He waited. No one moved.
He heard Maggie yell, “Pa!”
McAllen kept quiet. He heard death throes, but did they come from three men or perhaps only one or two? He attributed his long Pinkerton career to his vigilant habits. He usually had a keen sense of exactly where his bullets went, but it was too dark to see distinctly. He ran his hand over his arm and felt a hole in his coat, but no dampness. Ten years ago, the third man never would have got a shot off. It was definitely time to retire.
Still no movement, and the groans finally abated. He rose and cautiously stepped toward the rustlers. They were dead or dying. He tossed their rifles and pistols away before calling back to Maggie that he was unharmed.
“Sam, or whatever your name is, get over here!” he yelled.
“No.”
“If you don’t shag your butt over here, I’ll shoot you and drag you over. You’re sleeping on this side of the creek tonight.”
“No!”
“Get over here, away from my daughter. Or damn it, I will shoot you.”
There was no answer, but McAllen heard splashing through the shallow water. By the time Sam/Eli arrived, McAllen had reloaded, holstered his pistol, and picked up his rifle. He pulled back the hammer with his thumb and kept the barrel pointed just to the side of Sam/Eli.
“You gonna shoot me?” The voice quivered.
“Only if you cross that creek again. I’m takin’ you to Fort Garland.”
“For what? I didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”
“They can sort that out. Bed down here. At first light, start haulin’ rocks up and bury these four. Then you can come over for breakfast.”
McAllen yelled for Dancy to come over. In short order, he and Dancy collected weapons, saddlebags, and a half-full whiskey bottle. McAllen held two other bottles upside down to make sure they were empty. Dry as a bone. He left only a half-eaten can of beans for Sam/Eli.
Under their heavy load, they trudged back across the stream. As soon as McAllen let the weapons and supplies fall to the ground, Maggie threw her arms around his neck and started crying. He hugged his daughter.
When they broke, he asked, “How you doin’, Maggie?”
She wiped her eyes. “Angry as a hornet. That boy led us right into an ambush.”
“Well, you did right well, gal. I’m proud of you.”
“As you should be,” she beamed. “All the girls in my school class would have just screamed and carried on like you wouldn’t believe. Course none of them have you for a father. I knew you’d keep me safe.”
Dancy had been watching the embrace. He dropped his load with a clatter.
“I believe I helped as well,” Dancy said.
“As did I!” Maggie exclaimed. “I shot the first of those nasty rustlers. Pa ought to thank me. I don’t expect it, of course. When he fell down, I just got a blistering glare.”
McAllen hugged his daughter and whispered, “Thank you.”
After a brief moment, McAllen broke away and offered his hand to Dancy. When he took it, McAllen thanked him as well. He was surprised at the appreciation on Dancy’s face.
Then McAllen asked Dancy to collect the rustlers’ horses. He didn’t want the boy sneaking away in the night. Dancy picked up his rifle and trotted off toward the bend in the creek.
“I hope they have some good stock,” Maggie said. “By all rights, those should be our horses now.”
“By no right do we have a claim on any of these dead men’s property … either the ranchers or the rustlers. Maggie, killin’ is a serious affair. It’s wrong unless it’s a choice between dyin’ or killin’. Even in self-defense, a man shouldn’t profit from killin’.”
“Are we setting them free?” she asked.
“No. We’ll take all of these horses and that boy to Fort Garland.”
Dancy returned with the rustlers’ horses. He carried the reins in both hands to allow enough slack for the horses to follow comfortably. They wore bridles, but no saddles. Dancy had evidently left the remaining tack to be collected in daylight.
“Set them loose,” McAllen said. “We’ll keep the fire goin’. Plenty of low, dead branches on these trees. If the kid sees a fire, he’ll know one of us is awake and stay put on that side.”
Dancy dropped the reins and swatted the lead horse on the behind. They all scattered into the meadow.
“Pa says we’re herding this stock to the Garland,” Maggie said.
Dancy nodded understanding. After a moment, he said, “We don’t know the fort bought these horses. That could’ve been another lie.”
McAllen said, “Unless they planned on herdin’ them all the way to Denver, there’s no other market for this many horses. The boy’s a good liar because his stories rang true. Someone owns these horses, and I’m hopin’ the soldiers know who.”
Maggie gestured toward the grave sites. “Didn’t they own them?”
“Yep. But there may be a wife or others back at their ranch who deserve the money.”
Maggie looked across the creek. “Shame on me. I’m still believing his fibs.” She shifted her gaze to her father. “He had no way of knowing anything about these men’s lives.”
McAllen walked over and snapped a dead branch off a tree, broke it in two, and threw the pieces onto the dying embers.
As he watched the twig catch fire, he said, “If justice is served, he’ll learn one thing about their lives.” McAllen kicked at the fire to stir it up. “He’ll learn that endin’ their lives will cost him his own.”
The End
About the author
James Best is the author of the bestselling Steve Dancy Tales: The Shopkeeper, Leadville, Murder at Thumb Butte, The Return, and Jenny's Revenge. His other novels include Tempest at Dawn and The Shut Mouth Society. Principled Action and The Digital Organization are his nonfiction books. James has ghost written three books, authored two regular magazine columns, and published numerous journal articles.
