by Caleb Rand
‘He’s rode a way by the look of him,’ Newton said.
When the wagon came close the driver hauled in on the reins. ‘Are you the law from Alamosa?’ he asked.
‘That’s us. I’m Marshal Downs, this is Deputy Newton.’
‘Thank God,’ the driver exclaimed breathlessly. ‘I got a message … a letter for you. I’m from Hooper.’
‘Hmm, that’s a fair tract o’ land,’ said Downs, and reached for the letter. He unfolded the sheet of paper, squinted against the morning sun. He shaded his eyes with his Stetson and read.
Law Office of Alamosa. Colorado. Assistance required – urgent. Gun battle in Hooper town – Big Windy ranch of Ashley Bridge. Some dead – can’t hold out – bad position. Ride quick with help – deputies. Marlow Frost.
The marshal handed the note to his deputy, turned to the driver. ‘And who is it they can’t hold out against?’ he asked calmly.
‘Brig Porton. He’s a rancher … owns High Smoke … most o’ the town. They’ve already shot Mr Bridge. There’s a stranger … Chad Miller … he’s only got Galt Sherman an’ Dexter Pruitt, an’ he’s not—’
Downs held up his hand. ‘Whoa. Slow down, take it easy.’
A few more discerning questions soon gave Downs an idea of the trouble.
Newton handed the marshal back the note. ‘I’ll be the help you’re takin’?’ he asked uncertainly.
Downs rubbed his chin. ‘There’s no one else around.’
‘That’s good an’ bad,’ the driver said. ‘Brig Porton ain’t no respecter o’ lawmen, Marshal,’
Downs didn’t look too concerned at the intimidation. ‘He will be,’ he responded.
Newton dismounted, looked into the empty supply wagon. ‘Why didn’t you ride out?’ he enquired of the driver.
‘I’m supposed to be getting supplies … didn’t want anyone to take much notice. Porton’s got men out.’
Downs watched Newton remount his horse, then he nodded at the driver. ‘You’ll never stay with us,’ he said. ‘Go on, do what you’re supposed to do in Alamosa.’
The driver looked disappointed. ‘Maybe I’ll just tail you … watch for them that’s skulking out the back door.’
Downs shook his head. ‘No, do as I said. If you see any folk wearin’ shiny badges, tell ’em what you told us.’
Reluctantly, the driver accepted the marshal’s advice. ‘Good luck,’ he called as he flicked the reins.
For a while the lawmen watched the wagon move down the rutted trail towards Alamosa.
‘We’ll need his luck with these tuckered mounts,’ Downs said. ‘Let’s go. Try an’ get there before tomorrow night.’
‘What do you reckon o’ this man Porton. You ever heard o’ him?’ Newton asked as they rode.
‘Heard of his sort. Probably hard-barked an’ pushy. The old-time ranchers didn’t have any registered land … still don’t. Some of ’em rode in ten, twenty years ago an’ staked their claims. One or two just carried on takin’ more … used hired guns to run off the smaller outfits. He sounds like one o’ them.’
‘An’ still usin’ an army rank. I thought they was for upholdin’ … safeguardin’ plain folk, not destroyin’ ’em?’ Newton suggested drily.
‘Yeah. It’s clear that Porton’s dragged his own martial law in to Hooper. It’s a form o’ progress, an’ there’s quick riches to be made while it’s happenin’. But now there’s some folk gettin’ tired o’ the bloodshed that follows it. They’ve had enough, need the offices o’ civil law to help ’em out. Sounds like that’s what’s happenin’ in Hooper.’
‘Good riddance, eh. You think we can sort it out then … the two of us?’
‘I don’t think that was the meanin’ of what I said, Budge, but we get paid to try.’
It was nearly sundown when Newton spotted the lone circling vulture. The lawmen rode from a steep-sided gulley, saw the coach on the open range ahead of them. It was overturned: there was no sign of the team.
‘That’s the mail-coach,’ Downs said. ‘Used to run in an’ out o’ Fort Morgan. They took her off some years ago. What the hell’s happened?’
Up close, Newton dismounted. He stood on the spring-brace and lifted the door.
The two passengers were dead. They were piled on top of each other, their limbs tangled. Both wore city suits, dark-stained with blood from gunshot wounds to the head and upper body.
