Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming

by William W. Johnstone

“You really think so?” Mike said rhetorically. “I don’t. I like to know if trouble’s coming. Then I can be prepared.”

  Bob grinned. “Best thing for that, I reckon, is to just stay prepared all the time.”

  Mike balled one of his mallet-sized fists and held it up. “That’s exactly what I do . . . with this baby right here.”

  Bob walked on a few steps, then stopped and turned back. “Say, Mike. Can you think of the name of a country that starts with the letter q?”

  Mike stopped shaking one of the mats. “Huh? A country where?”

  “Anywhere. Anywhere around the globe. It’s a question that, er, came out of Bucky’s schoolwork.”

  Mike grunted. “Boy, you picked the wrong fella to ask about school learnin’. I never set foot in a classroom all my days. My old man didn’t believe in it. He said payin’ attention while you was livin’ life was all the schoolin’ anybody ever needed.” He jabbed a thumb to indicate the saloon behind him. “So all my schoolin’ has come from right in there—actually from my old man’s beer hall in Brooklyn through a couple dozen other joints in between to my own place right here. And, boy, have I learned a thing or three . . . but I don’t know no countries startin’ with the letter q.”

  “It was just a question, Mike. Don’t worry about it. If you do think of something, let me know.”

  “I’ll ask around as customers come in and out today.” A rumble of laughter rolled out of his chest. “I guarantee I’ll get answers for you. They may not be right, but you can bet there’ll be some wild ones.”

  Bob shook his head, not holding out hope for much in the way of accurate information, and continued on down the street. He hadn’t gone far before he stopped again, for a very different reason. He heard a sound unmistakable to his ears. Gunshots. Distant and sporadic at first, but quickly growing louder and more frequent.

  Pop! Poppity-pop! Bang! Boom!

  It was coming from the north, from the newer section of town, and sounded like all hell was busting loose.

  Bob wheeled and moved in that direction. Measured steps at first, then lengthier and faster. The Colt Peacemaker riding in the old but well-oiled holster on his right hip flashed to his fist, and he carried it out front as he broke into a run.

  Mike Bullock dropped the mat he was shaking out and took a step out into the street, craning his neck to look north as Bob raced by. “What in hell’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, but it don’t sound good,” Bob called back over his shoulder. “Ring the fire bell. If the shooting keeps up, send me some help!”

  Painted bright red, the large iron bell that served as the town’s warning notice for danger hung from a pole right next to the public pump and watering trough fed by an underground stream running down from the largest of the spring wells that had originally drawn folks to settle there. At the point where Front Street and Gold Avenue met and branched off at separate angles, the bell served primarily in case of fire, although in the old days it had also brought armed men running to face an Indian attack or two. In addition to the bell and pump, in an old shed just off the east side of the street, a hand-drawn water wagon sat ready and faithfully kept full of water in case of need.

  Bob again urged Mike to ring the bell, even as he ran past it and made the turn up Gold Avenue toward the sound of the shooting, which hadn’t given any sign of letting up and, in fact, seemed to be increasing.

  Bob ran harder and his breath chugged harder. I’m a horseman, not a damn foot racer, he lamented inside his head, but he nevertheless kept on. The fire bell began clanging behind him.

  * * *

  Deputy Fred Ordway was in the outhouse in back of Mabel Nyby’s boardinghouse, where he stayed, when he heard the fire bell. Not one given to swearing in general and especially not using the Lord’s name in vain, at that moment he couldn’t help but cut loose with a very salty tirade at his predicament. As a proud, badge-wearing representative of the citizens of Rattlesnake Wells, it was incumbent on him to set the tone for a prompt response to any town emergency. In other words, he should have been one of the first responders to the fire bell.

  Thanks to the taco pie he’d eaten for a late supper at that new Mexican food stand on Gold Avenue, he was in no condition—not to mention no position—to go anywhere at the moment.

  A short time earlier, he’d woken with a rumbling, tumbling stomach, and it had been all he could do to pull on some pants and make it out to the outhouse in time. Leaving as quickly as he’d arrived did not seem advisable. True, the upheaval in his stomach had largely subsided, but an undeniable queasiness still warned him against leaving the two-hole facility in too big a hurry.

