by Terry Grosz
“Larry tells me you men are here to lay claim to that which was taken from you. If that is the case, how do you know that these four men are the culprits? I need to know because I don’t want you shooting up my town without good reason. But if you have something on that nest of snakes headed up by Royce, let me know, and I will be happy to lead the way.”
“Well, I can add something that may be of assistance,” said Davis. “Beckwourth told me he tracked those devils here shortly after they had killed the Halls. He only went after them when he discovered from the good folks in Mormon Junction that these four skunks had been kicked out of that town because they had killed another miner in a suspicious gunfight. Once here, he heard about this Royce fellow throwing gold nuggets about like he had just made a big strike. In fact, while at his saloon in an attempt to gather information, Beckwourth overheard one of Royce’s group talking about purchasing the whole block and, ‘using their Spanish ingots of gold to do so.’”
“Sheriff, we had 126 ingots of Spanish gold along with six elk-skin tubes of nuggets stolen from our cabin when the Hall brothers were killed,” added a stony-looking Martin.
“Royce showed me one of those Spanish gold ingots some time back when I was there in his saloon on another mater,” the sheriff said thoughtfully. “Say, before I forget it, did you boys lose any Hawkens? I ask because there were six of those hellish good rifles stacked in the corner behind the bar in Royce’s Bucket of Blood Saloon for sale one day when I was there. To be frank with you, they are a sight scarce out in this neck of the woods. That is why I took an interest in seeing six of them all in one place other than at Larry’s here.”
“Sheriff, we had four Hawkens in our cabin, and the Halls had two more. In fact, those four we had came from our folks who are now dead, and to be sure, both Martin and I would kill anyone taking such pieces of family history for that alone,” Jacob said.
“Jacob, you are not known in these parts. How about the two of us going over to the Bucket of Blood Saloon and having a drink? Maybe with a little luck I can get Royce or one of his three henchmen to show us one of those Spanish ingots if I tell him you are interested in such history. What do you think?” said the sheriff as if turning over the plan in his head.
“When do we go?” asked Jacob.
“I can’t think of any time better than right now,” said the sheriff with a twinkle in his eyes.
Walking into the Bucket of Blood Saloon, the sheriff and Jacob had to muscle up to the bar in order to get served. The next day was the 4th of July, and many locals were already starting to celebrate Independence Day. Waiting for the barkeep to make his appearance and serve them, Jacob chanced to look over the bar into a nearby corner. Standing neatly there in the corner were the six Hawkens the sheriff had spoken about. As he looked them over carefully from a distance so as not to arouse suspicion, Jacob realized that one of the rifles was the one that used to belong to his father. The sheriff felt Jacob go taut as a buggy whip, as if he had just seen a grizzly bear.
Placing his hand on Jacob’s forearm, the sheriff whispered, “Hold it there, big fellow. I don’t want any killing afore we are ready and it’s time.”
Jacob’s eyes never left the rifle standing in the comer behind the bar, but he regained his composure as the barkeep approached the two men. The sheriff had told him that this man was one of Royce’s original gang of four.
“What will it be, gents?” the barkeep asked.
“Whiskey for me and my friend,” said the sheriff, fearing Jacob was too enraged to speak civilly.
“Coming up,” said the barkeep as he lifted a bottle from beneath the counter and poured the sheriff and Jacob two fingers of the stout, twice-cut, fiery frontier staple.
“I don’t need to see any more,” Jacob said coldly through clenched teeth. “That rifle third from the left is mine, and the last one along the wall on the left is Martin’s. The one with the tacks in the stock with an Indian design is Dave Hall’s, and I would bet that upon closer examination, I could tell you that the rest are ours as well. We can leave anytime you are ready.”
“Don’t you want to see them Spanish gold bars?” the sheriff asked quietly.
“No need,” said Jacob. “I have seen enough to know these fellas are the ones that need killing for what they did to the Hall brothers! Why else would they have the Hawkens?”
“Well, if you are sure on the rifles, that is enough for me,” said the sheriff.
