  by

  CHET CUNNINGHAM

  ISBN: 978-1-62918-070-0