As a conference speaker, he has made presentations throughout North America and Europe. He is a member of Western Writers of America, Western Literature Association, and the Pacific Beach Surf Club. James enjoys writing, film, surfing, skiing, and watching his grandchildren play sports and cavort.
His blog address and contact information can be found at http://jamesdbest.blogspot.com/
James and his wife Diane live in Omaha, San Diego, and New York City. (Close to all the things he loves except skiing. Invitations to a mountain cabins gladly accepted.)
To discover more of James’ books, click on the links below.
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A Step Ahead
By
Duane Boehm
A Step Ahead
Gideon Johann couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the dead boy’s eyes staring back at him. The vision had been haunting him since the day he helplessly watched the little boy die more than five years ago while fighting in the War Between the States. On a good night, a couple of swigs of whiskey would chase the child away, but lately nothing worked. Whenever things got this bad, Gideon knew that the time had come to saddle up and move on to somewhere else. The little boy’s spirit would always find him, but sometimes it would take a while before he became a constant companion again.
For the past six months, Gideon had worked as a ranch hand on the Big Dipper Ranch outside of Cheyenne. The place stretched out over a few thousand acres and the owners were good to him, but he had stayed there about as long as he remained
anywhere, especially if working cattle. He considered himself a pretty fair cattleman, but much better at being a gunman. His time in the Second Colorado Cavalry had left him a skilled fighter and a deadly shot.
Dressing as quietly as possible so as not to wake the others in the bunkhouse, Gideon slipped outside and walked to the barn to saddle his horse. By the time he reached town, his pocket watch read two in the morning. All the lamps were out at the whorehouse, but he pounded on the door anyway until he could see light through the window. Luckily for him, Molly opened the door and not the old broad that ran the place.
“Gideon, it’s a little late, don’t you think?” Molly asked.
“I couldn’t sleep and I had to do something,” Gideon said.
“I guess poking your troubles away is one way to go at it,” Molly said with a smile as she grabbed his hand and quickly led him to her bedroom. The room looked tiny with a dresser in the corner and just enough space to walk around the bed
Once in her room, Molly pressed her hips against Gideon as she unbuttoned his shirt.
“It’s a good thing Sally is a sound sleeper. She would have met you at the door with her shotgun, and if mad enough, she might have shot you on the spot,” Molly said.
“She might have done some yelling, but Sally’s too greedy to lose business. Sally wouldn’t chance missing out on her cut,” Gideon said.
Molly liked to bed Gideon. He kept himself clean and never smelled bad like most of her customers. Some men liked to play rough, but there always remained a gentleness to Gideon even if his poking betrayed the desperation inside the man.
After undressing him, Molly slipped off her nightgown and pulled Gideon into bed. She never knew how many pokes it would take for him to chase his troubles away, but she never minded. Gideon poked her twice before rolling onto his back and inhaling deeply.
Molly twisted onto her side and played with the hair on Gideon’s chest. The tension had vanished from his face, replaced by a softness around his eyes that made him look younger than his twenty-seven years. She loved to gaze into Gideon’s eyes. They were the deepest blue she’d ever seen. His face was handsome and he had a shock of unruly hair that he didn’t like her to run her fingers through. He looked a little on the thin side, but nothing a few home-cooked meals couldn’t fix. Gideon brought out her mothering instincts when he chased his demons away and looked like a boy.
“Molly, I need to be moving on. I’m leaving in the morning,” Gideon said.
“Gideon, stay here and marry me. I could make you happy,” Molly cooed.
“You’re a fine girl and all, and I like you a lot, but I don’t love you. I don’t even know what that is anymore,” he said.
“I didn’t ask you to love me. I asked you to marry me. They’re not the same thing,” she said as she tapped her finger against his chest.
“We couldn’t live on a ranch hand’s salary anyways,” Gideon said.
“I could keep up the whoring. We’d be fine then,” Molly said.
“Molly, I’ve sunk a considerable distance from the way I was brought up, but I haven’t sunk so far that I’d share my wife. I’m a rambler and I’ve got to keep moving,” he said.
“I wish you’d tell me whatever your secret is that keeps you so troubled. You’d feel a whole lot better if you’d get it off your chest. You’re not fooling me,” she said.
A sad smile came upon Gideon and he took his finger and ran it down Molly’s nose. “Everybody has secrets,” he said.
“Gideon Johann, you can run from California to Boston, but you’re never going to outrun that devil that’s on your tail until you face him down,” Molly said.
Closing his eyes, Gideon drifted off to sleep without answering her. He woke at dawn with Molly snuggled against him. He gently slid out of bed and left two gold eagle ten-dollar pieces on the dresser as a parting gift for Molly. She could hide one coin from Sally and split the other with the madam.
He rode back to the ranch to tell the foreman that he was quitting and to collect his pay. His boss argued for him to stay, but gave up and shook Gideon’s hand before sending him on his way. The sun had barely risen above the horizon as Gideon hit the trail without a clue to where he wanted to go.
