The Badlands Trail

by Lyle Brandt

  The bartender was somewhere in his forties, Finch decided, gray shot through his beard and thinning hair on top. He sipped coffee while swabbing down the bar’s top with a well-worn towel and met them with a smile that stopped short of his eyes.

  “G’morning, gents,” he said. “What can I pour you?”

  “Beer for me,” Finch said, and nodded toward his men. “We’re going dutch.”

  “One beer it is,” the barkeep said, pulled it from a tap, leaving a foamy head on top. “Ten cents.”

  Finch slid a dime—his next to last—across the bar and waited while his men counted out change for their own drinks, whiskey or beer, and one of each for Gretzler, who was obviously feeling flush or extra-thirsty.

  “This your place?” Finch inquired, after a sip of beer.

  “Not hardly,” the barkeep replied. “I manage things most times, but Mr. Grover Botkin owns the joint.”

  “Is he around, by any chance?”

  “Sleeping upstairs. He keeps long hours, generally comin’ down at noon or thereabouts. If you’ve got business with him, though . . .”

  “Nothing like that,” Finch said. “Just curious by nature.”

  “New in town.” It didn’t come out sounding like a question.

  “Passing through. A little business at the livery before we move along.”

  “Silas goes round the farms Mondays and Fridays, if they need ’im.”

  “What we keep on hearing,” Finch said. “Two, three hours was the last bid.”

  “That’s about his usual. If you’ve got time to kill . . .”

  The barkeep glanced up at the ceiling overhead, beyond which cribs were waiting, likely still smelling of last night’s sweaty times.

  “I reckon not, right now,” Finch said. “We ought to keep an eye out for the blacksmith.”

  “This’ll likely be his first stop when he’s done,” the barman said. “He likes to wet his whistle after shoeing horses or whatever. Says it helps him cut the dust after his rounds.”

  “Makes sense,” Finch answered. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. In the meantime, set me up again.”

  * * *

  * * *

  WELL, THERE SHE is,” said Gavin Dixon. “Willow Grove.”

  There wasn’t much town to admire from half a mile due east, and Toby Bishop thought the settlement would be no more endearing when they got up close. One-story buildings for the most part, with a couple of them one floor taller, casting longer shadows on the town’s main street.

  Dixon produced a spyglass, drew it out full length, and raised it to one eye. Bishop waited with all the rest, to hear what he’d say next.

  “That building closest to us on the south,” their trail boss said at last. “The one looks like a barn. It’s got a pen of horses out in back.”

  “Yours, boss?” asked Sullivan.

  “That’s my surmise. I’ll need a closer look to cinch it, though.”

  “We’d best get on, then,” Sullivan suggested.

  “Right.” Their trail boss stashed the spyglass out of sight and made a clucking sound to set his rose gray moving forward.

  Bishop, watching out for any human figures moving on the town’s main drag and spotting no suspicious persons from afar, began deep-breathing, centering himself for whatever might lie ahead.

  “So, what’s our play, boss?” Isaac Thorne inquired.

  “Ride straight up to the livery first thing,” Dixon replied. “Confirm those horses came from our remuda, then talk to the man in charge.”

  The stable owner’s sex could safely be assumed, in Bishop’s view. He had no doubt a woman could administer a livery, keeping its books and all, but its persistent scut work would be dirty, sometimes backbreaking. Man’s work, traditionally, though a wife and mother in these parts would also be acquainted with toiling around the clock.

  Bishop guessed it was fifty-fifty that the rustlers had already sold their stolen horses and moved on. That meant Dixon would either have to buy them back at an inflated price, or else try taking them by force.

  And if the gang was still in town . . .

  Bishop hoped he wouldn’t have to kill any more men today, but when in his life had wishes ever come true?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LEON MOON WAS forty-one years old and feeling every hour of it. Never mind that he was one of Willow Grove’s most prosperous inhabitants. All things were relative and being well-to-do in a backwater prairie town would make him marginally poor if he lived someplace like Houston or even Galveston, in Texas.

  Blacksmiths rarely starved, and he made money from his livery as well, but when he offset the expenses, Moon could count on feeling pressure mount inside his head until he had to take a slug of red-eye to relax.

  Now, fresh off his morning farm rounds, he had Billy Campbell in his face, talking about strangers stopping by with animals to sell.

  “They’re back in the corral, sir,” Billy said.

  “The men, or horses?”

  Billy laughed at that and slapped his leg, seeming to think the joke was better than it felt on Leon’s tongue. “Horses, o’ course! The men are downtown somewhere.”

  Can’t have gone too far, Moon thought. There ain’t much town.

  He walked around to the corral and found it full. Moon counted forty animals in all, six of them saddled, all the rest bareback.

  “Six strangers, was there?” he asked Billy.

  “No, sir. Only five, but with another saddled mount. That cream dun over yonder.”

  “And how many were they after selling?”

  “Didn’t say, boss. All but what they rode in on, I guess.”

  “Would I be feeding ’em?”

  “No, sir. I made that clear, regarding price. The man in charge said only water till he’d talked to you.”