  * * *

  Ahead, near the far end of the New Town row, Marshal Hatfield could see signs of what was causing the commotion. It looked like half a dozen men on horseback were riding about wildly, whooping and shooting and trampling recklessly near where various-sized tents housed everything from cramped bed-by-the-night joints to hawkers of trinkets and trash and snake oil to the cheapest whore cribs.

  What the hell for? was all he could think as he ran.

  A few heads, drawn by the noise, began poking sleepily out of buildings and tents he was running past.

  “Don’t just stand there,” he shouted to them. “Grab some men and come help with this! Get McTeague, if he’s in town.”

  Although he didn’t know if the hell-raisers would even notice his shots amid all the gunfire they were popping off, Bob aimed his Colt to the sky and fired off two shots. He hated to waste the rounds, inasmuch as the Colt was the only weapon he had on him, but he had to try something and wasn’t ready to cut down one or two riders merely to get the attention of the rest.

  They were doing plenty of damage and making a lot of noise with their guns but didn’t seem to be aiming to shoot or kill anybody. He was hoping that if he drew their attention and they spotted his badge it might serve to tame them down before anybody did get hurt.

  That notion went out the window pretty quick after his warning shots drew the desired attention.

  One of the riders looked around, saw him advancing, and shouted to the others, “We got company, boys!”

  Another face whipped around and the man it belonged to said with a sneer, “Let’s blast the nosy damn badge-toter.”

  A second later, the sneering hombre and most of the others swung their guns in Bob’s direction and cut loose with a hail of lead that ripped down the street and came shockingly close to ventilating him like a piece of Swiss cheese. Only a diving roll that took him to a skidding halt behind a sturdy, low-slung ore wagon saved him. Bullets thumped and hammered against the thick sides of the wagon and tore long gouges in the middle of the dusty street.

  Bob hunkered behind the ore wagon and quickly replaced the Colt’s spent cartridges. Not even a full wheel was going to last very long in the shoot-out that seemed on tap, but it was the best way to start. He looked down the street the way he’d come, hoping for some sign of reinforcements at least starting to form. Even though the fire bell had stopped ringing, he saw nothing.

  Damn. Well, he’d poked the hornet’s nest on his own, and it looked like—at least for the moment and for the foreseeable next few minutes—he’d have to deal with the results on his own.

  * * *

  The bell stopped ringing, signaling that a sufficient number of men had answered its call or were visibly on the way.

  But not Fred. He remained seated where he was. What would the marshal think? Fred swore again.

  * * *

  “Come on, law dog!” a taunting voice called toward Bob. “You were in a big hurry to join our party just a minute ago. Pop back up and join in for more of the fun!”

  That prompted the marshal to do the last thing the taunter or any of his cohorts expected—he did pop back up and join in. Rising up suddenly from behind the low wagon, he extended his Colt just below chest level and swept it in a short, level arc as he fanned off four rapid-fire rounds. It not only caught the hel
l-raisers by complete and utter surprise, it sent two of them flying from their saddles.

  Bob dropped back down immediately as another responsive hail of bullets raked the ore cart and sizzled through the air above his head. His heart pounded nearly as hard and fast as the hammering of the incoming slugs, but none of it interfered with his fingers nimbly and automatically reloading the Colt.

  * * *

  Vaguely, but unmistakably, Fred heard gunfire. A lot of gunfire. Its distant sound made him guess it must be coming from New Town, somewhere up Gold Avenue. What in the world could be going on that would result in so much shooting? And was that what the bell was ringing for, as opposed to a fire?

  Sucking in his substantial gut and gritting his teeth, he put his faith in force of will and the hope that Fate would not be so cruel as to let him lose control during a public emergency. No matter what, he couldn’t just sit in the outhouse and let Marshal Hatfield down. He had to take the risk.

