by Art Isberg
‘Say, what about you, mister, we all know Moses, but none of us ever saw you before – you got a name?’
‘It’s Judd Miller, but it doesn’t make any difference. I was just passing through. I might stay a little longer now, try to help Moses get himself back together after all this. I’m used to it, but he’s not.’ He looked over at Moses still sitting in shock, staring at the floorboards of his wagon. ‘Right now I think I’d better get him out of here, away from all this.’
CHAPTER THREE
The welcoming coolness of Moses’ cave after the long hot ride back under a blistering sun did little to help Moses’ deep depression about what he’d done in Dry Wells. He said almost nothing on the wagon ride, and Judd didn’t push a conversation. Sudden gunplay and killing in that way can have an unpredictable way of affecting each man involved in it, especially when it happens so unexpectedly. Moses was struggling mightily with himself, that was plain to see. Once inside, Judd poured two tin cups of cold water, handing Moses one, before draining his own dry.
‘Feel a little bit better?’ He finally asked, looking up at Moses as he sat with a forlorn expression on his face.
‘No . . . no, I don’t,’ he slowly shook his head. ‘How can I feel better about a killing I had a hand in, after all these years I’ve preached against it? I picked up that rifle and started firing just like it was second nature to me. How in God’s name could I have done something like that?’
‘I know it’s not easy for you, but let me ask you something. Tell me what you think would have happened if you hadn’t helped me when I needed it most? I had three shots left in my six-gun. There were more Comancheros than that. I’d say there’s a pretty good chance I wouldn’t be standing here asking you about all this. I would likely have been cut down and roped over my horse, just like Rio Kelly was. Yes, you broke a vow not to be a part of violence, but in doing so you saved my life, and probably yours, too. Think about that Moses, because there’s a whole lot of truth in it. The Good Book you live by says, “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”. So what do you think it means? I think it means exactly what it says, and that’s what you did.’
Moses stared back letting his words sink in before responding. ‘It also says to “turn the other cheek”.’
‘Yes it does, but not when you’re facing six guns trying to kill us. The fact is, you picking up that rifle, and by using it, you saved my life and yours too. I owe you one for it.’
Moses didn’t answer this time. He knew Judd’s point was a powerful one that could not be denied, but still he had to have his say: ‘You owe me nothing, Judd. All I did was react like I might have back in my bad old days. I just don’t know why I did!’
‘Well, I’m glad you did. I imagine you’ll have to try and answer that for yourself – but remember you also did your friends in Dry Wells a lot of good, too. You saved them from going through even more fear and misery at the hands of Rio and his men. And that doesn’t count a lot of other folks who would have been killed or robbed, if Rio and his men had rode out of town going on to someplace else. Think about it, and don’t be too hard on yourself.’
Miller stayed with the preacher for another week, helping him fight off his depression, before deciding it was time that he moved on. When he announced his intentions, Moses was saddened and surprised to hear it.
‘Why leave, where would you go? Why don’t you stay here a while longer? We make a pretty good team, don’t you think? You could even ride with me in the wagon, while I try to get back to my ministering.’
‘I could, but the odd thing is I’m getting too comfortable being here. When that happens it means it’s time to saddle up. Something might be coming to catch up to me, know what I mean?’
‘No, not exactly. You’re in the middle of the desert. Where would you go?’
‘What’s over those mountains beyond Dry Wells?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve never gone that far – and you’ve never really told me what you’re running from, either. You know a lot about me, but I really don’t know that much about you, except for the few things you’ve said. If you mean to pull out, I’d at least like to know why you’re always on the run?’
Judd stared hard at the preacher. He knew Moses was curious, and that he probably did owe him at least that much of an explanation. A small smile came over his face at Moses’ boldness in asking him.
‘I’ll just say this much. A little over a month ago my brother and I were starting to build a small ranch north of here before he was murdered by the same people who came to do the same thing to me. I had to shoot my way out, and I’ve been on the run ever since. There’s a lot more to it, and most of it I still don’t even know about. But one thing I am sure of is that if it takes me a lifetime to find out who was behind it, I will.’