“I suggest we drink our whiskey and leave before I start the 4th of July early,” said a grim-faced Jacob as he tossed down his warm glass of whiskey.
Back at the Davis Gun Shop, Jacob slowly wiped the sweat from the liner of his hat with his handkerchief before he spoke.
“Didn’t get to see the Spanish gold bars but didn’t have no need. Them Hawkens standing in the comer for sale are yours and mine, Martin,” Jacob finally said. “Plus, there is one there with tacks driven into the stock like the Crow used to do to their rifles. Dave had done that to his rifle, and the design is the exact same one he had.”
“What do you want us to do?” asked Martin.
“Well, afore we decide that, boys, there is a thing or two you need to know,” said the sheriff in an equally grim tone. “Tonight I noticed that Royce had two guns posted on the second floor of the saloon so they could watch over what was going on below them. Then there was a hired gun running each of the two faro tables that I am very familiar with. The barkeep is one of Royce’s right-hand men and is one mean son of a bitch who will kill at the drop of a hat. In fact, he keeps a 12-gauge ‘street howitzer’ behind the bar just in case any trouble rears its ugly head. Lastly, the two dealers at the card tables are Royce’s other friends. One is called Buckeye Dan, and the other calls himself California Joe.”
“Is that all they have?” asked Jacob.
“Yep, except for Royce, and he can be found in his office counting his money or drunk most of the time. However, don’t let that fool you. He too is one killing son of a bitch, fast with the iron, and will back-shoot you in a heartbeat,” said the sheriff.
“Do you have a good vigilance committee here in town?” asked Jacob.
That question caught everyone off guard, prompting Martin to ask, “What you got in mind that we can’t handle by ourselves, brother?”
“I am thinking on killing Royce and the barkeep right off the get-go. Then, if possible, we can take the rest alive. That way we can let all of them dance at the end of a hangman’s rope for all to see and remember,” Jacob said quietly. “I have had enough of killing, and if we do it that way, maybe seeing all those necks stretching in ropes will have a settling effect on those who think they can rob or kill at will. ’Sides, that would back the hand of the sheriff and let him accomplish what he needs to do in the future in keeping law and order in this here town.”
The sheriff nodded in agreement, and then Jacob started to discuss his plan: “I will kill the barkeep and keep him from using his scattergun and maybe killing us or an innocent bar patron. Martin, I want you to confront Royce and see if he will confess. I want you to take the sheriff along just in case he does. If not, kill him in a fair fight, and I don’t care how you do it. Cain, I want you and Bill Black each at a faro table. The minute this 4th of July celebration gets rolling, I want the two of you to draw down on them cohorts guarding the tables and hold them as prisoners for the hanging. If they object, kill them. Leo and John Paul, I want the two of you in a card game at each table. When the time is right, draw down on them two skunks guarding those tables, and if they want a fight, shoot them in the head. Larry, do you know them two skunks who be guarding the scene from the second floor?”
“Sure do,” Larry replied. “They bought their pistols here at the shop, and I think I can get in close enough to get the drop on them when the time is right.”
“All right, but for sure, I want you in their midst when the shooting begins to control their every move,” said Jacob. “Ran, I want you at the front door. A
nyone associated with this gang who tries to come to their aid or leave afore we finish with them, blow them down where they are so they are out of our hair. I would suggest you start with a scattergun and go from there with your hog-leg as it becomes necessary.”
Without a word, Ran nodded, and Jacob, remembering his actions in the fight in the captain’s cabin, knew he would be there when the devil had his due.
“Well, Sheriff, have we left anything out?” asked Jacob. “Nary a thing, son,” the sheriff replied with a grimness in light of the killing to come, “other than this. All of you raise your right hands so I can swear you in as my deputies.”
Within moments, that act was done.
“Good, then it is done,” Jacob said coldly. “Tomorrow will be a 4th of July that will long be remembered in this town if we have our way.”
“Oh, there is one thing. We need to stagger in at different times after ten in the morning. That way they won’t be any the wiser like they would if a slug of us entered all at once,” the sheriff suggested wisely.
