by Art Isberg
Lee Hollis lay in the dark a long time before trying to move. When he did, his broken body was racked in pain, but he stayed conscious. He knew he had to get back to his shack and Judd Miller before Sloat and his men did. Slowly, groaning with each effort, he managed to roll over and grab the hitching rail, then struggled to pull himself up, inch by inch, fighting back the urge to cry out. He could hear the bones in his broken ribs crunch as he did so, making each breath a knife stab of pain; finally he staggered upright, hanging on to the hitching rail with both hands to keep from collapsing. He reached for the reins on his mule. Pulling it closer he grabbed the saddle horn, mustering his last ounce of strength to pull his broken body up into the saddle. Then he started away back down the trail.
Judd had begun to wonder what was taking Hollis so long to ride back from Hang Town. He stepped outside the door into the chilly air of the night, peering up the shadowy trail leading in. At first he saw nothing, but then he thought he heard the first faint sounds of distant hoofbeats coming closer. ‘Lee, is that you?’ he called out – but there was no answer.
His hand went down and pulled up the six-gun. If it wasn’t Lee, it could only mean trouble was riding in. He stepped back around the corner of the small shack where he could still see the dim trail, but not be seen. The shadowy outline of Lee’s mule came into view, but the image didn’t look right. Judd moved back out walking quickly closer. That’s when he realized Hollis was draped over the animals’ neck, hanging on, moaning low under his breath.
‘Lee, what happened, are you hurt? Here, let me help you down.’ Judd ran to him.
‘No . . . no, don’t. I’ll try to do it myself. My ribs are caved in. If you grab me . . . I’ll pass out.’
Lee agonizingly slid down off the saddle, grabbing Judd by the shoulder, begging him to keep him upright until he could get inside the cabin. Once there he collapsed on the bed, face up. Miller quickly lit the coal oil lamp, coming to his side for his first real look at the little man. His face was battered, dirty and bloody, creased with pain, streaked with tears.
‘Who did this to you?’ Judd demanded, beginning to clean his face.
‘Sloat . . . and some of his men . . . tried to get me . . . to tell them where you were . . . out here.’
‘Why didn’t you, instead of taking a beating like this? I can take care of Sloat and anyone who hangs around him.’
‘You . . . don’t understand, Judd. He means to . . . come here and kill you.’
‘Are you sure they’re coming here?’
‘Yeah . . . I am.’
‘I’m going to try and clean you up, then wrap those ribs of yours. You just lay still, while I get a few things. I’m no doctor, but I’ll do the best I can. Do you own a weapon of any kind?’
‘I’ve got . . . an old pistol, over there in that box.’
‘Is it loaded?’
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t think so. I haven’t fired a shot with it in years.’
Judd retrieved the ancient weapon, which broke open from the top for reloading.
It was empty. He rummaged around further in the box until finding a box of bullets for the little .22 caliber pistol. Loading it he came back to the bedside.
‘If Sloat does show up and gets past me, you use this, you understand?’
Lee looked up, a thin stream of bright red blood running down the side of his mouth. He started to answer, but only nodded yes. Judd looked around the shack for something to wrap his ribs in. Tearing up an old bed sheet, he carefully wrapped Lee’s body without making it too tight. When done, he spoke again.
‘I’m going outside, in case anyone followed you here. You just rest as easy as you can. I’ll put the water jug and a glass next to you in case you want a drink. I’ll snuff out the lamp too, for now.’
Judd grabbed his rifle leaning next to the door. Stepping back outside into the icy breath of night air, he bristled at the savage beating the little man had endured at the hands of Cayce Sloat, vowing to make him pay for what he’d done. Men like Sloat didn’t deserve to live. Once again Judd found himself ready to use his six-gun to do something about it. Only months earlier, he and his brother were working to make their new ranch a paying proposition, and now everything had changed to showdowns and killing gunfights, with a price on his own head. It seemed almost unreal that any of this could have happened. He took in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, before walking a short distance away stopping at a bend in the narrow trail where he could see a short distance ahead. He listened intently but heard nothing.
