Avenging Angels- Wild Bill's Guns

by A. W. Hart

  “Why do you still call him James, now we know who he is?” Sara asked.

  “He is my friend, James Butler Hickok. ‘Wild Bill’ is the name the rags gave him. You and I both know it’s not who he really is, just like you are not really La Pelirroja,” Reno said.

  “Are you really sure I’m not really La Pelirroja? Really, really sure, Reno?” she asked. She was not smiling. It worried Reno a great deal, but on the other hand, La Pelirroja was unbelievable in so many ways. Maybe it would be okay if she was…

  “Back to the guns, Reno. I think you are right. I think the top strap on the Remmies makes them stronger overall. But the action is lighter on the Colts, and they seem to fire faster. I may join you and Wild Bill and use the Colts myself,” she concluded.

  They got back home, and Apache greeted them.

  “It’s a warm night. If you don’t mind tending to the horses, I think it would relax me and clear my mind if I dance a little.”

  “Sure. Just take your Winchester and don’t dance away from it,” Reno said. They dismounted, and he headed for the stall tonight. They had had plenty of fresh air. Feed, water, and a good brushing would be the best thing for Jack and Grace.

  Sara left her riding clothes in a pile by the corner of the house and walked around it carrying the carbine. She began to dance and jump and spin, and her mind went to an imaginary place. She danced until she was glistening with perspiration, then danced some more. She stopped because of mosquitos, not lack of energy. Sara pulled the chemise on, picked up the rest of her gear, and walked into the house. She put her stuff down and went back out with her rifle, and found Reno in the stable finishing brushing her beautiful black Grace. She walked over to the mare and petted her. “See, your brother Reno loves you too, Grace.” Jack whinnied, and she went over and paid attention to him.

  “A spoiled horse is a happy horse, you know, Reno,” she observed. He just nodded and brushed.

  They went in together.

  “What do you want to eat?” Reno asked.

  “Oh, nothing. I am danced out. But it was good for me,” Sara said. Reno noticed she was smiling more nowadays. He chalked it up to having a place to call home.

  Reno tore a piece off a piece from a loaf of bread from the store and sliced some cheese for a sandwich. He made one for Sara anyway, and she took it and munched on it.

  “In the morning, we start practicing with the Colt .36 Navies,” Reno said.

  “Aye, aye, captain. Sara replied.

  “I’m going to finish my water, then go outside and get rid of it,” Reno said.

  “Please walk a bit past the front door this time, please? Some of us world-famous dancers walk around barefooted.”

  “Sorry. I’ll try to do better.”

  Reno went out and walked clear of the front door as promised.

  He came in and latched the door. He felt odd doing locking a door. His family never locked their door, and Kansas had Indian attacks, Jayhawkers, and outlaws. But he felt safer. The lock gave him a few extra seconds to get his guns into action.

  Cudgel Holmes was rightfully upset at the death of his cousin. They had been relatives, friends, and later Confederate spies and business associates for most of their lives. He was the one person Holmes knew he could always count on. It would take time to find a replacement, learn to trust him, and train him.

  Holmes had an urgent recruiting task first. He needed to replace Thad and the two men Reno killed. He inquired around among his judge, police, army, and criminal associates to find the two or three of the best, deadliest gunfighters in Mexico.

  It took him several weeks to find, interview, and hire Tomas Martinez and Jaime O’Hanlon. Martinez was the enforcer for a large cattle spread, whose owner was on the losing side of the most recent revolution. In the American West, he would have been called a “regulator.” O’Hanlon was a native Mexican, whose father obviously was not. He ranged around Mexico taking odd jobs, always involving extreme violence. Holmes learned both men were experts with rifles, revolvers, and knives. They were now on station at the hacienda and operational.

  Sara Bass had sent a letter that was just like a slap across the face with a glove. It was a challenge to duel. She had picked the place. He would pick the time. Wanted in most Southwestern US territories, he did not want a posse of deputies and marshals with rifles waiting on rooftops. He and his small group needed to slip into Prescott and send a message to the Bass twins so unexpectedly they could not assemble a posse of lawdogs.