Ten o’clock the next morning found the men leaving Larry’s Gun Shop in ones and twos. First to depart was Jacob, followed by Martin and the sheriff. Last to leave was Ran Slaten. On his hip, he wore a Colt Dragoon, .44-caliber, good in any gunfight or used as a club, and he also cradled a 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun carrying double-00 buckshot.
Jacob entered the saloon, strode over to the bar, and ordered a beer. Because it was the 4th of July, the bar had filled early, and by now the entire saloon was awash in half-drunk, celebrating humanity.
Nursing his beer so the others could get into position, Jacob found it hard to take his eyes off the Hawkens in the comer. The more he looked, the madder he got. However, he was not so mad that he didn’t notice Larry finally enter, order a bottle of whiskey, and then walk up to the two men overlooking the floor below carrying three empty glasses. Once he was in place, Jacob gave the high sign as Martin and the sheriff left the crowd and, carrying a bottle of expensive whiskey themselves, went up the stairs, knocked on the door, and went into Royce’s office as if to celebrate the holiday.
“Barkeep, I need a bottle of your finest, and don’t spare the cost!” yelled Jacob to get the bartender’s attention.
Realizing he had a chance to gouge a customer even more than usual with an expensive bottle of whiskey, the barkeep reached into a cabinet under the mirror behind the bar and took out a fine-looking bottle of imported whiskey. Walking down the line of men drinking at the bar, he placed the bottle in front of Jacob and said with a leering grin, “That will be five dollars, partner.”
Without missing a beat, Jacob said loudly enough that he could heard over the crowded drinking establishment, “Don’t call me your partner, you killing, thieving son of a bitch!”
“What did you say?” the barkeep asked with an instant snarl on his lips as if he needed the words repeated.
“You heard me, you back-shooting son of a bitch. You and your kind tortured my two friends in Sierra Valley and then killed them after finding the gold buried in our cabin. Then you burned our cabins to the ground to hide your tracks,” Jacob said so that others along the bar nearby could hear his fighting words and have time to clear out of harm’s way.
The bartender went white in the face, mouthed something that could not be heard, and went for his hidden shotgun under the bar.
Jacob waited until the bartender’s shotgun emerged from under the bar, then shot him just under the chin with his .44 Remington.
Boom went the pistol at point-blank range. In fact, the range was so short that the pistol’s blast burned the barkeep’s face a dark black as he staggered backward. He crashed into the whiskey bottles on the far side of the bar and then dropped to the sawdust-covered floor in a bloody, twitching heap.
At the sound of the shot, the two men on the second floor went for their shooting irons only to have Larry Davis make his move. Swinging into action, he drew his heavy Colt Dragoon pistol and swung it hard at his closest opponent, smashing in his skull. That man dropped as if shot, and when his partner turned to see what had happened, he discovered he was facing down the menacing muzzle of a grim-faced Larry’s pistol.
“Hand your iron over!” yelled Larry.
For a moment the man froze. Then, with a snarl forming on his face, he said, “You little piece of shit!” With those words, he suddenly flew over the bannister to the floor below with a .44-caliber hole blown above his right eye and powder burns all over his face from Larry’s close-in pistol shot.
With Jacob’s shot, the saloon went instantly silent. With Larry’s shot and the outlaw crashing headfirst to the floor below, chaos erupted! So many running men scrambling for cover hit the swinging doors of the saloon at the same time that the doors and their framing exploded outward. That crash and the sounds of feet running to other exits was made all the more frantic with the explosion of another shot behind the door in Royce’s office. The two outlaws around the poker tables and the two at the faro tables all went instantaneously for their shooting irons, only to be stopped cold in their tracks by four pistols leveled at their heads by men who had been innocently gambling just moments before. Those four were quickly stripped of their weapons and lined up along a back wall of the saloon by Jacob and Martin’s loyal henchmen.