With no moon, stars cast a ghostly glow over everything, turning dark shadows into lurking gunmen ready to leap up and open fire. He studied each and every one until the sound of slow walked hoof beats invaded the silence of night. Judd lifted the rifle, aiming through a narrow gap in the rocky wall, waiting for horsemen to fill it. The instant the first figure did, he shouted a sudden challenge.
‘Let those reins drop, and throw up your hands!’
The reaction was instant. Thunderous pistol fire echoed off rock walls as all three riders opened fire, and bullets ricochet off stony walls, and they struggled to climb back in the saddle, fighting to turn their horses around in the narrow passageway. Judd worked the lever action rifle as fast as he could, until one of the men screamed out in pain. In a matter of seconds the deadly confrontation was over, the sound of running horses fading away. Judd’s bullets had found their mark on at least one man. But which one?
CHAPTER FIVE
Back inside the shack, Judd relit the kerosene lamp, quickly crossing the room to where Lee lay. Lowering the lamp, he began talking explaining what had happened outside, but stopped in mid sentence. A closer look at Lee’s bloody face and his clouded, half-opened eyes told him that Lee had heard none of it, or ever would again. Judd put a finger to the side of the little man’s neck. There was no pulse. The savage beating he’d suffered at the hands of Cayce Sloat had killed Lee Hollis as surely as a gunshot to the head.
That cold and starry night, Judd buried his friend further up canyon in a shallow grave under a pile of rocks. Returning to the shack, he reloaded the rifle and checked his six-gun to be certain all six cylinders were filled with the grey, round-nosed bullets. He made a vow at that moment to saddle up and ride for Hang Town. Cayce Sloat had a visitor coming, and one who meant to take vengeance on him for what he’d done, or anyone else who got in the way.
Hang Town’s street was still lit by the soft glow of lamplight from inside saloons and gambling houses, when Judd reached the edge of town. Reining to a stop, he took in the scene, hearing voices and muffled laughter drifting up the street. It was just another night of wide-open partying, gambling and drinking – but not to Miller. He meant to turn it into a night of flaming six-guns and a dead man lying in the street – and when he did, he’d be on the run again. Urging his horse ahead, Judd started down the street, heading for Rickert’s saloon, where Sloat always hung out.
Reaching the lively watering hole, he eased down out of the saddle, tying his horse to the hitching rail one door up from the popular bar. He wanted the street clear for what was coming. Stepping on to the boardwalk, he looked through the open double doors inside, searching the crowded room for Sloat. Sloat’s loud, booming voice quickly identified him, standing at the far end of the bar. As usual, a crowd of admirers gathered around him while he raved on about the cowboy stranger who’d showed up in town only weeks earlier, and had now killed one of his men, Jackson Keller, that very same evening in a night-time ambush outside town. He harangued everyone, wildly waving his hands over his head, about how they should gather up riders and a rope, to go find the killer and hang him. Shouts of support rose up from his excited listeners in the smoke-filled room, until Judd suddenly pushed through the door and everyone turned seeing him. A sudden quiet settled over the room.
‘You’re a bald-faced liar and a yellow coward!’ Miller called out. ‘You beat Lee Hollis to death right out here on this street tonight, and now
you better step outside and pay for it. If you don’t, I’ll come back in here and drag you out!’ Judd backed out the doors, while the bar-room exploded in excited talk; Cayce looked around for Dave Harper, who quickly pushed his way through the throng of men up to his boss.
‘Quick, you get out the side door into the alley, where you can see the street.’ Sloat ordered. ‘When I get outside, we’ll have him in crossfire, before he knows what hit him!’
‘Go get ’em, Cayce!’ one man standing nearby shouted encouragement.
‘Yeah, give him all six shots!’ another seconded, as Sloat dramatically tossed down a shot of whiskey, slamming the stubby glass down on the bar for emphasis, before taking up his gunbelt a notch, eyeing the crowd around him with a forced smile.
Sloat couldn’t show it, but he wasn’t as sure about the showdown waiting for him as his admirers. He’d never been called out face to face before, especially by someone he didn’t know, and in front of friends to boot. He worried if he was fast enough to out-pull this bold cowboy waiting for him, or not.