‘Two of ’em. Looks like they were shot in their seats,’ Newton called out to Downs.
‘No sign o’ the team or the driver,’ the marshal observed.
Newton continued to look down at the two dead men. ‘I know these fellers … recognize ’em anyway,’ he said. ‘Call it deputy’s eye.’
‘Who?’
‘Land surveyors. They were in Alamosa, before we left for the border.’
‘Well, Hooper’s probably where the coach has come from. So they weren’t too far from trouble,’ Downs said. ‘Call it marshal’s instinct.’
Newton turned away, looked north. ‘Guess they weren’t carryin’ return tickets, so somebody didn’t want ’em back. Shall I have a look around?’
‘No, it’s too late for them. Let’s put some time in for the livin’.’
Newton looked up at the circling vulture. There was nothing to say, and he didn’t. He let the door drop back and pulled the blinds across the windows.
‘Handsome coffin,’ Downs muttered.
Newton mounted his horse and together they dug spurs, rode determinedly at a canter.
18
THE PERSUADING
Chad Miller urged his horse through the swift-running water. Galt Sherman, Dexter Pruitt and Duck Fewes followed closely in the wagon. They crossed the creek east of the town, made their way to Fewes’s forge. They used the darkness – only seen by the grain-rats on night patrol from the livery stable.
Duck pulled up, waited for Dexter to climb out. ‘Chad, you an’ Dexter wait here,’ he said. ‘Me an’ Galt’ll see if we got any backin’. If they don’t want to face a gun, maybe they’ll take a bearin’ somewhere along the street.’
‘How about Porton’s friends?’ Chad asked.
‘Jesse Muncie an’ Kit Liligh. They’re both unpredictable, an’ Muncie’s got a personal score to settle.’
Chad nodded, thought of the beating Marlow Frost had measured out with his fists.
‘If we can find ’em, we’ll take care of ’em,’ Duck continued. ‘Keep your heads down; we’ll be as quick as we can.’
Chad felt the first shiver of foreboding, the stir of excitement. He was ready for the fight, wanted to get on. It would be a final settlement, before High Smoke rode again on the Bridge family. He’d learned from Marlow that waiting for Brig Porton to make the first move wasn’t to be a choice.
He was standing patiently in the stable, which opened on to the forge. He patted the bay, ran his fingers across the glistening muzzle. ‘Feelin’ good, Dexter?’ he asked, more for the keeping up of morale.
‘For God’s sake stop fussin’, will you? I’m like you, a tad edgy,’ Dexter sniffed. Meaningfully he tapped his gammy leg with the barrel of his old Colt. ‘This is it, though, Chad. If we don’t finish ’em tonight we never will.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll take ’em out,’ Chad replied, with more confidence than he felt. ‘They’re already sufferin’ from one good beatin’ out at Big Windy.’
‘Yeah, I been thinkin’ about that.’
‘What about it?’
‘How you goin’ to explain that to the marshal when he gets here, accceptin’ he wants to know? He’ll say that we ain’t taken no oath.’
Chad shook his head. ‘I thought o’ that too. But Marlow’s right. In this country of ours you’re allowed to throw up some sort o’ defence o’ your life an’ property. An’ Brig Porton decided he wanted it that way.’
For a few moments Dexter thought on. ‘Let’s hope they see it that way,’ he mumbled quietly to himself.
It was more than half an hou
r later when Duck reappeared.
‘You find any of ’em. Muncie … Liligh?’ Chad was eager to know.
‘Yeah. Bit o’ luck. They were together in Welsh Peter’s. I went with ’em out back, moved parts to places they never went before.’
Chad winced at the thought. ‘You just left ’em there?’
‘No. I laid ’em in a pair o’ coffins. They’re lyin’ peaceful enough … still breathin’.’ Chad gave a short nervous chuckle. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Any brave folk goin’ to back us? Men, women, children – their pet pigs?’
‘Don’t rightly know about that. But someone’s anticipatin’ a load o’ trouble, Chad. There’s hardly a plank left in town that ain’t been made into a goddam bone-box.’
‘Hah. Sounds like someone’s movin’ with the times. It’s only chickens that can sit still an’ make a profit.’
‘There’s a few said they’d got guns to cover the street. I used a different sort o’ persuadin’ on them, so I reckon they just might.’
