Six-Guns Or Surrender (Lincoln's Lawman Book 1)

by A. M. Van Dorn

  Dalton’s hand went up, his palm out. “Your point of this history lesson?”

  “I’m just saying you saw how that Riker fellow stood up to us. He could be the man they fall behind and not some toothless minister. If he’s at that meeting, and if he’s as uppity as he was out on the street, Dalton’s Creek might just listen to him!”

  Tapping the ash of his cigar into a glass, semi-circle ashtray, Dalton looked up at Bryant.

  "And where are those men Turner and Brown now? Answer—like Spartacus, in their graves for daring to rise up. That is where Riker will wind up if he proves to be of any further trouble, but I actually see now I have use for the man. No, let the meeting be held. We are going to use this as an opportunity. This meeting sounds like a first-rate occasion to rid the town of some "undesirable citizens" and make a final push to seize full control of Dalton's Creek!" the man's eyes danced with malice as he spoke.

  “So, what do you have in mind? “Crockett asked as he downed the last of his brandy. A smirk swept over Dalton’s face as he plucked two of the photographs from the assortment, the two he had been looking for earlier. He held them up for a moment and then tossed them down at the table and pointed towards them.

  “Listen close, all of you. It won’t matter a damn bit if a shepherd rises up if there’s no flock! It’s time to thin it out considerably. Here is what we are going to do.”

  CHAPTER 9

  BLACK ROCK PASS

  PINE BLUFF, CALIFORNIA

  McKenna Riker felt as if she were flying as her mount, Cain, thundered through a steep and rocky pass that would carry her all the way to Pine Bluff. As she rode, she was careful to look down for any holes or obstructions that might prove dangerous to Cain, but for the most part, her eyes were always wide open and scanning her surroundings. She loved the West for its endless and unique landscapes that proved grist for her art. Only a mile before she entered the pass, she had spied a magnificent-looking peak of the Sierra Nevada. Which one she did not know, but she'd already committed it to memory.

  Ahead of her lay a bend in the road, and as she approached, she wondered when next she and Nash might be back home in Santa Barbara where her easel and all her paints awaited her. She suspected it would be some time before they returned there. McKenna fully expected when she reported in to learn of their next assignment, they could easily be heading away from California to maybe Arizona or Nevada, perhaps even north to Utah. They never really knew, and she found that aspect of their work exciting.

  Just before she rounded the bend, her eyes caught sight of a small waterfall tumbling down one side of the pass where it disappeared before striking the ground, hidden behind a low ridge of dirt and rocks. With her canteen nearly empty she thought maybe she would double back and get a refill, but all such thoughts evaporated as she rounded the bend. To her surprise, she came upon a Conestoga wagon pulled off to the side of the trail close to the vertical wall of the pass. An older man had his hands on his hips, puffing away on a corn cob pipe while shaking his head. Yet another wagon in trouble she mused. Coming across them was getting to be a habit!

  McKenna pulled up alongside and dismounted feeling a sudden stab of hunger and wishing she had taken some time to at least get something from the general store back in Dalton’s Creek before setting out. Shrugging it off she went about tying Cain to the wagon before approaching the man. She gave an inward smile as she saw the slight widening of the man’s eyes. Getting appraised beat getting shot at like the last time they’d come upon a troubled wagon.

  Besides male appraisal was nothing new. Men were alike wherever she traveled. They admired everything from the shapely curves of her hourglass figure, the bob of her brown hair that ended just below her ears to her sultry lips and recessed dimples when she smiled. Gilding it all were her hazel eyes that always shown with a warmth in them that easily put people at ease

  “I reckon you could use some help. Happy to assist if possible,” she volunteered. The man nodded at her as she came to a stop in front of him.

  “Sure do. I was going into the curve in the bend and the gall danged wheel broke. Whole rig nearly ended up on its side before it righted itself. Just lucky at least in that regards, ma’am.”

  McKenna dropped down on her haunches and looked at one of the spokes that were broken in two. Her eyes narrowed at the near perfectness of the break. "My friend, that is one clean break if I ever laid eyes on one. It damn near looks like someone one took a saw to it."

