Avenging Angels- Wild Bill's Guns

by A. W. Hart

  Sara had determined the wind and picked a site with a patch of trees. She began to erect their shelter, facing away from the wind. Reno found a piece of tin from the barn roof and made a reflector to send the fire’s heat into their usual open-front shelter. They ate biscuits and jerked meat from Dodge and only made coffee on the fire.

  It was a quiet, sad night and the brother and sister sat closely, apart only in their thoughts. Finally, they pulled the blankets and smaller tarp up. With Apache in his normal position and pistols and Winchesters under the covers, they slept, one watching and one sleeping.

  The incessant Kansas wind howled even harder than on their travels home. Sara took the first watch and thought to keep awake. One thought was the hope Reno would pick a home for them somewhere with less wind. A helluva lot less wind.

  Reno awoke in the middle of the night and took the watch from his sister. She nestled down in the covers beside the snoring dog. As long as Apache was snoring, they figured danger was not close by.

  Reno pulled the covers up around Sara and patted her shoulder.

  “Sleep softly, my sister. You are at home, and I will watch over you always.” She smiled as she drifted off to sleep.

  He propped himself against his saddle and held the cold Winchester in gloved hands. Reno had heeded what James Hickok said about protecting one’s primary shooting hand from injury. He’d heeded a lot of what he learned from the scout.

  Reno thought about the future. Maybe they could buy a plot of land at the church and create a cemetery. They could have the undertaker from Baxter move the family to it. And the stones. He was not sure how much the homestead was worth. His thought was to sell it once the graves were moved. It was no longer home. It was a hateful place now and represented danger, death, and heartbreak to both him and Sara. They would best be rid of it.

  Maybe when the vengeance trail was over, he and Sara could go to Julesburg, Colorado and buy into Ty Mando’s trading post. Of course, Isabelle was there. Reno suspected Sara would be cold to such an idea. He just could not understand why his sister was so jealous of Isabelle. Women were a mystery to him. They always would be.

  The wind was stronger and colder when Sara awoke. The smell of coffee brewing stirred her. If her brother would always awaken her with a rich coffee smell, she would follow him forever. Hell, she would anyway. He was a little naïve and preached a lot, but he was a loving brother and a quick man with a gun. She thought of him as her Protector.

  It was a bacon, biscuits, and coffee morning. Reno also put some pinto beans in the Dutch oven to soak for cooking later. He tossed a quarter of the large amount of bacon in and split the remaining part among them and Apache. The dog awoke with his usual cheer and hunger.

  Both were a bit tired from a half-night’s sleep, though Sara seemed happy and less stern than she often was.

  “I thought a lot during the time I was on watch,” she began.

  “Uh-oh,” he said.

  “Without waiting to get the statement from the preacher needed to get me a birth certificate, let’s sell this place. It no longer holds anything but sorrow for us. You have the deed, and that’s all we need to sell. We can talk to the preacher before we leave town and arrange for land for a cemetery. Our folks and brothers and dear sister can be the first put in the ground there. What do you think?” she asked.

  “I have been thinking about the same thing. Let’s see what is involved with funding a cemetery for the church. Maybe Miss Bernard can be moved there, too,” he said. “She came here alone and said she didn’t have any relatives.”

  “Another of your many loves, but not a bad thought,” she observed.

  They left Thunder in the corral and saddled the two horses. Fifteen minutes later, they were in Kiowa Springs, knocking on the door of the Lutheran church there.

  Reverend Salzman came to the door, peeking out, his hand hidden.

  “Why, it’s the Bass children.” He looked at the taller, stern well-armed pair with rider clothes.

  “I guess the time since you left here has matured you. I take back the ‘children’ part. Your adventures and reputation are famous,” he said.

  “We haven’t been looking for fame, Reverend. Only to fulfill our mission of clearing as much of the Earth as we can of the ungodly scourge of man. We’ve made some inroads, but there’s a lot of work left to do.”

  “Have you returned to rebuild and resume your lives here?”

  “No, we want to explore something with you,” Sara said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “We want to sell the ranch, not rebuild it. But we have our family buried there. Stones are being delivered soon to the livery stable. We wonder if we could buy some land butting up against the church property for a community cemetery and move our family there? Others, like our murdered schoolmarm, Miss Cassie Bernard, could be buried there, too,” Reno said.

  “I have been wanting a cemetery. As our little village grows, we will have more people with businesses who will not personally own land to bury their dead on.

  With the Indian war going on, nobody will buy farm or ranch land much of anywhere in Kansas right now. Would you consider deeding the land to the church? We have some adjacent land now we could use as a cemetery. We could call it the Bass Memorial Cemetery. When things calm down and land sales pick up, the church could sell the ranch and put the money to God’s use. As I remember, your parents’ equity in the land was hard work, not money anyway. They homesteaded it.”

  “We will need to talk about it, Reverend,” Sara said. “The land is our sole legacy from our parents. But it might be a good solution. We will let you know in a few days, okay?” Sara asked.

  “Surely. I will await your decision. Having my lay minister’s name on the cemetery would make me as happy as it would you. What a wonderful way to glorify his steadfastness to the church.”

