"He certainly did. I would have had to label the man a fool if he didn't," Crockett said with a hard smile. "Told him that we discovered a couple of hours ago there's some trouble with the lock, that we can't open it, and I'm going to send for a locksmith from over in Pine Bluff in the morning to see what in the blazes is going on with it." The judge fell silent, the smirk on his face told Dalton the man was pleased with himself.
“And, of course, you told him you wanted to keep it safe because that stranger came around later threatening you that he was going to get the money back for the people.”
“Of course!” Crockett snapped, his joviality briefly evaporating before he remembered the proper deference that Dalton expected, that Dalton demanded.
“What I mean to say is yes … and don’t worry about Grable being present at the meeting. I know you need him alive for tomorrow when we blame what’s going to happen at his store on this Riker fellow. As a token of my “appreciation” for him storing the money for me, I bought him the best-soiled dove down at Lila Ann's whorehouse. She'll be keeping him busy as his livelihood goes up in smoke. When's it going to happen, Dan?"
Dalton appreciated the man’s eagerness as in truth he was eager, too. He was about to get rid of a passel of troublemakers, and though there was no law anywhere nearby, just in case the number of deaths drew authorities to Dalton’s Creek, he would be handing them a patsy. Best of all, anyone who didn’t die tonight would never follow the stranger once the death and destruction were pinned on him.
“Soon, soon,” Dalton said soothingly as he watched only a couple of stragglers entering his target. His man had orders to act as soon as no one else appeared to be heading in to attend the meeting.
“You sure you want to do this now?” Crockett questioned as he pulled out a small flask from his breast pocket and took a swallow. “It’s going to cost you two buildings.”
Dalton waved his hand derisively and snorted, “Which can easily be rebuilt. Besides, neither one is featured in any of the photos and materials my partner is distributing in San Francisco and through her contacts back in New York City too.” From the corner of his eye, he caught the tightening of Crockett’s mouth at the mention of his partner. He wanted to be irritated at the judge, but in his heart, he couldn’t blame him. Dalton was no fool, and he had every right to be wary of his partner even if she was far, far away. The China woman, Madam Daiyu Chen was said to be ruthlessness incarnate.
“Don’t worry about her. she doesn’t care what we do … just as long as we have the town ready for when we start selling the shares,” Staring once more out the window, Dalton smiled. In the next few minutes, the remaining obstacles for him to seize the town completely would be out of the way clearing his path to victory. In a few months, after he received his cut of the profits, he would be wealthy enough to leave this town that his grandfather and father had founded and led to him having been trapped in it almost his entire life. He relished the thought of the future that lay ahead freed from the prison that had been this town. He would be footloose and fancy-free, perhaps traveling the world, and the only price for his freedom was the paltry and unimportant lives that were about to be snuffed out.
CHAPTER 18
Having beaten the odds and surviving the worst of it, the pair barreling along Dalton’s Creek found the river calming, straightening out as its course took it along the back of the main street. Though the current abated somewhat, Riker and Callie stroked mightily and angled the canoe towards the shore, their intention to bring it in as close to the back of the church as possible. However, the river bank afforded few ideal places to land, so they headed for a spot several buildings up from where Johann’s church stood.
Riker felt the adrenaline rush of triumph as the prow of the canoe buried itself into the river bank. Hurriedly, he hopped out and looked back to see Callie stand in the rear of the canoe when suddenly a swell set the boat to rocking, pitching Callie into the icy waters. Where she landed was not deep, but momentarily, her head plunged beneath the water. Riker's strong grip landed on her elbow and immediately dragged the coughing woman onto the dry land. He dropped down to his knees and seized her by the shoulders.
“Callie! Callie, are you okay?”
Unlike her first spill into the river, this time there hadn’t even been a moment to prepare for this second sudden plunge into the creek. Going under she had inhaled and swallowed a mouth full of water and was fighting to recover but she managed to nod yes and croak out the words, “Go … don’t worry about me! Just go!”
Riker looked over his shoulder down towards the church and the building next to it that he knew had to be the gun shop that Farley Spencer had used his dying breaths to tell him was going to be the instrument to taking out those threatening to stand up to Dalton. Then he looked back at Callie. It wasn't his nature to abandon a woman in distress, but they both knew the stakes. He squeezed her shoulder and leaped to his feet, scrambling up the bank.
He had two options, burst into the church and order the evacuation or stop the murderous operation at the gun shop. Shaking his head, he abandoned any notion of the church knowing while he was inside trying to rally everyone out the blast could come at any moment. As it was everyone inside was already on borrowed time. He paused long enough to untie the watertight canvas bag he'd secured in the canoe before they'd cast off and plucked out his holster and strapped it on.
Behind the open back door to the gun shop, Nate Clegg emerged with the cask of black powder in his hands. Through the open hole in the top, he was using the tilted barrel to leave a trail of black powder that led from within the building where he had been busy. Earlier, upon instructions from Judge Crockett, he had broken into the back door and immediately went to work. The whole town knew that Grable had a surplus of black powder casks he had purchased the prior year when the mine in nearby Twin Fork Township had gone belly up for the latest time. For years different mining crews had tried to make a go of it at the mine, but they always folded. Grable had bragged he would hold on to the powder until the next group came along to make a run at the mine and sell it to them. In the meantime, it left him with plenty of powder to make bullets with and sell to those who preferred to make their own ammunition.