Cayce stepped for the door, pushing through it and out on to the boardwalk. He could just make out Miller’s shadowy form standing in the middle of the street forty feet away. A quick glance at the alley to his right, meant Harper was there waiting, even though he couldn’t see him. Nothing like an ace in the hole, Cayce thought as he stepped on to the street facing Judd.
‘OK, cowboy, you shot off your big mouth. Now let’s see just how fast you think you really are!’ Sloat shouted, coming to a stop planting his feet slightly apart, steadying himself, right hand poised over his pistol.
At the same instant, Judd caught the dull flash of a pistol barrel slowly emerging from the alley, lit by soft light from inside Rickert’s. He spun left on his feet, firing three thundering shots into the darkened passageway. The mortal screams of Dave Harper faded away, along with echoing shots. He went down without ever pulling the trigger. Cayce hesitated for a split second, wide-eyed at seeing his ace in the hole so suddenly dead. He yanked up his big iron, firing at Judd at the same time as Miller turned back crouching, firing his remaining three shots into the big man. Sloat’s mouth fell open as the bullets hit. He staggered back, still holding on to his pistol, trying to stay on his feet. A bloody cough welled up in his throat, before he sagged to the ground in slow motion, lying face up on his back. The vicious Hang Town bully was dying on the same street where he’d killed other men.
The crowd of men peeking out around the door at Rickert’s pushed cautiously out on to the boardwalk before one man ran for the alley, while others slowly advanced on Sloat’s body spread-eagled in the middle of the street, staring down at their hero.
‘Harper’s dead too!’ the alley man called out.
‘That cowboy killed both of them!’ Someone in the knot of men screamed at the top of his lungs, pointing at Judd, who now held an empty six-gun in his hand.
‘Let’s get that rope and hang him!’ Another shouted.
‘His pistol is empty. He’s fired all six shots. Take him!’ A third vigilante incited his pals to action.
Judd ran for this horse. Yanking the Winchester rifle out of its scabbard, he levelled it on the advancing crowd, firing one shot over their heads. The men ducked. Some dropped to their knees, covering their faces with their arms.
‘I’ve got fifteen more shots in this magazine. Who wants to be first to get one in the belly, like Sloat did?’ Judd threatened, pushing his foot into the stirrup, and pulling himself up into the saddle with one hand. For the first time he felt the white-hot sting of pain in his side: one of Sloat’s bullets had nearly found its mark. He struggled, kicking his horse down the street into the night, while a wild volley of shots was fired after him.
Reaching the little mining cabin, Miller lit the lantern. Taking off his bloody shirt, he examined the open gash that was the bullet wound in his side. He couldn’t keep riding with something like this – he’d likely bleed to death. Looking round the room he found a needle and thread in a small drawer. Before threading it, he poured a generous splash of whiskey on the wound, from a bottle Lee kept under his bed. That liquid fire matched the pain of the wound. Stitch by excruciating stitch he slowly began closing the wound, moaning low each time the needle pierced his flesh, his face twisted in pain as he completed each torturous circle. Sweat rolled down his face, and the pain became so intense he thought he might pass out, but the possibility that the men from the town might know the cabin’s location and ride in, kept his adrenalin flowing, forcing him to stay conscious.
Once he had finished the grisly doctoring, he looked around the cabin, gathering up what few items he could, especially the food Lee had brought in from town. He filled a cloth sack and his saddle-bags with everything, then hurried outside and tied it all on to his horse.
Judd knew he couldn’t ride back through town. Instead he decided the only way left was to head down out of the mountains to whatever might lie ahead. Some while later he looked back and could see the flickering light of many torches dancing in the night, held high by riders turning into the narrow passage leading to the shack. He’d only beaten the hangman’s rope by a whisker, without adding his own name to the men who had given Hang Town its fearsome reputation.
