Avenging Angels- Wild Bill's Guns

by A. W. Hart

  “Sara, I am well enough to ride into town with you now. I actually think we should take a ride to see what’s south of here. We’ve never been south. We’ve only been to and from Prescott, not explored the area. If we were to settle on this as our base for bounty hunting, we should know what the rest of the area is like, right?”

  She agreed.

  “Maybe I should pack a picnic for us. We can make your recovery a special event,” she said.

  Again, Reno noted the changes in his sister over the past year. Changes, as they had discussed, for the better. She smiled more, and seldom had the stern look on her beautiful face. She wore her long hair down a lot now. Before, it was always hidden under the crown of her black Stetson. The big change was her inability to pass as a young boy like she always had. She had matured to the point where it was an impossibility.

  Men had looked at her in a way he had not liked since she was a pretty fifteen. Maybe even before. But now, it was an automatic male reflex.

  Reno feared he might have to start shooting men for staring at his beautiful Sara.

  “What are you thinking about, Brother?” she asked.

  “You.”

  “And what are your thoughts? How sweet and beautiful I am? How I have grown up?” she asked.

  “Sara, how do you do it?”

  “Do what?” she asked demurely.

  “Read my mind. At will. Anytime,” he responded.

  She just smiled. If he only knew. She had been able to do read his mind since they were toddlers. He didn’t figure it out until he was in his teens. He missed it a lot of the time then since he was too busy looking at every skirt passing by, missing the only one she knew should matter.

  “I’ll go put something together for a picnic,” she said and began to gather fry bread, beef, apples, and some lemonade in a Mason jar.

  Still moving carefully, Reno saddled the horses, put the Winchesters in their scabbards, and was careful to put canteens on and extra ammunition in each of their saddlebags. Apache danced around like a puppy, happy to be going on a trip of indeterminant time or distance. He had gotten as impatient as his masters over the past several weeks.

  Sara put the picnic materials in a cotton sack, which she slung over the saddle horn. She folded a blanket and rolled it, then tied it behind her saddle with two available latigos.

  The two people and their dog turned south and held the horses to a fast walk.

  Forty minutes into the ride, they heard shots in the distance. A lot of shots. Mainly rifle fire, with the occasional boom of a shotgun.

  “Somebody’s being attacked.” Sara said as she nudged Grace faster with both heels.

  “Outlaws or Indians, we’ve gotta help them. He grimaced as he urged Jack to a full canter.

  As they approached an area they knew was called Point of Rocks, they could see what looked like twenty men on foot attacking a ranch house. The men all had rifles. They had a mountain of boulders behind them—probably their hiding place—and were running and shooting. Every now and then, small groups would stop and crouch in a depression to reload.

  Sara and Reno saw two long barrels sticking out of the windows in the ranch house.

  One cracked and one boomed—rifle and shotgun. Each was having an effect on the attackers.

  “Probably Yavapai Indians,” Reno yelled as they sped up to a gallop.

  He pulled the Winchester from its scabbard. Sara followed suit.

  Both began firing as they rode full-out.

  From this distance, a hit on one of the attackers would be pure luck. But they were hitting close enough to gain their attention.

  “Let’s head for the big rock to the right, nearer to the house. We can shoot from behind it. We’ll let the horses go. They will return at our whistles,” Reno yelled.

  They got to the six by six-foot rock and dismounted, taking canteens and several boxes of rifle cartridges.

  Using the rock as a rest, Sara and Reno began to pour .44 bullets downrange with effect.

  Several Indians dropped before the attackers realized shots were coming from two directions. The fire from the ranch house continued unabated.

  Sara and Reno saw a dust cloud in the distance.

  “I sure hope the folks on all those horses are on our side. If they are Indian reinforcements, we are in big trouble,” Reno said to his sister. She nodded and kept on firing, knocking down yet another attacker.

  “Bet the metal butt plate hurts your wound every time you shoot,” she observed.

  “About like an ice pick being stuck in it. How’s your butt?” he asked.