Clegg had been assured that Grable would be out of the way, and he would be free to stack as many of the barrels up along the wall that was separated from the Methodist church by the narrowest of alleyways. Once Clegg detonated the store of powder, it would blow both the walls of the gun shop and the church to smithereens cutting everyone inside to bloody ribbons. Clegg had been promised a considerable bonus for the mass murder atop the already generous money he was making as a hired gun though they had been dubbed as a “Peace Officers” a moniker that even made the hardened criminals among them laugh at the notion.
He had reached the edge of the bank down to the creek, and he straightened up still holding the barrel to his chest and looked back in the now fading light at the long trail leading from the gun shop. Before he had started laying the trail to the outside, he had taken a final look out the window at the front of the gun shop to see there were no more people entering the church telling him it was time to lay the makeshift fuse. Now all he had to do was light the powder trail and jump back down behind the safety of the earthen embankment. That was when out of the corner of his right eye, he caught a flash of movement, and a second later, his body was wracked by a bone-jarring blow.
***
From his dead run along the back of the buildings of Dalton’s Creek, Riker could see a man clutching a barrel pouring out its contents, heading towards the river bank. For what seemed like the first moment since he learned of the scheme, he exhaled. They were not too late! Jumping over an old discarded saddle and dodging around a well behind one of the buildings, the man came in sight once more as Riker circumvented a wagon that was tilting downward, thanks to a long-missing front wheel. Having cleared that, he was now in the area behind the church and veered off to run along the rim of the
bank before launching himself at the man who had suddenly risen from his task and appeared to be admiring his handiwork.
The impact with the man sent both crashing to the ground as the barrel flew from the man’s hold and rolled right over the edge of the river bank disappearing from view. Riker landed on top of the man but was surprised at how quickly he recovered. A fist jabbed up through the air catching him under his jaw and knocking him backward off from the man. As he was spitting out blood, Riker scrambled to his feet at the same moment as Dalton’s man. Both had shooting irons in their holsters, but when Riker saw the man balling up his fists, he was more than happy to oblige in kind. As he balled up his own fists, from within the church, Riker could hear a faint cheer from the assembled who were clearly liking whatever the Reverend Beckett had to say.
Riker watched Dalton’s man carefully as they circled. It was a fact he knew that when a man chooses not to draw his gun, that usually meant he was a good fighter or else why not shoot? He dodged one punch the man let fly, and as the pair continued to circle, he watched how his opponent moved and awaited his chance. A snarling frown swept over the Peace Officer's face as Riker continued to circle without trying anything. Hoping to draw Riker into battle, the man threw another punch which Riker managed to both sidestep and brush the flying fist aside before kicking out, catching him on the ribs. Riker jumped back as the man cried out in pain before switching to letting loose a string of curses that included questioning Riker’s parentage. As the man rushed forward, he played right into Riker’s hands. Such a charge was what he had been waiting for. His years of throwing down with numerous lawbreakers had taught Riker that rage was easier to deal with than controlled fighting.
The man roared and charged angrily swinging wide. Riker dropped to one knee, and striking with the speed of a snake, hit him in the gut with two punches, one after the other. He leaped backward, as the gasping man charged at him like a bull towards a red cape. Throwing up one of his arms, he managed to block one punch but took a second one in the right temple, but the double blows to the stomach had lessened the man's strength and it was at best a weak shot. Riker easily sidestepped the ersatz law officer's third punch and the opening was there, so he took it. A straight punch with his weight behind it caught the man square in the jaw. His adversary's head snapped back, and he fell over, rolling down the embankment.
Riker rose and scrambled to the side of the river bank and looked down. His foe had come to rest sprawled out on the rocky edge by the water, one of his arms lay draped across the black powder barrel whose roll into the water had been stopped by a rock protruding by the edge of the creek. The man’s other hand had found his Smith & Wesson, and he was raising it in the air, his target the broad expanse of Riker’s chest.
It was always at moments like these that Riker thought of his father, dead and buried all these years. He had just been a boy when they had moved to California after leaving the East behind. The elder Riker had told him that it was time to learn the ways of the gun now that they were living in what amounted to the wilds compared to the densely packed neighborhood the family had once called home.
Not wanting to be left out, McKenna had insisted she be allowed to learn too. He remembered the youth in him being frustrated that their father couldn't seem to ever say no to Mickey, but now he gave thanks that he had trained her, too, given how many times they had saved each other with their weapons. The pair couldn't have asked for a better instructor. His father had fought in the Mexican war and had become a police officer following his time in the Army.
The man had drilled it into them that to be a skilled shootist was one-part accuracy and three parts speed. He remembered his father leaning in telling him that all the accuracy in the world didn't matter if you weren't faster than your opponent, whether he was an enemy soldier or a street criminal. In the end, they had both become excellent shots. Few were better in the west, Mr. Lincoln had always like to speculate starting with that fateful day when they had prevented his death and the trio had remained friends right up until the end of the president's life.