  “That’s something, anyway. Now where—”

  Before Moon could complete the question, someone called out from the street. “Hello! Is anybody here?”

  Now what? Moon asked himself, and started back around the livery to see. He hadn’t recognized the voice, but when he saw five mounted men with hands close to their pistols, all of them were strangers save for one, whose face stirred something in Moon’s memory. He tried to fetch a name, but it eluded him.

  “You looking for your friends?” Moon asked the man with the familiar face, who seemed to be in charge.

  “Our horses,” said the front man. “Stolen out of our remuda last night, maybe ten miles west of here.”

  Moon told it plain. “I’ve likely got ’em. Strangers dropped ’em off while I was out on rounds. Looking to sell ’em, Billy says.”

  “Yes, sir,” Campbell chimed in, prepared to say more until Leon shushed him with a glance.

  “We’ll need ’em back,” the mouthpiece for the new arrivals said. “Hoping that won’t cause grief for any of us.”

  “Not on my part,” Moon replied. Then asked, “Do I know you?”

  “Name’s Dixon,” said the talker. “I was through here sometime back.”

  “That’s where I’ve seen you.”

  “Passing by, maybe. I never stopped in here before.”

  Moon nodded. Said, “I’ve got no problem handing back your animals, since they ain’t cost me anything so far. Can’t say about the six with saddles that was left off with ’em. I suppose the men that brought ’em may be wanting those.”

  The man called Dixon frowned at that and asked, “You know where we might find those fellas now?”

  Moon turned to Billy Campbell, saying, “Well?”

  “Yes, sir,” Billy replied. “I sent ’em down to Slawson’s for some breakfast. That was right around three hours gone. Unless they’re real slow eaters . . . well, they ain’t been back yet.”

  “Slawson’s,” Dixon said. “All right, then
. Can we leave our horses here while we go have a look?”

  Moon figured Dixon and his friends had more than simple looking in their minds. “Okay by me,” he said. “How long you plan to be?”

  “Long as it takes,” Dixon replied, “and not a minute more.”

  * * *

  * * *

  AMOS FINCH FINISHED his second beer and told the bartender, “That’s it for me.”

  His men picked up on that and started quaffing off their drinks as well, paying their tabs from pocket change.

  “Back to the livery?” Earl Mullins asked.

  Finch checked his pocket watch. Replied, “Seems close enough to me. If Moon ain’t back yet, we can wait down there.”

  Shel Gretzler reached the batwing doors ahead of him, was halfway through when he stepped back, saying, “Whoa!”

  Finch shouldered past him and didn’t have to ask what the problem was. Five grim-faced men with rifles in their hands were coming down the middle of the street on foot, from the direction of the livery. Finch ducked back, hoping that they hadn’t seen him, turning to his boys.

  “Looks like we’re out of time,” he said.

  “Already?” That from Reed Dyer.

  “Couldn’t swear to it,” Finch answered, “but I’m no believer in coincidence.”

  “Made better time than I expected,” Shelby said.

  “What are we gonna do?” Bert Fitzer asked, just short of whining.

  “Can’t say if they’re coming here directly,” Finch replied. Not quite an answer, thinking fast.

  “If they’re not,” said Gretzler, “we could line up at the windows here and hit ’em as they pass.”

  The bartender had seen them huddled by the exit. Now he asked them, “Everything okay, gents?”

  “Mind your business,” Finch instructed him.

  “Hey, now . . .”

  Finch raised his Henry rifle, asking, “Have you got a scattergun behind the bar?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Yes or no. Your life depends on it.”

  “I do. Yes, sir.”

  “Show me. Nice and slow, now.”

  The bartender did as he was told, produced a double-barreled twelve-gauge sawed off at both ends, no more than fifteen inches overall, counting the rounded pistol grip. He set it on the bar and stepped away, his hands raised shoulder-high.

  “And nothing else?” Finch prodded.

  “Just an ax handle.”

  “We won’t need that. Shel, fetch the shotgun.”

  Shel did as he was told and brought the sawed-off back to Finch as he addressed the barkeep one last time.

  “You need to go upstairs and wake your boss. Be quick about it and make goddamned sure you both come back with empty hands. If I see either of you heeled, I’m gonna stick this twelve-gauge where the sun don’t shine and blow you inside out.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Earl, keep ’im company. You have to kill ’em, try ’n keep it quiet.”

  Mullins trailed the barkeep to the stairs and then up to the second floor.

  “The rest of you,” Finch said, “get back from them windows. “We ought to see ’em passing in a minute. If they go by, let ’em.”

  “What the hell?” Reed Dyer challenged him. “You mean—”

  “I mean exactly what I say. That kid down at the livery steered us to Slawson’s. If he’s done the same for them, it buys us time.”

  “For what?” Shel Gretzler asked.

  “To make this joint the best fort that we can,” Finch said.

  * * *

  * * *

  WALKING THE LENGTH of Willow Grove to look for rustlers went against the grain for Toby Bishop, but he didn’t have a better plan in mind. Passing each shop along the way between the livery and Slawson’s restaurant put him on edge, particularly going past the Gem saloon, with all those windows, any one of which could prove to be a sniper’s nest.