  He had not picked the appointed time. Let them stew in their juices for a little while. He would strike when it benefited him the most. Right now, he was on a financial roll.

  Reno unloaded and oiled all four used .36 Navies. With two loaded Winchesters close by for security, Sara asked Reno to put on his cross-draw rig and unload his right Remington .44 handgun. Then, she asked for their father’s pocket watch. It had a second hand.

  “On the count of three, draw and dry fire the Remington,” she demanded.

  He readied.

  “One, two, THREE.”

  He drew, thumbed the hammer, and pressed the trigger.

  “Second and almost a half,” Sara said. “Now, switch to the Navies with the two rigs and keep the right one butt-backward.”

  He did, and she counted. Reno drew.

  “Less than a second with virtually no practice. You need to carry with the butt facing back, not cross-draw. With over a half-second more time, you could nearly fire twice in the time it used to take you to fire once. Or take out a second target.

  With the left-hand gun, butt forward gives you emergency options, like drawing with either hand,” she said.

  Reno shook his head in surprise. He could feel the increase in speed, even without Pa’s watch. Sara was right. They took turns practicing draws and dry fires and observing the other. They both did this until one saw the other slowing down due to fatigue. They reloaded all the revolvers and saw to the horses.

  They hesitated to take another warrant, especially since all current ones were out of town. The clock with Holmes was ticking. They just did not know when it would stop and the shooting would start. Would it be a walkdown like with Thaddeus Holmes? An ambush at the house? One on two, or twenty on two? And where would their famous and deadly friend figure into this? Important questions with no apparent answers.

  They reloaded, saddled up, and rode into town. A check-in at the sheriff’s office did not yield any new information about Cudgel Holmes, so they went on to the general mercantile.

  Sara found a couple of dime novels and a real book to take to Wild Bill in the infirmary. They were both worried about him. He had not looked or sounded good yesterday. And he had gotten injured rushing to their aid. Reno bought a bag of different kinds of candy. It had peppermint and horehound sticks and some licorice. He also picked up a deck of cards for a few games of Solitaire.

  They kept the visit brief. Hickok was healing, but slowly. His eyes lit up when he saw the cards, but he profusely thanked Sara for the books. Nobody had ever bought him books before, making them special. Particularly from a Beautiful Angel of Death, like he’d just read about in the newspaper. He knew he had to get out of the bed and back to fighting condition quickly. There was no telling when Holmes would show and the shooting would start. And he had to be there, out in front. And without a doubt, at the best he has ever been.

  Reno and Sara spoke as they rode the horses home from Fort Whipple.

  “It was wonderful for James to come hundreds of miles to help us. I fear, even with his skill, he won’t be much help, though,” Reno said.

  “Yep. You are right on both counts. It’s going to be on us unless Holmes acts in a month or two, which I doubt. It will be interesting to see how he shows up, what with every lawdog in three territories waiting for him. He’s gotta be planning around those officers,” Sara said thoughtfully.

  “On another matter,” Reno began, “Though we have not been here through all four seasons, I kinda like t
he weather in this part of Arizona Territory. Don’t you?”

  “Even more than Julesburg, Colorado?” his sister teased.

  “I seem to be thinking about Isabelle less every day,” he said.

  Sara rode on, keeping her thoughts to herself on the matter of Isabelle Mando.

  “I like it here, too,” she finally agreed. “It would be perfect with some hardwood trees and forests like we saw on the way, but there is nothing up there. There will be railroads coming through here soon, I bet. Prescott already has stages. One day, they will even have a telegraph to everywhere, like back East. Trains and wires would be good for our base of operations, but Arizona Territory is where the kind of people we hunt down seem to be. For us to look for better communications and travel right now would put us too far away from the action,” she said.