Now, as his heart pounded within his chest, that emphasis on speed came into play. He had always edged out McKenna in that regard while she had proven better when it came to accuracy, but both were proud of their ability to handle weapons. With his speed once more on display to an astonished outlaw, his Colt cleared leather like greased lightning and before Dalton’s thug had a chance to cock his gun, Riker squeezed off two rounds. One struck the man in the chest, and as his body jerked, the second bullet missed him and plowed directly into the barrel of black powder.
CHAPTER 19
BLACK ROCK PASS
Life is a goddamn bitch! That was the opinion of the man sporting a thick, scraggly beard that he was scratching as he and his companion peered around the boulder they were hiding behind. Further down in the darkened canyon, they could make out the faint glow of a campfire casting just enough light to illuminate part of the white canvas canopy of the supply wagon. It seemed a guard had been posted sparking his dour take on life.
Everything seemed to have gone wrong almost from the moment he had arrived at the pass earlier in the day. As planned, he had taken a position on the rim of the canyon and waited. He had been told that the sabotaged wheel would surely never hold long enough to make it the entire length of the Black Rock. Gambling was a huge pastime in the West, but it had never been for the man, and to him, it seemed like a big gamble with the wagon wheel. What if it broke before or after the wagon entered the pass? If that occurred, the whole plan would be scuttled. However, the dicey plan had worked, and as predicted, the freight wagon’s journey had ended in the pass, nearly at the midway point.
From there, it should have been a simple matter to wait for the driver to get out to check the wheel. Not having a moving target would be like a gift served up on a silver platter. However, that was the moment that things had begun to spiral out of control. Leaving his horse tied up on the canyon rim out of sight, he had climbed down about five feet to a sandy ledge that appeared ideal as sniper's ledge. Appearances often proved to be quite deceiving as they had in this case.
Shortly after he dropped down on his belly, he had raised his Winchester and began lining up Sam Belfry's head through the sight. Shuddering, he could still remember the feeling as he steadied the rifle only to become aware of a sensation sweeping over him. There hadn't even been time to process what he was feeling when suddenly pain began to mushroom across his body. He leaped to his knees and began beating everywhere on his body, horrified that he'd had stretched his body out across a nest of angry red fire ants. As he had continued to beat at them, he suddenly became aware that someone was approaching the driver and his wagon. Crouching low while still frantically attempting to brush them off from him he looked down and saw Belfry talking with a woman.
Squashing ants right and left, he prayed the woman would hurry up and go so he could take out the driver and get the hell away from the ledge. Suddenly a new stinging sensation struck his body like fire, and he jerked back up to his knees, his flailing arms hitting some small rocks sending them tumbling down the side of Black Rock Pass. His wild eyes looked down just in time to see the woman peering up, alerted by the tumbling of rocks. Breathing heavily, he ducked back down, flatting himself against the ledge. Had she seen him? How could she not have? As he pondered, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a baby scorpion scurrying away. So that was the bastard that had stung him and added to his misery. He raised his boot as it crawled under it and brought the toe of it down, smashing the scorpion into jelly.
There was no time to savor his small bit of satisfaction. Leaping to his feet, he had scrambled back up to the top of the pass, hauled himself into his saddle and spurred his mount along the rim. He had to get ahead of her before she left the canyon. He and his brother had killed many people in their younger days robbing folks on the wharves in Baltimore before heading westward to escape the law. They’d always had one rule and that was to leave
no witnesses that could ever point them out in a court of law and send them to the gallows. His brother Donny was dead these five years now after an ill-advised gunfight up in Sacramento, but he still lived by that rule.
As horse and rider weaved in and out among the trees lining the rim of the gorge, and he had caught glimpses through the trees down into the canyon and he could see the female was trotting along in no apparent hurry leaving him ahead of the woman. He had reasoned that he hadn't committed the murder yet, but when the old driver turned up dead later, he wasn't taken any chances of someone woman fingering him as the man she'd seen up in the pass just before the murder had taken place.
Having gotten ahead of her, he took a position, next to a dead tree that jutted skyward, its barren branches clawing at the sky like fingers rising from a grave. He had looked down and seen her approaching and he raised the gun ready to deliver a headshot like he had done as a sharpshooter during the war to rein in the rebellious Southern states. Even at this distance he could make out her admirable figure and mumbled this was going to be a waste of a good pair of tits. As he had stepped back to steady himself, his heel had caught on an exposed root of the dead tree. He went careening backward, his head striking the closest of the dead limbs and he struck the ground with the back of his head.
By the time he had recovered and scrambled into a shooting stance, the woman below was riding away, her back to him and he fired a desperate shot hoping to bring her down. Not only did he miss, but he had been stunned how quickly she'd returned fire at him. Her shots didn't come close, but as he dodged to get out of their way, she was carried well beyond any hope of taking another shot at her. With no other choice, he had fled down one of the slopes leading away from the pass.
Six-Guns Or Surrender (Lincoln's Lawman Book 1) Page 12