Two days after fleeing the night-time shack, Judd Miller found himself far from the mountains, riding through rough hill country covered in sagebrush and gramma grass. With every move he made in the saddle the wound in his side burned as if he were being jabbed with a white hot poker. He kept gingerly surveying the bloodstain on the side of his shirt, knowing he was still bleeding. He needed medical help, but out here in the middle of nowhere that wasn’t going to happen. Finally near sundown on the second day he pulled his horse to a halt, and eased himself down out of the saddle. The last rays of sunlight painted the empty land in stark contrasts of shadow and light. Nothing stirred. The land seemed empty, devoid of any living thing. For the first time he felt sick to his stomach, and was beginning to suffer bouts of dizziness.
The narrow ravine he found himself in was lined with low, tough cedars. Pulling a blanket from his saddle pack, he spread it on the ground and sat down, and tried to eat a few bites of hardtack. It didn’t help. Giving that up, he lay down and closed his eyes. The last thought he had before falling into an exhausted sleep, was to wonder if he would ever wake up again.
The sun rose the following morning, marching its timeless path slowly across the sky, finally to sink out of sight behind the mountains at sunset. Judd Miller did not stir. A second dawn lit the land. Judd tried opening his eyes, vaguely aware of a voice that seemed far away, and someone’s hand brushing his matted hair from his face.
‘Hey, mister – you dead or alive?’
He forced his eyes open, and could just make out the fuzzy image of someone leaning close over him, wearing a beat-up cowboy hat, with a curly mop of brown hair nearly as wide as the hat. His eyes cleared a bit more, and now he could see a woman’s face covered in dusty smudges, studying him as she leaned closer. Judd wondered if he’d died and gone to cowboy heaven. Surely this couldn’t be real.
‘You’re a bloody mess,’ the apparition spoke again. ‘I guess I’ll have to try and get you back to my place . . . or maybe get a shovel and bury you, if you don’t make it. You think you can stand up if I help you?’
‘I’m . . . not sure.’ Judd groaned.
‘Come on, try. Sit up first, then we’ll go from there.’
He rolled over and got on his knees, fighting to rise, while the woman hooked her arms under his, straining to lift him. ‘Come on, cowboy! All the way up!’
Finally Judd stood shakily upright, as she propped him up and walked him to his horse. Grabbing him by the seat of his pants, she grunted, pushing him higher, and finally into the saddle; then she took his horse’s reins and climbed on her own horse, and led them away from the cedar grove, where he would surely have died.
Judd was still barely conscious half an hour later, when she reined the hors
es to a stop. He tried focusing his eyes on the low log dugout with a dirt roof, almost invisible down the deep ravine. While helping him down, he did notice for the first time that she wore a low-slung leather gun belt with a pistol sticking up out of the holster.
‘Lean down, and I’ll get you inside,’ she said, pulling his arm over her shoulder, slowly walking through the door, lowering him on to a bed against one wall. ‘I’ve got to do something about this bleeding. Much more if it and you won’t be having to worry about whether tomorrow will ever come, or not.’
Those were the last words Judd heard before the room went dark and he lost consciousness again.
The following evening, he awoke to the smell of something delicious cooking. He stared at the low log roof over his head, slowly becoming aware that the woman was standing on the far side of the room with her back to him, busy stirring a pot on a small wood stove. The small single lamp hanging from the ceiling cast moving shadows across the room. He tried to speak, but only managed a croak from his dry mouth. She heard it and turned around.
‘I’d say it’s time you woke up. I did a little more doctoring on you while you were out. I think I’ve got the bleeding stopped. You pulled out half your stitches riding. You better just lie still and let that wound heal up. Do you have a name, cowboy?’
‘It’s . . . Judd Miller. How long . . . have I been out?’
‘Most of two days. If that bullet wound had been just a couple of inches deeper into your body, you’d be dead by now. Even as it is, gangrene could set in. I’ll have to keep an eye on it and clean it every day.’
As Judd became more conscious, questions began flooding in. He had so many, he didn’t know where to start. ‘You know my name . . . what’s yours?’
She crossed the room with a steaming bowl of soup in her hands. ‘It’s Lacey Dale, or at least it was, before I was married.’