Over the years, he had trained himself to never think about the life he’d left behind in Last Stand, Colorado. He had not returned home since leaving for the war and had no contact with anyone there. Whenever anything about Last Stand crossed his mind, he would subconsciously shift to thinking about something else. His mind trick would not work that morning no matter what he tried.
He couldn’t get Abby Schone off his mind as he rode down the trail. She had been his sweetheart before he left for the war and the only girl he had ever loved. He never could bring himself to write Abby after the death of the little boy in the war, but had instead taken the coward’s way of letting silence be his message to her that he wasn’t coming home. After all these years, he assumed she was married and had children by now. He wondered if he knew her husband and if she was happy. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he longed for her and missed her terribly. His love for her seemed as strong as the day he had foolishly left for the war. Time had resigned him to the fact that Abigail Schone would always be the only woman he ever loved.
As Gideon tried to get Abby off his mind, he found that he started thinking about Ethan Oakes. Ethan had been his best friend and the brother he never had. He had even saved Gideon from a raging bull. The two had been inseparable until Abby came along. Gideon couldn’t quite picture Ethan married. Though tall and good looking, his friend had been so shy around girls that speaking to them nearly paralyzed him. Thinking about Ethan made Gideon smile for the first time that day.
“Abby and Ethan, wherever you are, I hope that you’re both happy,” Gideon said aloud.
Saying their names seemed to rid him of his nostalgia and he started thinking about where he wanted to go. He had ridden through Boulder, Colorado on his way to the Wyoming Territory and liked the looks of the town. The choice seemed as good as any and he headed south, enjoying the beautiful weather that came with May.
The plains south of Cheyenne made for easy travel and he covered the ground in good time. He had always been amazed by the flatness of the land he now rode and the fact that a few miles to the west the country turned into towering mountains. Such an abrupt change in the terrain didn’t seem possible. He figured the landscape served as some sort of metaphor for his life, he just wasn’t quite sure what it might be.
On his second night after leaving Cheyenne, Gideon camped near a small stream not far from Boulder. The countryside had turned hillier and the grass greener than the place he had left behind. He enjoyed the change in scenery. Two pulls from the whiskey bottle were enough that when he closed his eyes, the dead boy’s eyes only haunted him for a moment. Traveling always helped make him go away.
The next morning, he cleaned himself up in the creek before riding into town. A café caught his eye as he entered town and the aroma drifting through the air lured him in for breakfast. With his belly full, he rode straight to the jailhouse and walked inside the building.
A well-dressed man wearing a badge looked up from his desk. He was of stocky build with a neatly trimmed mustache and freshly barbered hair. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“My name is Gideon Johann. I wanted to see the sheriff and find out if he needed a deputy,” Gideon said.
“That would be me. I’m Sheriff Howell. What makes you fit to be a deputy?” Sheriff Howell asked.
“Well, sir, I was a deputy in Pueblo for a while and I fought for the Second Colorado Cavalry. I’ve worked ranches, both the cattle and providing protection. I’m not wanted for anything and I’m a pretty fair shot,” Gideon answered.
“And why did you show up here?” the sheriff asked.
“I worked for the Big Dipper Ranch in Cheyenne and I decided I’d rather deal with people than cattle for a change,” Gideon said.
The sherif
f smiled. “I understand that. Have you ever killed anyone?”
“In the war, for sure. I doubt I’d be here if I hadn’t,” Gideon said. “I also shot a man in Pueblo. I didn’t kill him, but I took him down.”
“Are you brave?” the sheriff asked.
“I’ve never run from a fight,” Gideon remarked.
“It just so happens that one of my deputies quit last week. I’m waiting for Deputy Kline to return with Farting Jack Dolan. He’s an old mountain man that scouts for us sometimes. A couple of men killed a saloon patron last night. We’re headed out to find them. I’ll deputize you and if you’re worth your salt, you can keep the job,” Sheriff Howell said.
Gideon smiled. “Riding with someone named Farting Jack sounds pretty dangerous in of itself. I won’t let you down,” he said.
An hour later, Deputy Kline walked in with another man dressed head to toe in buckskin clothes. The man stood bareheaded and his long hair and beard flowed to his shoulders and chest.
“I see that you’ve got you a new buck, Bill,” the mountain man said to the sheriff while eyeing Gideon.
“This here is Gideon Johann. I deputized him and he’ll be riding with us to find the men,” Sheriff Howell said.
“You look a little wet behind the ears to me. Are you sure that you’re weaned off the tit?” Farting Jack asked Gideon.
Gideon rubbed the one-inch vertical scar left on his cheekbone from his time in the war and smiled. “I guess we’re about to find out. I managed to keep myself alive in the war. Of course, I don’t have the experience of someone that’s been around since before gunpowder was invented,” he said.
The mountain man nodded his head, and if he caught the joke about his age, he never let it show. “We best be riding and quit jawing,” he said.
The four men walked outside and mounted their horses. As Jack swung his leg over the saddle, a loud fart escaped him. “Whoa, that was a good one,” he said.
Wanted: A Western Story Collection Page 22