  "Don't make any sense, but that's what I was thinking. The thing is, the foreman and me done checked it out before we went into the office at the freight company. The foreman wanted to go over the manifest one more time. It sure as shooting didn't leave anyone much time to do it. We were only gone a few minutes, but not impossible. I guess if one was quick with a saw."

  McKenna straightened up and played her eyes over the wagon, “Ah, so you work for a freight company?”

  “That’s right. I drive for the Markham Freight Line. Been hauling freight for Matt Markham, going on a few years now. Mighty fine young fellow.”

  "You might want to tell Mister Markham to slap some paint on the side of the wagon with his name on it. It's good advertising," She smiled, but the old man just shook his head.

  “Don’t know nothing about that. All I know for sure is that this with the heavy load I got in the back here, there’s no way this wheel is going to hold up all the way to Pepper Hill,” he said glumly.

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’m heading to Pine Bluff. I’ll find your Mister Markham and let him know he’s got to send a replacement wheel out here post haste. By the way, the name is McKenna Riker.”

  They shook hands, and he gave his name as Sam Belfry. He thanked her and then remarked how late he would be getting to Pepper Hill thanks to this mishap, but if he at least got another wheel, he'd get there.

  "Not to worry. I-" as she was turning, she was startled by what sounded like loose rock falling somewhere above them. She looked up and swore as she inadvertently stared into the sun. When she regained her vision, she looked up, but there was nothing to see. Saying her goodbyes to the driver, she was back astride Cain and trotting along. As she leisurely made her way, Mckenna's thoughts had just started to turn the situation that had led to Nash staying behind in Dalton's Creek when her heart leaped into her throat as she felt the wake of a bullet whiz by her arm, followed by the crack of the rifle that had fired it.

  Cain reared up and she fought to whip the animal around with one hand on the reins as the other slid her pistol free of her holster with a speed that was akin to greased lightning. As she kicked in and shouted for Cain to go, she snapped off a pair of wild shots knowing she wasn't going to hit anything, but her goal was to stop the sniper from firing again.

  The muscular legs of her horse swiftly carried her down the pass and out of range of the attacker. Yanking on the leather straps, she brought him around just in time to see in the distance, the indistinct figure of a rider charging down one of the slopes that led up to the side of the pass. Immediately he was carried from her view and was gone.

  It took a few moments for her breathing to return to normal from the frighteningly close call. She had come a hair away from at best being winged and at worst outright shot dead.

  “That the hell was that all about?”

  She had to fight not to give chase to the bushwhacker, but he had far too of a head start for her to ever catch up. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but she remembered something Abraham once said during one of their visits. You play the cards you’re dealt but don’t ever stop hoping for a better hand the next time. Definitely a bad hand when someone tries to murder you for no apparent reason and then they get away to boot. Reluctantly, she put Cain back on the trail to town and to find this Markham Freight Line.

  ***

  A half-hour later McKenna was trotting down the main street in Pine Bluff. Being a stranger and a woman automatically drew looks of interest by both men and women alike. Usually, she wou
ld have returned a smile at the townsfolk, but she was still smoldering about the near miss. Several options had flitted through her mind. It could have been someone who deliberately missed whose idea of entertainment was putting a scare into folks. Also, it could have been someone who deliberately missed as well, but their goal was not humor but a form of payback. She was especially thinking of the possibility of an aggrieved Indian. According to Captain Ullery at Fort Creighton, they had put a lid on troubles with the native peoples, many who had departed willingly to escape the white man or had been sent to reservations. Perhaps the shooter was one who remained behind and wished to make some sort of statement.

  Those and other scenarios she had no way to judge without more information on the area. After she told Markham about his wagon problem, she would put some questions to the man to see if anyone else had encountered having potshots taken at them. Looking ahead on the left-hand side of the street she saw a large sign the proclaimed Markham Freight Line in large Bodoni letters. With Cain secured to a hitching post, she made for the door of the freight offices, utterly aware of several pairs of male eyes reviewing the enticing sight her well-rounded ass made in her denim jeans.