  “Hip, Reno. Hurts like the dickens, squatting here like a damn chicken laying eggs,” she replied. He almost swallowed the stick he had been chewing at the image. But he clamped down tightly and levered the Winchester.

  The dust cloud got larger, and the horsemen began shooting. From the hats and saddles, it was cowboys, probably from a nearby ranch.

  Being shot at from three sides was more than the raiding party had counted on, so they went back into the mountain of boulders. Some of the cowboys rode on to the house, but the larger part went to the Point of Rocks. The shooting ceased. The Yavapais had disappeared into caves, and nobody wanted to follow them in and get ambushed one at a time.

  Reno whistled for Jack, and he and Grace trotted over. They returned the rest of their cartridges to the saddlebags and replaced the canteens before mounting up to ride to the ranch house and check on the folks there.

  When they arrived, they found a woman and a young ranch hand. They had been the ones holding off the raiders. The woman had wielded a ten-gauge double-barreled shotgun loaded with buckshot. It was easy to tell the dead bodies in the yard she’d shot compared with the ones the ranch hand or the Basses had shot.

  Out of twenty braves, about ten got away into the rocks. The other half required burial. There were no wounded. Most handguns of the day stopped folks immediately, but they did not die for a couple of days. Sara and Reno knew rifles and shotguns added a sense of urgency to their death.

  This had been the worst and largest Indian raid in the county so far in the year. It portended worse to come. Sara may have to stop her dancing unless Reno sat by, his Winchester in his lap and Apache dancing with her.

  She was, as she had said earlier, getting “antsy to ride.” Reno knew both were almost ready. The lease on the house was almost ready to renew. Maybe it was time to ride back up to Kansas one last time.

  They gave notice on the rental house and said their goodbyes. Horses packed and Thunder with his sawbuck pack saddle, they headed north.

  There had been a spate of generals and Indian agents lying during the year, and the tribes were in a warlike mode all over the West.

  Sara and Reno reckoned they would be just as safe riding through Indian country as waiting in an outlying house for attacks like they’d helped stop at Point of Rocks.

  Always careful travelers, they took particular precautions picking campsites. If they saw sign such as unshod horse or moccasin prints, they made a cold camp and had canteen water and jerky for dinner and breakfast.

  They did a long layover in Santa Fe. Their first stop was the US marshal’s office. Their friend the chief deputy was still sitting behind his desk, keeping the peace.

  “Wal, it’s the bounty hunters. Wild Bill musta found you.”

  “He did. And we found your fugitive, the late Cudgel Holmes,” Sara said.

  “I know. I signed off on the reward portion from New Mexico. Did you get it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Reno said, “and we split it with Wild Bill.”

  “Struck me strange, young ‘uns, there was no newspaper coverage. Not even a dime novel lying about what happened. Want to share the story? Remember, I got a vested interest, what with him killing my niece and all,” the deputy said.

  “The mayor, Wild Bill, and we wanted to keep it quiet. Wickenburg is a nice place. Mayor Coggins did not want bad news coverage because of a major gun battle in his town,”
Sara said.

  “We will tell you what happened if you promise to keep it to yourself,” Reno offered.

  “Sounds like a deal I can’t turn down. Fire away.”

  They told him about the gunfight and the pincer attack after, and the sniper who’d shot Reno a day later. They omitted the details of Sara’s trick to throw Holmes and his men off for a second.

  “What a story!” the old lawman exclaimed.

  “You and Wild Bill shot Holmes at the same time?” he asked Reno.

  “We did,” Reno agreed.

  “Which of you was quickest out of the holster and firing?” he asked.

  “Wild Bill, of course,” Sara quickly answered. Reno nodded supportively.

  “Damnedest thing I ever heard. I feel like my niece can rest in peace now.”

  “God bless her soul,” Reno said. “I believe she can.”

  “Thank you for what you done. Both of you.”

  “It was what we were put here to do, sir,” Reno said.