  They nodded and left, heading to the livery. The stones were still not there. They hoped a raiding party of braves had not hit the freighter.

  “What do you think, Reno? Is the preacher stealing our land?”

  “Naw. He’s probably right. Nobody is gonna buy land to start a farm or ranch as long as we have this territory-wide Indian war going on, and we can’t sit around and wait for it to end. It could be years before it does. We have our pledge to Pa to continue. This war is going to interrupt our retribution ministry as long as we stay in Kansas. I think we should accept his offer, then head to Texas or Arizona or somewhere,” he said.

  “I’m surprised Colorado, specifically Julesburg, was not the first thing out of your mouth.”

  “Why are you so jealous about Isabelle?” he asked.

  “I am jealous of anyone or anything getting in the way of what we promised Pa we’d do. It’s not just her,” Sara said.

  Reno thought it was Isabelle or any woman he liked, but he held his tongue again. He knew, as brave a front as she had, she was afraid of him getting married and her being left on her own. He was pretty sure she was not the marrying kind, so she would be an old maid. It made him sad, thinking of her alone.

  “While we are hanging around here waiting for the stones to arrive, I think we ought to keep the sawbuck and our saddlebags packed and ready to go. If we have to ride out and leave the shelter, we can risk it. But if we hear the church bell ringing, other than Sunday, it will be Indians coming. We will need to go into the village and help with the area defense. We sure can’t defend much from here,” Sara said.

  “We sure can’t. Are we agreed on the deal for the Bass Memorial Cemetery?” he asked.

  “I think so. Let’s do it.”

  “Okay,” he said, “We can tell Reverend Salzman when we go in tomorrow to check to see if the stones arrived.

  They spent the rest of the day taking stock of their trail supplies, and disassembling their revolvers and thoroughly cleaning them.

  The problem they faced was that there was nowhere they could travel in Kansas without serious Indian danger. All the tribes were raid
ing towns and travelers. The fort kept a small number of cavalrymen ready to ride, but most were out chasing the latest raiders.

  Sara and Reno faced death readily, but they did not want to have their pledge to rid their world of God’s scourges ended by battling with Indians. Indians did not fit into their pursuit. They had no argument with them. They were after evil men who murdered, raped, and burned innocents.

  James had told them over the campfire during their travels together about what had caused the Indian wars. Generals and public officials took the Indians’ land and lied to them at every turn. White men were killing off their buffalos, their primary source of food and shelter. The Army raided Indian villages and did much as the Devil’s Horde did to the Bass ranch, but many times over. Those raids were called victories. When the Indians did the same to travelers or ranches, it was the work of barbaric savages. There was a double standard, Hickok said.

  James Butler Hickok, one of the greatest scouts, plied his trade as a job. He did not hate the Indians any more than he had the rebels during the war. Sara understood this and respected him for his neutral beliefs about folks. Some of his reasoning got through to Reno, but his take on life was more black and white. However, over time, he was learning.

  They made the trip to Fort Dodge unscathed. Luckily, they found their friend, who everyone else called Wild Bill, sitting at a gambling table in a saloon in the town.

  Women were not allowed in saloons in most places, although soiled doves were excepted in some.

  Sara waited with the horses and Thunder, scowling at the dirty, smelly men who looked lustfully at her, which was pretty much every man who passed. She was dressed like a boy—a very well-armed boy. She was surprised they could recognize her gender fast enough to immediately stare at her wantonly.

  Sara was wrestling with her maturity and womanliness. She wondered if she was pretty or these men were just old degenerates. She tried to ask Reno every now and then but knew he was prejudiced in her favor. Besides, he thought he was pretty good-looking. They looked a lot alike, so of course, he would think she was good-looking too.

  Upon seeing Reno in the crowd of onlookers around the table, James smiled and folded his really bad hand. Gambling was his greatest vice, and for one who sat at every available game, he was not very good at it.

  The scout went outside with Reno. Men greeting him by name at every step along the way.

  “You seem to be pretty famous,” Reno noted.

  “It’s those damn magazines and dime novels and their lies. Like I told you one time, I don’t want to be famous. I just want to do my job and make a living and enjoy life some. I like the occasional game of chance, a taste of spirits, and time with a woman every now and then, nothing more. But there are some who want to read about me shooting a whole gang at once and killing a bear with my skinning knife. Such stuff never happened, Reno. But people want to read it and have me say it’s true. Sometimes, it’s easier to agree and walk away than to explain it is pure manure.”

  He greeted Sara, who blessed him with a genuine smile, something noted by every other man on the street.

  “How ‘bout we buy you lunch, James? We’d like to pick your brain a little,” Reno asked.

  “My brain is sparse pickings, but I wouldn’t turn down a free lunch with friends,” the scout responded.

  They led their horses and James’ and their mules down muddy Front Street to a café and tied the four at a hitch rail.

  Over coffee, while they were waiting for the food, Wild Bill Hickok asked, “What is it you all want to talk about?”

  “We are getting rid of the family ranch. The rebel raiders burned it down anyways,” Reno began.