  Sauntering in she found herself in a well-lit office thanks to the two large windows on either side of the door that she had just entered. Directly before her was a man in a tan vest with a black bolo tie going over a ledger splayed open on his desktop. When he looked up, she liked what she saw. The man's black hair with its beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, and he was looking up at her with eyes as blue as some ice she had once seen while painting in the Green Mountains of Vermont. As he rose to his feet, she got a good sense of how broad his shoulders were and the man's height.

  “May I help you?”

  “Mister Markham?”

  “Yes, ma’am. May I help you?” he repeated and then seemed somewhat surprised when she extended her hand. Recovering he took it in his and they shook.

  “Name’s McKenna Riker. Seems I’m here to help you by letting you know about some misfortune that has come your wagon’s way out in the pass leading to town.”

  McKenna’s head jerked backward in surprise at the man’s reaction. He instantly became crestfallen and sighed. Wearily, he looked at her as he let go of her hand.

  “What’s happened now in Black Rock Pass?”

  "I was heading into Pine Bluff to avail myself of your telegraph office and hopefully pick up some mail when I came upon Sam Belfry with a right busted up spoke on the wagon and I'll tell you what I told him. For a break to be that clean, it looked to me like someone's saw had a busy day." She took off her hat and for a brief moment, shook her hair to put some body back into it before she tilted her head and looked at him. "So, by the way, you looked and you using the word now, I’m guessing this isn’t the first time you’ve had trouble out yonder.”

  “Won’t you please have a seat, Mrs. Riker?” he said, gesturing to the empty chair in front of his desk. As she slid into it, dropping her hat on his desk, he resumed his place behind the desk and she took a moment to correct him by wagging her finger.

  “Miss Riker … or even just McKenna is fine. I’m not partial to one over the other. Please tell me more about whatever the heap of trouble you’ve been having over in the pass.” Markham leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed his arms.

  "No chance that the broken spoke was some accident. Without seeing it, I would agree it was sawed. The reason I say this is because we've had a series of accidents plaguing all the outbound cargo shipments to the mines over in Pepper Hill."

  A Seth Thomas clock sounded the hour, drawing her eyes to its face. She was mindful that it was late afternoon now and she had no idea what time the telegraph and post offices closed. Still, she found herself intrigued and asked Markham to elaborate on the nature of the accidents.

  “Things like our wagon going through the pass to find a rockslide blocking the way or hitherto sound planks on the bridge over the creek that runs through Black Rock Pass suddenly missing, supposedly having rotted away. Do you see where I am going with this? All convenient happenings that impede my ability to get our orders to Pepper Hill!”

  She idly tapped on the brim of her hat sitting on the desk, “Looks like things have escalated from staging ‘natural occurrences’ to taking the sabotage directly to your wagons.”

  “Speaking of which, if you’ll kindly excuse me, I have to find the foreman Jake Butler and send him and another man out to Sam with a replacement wheel.”

  She rose the same time he did, “That works for me. I need to mosey on and take care of some errands, but I want to hear more about your trials. I’ll meet you back here in say a half hour?”

  The man smiled, “Why don’t we make that meeting up in a half hour over at the Collins Café. I owe you a drink for relaying the message about Sam. What do you say.”

  Realizing just how ravenous she was at that point, she said, "Make it a whole dinner and I say you're on, Mister Markham!"

  CHAPTER 10

  DALTON’S CREEK

  The sun was floating low in the sky above the hilltops surrounding the Beckett ranch as Riker sat in the family’s kitchen forking the last bit of a slice of blueberry pie into his mouth. The dessert was the capper to a hearty meal of ham, greens, and sweet potatoes that Callie Beckett had insisted on preparing for Riker as a thank you for his actions on the main street of Dalton’s Creek. He’d, of course, tried to refuse and beg her not to go through the effort, but she was not to be dissuaded and her father was equally adamant that he be served a treat. As he savored the food, he couldn't help but feel a touch guilty to be sitting here enjoying the dinner without McKenna. He hoped she had finally gotten that meal she had been longing for all day.