  “What’s next for you?” the deputy asked.

  “We might layup here for a few days,” Sara answered. “We both are sore from riding on our wounds. You should have seen Reno crouching and shooting his rifle at those horsemen. He was covering me with his body so I would not get shot again. It’s not the first time he’s protected me. I am truly blessed to have him,” Sara said.

  “You truly are, Miss.”

  “We better get our animals fed and find a place to rest for tonight,” Reno said. “We’ll drop in and bid you goodbye before we hit the trail to Fort Dodge.”

  “You better. I owe you for killing Holmes. You and Hickok both. The money ain’t nothing. What I owe you is in here,” he said, touching the left side of his chest.

  Both nodded solemnly and got up. They left, Apache leading the way.

  Several days later, they were on the trail again. The weather was so nice, they did not have to put up the larger tarp as a shelter more than twice.

  It took a couple of weeks to make it to Fort Dodge. Since their last trip, the settlement outside the fort had become as rip-roaring as Hays City. Still unincorporated, it fell under the auspices of Ford County. It was full of cowboys, buffalo hunters, and general riffraff.

  They found a quiet boarding house and unloaded the sawbuck saddle, rifles, saddlebags, and canteens in the front. Sara got the room while Reno stabled the animals. They moved in for a day or two.

  They were mainly in Dodge to see Wild Bill.

  Sara and Reno did not know if he was out scouting with an Army patrol or off-duty gambling. Before riding over to the adjacent Fort Dodge, they looked around a bit. They found him in one of the early drinking and gambling establishments. It was neither big enough or equipped well enough to qualify as a saloon.

  He greeted them warmly after Reno invited him out to see the waiting Sara. Her policy was to never enter a drinking or whoring establishment except to shoot someone. She thought it was a good policy and had followed it so far.

  “How’s the chest wound, Reno?” Wild Bill asked immediately.

  “Not healed completely, but coming along well enough to make the trip up here,” he answered.

  “And Miss Sara? Your wound?”

  “A pain in the butt is what it is. But I think I will live,” she answered in typical Sara fashion.

  “I have been getting letters from Hays City asking me to come up as county sheriff,” Wild Bill said.

  “You gonna do it? There’s a real good deputy up there, but the town marshal does not seem to be up for the job,” Reno said.

  “I’ve heard about them both. They will keep their town job, and I will have the whole county and town both if I take it. I have not decided. It’s more money than scouting for the Army but less dependable. Plus, I don’t like how the cavalry acts when they raid a village. They are worse than the Indians.”

  “Worries us too, James,” Reno said. “We just had a skirmish with about twenty Yavapai Indians near Prescott. We killed five between us, but we fought them to defend a lady and a young rider. We’d both shoot anybody, no matter who they are, to protect an underdog.”

  “I know you would. Maybe it is time for me to pick up a badge again. Wouldn’t be the first time I have done it,” Wild Bill said.

  “We are going over to Kiowa Springs to see the new cemetery our family was just moved to,” Sara said. “We will be back to see you before heading to wherever the wind blows us next.”

  “Build up your winnings, James,” Remo advised their friend, and they headed out.

  They rode toward Baxter, then over to Kiowa Springs.

  Reverend Salzman was calling on a sick church member, so they viewed the cemetery alone.

  As promised, it was adjacent to the churchyard. It would probably accommodate one hundred graves in the future if needed.

  There were six graves there now. The Bass plot, set off by the large stone that had BASS carved on its face and five markers with names was first, and a single grave with the headstone of Cassandra Bernard with her year of birth and of death adjacent. The years on the teacher’s gravestone indicated she had been eighteen, only a couple of years older than Sara and Reno had been when she taught them.

  “You want to stay and wait for the preacher, and I’ll ride over to the stable where the stones were delivered and see if we owe them anything?” Reno asked.

  Sara nodded. It fit her plans perfectly.