  It wasn’t his call, though. He’d seen nothing that warranted him contradicting Mr. Dixon’s plan or Billy Campbell’s information as to where he’d sent the rustlers for a meal.

  And yet . . .

  He carried the Winchester Yellow Boy in his left hand, muzzle pointed to the ground, while his right hand rested on the curved butt of his Colt. Wherever danger came from, Toby would be ready to respond in kind.

  And danger would be coming, that was certain. The rustlers had to be somewhere in Willow Grove right now. It was ridiculous to think they’d left their horses at the livery, then wandered out of town on foot.

  The question foremost in his mind, and in the minds of his companions: Were the men they sought aware that Gavin Dixon and his drovers had arrived in Willow Grove? Were they alert and watching even now?

  And if they were, why hadn’t Dixon and his men come under fire so far?

  No mind reader, Bishop couldn’t supply an answer to that question. He could only follow Mr. Dixon on their trek downtown.

  They reached the only restaurant in Willow Grove and passed inside. Its diners, nine by Bishop’s count, looked up to see the new arrivals eyeing them and broke off conversation while a waitress came to greet them on the threshold.

  “What a day this is,” she said. “More strangers than I’ve seen in months!”

  “Where did the others go, ma’am?” Dixon asked.

  “They finished up and left, sir. Are you looking for them? Maybe friends of yours?”

  “I’d have to answer ‘yes’ and ‘no,’” Dixon replied. “We missed ’em at the livery and didn’t pass ’em on the street just now. I don’t suppose you’d have an inkling where they went?”

  “Well, now, I do believe one of them mentioned going to the Gem,” she said. “You will have passed it on your way.”

  “We did. Roughly how long ago was that, ma’am?”

  “Nigh onto an hour, I suppose. They stayed for breakfast first. If you-all want something to eat—”

  “Maybe another time,” Dixon replied. “I’d hate to let ’em leave without us telling ’em hello.”

  Before she had a chance to speak again, Dixon turned to his men and said, “Looks like it’s time for us to visit the saloon.”

  * * *

  * * *

  HERE’S WHAT YOU’RE gonna do,” said Amos Finch.

  “Whatever gets y’all outta here the quickest,” Grover Botkin said, “without nobody getting hurt.”

  “No one that doesn’t have it coming,” Finch amended.

  “So? Just spell it out.”

  “You need to stay down here and greet who’s gonna come along here pretty soon.”

  “And tell ’em what?” asked Botkin.

  “You won’t have to think about that. Just glad-hand ’em like you would with any other customer, then duck before the lead starts flying.”

  “Mister, this here place is all I got. Can’t you just meet ’em in the street and settle whatever’s between you-all?”

  “Not in the cards, my friend. Do as you’re told, and you should be all right, together with your barkeep and your working girls. Try any tricks . . .”

  “I hear you, mister.”

  Shel chimed in, saying, “Mind you, no guarantees about your barroom, pal. It might end up showing some wear and tear.”

  To that, Botkin made no reply. Instead, he asked Finch, “Where are you and your men gonna be?”

  “Upstairs feels right,” Finch said. “A layout like you got here, I prefer to hold the high ground.”

  “And leave me with the mess,” said Botkin.

  “Thank your lucky stars that I don’t make you part of it,” Finch answered back.

  “I feel no end of gratitude.”

  “That mouth of yours is gonna get you hurt someday, old man.”

  “Fool don’t know when
to shut his yap,” said Gretzler, drawing back his pistol for a swipe at Botkin.

  Finch stepped in between them, saying, “Easy, Shel. No need for that. If I came in and commandeered your place of business, you’d be mad as a wet hen yourself.”

  Beating averted for the moment, Finch then faced the Gem’s proprietor. “You wanna keep those teeth and see the sun go down tonight, be smart and just do what you’re told. Think you can live with that?”

  Their grudging host nodded, then said, “I reckon so.”

  Then back to Gretzler. “See, Shel? We’re all friends again.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Best check them others and make sure they’re all in place.”

  “On it,” Shel said, and started toward the stairs,

  “About that bartender of yours,” Finch said to Botkin.

  “He’s my nephew. Lost his parents in a river crossing and I raised him as my own.”

  “Be a crying shame if something nasty happened to him, now he’s come so far along.”

  “Just leave ’im outta this, all right?”

  “You leave him out, old man. Just do your part and make the act convincing. All we need’s a couple minutes and you can forget that we were ever here.”

  Or maybe not, Finch thought.

  There was a good chance no amount of time or alcohol would ever wipe this day from Grover Botkin’s mind.

  * * *

  * * *

  THE CIRCLE K’S men stopped a half block from the Gem, beside an alley’s mouth, invisible from the saloon’s windows, and Mr. Dixon shared his plan, such as it was.

  “We’re gonna split up here,” he said. “Toby and Isaac, you head down the alley and come at ’em through the back door. Whit and Deke with me. We’ll go in through the front.”

  “We sure they’re even in there, boss?” asked Isaac Thorne.