  They practiced with the Navies every day, often twice. Both became better. Reno used the practice to justify buying cans of peaches in syrup. As soon as the peaches were dessert, the cans became targets.

  From here on out, they practiced firing at targets. They became even better with full loads.

  A month passed, and Holmes did not show. Wild Bill was still recovering at Fort Whipple.

  The Avenging Angels needed to find work. Money was going out, but none was coming in. It had not come in since before they’d left Kansas.

  They stopped in the sheriff’s office.

  “We are getting poor waiting for Holmes to get up and act like a man,” Reno commented to the deputy. “We need to bring some fugitives in and replenish our funds.”

  “Wal, there’s a new warrant. It is not the type of desperado you usually go after, but could be a quick three hundred dollars,” the deputy said.

  Reno read the Wanted poster the deputy gave him, then passed it to Sara.

  She read it, then commented, “Seems like a lot for robbing a Butterfield stage. What’s the rest of the story?”

  “Two things. First, he got a strongbox of Butterfield and railroad money. Second, a Butterfield company executive was on the stage and took his fear of death very personally. That said, I would not fool with it. Nobody was hurt.”

  “Nobody was shot?” Reno asked for clarification.

  “Nary a soul.” The deputy grinned.

  “What do you know about the robber, Calvin Lamb?” Sara asked.

  “He is from the Wickenburg area. Doesn’t look too old from the picture. Had a missing front tooth. Dressed like a farmer. Used a long-barrel shotgun. Another hungry fella messed over by big business.”

  “How much did he get? The poster doesn’t say,” Reno asked.

  “Two thousand in gold coins.”

  “A good day’s work,” Sara noted.

  “Are we gonna run into your deputies on the trail?”

  “I doubt it. We got us a big county here. The sheriff sends deputies out based on how many people got dead. Not how much money was taken.”

  “Sounds like a pretty reasonable approach to enforcing the law and keeping his voters happy,” Reno said.

  “If Cudgel Holmes comes knocking on your door asking about us, please tell him we’ll be right back,” Sara requested.

  “I’ll be sure to. From under this desk, praying.”

  They took the Wanted poster and left. Reno checked his map. Wickenburg was fifty or sixty miles from Prescott.

  “Let’s leave early in the morning and ride over. We should be there by lunchtime,” Reno said.

  “It’s a wonder you are so fit. The world rides on your food needs, Reno,” Sara said. “I, on the other hand, dance it off.”

  “Maybe I should get a see-though union suit and start dancing so I can eat more,” Reno said.

  “Yes. We could dance together. It would be delightful.”

  “I’d say don’t hold your breath for such a thing to happen, Miss Flit Across the Stage.”

  “This from the man who almost fell off his chair with his tongue hanging out when his baby sister danced by. Tsk-tsk,” she said, wagging her finger at him.

  Reno Bass had no answer for her. None at all. He just turned red and shut up. He was finally learning.

  After a few minutes of silent riding, Reno turned to his sister.

  “Do you really think I’m fit? I try to watch what I eat. I think not drinking beer helps, too.

  He sounded so serious, she decided to not tease him the way she always did.

  “Think about the men we have encountered most of the time. Many have had big bellies, bad teeth, and no sign of grooming. They have all made you look good by comparison, Reno.”

  “How about Wild Bill?”

  “I personally don’t like girl-length hair. He’s also kinda skinny, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “I guess. But women seem to like him,” he said

  “Some women like men because they are famous or rich. Others are like me. I like men who are kind, funny, brave, clean, honest, and protective. Like you. To me, you beat everybody on those points,” she said.

  “You are serious, aren’t you, Sara?” he asked.

  “Of course, I am, silly.”

  The rode a few minutes more and reached home. Reno took care of the horses, and Sara skipped dancing and fixed dinner. Apache circled a spot near the stone fireplace, plopped down, and went straight to sleep. He knew he would not have any problem waking up when dinner was ready.