  If truth be told, Riker had to admit to himself he enjoyed the feast for reasons beyond its sumptuous taste. It reminded him of his younger years and the Sunday dinners his step-mother Abbie Maria used to make for him and McKenna. The family didn’t have much by way of money after the murder of their father, but somehow their father’s loving Mexican widow always managed to make Sunday’s dinner extra special, sometimes supplemented with game furnished by their surrogate uncle and family friend “Pappy Jacque.” Finally, there was just the novelty of some good old-fashioned home cooking. Riker and McKenna had eaten enough meals around a campfire or in hotels to last a lifetime as they traveled about conducting their duties, tasked to them by Abraham Lincoln in the years before his death.

  As he washed down that last piece with a glass of milk, his eyes wandered around the Beckett's home. Theirs wasn't an overly big ranch, but it was a decent size. In the ranch house where he sat, the walls were a sparkling knotty pine and the furnishings were well kept up. It seemed Callie was equally skilled when it came to cooking and cleaning. What interested him the most was all the little pieces of pottery that were all over the house. Callie had seen him appraising it earlier and had told him that it was a hobby she'd had since childhood.

  Sitting across from him at the table, Luther Beckett was still in a buoyant mood from earlier, and he pounded his fist down next to a still warm loaf of bread sitting on the sturdy, square table. He tipped his head back and looked toward the ceiling. “Halleluiah and glory be! I tell you, Callie, the sight of Mister Riker here whipping one of them so-called ‘Peace Officers’ and then standing up to Dalton and his cronies tickled me something fierce!”

  Callie leaned over the table and Riker felt a stirring as her ample cleavage became visible as she began to clear away the dishes, and to his delight, she held her position and looked over at him. "It did my heart wonders too, but the truth is, Mister Riker, you were lucky to get off with only a hundred-dollar fine. Some folks around here have been shot for less." Riker was disappointed and relieved when she straightened up. The last thing he needed was temptation thrown at him like that with her father sitting an arm's length away. To that end, he turned his attention to Beckett.

  “I’d like to hear more about what’s b
een going on here.”

  “It’s a litany of mayhem is what it is. Those Peace Officers, as they call themselves, strike without warning imposing their rule of law, no Dalton’s rule of law over all of us. Those who protest are gunned down amid claims of self-defense from the Peace Officers. Lord and Jiminy, they put a bullet into Old Zack Branson, one of the least threatening men you’d ever meet!”

  Riker felt his mouth slackening as his arms left the table, dropping to his sides at what he was hearing. His eyes flitted up to Callie as she stood holding his empty pie plate and nodding her head.

  “I know, it sounds incredible, but it doesn’t stop there, Mister Riker. Most notes on the homes around here are held by Crockett who is not only the local judge but the banker. Once their owners are dead and the widows can’t make the payments, he takes them just as he takes the properties that are delinquent after their owners are taxed into bankruptcy by Dalton. The mayor and his paid killers have got us in a stranglehold and before it’s over that tinhorn dictator is going to own the whole town!” she finished, a coldness shone in her eyes that Riker couldn’t miss.

  Leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, he alternated his gaze between father and daughter. "I know as you told me on the ride up here from town, there is no official law enforcement here, no sheriff or deputies, but if things are as bad as you say, why don't you people run Dalton's crowd out of town on a rail on your own?"

  Somberly, Luther Beckett rose, and wordlessly, he walked into the next room and returned with a battered Stetson and handed it to Riker. The bullet hole puncturing the hat was unmistakable. "Some have tried, including my best friend, Donovan Larch. He was wearing this hat when he was gunned down right off his horse. The others that have tried, well, sir, you can find them in Boot Hill."

  Angrily Callie threw down the pie plate into the sink and spun around to face Riker. “Dalton’s Peace Officers are everywhere, made up of men with wanted posters in towns all over the West. There’s nothing we can do.”