  Reverend Salzman showed up fifteen minutes later. She found the homestead had been sold, though for less than presumed value. All bills to move and re-bury the family and Cassie Bernard had been paid from the proceeds, as well as the metal stanchions connected by a matching chain for a fence. The last item paid was a wrought iron sign arching over the gate. It proclaimed this was the Bass Memorial Cemetery.

  Sara knew it meant a lot to her brother.

  She had a quiet chat with the preacher about a letter regarding her missing birth certificate. She heard a horse riding up, and Apache perked up. It had to be Reno. She thanked Reverend Salzman, folded a piece of paper, and put it inside her blouse. It stayed there, out of sight, quite snugly. She chalked it up to one of the benefits of her relatively new womanhood.

  Sara went out to greet Reno as he came in to thank the preacher for all his work on the cemetery. It had come out exactly as Reno envisioned.

  They mounted up and rode away. It would probably be a long time before they were back this way. Nothing held them here now. To Sara, the bodies buried in the ground behind them were like the brass shells they used in their Winchesters. The cartridges had been fired, and the bodies were just the empty shells. She hoped there was a heaven and the senior Basses, the two boys, the sister, and the schoolteacher were in it. It would be good to see them one day if such was the case, but she really didn’t know.

  They rode the ferry across the Spring River and found a hotel in Baxter. While Reno was taking care of the horses and Thunder, Sara slipped over to the Clerk’s office with her letter and had her birth added to their register. She had to leave the letter with the pompous little man whose demeanor changed with each of his several hats.

  So, she smiled and he melted, and the matter was handled quickly. She returned to the hotel.

  At dinner, Reno remembered.

  “Oh, we need to get a letter from Reverend Salzman about your birth and take it to the Clerk of the Courts here.”

  “Done.” She smiled. He accepted her answer with a pleased nod and chewed on. After all, the homestead had been transferred to the church, then sold. What would she need proof of birth for now?

  “I have to get some brown wrapping paper and twine,” Reno said.

  “What for?”

  “I’m going to send the ambrotype back to Isabelle,” he told her.

  “Why? Have you worn it out by sneaking looks at it?” Sara asked.

  “No. I kinda got a letter waiting at general delivery here in Baxter. She didn’t know where else to send it,” he said hesitatingly.
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br />   “A letter?” she prompted.

  After chewing more completely than was probably necessary, he answered, “She said I had not written her in three years. All the news about me—and us—has come from dime novels. She reckons my love for her has faded like last summer’s flowers, so she let me loose from my promise to return and marry her.”

  “What do you think about the letter, Reno?” Sara asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You seem more pensive than heartbroken,” she observed.

  “Well, it has been a number of years. A lot has gone on. We will always be beholden to her pa for helping us so much when we were down, and her brother for making you the holster rig. I guess neither you or me, Sara, was cut out to buy into a trading post and spend the rest of our days as shopkeeps. So, a piece of me is relieved,” he said.

  “And the other piece?”

  “I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” he said.

  Sara knew George Washington Bass better than any other human being did, dead or alive. He was not heartbroken. He might be confused. His ego might be hurt. But he seemed more relieved than anything else. As she was.

  “We need to get back on the trail,” Reno said the next day.

  “The trail to where?” Sara asked.

  “Somewhere,” he responded.

  “Is ‘somewhere’ near here?” she played along.

  “Nowhere is near here. Maybe Wyoming Territory.”

  “Wyoming has many more warring tribes than outlaws with bounties on their heads, Reno,” she said.

  “Dakotas?”

  “Nothing there but land.”

  “How about Texas? It’s so big, it should have enough different geography we’d find something we’d like,” he suggested.

  “Wild Bill recommended against it. He said we would still be considered Yankees and not welcome. Plenty of Wanted Dead or Alive bounties, but would most Texans oppose us and help the outlaws out of spite?” she asked.

  “You think so?”

  “Hell, Reno, I’d don’t have any idea. You are pulling these ideas out the back flap of your union suit. We have not been to California, and we have limited experience in Nevada and Utah.”