‘I see,’ Moses shook his head. ‘You know, you don’t have to run any more. No one is going to find you out here. Stay a while longer. You’ll see I’m right.’
‘Somehow the past has a way of catching up to you, if you stay too long in once place. Word of those killings in town will get around – it’s just a matter of time. Someone will come looking, asking questions. You’ve been a good friend when I needed one most, but I’m going to pack up and leave in the morning. If I stay it will only bring trouble here, sooner or later. Take my word for it. Trouble travels faster than the wind.’
Moses sat dejected, chin resting on both hands, looking back at Judd. He let out a long sigh of regret before speaking again. ‘All right, if that’s the way you want it, I guess I can’t change your mind. At least be sure and take enough grub to keep you going for a while. No telling when you’ll find someplace else again where you can buy some.’
The first piercing rays of the morning sun bit into the desert, scorching everything it touched, as Judd tightened the saddle cinch on his horse, preparing to leave. Moses came out of the cave with Judd’s saddle-bags filled to the top.
‘You’ve got both water bags topped off?’ he asked.
‘I have. And I took one long pull myself. I don’t expect to find anything like you have here anytime soon.’
‘No, it’s not likely, unless the Good Lord is going to ride with you, like he did me.’ He tried one last time: ‘You ought to stay a while longer. You know that, don’t you?’
Judd didn’t answer, securing the saddle-bags in place. Finished, he turned back to the tall man, sticking out his hand, both locking in solid grips, eyes levelled on each other.
‘Thanks for everything, Moses. You’ve been a real friend when I needed one the most.’
‘No, thank you, Judd. You saved me when I thought I’d lost my way. I only hope everything goes well for you wherever you go. Stay safe. I’ll pray for you. I know God will be looking out for you.’
‘Then I know I’ll be all right.’ He flashed a quick smile.
Judd mounted up, starting away, looking back one last time with a quick wave, while Moses quietly whispered a prayer to himself.
‘Take care of him, Lord. I know he’s going to need you now more than ever.’
Judd reached the quiet, dusty streets of Dry Wells later that morning, riding straight through town as store owners and their few customers gawked behind windows, watching him pass, talking in whispers. Any man who could handle a six-gun like that had to be dangerous, even if he had saved the town from the Comancheros only days earlier. Reaching the last building short of leaving, the figure of a man crossed the street in front of him. Miller reined to a halt.
‘Can you tell me where this wagon road leads to up in those mountains?’ He nodded toward the foreboding high country ahead.
The old man squinted up at him, shading his eyes with one hand. ‘No place that most decent folks want to go, that’s for sure.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because it’s a lawless hell hole, that’s why!’
‘Does it have a name?’
‘Yup. It’s called Hang Town, and it’s earned every single letter in it up th
ere in them Wolf Fang mountains.’
‘Hang Town, huh? You know how far it is from here?’
‘I’m told it’s about a one-week ride. Never been there myself, and hope I never do. It’s one of those places you’re either quick or dead. Which one are you, mister?’
Judd didn’t answer. Instead he thanked the old-timer, preparing to start away.
‘You don’t mean to ride up in there, after what I said, do ya?’
‘Yes, it looks like I am.’
The man shook his head, grunting. ‘You don’t listen very good, but it’s your neck, not mine. Everyone here in town saw your gunplay. Up there might be a different story. I guess you’ll have to figure that out for yourself . . . if you live long enough. Good luck. You’re gonna’ need it!’
Judd tipped his hat, urging the big bay away until Dry Wells slowly grew smaller behind him until the buildings became distorted shapes dancing in shimmering waves of morning heat.