  Fred hurriedly tucked his long nightshirt—which he hadn’t taken time to change out of—into his pants and rushed back to the boardinghouse. In his room, he pulled on his boots and strapped on his gun belt and holster. Without taking time for anything else, not even to clap on his hat or pin on his deputy’s badge, he clomped back out and headed in the direction of the gunfire.

  * * *

  Pouring lead, Marshal Hatfield continued to press low and tight against his end of the wagon as the volley roared. When it abruptly eased up—while the riders were doing some reloading of their own, he guessed—he considered trying the pop-up tactic one more time. Unable to convince himself they’d be so dumb as to get caught again without at least one member of their bunch primed and ready for just such a move, he held off. Leaning over nearly to the edge of the wagon, he turned his head to call sharply, “If you’ll hold your damn fire and lay down your guns, we can talk out whatever your grievance is without anybody else getting hurt!”

  “To hell with that, Marshal! You already drew blood on two of ours, and that don’t go unreturned. Wasn’t nobody hurt up till then, so that’s on you alone.”

  “Yeah, and alone is strictly what you are, you dumb bastard,” another shouted. “You supposed to be somebody so ferocious you expect us to lay down our guns just because you tell us to?”

  “All I am is a fella wearin’ a badge, trying to keep peace in this town,” Bob called back. “I’ll tell you what is gonna be ferocious, and that’s the mob of angry citizens and pissed-off miners who’ll be forming up behind me any minute now. If you’re dumb enough to want to face that, the hurt that gets handed out from there is gonna be strictly on you.”

  “If you’re tryin’ to scare us off, you’re gonna have to do a helluva lot better than the threat of a few shopkeepers and rock choppers!”

  “Your choice,” Bob called. “I did my best to give you a fair chance.” He looked back down the street again and was relieved to see evidence that he wasn’t just making empty threats.

  A knot of men was coming around the point and starting up Gold Avenue. Mike Bullock was in the lead, wielding an oversized bung starter that Bob knew was his second-favorite weapon for breaking up barroom brawls. On rare occasions when brute force wasn’t enough, Bullock carried a snub-nosed revolver in his pocket. Since he and the men falling in behind him were heading toward gunfire, Bob trusted that the burly saloon man also had the pistol at hand. As for the others making up the reinforcements, they were armed and prepared. A number of rifle barrels poked up along with handguns being brandished.

  In their eagerness to respond and come to Bob’s aid, the undisciplined group was bunched together as they picked up momentum and charged right up the middle of the street. If the raiders loosed a volley on them the way they already had on Bob, the rain of lead would tear into the pack and chew them to ribbons.

  Bob turned his attention back to the raiders and risked a moment of exposure to lean out around the edge of what he’d come to consider his wagon. He did this for two reasons. One, to check the positioning of the horsemen and two, to snap off a couple rounds in order to keep them focused on him for as long as he could.

  The remaining four raiders on horseback were still positioned much as they’d been—off to the right side of Gold Avenue where he was—their horses milling and trampling in among some low sleeping tents that served mostly as cribs for the cheapest priced working girls. A fifth man was standing as if he might be preparing to mount again.

  Bob calculated that his first surprise flurry must have hit pretty good and left down one of the two men he’d unsaddled. Evidently, the second one had been clipped and was attempting to get back in the battle again.

  Part two of what Bob had hoped to accomplish with his peek-and-shoot maneuver—to keep the raiders focused on him—worked very well. They let loose with another barrage of lead, hammering the sturdy ore wagon until it shook and shivered like a dog throwing off water.

  That was okay. It was fine. It kept them concentrated on Bob and not on the knot of men coming up the street.

  When the barrage started to falter, Bob took the moment of relative quiet to shout out to Bullock and the others arriving with him. “Spread out, you damn fools!” he hollered, motioning with his hands. “Take to the sides of the street. Keep to cover and work your way up from there!”

  At his command, the group hesitated for a moment then dispersed with surprising speed and smoothness. Half split to the left, half to the right.