‘How different, Duck?’
‘I never touched ’em … said you’d be doin’ that. I told ’em you were Merciless Miller.’
‘Who the hell’s Merciless Miller?’ Chad bristled.
‘A bad man. Wanted for unspeakable crimes in El Paso. Some o’ them folk are married, got daughters, you understand?’
‘No, I don’t think I do, or want to. So, what are we waitin’ for?’
‘Galt,’ Dexter, chipped in.
‘He should be somewhere near Waddy’s,’ Duck said hopefully. ‘Let’s go find him. Give him some backin’ before he decides to take ’em all on just for his own self.’
Five minutes later they found Galt. He was in the deep shadow of a narrow lane which came out beside the saloon.
‘There’s a bunch o’ them Smoke buckos in town,’ he told them. ‘Less than a dozen, I reckon. There’s some hombre I never seen before. They’re callin’ him Feather. But, oddly enough, he ain’t no Flathead. There’s no sign of Porton.’
Chad thought about what Sherman had said. ‘These men? They’re all inside?’
‘Yeah.’ Galt looked at Duck. ‘You heard o’ this Feather man?’
‘No, but I’m up for meetin’ him.’ Duck’s face hardened. ‘Who’s for a whiskey?’ he asked. ‘We’ll go straight through the front doors.’
A wanton smile crossed Chad’s face as he considered Duck’s strategy. ‘I was thinkin’ o’ usin’ the back door,’ he suggested.
Duck shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Chad. You’re forgettin’ I got a position to keep up in this town. Besides, we don’t want to give ’em too much to think about.’
Galt, too, was looking doubtful, but Chad said: ‘I guess you’re right, Duck. An’ less than a dozen ain’t too many.’ He winked cheekily at Galt. ‘Me an Duck’ll go in quick. You an’ Dexter stay outside … either side o’ the doorway.’ Chad tapped Dexter’s crutch with his big Colt. ‘You just remember your part, ol’-timer.’
Chad swallowed hard. He hoped his anxiety didn’t show, thought how useful Marlow Frost and his shotgun with an ounce of buckshot would have been. ‘OK. Let’s ride,’ he said. As he actioned his Colt his stomach churned, and a fleeting image of Perdi Bridge crossed his mind. He wondered if he was as close to a future as he’d ever be.
As they moved together from the lane the batwing doors of the saloon were suddenly thrown open. Boots stamped across the veranda and down the steps.
In the wedge of light that cut the darkness six men jostled their way into the main street.
‘That’s the one called Feather,’ Galt said. ‘The others look like Porton’s men.’
‘They’re all Porton’s men,’ Chad nitpicked quietly. He indicated that Duck, Dexter and Galt should spread across the lane.
‘Feather,’ he shouted. ‘I’m thinkin’ we’re the ones you’ve come to fight.’
Instantly provoked by Chad’s call, Tom Feather was the first to reach his gun. The other men whirled, turned to make a stand.
As Feather pulled up a long-barrelled revolver Chad’s bullet caught him low in the chest. He staggered, sank to his knees and rasped an oath. But he didn’t go over until Duck, Galt, and Dexter opened up.
The sudden roar of gunfire reverberating violently between the buildings of the street turned the night into a bewildering horror. More of Porton’s men came pushing from the saloon, but none of them braved the flashing blackness. They were above, shielded from where the hail of staccato gunfire was pouring.
Feather raised himself painfully to his knees. He stared into the alley, dragged up his gun again as Chad took one more shot. The man from the Jackson tanks grunted, slammed his face into the dirt.
One of the High Smoke riders had thrown himself flat. He was panic-stricken, fired wildly into the blackness of the lane. Galt shot him in the face, then the neck. The man was dead before his outstretched hand smacked the back of Tom Feather’s head.
Feather twitched at the man’s touch. He turned his face towards Chad and spat drily. ‘Hey, mister,’ he gasped in a hoarse, almost silent whisper. ‘Me an’ my brother got a hundred dollars each for this night’s work. That’s more’n a grubliner makes, eh?’ Then, as his mouth cracked open wickedly, his dead eyes closed.
Another man stared into the dark, then made for a gap between two clapboard buildings. Duck and Chad fired together, the bullets slamming into the low running figure of Rindy Colman. Colman went down hard, his face scraping along the ground. The fingers of one hand scratched at the arid soil, never made it to the grip of his rifle.