Over the next five days he ascended the long, slow climb into the Wolf Fang mountains, leaving the desert lowlands spread out below in patterns of endless dry gullies and arroyos, twisting away like so many tan spider webs. As he gained height, the blistering heat changed to cooler nights, the clouds driven by dark winds that made Judd shiver under his thin wool blanket. By dawn on the sixth day, the rocky wagon road he’d been following made a final, sharp S turn and headed for the last ridges close along the skyline. He began to wonder if all the talk of a town up here in this remote and isolated range held any truth, whether it existed at all. He’d not seen one sign of any living thing since leaving Dry Wells. Maybe it was just another ghost town, one of those that suddenly sprang to life and which died just as quickly, like so many others, founded on wild hope before being abandoned in the realization that in reality there was none.
Judd spurred his horse the last few yards, reining to a halt on the final knife-edged ridge, looking down the steep drop on the other side. Instantly he heard the distant thud of far-away gunshots echoing back and forth, off canyon walls. Urging the horse farther down the ridge, he could just make out a tiny cluster of buildings far below tucked away in a hidden side canyon. Hang Town hadn’t died: those gunshots meant it still breathed life – but what kind?
Miller started down the steep, rocky trail as the town steadily grew closer. Half an hour later he could finally see grey, weathered wooden buildings mixed with some erected out of dark natural stone, along a crowded street. Rounding the last bend leading into town, he pulled to a stop at a tall, dead pine. A faded, hand-painted sign had just two words on it: HANG TOWN. Below, a short length of rope tied in a hangman’s knot was nailed to the sign. Judd sat in the saddle a moment before urging his horse ahead into the first buildings. The sight and sound of shouts, gunshots and the pounding hoofs of galloping horses revealed three riders racing down the street, firing pistols over their heads, while a crowd of men on the sidelines cheered them on for greater speed and recklessness.
Judd eased out of the saddle, tied his horse at a hitching post, then stood next to a crowd of rough-looking men anxiously watching the riders as they approached the far end of town through a rising cloud of dust. The instant they reached the end of the street they yanked their horses around and started back up it again, whipping and digging spurs into their flanks.
‘Come on Sloat, give ’em hell!’ the man next to Judd yelled, rooting for the rider in the lead, as the racers came thundering closer, while he tried making more side bets. ‘I got fifty more says Sloat wins. What about you, mister, you want some of it?’ He turned to Miller, waving a fistful of dollars in his face.
‘I’m new in town,’ Judd shook his head, with the quick excuse, ‘I don’t know who’s riding what, so I’m not in the bet.’
Robbie Wheller quickly turned away, looking for someone else, as the horses flashed by and Judd saw the man riding in the lead, Cayce Sloat, whipping his horse savagely with a short leather quirt. Cayce would stand out in any crowd, mounted or not. He was a big man physically, wearing heavy leather chaps lined along the edges with flashing silver conchos. His striped, brightly coloured shirt was worn under a fuzzy, white wool vest. His black pants and boots set off the same mop of unruly hair worn under a wide-brimmed hat to match. On his side a long-barrelled pistol jostled up and down in its holster at every leap of his horse.
‘You got ’em Sloat, don’t slow down now!’ Wheller shouted at his hero as the horses flashed by open mouthed, for one last run down and back. ‘Ain’t no one going to outride Cayce. I don’t care who tries it!’ He excitedly elbowed Judd in the ribs. ‘When he’s ridin’ like this, both me and him make money!’
As the trio of riders turned, starting back, one of the other riders pulled up almost even with Sloat, challenging him for the lead, threatening his victory. Quick as a rattlesnake strike, Cayce lashed out with his quirt, striking the rider full across the face, opening a bloody welt, causing the man to pull back, staying second. Streaking across the finish line, Cayce rode back to the yelling crowd of men and got down, coming up to Wheller.
‘Well, did we make any money?’ he roared, a toothy grin spreading across his sweaty, whiskered face.
‘We sure did, Cayce. I ain’t counted all of it yet, but I’d have to say we had to make maybe . . . two hundred dollars?’
‘Two hundred, is that all?’
‘Well, yeah, but remember, everyone knows you usually win, so it’s hard to get a bet against you. You gotta’ know that, don’t you?’
Sloat looked around at the crowd of men, quickly noticing a new face he’d never seen before.