  That drew the full attention of the mounted raiders, who immediately opened up on the scattering men. As far as Bob could see, no one got hit, but it was a close call for a couple of them. Leaning out once more to throw some return lead, he also saw that the fifth raider had indeed made it back into the saddle. Bob tried his best to knock him right back out of it, but his hurried aim was too wide.

  As Bullock and the others made their way up the sides of the street, they did some shooting of their own. Men emerged from some of the structures along the street to join them. The air fairly sang with the whine of bullets and began to fill with layers of gun smoke that hung undispersed in the stillness.

  The raiders remained on their horses, spurring them harder, faster, in zigzag patterns in and out among the tents. As erratically moving targets, it was hard for even a reasonably skilled marksman to draw a bead on them.

  Several terrified, scantily clad soiled doves darted in all directions, screeching as they looked for a safe haven. For several wild seconds their appearance hampered Bob’s men from shooting at the raiders, leaving the horsemen unrestrained from doing all the shooting they wanted.

  Making their way up the sides of the street, the men had no problem finding cover. Unfortunately, not much of it was as substantial as the sturdy ore wagon Bob was behind. A tent flap or a flimsy wooden gate with three-inch openings between slats was okay for a bit of concealment, but not for stopping the punch of a bullet. Sharp yelps and groans of pain came from some of the men taking hits as they edged their way forward.

  Bob cursed bitterly and ducked back from another exchange of lead.

  From behind him, a man cautiously pushed back the door flap of a good-sized tent and peeked out of the opening. He was an older gent with graying whiskers and wide, anxious eyes. “What in thunderation is goin’ on, Marshal?” he hollered over the crack of gunfire.

  “Raiders are hitting this end of town,” Bob answered. “I don’t know why, but they mean business and it ain’t good.”

  “I can tell. It sounds like a war out there.”

  “Who you got in there with you?”

  “Three nephews who just showed up from Iowa. Young fools ain’t got no more sense than me. Came to scratch in the ground for gold.”

  “You got guns in there?”

  “Sure. A-course.”

  “Then why don’t you join in this turkey shoot to help protect your town?”

  The tent opened wider and two more faces—young, not more than a year on either side of twenty—showed themselves.


  “We’ll fight with you, Marshal,” one of them said eagerly. “A fella ought to side with the law, wherever he finds himself.”

  “Me, too!” From inside came another voice, a younger-sounding one.

  “Now wait a minute,” said Gray Whiskers. “The one lad in here ain’t but fourteen. It ain’t right to expose him to no gun battle.”

  “I can’t argue that.” Bob’s words were nearly lost in a particularly heavy exchange of gunfire. He heard another of the townsmen over on the other side of the street yelp in pain and cut his gaze back to Gray Whiskers. “You said those Iowa boys just got in. They got horses?”

  “Yeah. Three of ’em, tied out back.”

  “There a back way out of that tent?”

  “You can lift the bottom and slip under,” one of the young faces said.

  Bob made a quick decision. “Get ready to cover me and be fixed to yank that door flap open wider. I’m comin’ in!”

  Chapter 3

  Widow Nyby’s boardinghouse was on Oregon Street, a block north of the marshal’s office and jail, but Fred didn’t even bother looking in that direction. He could tell for sure the shooting was coming from somewhere in the opposite direction—up in New Town. If that’s where the trouble was, that’s where the marshal would be—and where Fred needed to get to.

  Turning onto Front Street, he broke into a run . . . for as long as he could last. Possessing an unfortunate amount of extra pounds, the deputy was not a sprinter. He was overweight, generally slow, and shuffle-footed in the normal course of things. Those traits, combined with his amiable nature, made him seem a little comical and hard for some folks to take seriously. But as a number of would-be hardcases could attest—not to mention a few who were no longer in any condition to speak up—Fred was strong as a bull and could move his bulk surprisingly fast when need be . . . in close quarters.

  * * *

  Bob left the cover of the ore wagon in much the same way he’d arrived behind it. He lunged and went into a diving roll that took him inside the tent with Gray Whiskers and his three nephews. Shots from the raiders chased him and punched holes through the peak of the tent, the slugs making hollow slapping sounds.