Jacob lunged over the bar with a single bound, took the 12-gauge hammer gun from the barkeep’s cooling hands, and ran for the stairs leading up to Royce’s office. Taking the stairs three at a time, he slammed through the closed door to find his brother and the sheriff dressing a superficial head wound on Royce.
“Sorry, brother. When he went for his gun I tried a head shot and just grazed him,” said Martin.
“That is all right,” said the sheriff. “This is the one bastard who really needs to swing, and now it looks like he will get his chance.”
“The lads downstairs have the situation well in hand, Sheriff. We have the four at the gambling tables and one of the guards from up on this floor that may still be alive. The barkeep is dead, however. He went for the shotgun, and just as it cleared the bar, I ended his time here on earth. Plus one of the guards on this floor tried Larry on for size and found he didn’t fit, if you get my drift,” said Jacob, still coming down from the killing frenzy.
About then the head of the town’s vigilantes burst through the door, followed by four more heavily armed and grim-faced men.
“All of you carrying iron, throw them down, or by damn we will send all of you into eternity!” yelled the leader of the vigilantes.
“Hold her, Bob!” yelled the sheriff from upstairs. “Those men are with me and just helped clean up Royce and his nest of snakes.”
With that, things quickly came under control, and the six remaining outlaws were tied up and herded into a log hut with a heavy iron door that served as the town’s jail. Posted in front of the jail and behind it to prevent escape were a dozen members of the local vigilantes. Soon a crowd began to form, consisting of miners and men from every other walk of life who had been cheated, roughed up, or survived being shot by the Bucket of Blood Saloon gang.
Gathering up the Hawkens, Cain laid them on the bar for safekeeping, and then, leaving Ran Slaten to guard them, went upstairs to make sure Jacob and Martin were all right. He found Jacob, Martin, and the sheriff opening Royce’s safe with the combination he had given them before being led out to the jail. Inside, the men discovered over $120,000 in coin, gold nuggets, and dust. Also at the back of the safe, stacked in a neat pile, were 126 Spanish gold ingots. The Spanish gold true to form, had carried its curse to its recent owners, including those about to die as a result of the saloon gunfight.
“Well, gentlemen, I don’t know if that will cover all your losses, but it is a start,” said the sheriff with a grin of satisfaction.
“Sheriff, we figured before we left for Sutter’s Fort that we still had at least five hundred pounds of gold nuggets from our labors in Clear Creek. That comes to about $128,000 at today’s price of
gold at $16 per ounce. I would say we are a little short of even,” said Jacob.
“Well, son, you have this entire block of saloons and sporting houses that once belonged to Royce. Since he still owes you, I would say they be yours to do with as you see fit…They will sell fast in light of the fact the old owner no longer has any use for these properties,” replied the sheriff with a grin.
***
Stopping on top of Beckwourth Pass and looking back, Jacob and his men rested their horses and pack mules. On the pack mules was about $150,000 in coin, gold nuggets, and dust. That did not account for the 126 Spanish gold ingots also in the packs! Royce’s properties had quickly sold to other local saloon operators, and the boys figured they were even except for the loss of their friends, the Hall brothers.
Unexpectedly, Royce and his cohorts had been dragged from their holding cell before a federal marshal could arrive from Virginia City and had been hanged by a lynch mob in the cottonwoods behind the Larry Davis Gun Shop on the 4th of July. They remained in that position for several weeks until someone cut them down and spirited away the badly rotting bodies in the middle of the night.
Jacob, Martin, and their companions had not attended the ultimate 4th of July celebration and neck-tie party that followed. As Jacob had said, he was tired of killing.
As for the curse of the Spanish gold, the ingots were back in the hands of their previous owners, with an evil purpose yet to be served...
Chapter Thirty-One
Sierra Valley and Points West
Dropping down into Sierra Valley, the men made good time to their homesite at Grizzly Creek. When they arrived, they discovered that someone had cleaned off the ruins of the old cabins and had rebuilt one cabin. On the other site, another cabin was in the process of being built. The corrals were up, and a large hay barn had been built where the other one had stood. The two men were sitting on their horses looking on in disbelief when they heard a familiar voice from behind them.