‘What about you, cowboy?’ he pushed out his chin at Miller. ‘Did you bet on me to win or lose?’ He eyed Judd suspiciously, the men surrounding him leaning closer, waiting for the stranger to answer.
‘I didn’t do either one. I’m new here. I don’t know anyone, or who was racing. I just watched.’
‘Just watched, huh? Next time you’ll know who to bet on, if you’re around here long enough,’ he turned back to the knot of men. ‘Let’s get on down to Rickert’s, so I can wash down some of this dust!’
The crowd of men moved off, leaving Judd standing alone in the street, watching them go. The brief encounter with Cayce Sloat was enough for Judd to know he was the big man in Hang Town, and someone to watch out for. Sloat had some lingering suspicions of his own about the new man. He took one long look back over his shoulder, as he and his pals continued down the street for the whiskey house.
If Judd thought his introduction to Hang Town was wild and wide open, once the sun died out behind the rocky heights of the Wolf Fang range, the unbridled raucousness only increased. Coal oil lamps were lit up and down the street, bringing new life into gambling houses and saloons. Laughter, loud shouts and even occasional gunfire permeated the evening air. If a town could survive on whiskey alone, Hang Town was proving that point in spades.
Miller walked the streets, pausing just long enough to look into each establishment before moving on. Most were crowded with players or drinkers. Nearing Rickert’s, he stopped, looking over the double doors into the popular watering hole. The big room was a sea of noisy men in motion, wall to wall. Above the endless chin music, Cayce Sloat’s booming voice could be heard. He was sitting at a card table near the end of a long bar, playing poker with four other men. Judd knew from his brief encounter earlier, that it was just a matter of time before he and Sloat ended up face to face – he could feel it as certain as sundown. Pushing through the doors, he stepped inside, slowly working his way across the room.
At the poker table Rickert’s house dealer, Frank Kincade, had the fancy clothes, poise and look of a middle-aged man who had always made his living dealing off a fresh deck of cards, never breaking a sweat at manual labour. The first tinge of grey hair showed on his long sideburns and moustache. His well tanned face had the first faint lines of crows’ feet around the eyes. He’d just won a large pot laying down a red heart flush over Sloat’s pair of aces and another pla
yer’s three of a kind. The fourth man at the table threw in his hand, getting to his feet and shaking his head.
‘That’s it for me, boys. I’m not contributing any more money to Bart Rickert, the way these cards have been running. You boys can knock heads with Kincade, I’m out.’
The third player said he’d stay for one more hand, then pull out too, if he lost. Cayce yelled over to the bartender to bring him a new bottle of rye whiskey. ‘I’m in until I clean you out, Kincade,’ he snorted, glaring at the dealer, ‘and you better be sure all these cards are coming off the top of the deck, too!’ He pulled up his pistol, placing it on the table next to the new bottle.
‘You’re having a bad run of luck, Cayce. You ought to sit tonight out. Once Lady Luck turns against you, it’s best to listen to her,’ Kincade suggested.
‘You just deal the cards and let me worry about Lady Luck.’
‘As you, wish. Everyone ante up ten dollars for the new pot. Anyone else want in to fill this empty chair?’ Kincade turned in his seat, looking at men standing around the table watching the game. Cayce looked up too, spotting Judd standing near the bar.
‘Hey you, cowboy, get over here and fill this chair!’ he shouted, and everyone turned to see who Sloat was yelling at.
Judd Miller picked up his glass of beer and walked over to the table, never taking his eyes off Cayce. For the first time Sloat noticed Judd carried his six-gun on his left side with the pistol butt forward, even though he drank and carried his glass in his right hand. Reaching the table, the two stared at each other for several uncomfortable seconds until Sloat broke the silence.
‘That’s a damn strange way to carry a pistol. It’s on the wrong side,’ he mocked. ‘I guess you don’t have to use it much. Sit on down here and put some money on the table. We’re short one man.’
‘I’m not a gambler, at least not at cards.’ Judd shook his head, still standing.