  “We need to go back on the trail and kill evildoers, but we can’t even get out of Kansas without fighting Indians every step of the way to the border. We don’t have any quarrel with them. We are after bad whites. We need to pick up some Wanted Dead or Alive posters and go fulfill them. But where? You have traveled a lot, James. What’s the quickest, safest way to get out of Dodge, so to speak?”

  The scout thought for a moment.

  “There is a company of cavalry escorting some travelers with wagons out of Kansas. Like you, they are fed up. I am the scout and can arrange for you to join us. We will take everyone to the Kansas boundary line with the panhandle of Oklahoma and Indian Territory. Cross over the little strip, and you are in Texas. You might not be too popular there, having come from the wrong side of the war. Give Texas a couple of years. I’d go northwest to Colorado. Better yet, go southwest a bit to Santa Fe. It’s a town I’ve spent some time in. Kit Carson lives there. Ol’ Kit could pick anywhere he wants, and he picked Santa Fe. It’s not real loaded with bad men, but it is a good place to begin.

  “From New Mexico Territory, you could go to Arizona Territory. It should have good pickins’ for evildoers. Yep. I’d head to Arizona for sure. Ride with us to the territorial line, then ride southwest,” James suggested.

  They finished lunch and parted until the escorted group was scheduled to leave the next day.

  They sent a letter to the livery in their village to hold the stones for Reverend Salzman and another to the Reverend, saying the deed would be transferred to the church. Riding fast and alone, Reno went to the county seat in Baxter and signed the transfer paperwork.

  Just as they did not read papers and dime novels to know about their friend James being the famous Wild Bill, they had no idea of the breadth of their own fame. Sara was known as the Beautiful Angel of Death. She had no clue. The undertaker did.

  Reno made it to the county seat and dealt with the same clerk. He asked if the record of Sara’s birth had shown up yet, but was told no. Reno was pretty sure the worthless clerk of many hats had not even bothered to look for it. He signed the deed to the homestead over to the Lutheran church in care of Reverend Salzman.

  Without riding back to his former home, Reno turned Jack east and rode hell for leather toward Dodge.

  An hour into the ride, he saw a party of braves riding hard behind him. He let the buckskin gelding run, something the horse did well and loved to do. Another group of three braves appeared on his left, riding at a diagonal to cut him off.

  Reno pulled the Winchester from the saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber. As they got within twenty yards and were starting to raise their weapons, he fired. His shot, from a full gallop, hit the lead pony. It fell, causing the one behind it to stumble over it and fall also. Both braves flew through the air and hit hard. Neither got up immediately. The third brave fired a short repeater at him and missed. Reno thought it might be a Spencer and knew he could be in trouble. He levered and fired several times, hitting the brave and knocking him off the horse.

  Jack’s full gallop did not slow during his or their shooting. He continued to gain distance from the larger party behind. Reno turned in the saddle and fired several more shots at them, again hitting a lead pony. He reloaded the carbine as he rode, and looking back once again, saw they had lost interest, at least for now. He put the rifle in the scabbard and let Jack run for another mile or two before slowing him to a fast trot and letting him cool down a bit. The Indians behind him were just a cloud of dust now. He could not tell which way they were headed, so he continued to swivel in the saddle and watch in every direction.

  He rode into the fort first and reported the attack and said he had killed several ponies and probably as many braves on the run.

  Reno took Jack to a livery and asked for him to be rubbed down and watered, then went up to the room he and Sara shared. He ran a swab down the barrel of his 1866 Winchester, and they were ready.

  As far as they were concerned, their work in Kansas was done until they came to visit the family graves in the new cemetery at some indeterminant future time.

  For we know Him who said, “Vengeance belongs to me. I will repay.” So it was stated in Hebrews 10:30. But the Bass twins reckoned the Lord could use a little help with all the evil in the world. They were ready
to get back on the vengeance trail to do God’s will as they interpreted it—with lead and fire.

  5

  They joined the travelers at the fort the next morning. They were well-armed and provisioned for the trip, and more than ready to leave the winds and sorrows Kansas represented to them. The expenditures had reduced their coffers, and they needed to replenish with bounties sooner rather than later.

  The small wagon train and company of cavalry armed with single-shot carbines passed within two miles of a group of a hundred Kiowa braves. Scouts, including Wild Bill Hickok and Kiowa outriders in war paint, were unaware of the presence of the other.

  They said goodbye to their friend once again at the Kansas and Oklahoma territorial dividing line, near what would eventually become Liberal, Kansas.

  “Watch your backtrail and be safe,” Hickok cautioned.

  “We’ll see you when we swing through to visit the new cemetery. Don’t know when we’ll be making the trip, but hopefully, the troubles here will be in the past,” Reno said.

  This time, Sara proffered her hand for James Hickok to kiss and smiled at him.

  “You be safe, too, Wild Bill,” she said, using his appellation for the first time. Hickok liked hearing it from by the beautiful, dangerous woman with the long strawberry-blonde hair.

  The pair pointed their horses and Thunder to the southwest and rode.

  By the end of the day, they figured they must be out of Oklahoma and Indian Territory, or close to it. There was a trail, originally made by bison, they followed. They did not see anyone, red or white, after they left the wagon train.