  The lower swing-arm in the fireplace had a grill. Sara swung it over and put a big steak on top. It was large enough for the two people and one dog. The top arm held pinto beans with bacon Reno had had ready by breakfast but which were uneaten as of yet.

  The meal was good, and Reno went out to bring in some more wood to keep the rest of the beans warm overnight. Sara cleaned up.

  As promised, Reno read some verses of Lord Byron before his audience fell asleep—both audience members, girl and dog. Personally, he did not care for Byron. He thought the poet was a strange person and one who tried to use words to make things as complex as he could. He re-banked the fire to keep the beans warm, but not the inhabitants. It was getting nicer out every day. He laid and watched the curtains blow in the breeze.

  They had to take the man tomorrow seriously, no matter that he was not a murderer. Nobody liked to be cornered. Many would come out fighting. It only took one surprise or one stray bullet to kill Sara. He just couldn’t let it happen. Ever.

  He had coffee brewed by dawn and was out saddling the horses when Sara poked her head out the door. She was ready, a steaming tin cup in hand.

  “I didn’t get Thunder ready. This should be seven hours each way. If it doesn’t look like we’ll get back by dark, we will get a hotel room there or camp the sparse way we used to before having a pack mule to haul luxuries, like two tarps and cook gear. I put some leftover fry bread, jerky, and coffee beans in my saddlebags.”

  Sara walked out with her Winchester and stuck it in the scabbard on Grace’s saddle.

  “There should be a deputy or town marshal in Wickenburg. The town is older than Prescott,” she said.

  “For some reason, the sheriff’s office is turning a blind eye to this warrant. Maybe we’ll figure out why when we get there and ask around,” Reno said.

  “I got the same idea. I know most folks don’t like the rich stage, bank, and railroad barons,” Sara agreed.

  9

  They rode at a comfortable pace. The road was heavily traveled by wagons and better than most trails they had taken over the past several years.

  Around lunchtime, they rode into Wickenburg. They stopped at a livery, a general store, and a restaurant, and inquired about Calvin Lamb’s whereabouts.

  As they were having something to eat, the restaurant owner walked over to their table.

  “You two are the most gunned-up folks I ever saw in Wickenburg. You don’t plan to kill Calvin, do you?”

  “Nope, we don’t. Unless it’s self-defense. It is not a dead or alive warrant, just an arrest one. Nobody seems to be anxious for it to be served,” Reno
told the man.

  “I tell you what, bounty hunters. I’ll make you a deal. I will lead you to the Lamb place under two conditions,” the restaurant man said.

  “What might they be?” Sara asked.

  “I am Mayor Coggins of Wickenburg; you can ask anybody, and they’ll confirm it. First off, you let me have one of each of your guns, and you leave the others here. Last, you promise me you will listen to Calvin’s story before you arrest him. Do we have a deal?”

  Reno started to speak, but Sara said, “We have a deal, Mayor Coggins. Can we leave after we finish lunch?”

  He nodded.

  Ten minutes later, they were riding unarmed out of town. The mayor was behind them with two of their Colt Navy models in his saddlebags. Reno had the four-shot derringer in his vest pocket. He had neglected to mention it to the mayor.

  “Mayor Coggins, how do we know Calvin will be there?” Sara asked.

  “I told him to be at the ranch waiting for us. He’s been worried about you two since yesterday. Word travels fast around these parts,” he said.

  “It seems to,” Sara said. Reno kept quiet. His sister had set the tone on this one, so he was going to let her run with it. He just hoped a derringer and two Bowie knives would be enough to untangle it if it went bad.

  The ride only took about twenty minutes. They arrived at a place that could be a ranch or a farm. It was hard to tell. It showed the neglect a one-man operation always did. There was just only so much a man and his wife could do to scratch out a living by themselves.

  Coggins hailed the house, and a man came out. He was probably in his early twenties and looked like he had been beaten down by life. He was tall and thin. He had been larger when he bought the clean but ragged clothes. He was Calvin Lamb.