The three remaining men in the street fled. Two of them sought cover of the darkness, while the third tried to make it back to the saloon. He was firing down into the lane as he ran up the steps. Chad held Galt back and Duck flattened himself against the side walls.
There was a moment of silence from the guns. The only sounds were the shouts from inside Waddy’s Halt, the frightened squeals of the ladies. Then a supporting voice yelled from across the street.
‘Get the old man out o’ the way.’ But the warning was too late. It came as a rifle crashed from somewhere along the lane. Dexter hadn’t moved quickly enough. He was a ready target, darkly silhouetted against the main street. The bullet hit him in the middle of his back. He dropped his crutch and the old fowling piece pitched forward as Duck stepped out to catch him. The ’smith swore viciously as Dexter crumpled lifeless into his huge arms.
Immediately, more guns opened up from down the lane as Porton’s men advanced. Duck laid Dexter on the ground, looked unsurely up at Chad. They were trapped, being pressed into the main street.
Chad yelled. ‘Leave him, Duck, an’ reload. We’ve got to get out o’ here.’
They quickly checked their guns, then for a moment nobody moved. Galt was first to go. He crouched down, moved away from the lane. Chad nodded at Duck, and he too edged into the street. Chad had a tormented look at their stricken colleague, then followed.
They’d moved no more than twenty paces when Galt and Duck turned to look for Chad. Up ahead, outside Welsh Peter’s, what appeared to be three or four of the townsmen were shooting it out with Barley Mose and the two fleeing High Smoke men.
Wood and glass was being blasted from the fronts of buildings as more guns roared. But the Porton men were no match for the buckshot and rifle fire that struck them from across the street. From inside a dry-goods store, a low-burning lamp crashed down. A pool of oil ignited, started to burn its way across the puncheoned floor.
Duck shook his head, tried to identify the approaching sound of horses hoofs. He loosed off both barrels, then heard Chad shout: ‘Leave ’em to it. Save your shot.’
At the far end of the street, beyond the gunfire, the High Smoke foreman and six riders bunched across the main street. It was Pithy Wilkes’s voice that cut through the thick, cordite-laden air.
‘Hold up, boss. We’ll get shot to ribbons along there,’ he warned. ‘Not all of us got a death-wish.’
In the flaming glow that was now spreading out from the store Chad could see the dark shape of Brig Porton. He was standing in his buggy, one hand holding the reins, the other his single-action Colt.
‘It’s Porton,’ Chad said hoarsely. ‘If I can just drop him they’ll all turn. Watch my back.’
But Duck grabbed him by the wrist as he went past, held him stubbornly tight. ‘They’re fillin’ the street, Chad,’ he said. ‘He’s got to come through … wait.’
The High Smoke men were effectively out of range of handguns, including Duck’s shotgun. Chad cursed. He’d expected the fighting to be fast, up close in Waddy’s Halt, so he’d left his Sharps carbine in his saddle holster. He turned around. Behind Duck and Galt he saw figures moving along the boardwalks either side of the street. There were armed men slipping out of buildings, coming up the alleys. He noticed that lights in Waddy’s Halt were out, realized that some of Porton’s men would be making a getaway, or worse, regrouping under cover of the darkness.
‘We’ve got to do somethin’,’ he shouted, ‘or they’ll be all over us.’
‘Some of ’em won’t,’ Galt said, breathless and proud.
‘Yeah, that’s right. So what else you figure on, Chad?’ Duck let go of Chad’s wrist, thumbed another cartridge into his shotgun.
‘This,’ Chad replied forcefully. ‘Step up, Feather!’ he bellowed into the night. ‘See if you can do better than your cheaply hired gunnies.’
Deke Feather swore, wheeled his horse in a tight, furious circle.
Porton looked at Wilkes. ‘Is that him … the stranger? He’s the cause of all this, an’ we don’t even know his goddam’ name?’
Wilkes was uncertain of what Porton had in mind, but he nodded. ‘Reckon it’s him boss. You good enough to get introduced?’ he replied.
Porton pulled off his hat, threw it into the buggy. ‘Yeah,’ he lied and flicked the reins sharply.
19
TOWN HELP
