Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming

by William W. Johnstone

“Yeah, that’s what I heard. I do indeed thank you, Deputy Fred.”

  Fred blushed some more. “Just doing my job, sir.”

  Bob moved toward the stove. “As far as the raiders and the fire up in your neck of the woods—which us folks down here in Old Town happen to consider all part of Rattlesnake Wells’ neck of the woods—I had a lot of help from men on both sides of the point.”

  McTeague nodded. “I heard that, too, and just got done expressin’ my gratitude to my counterpart, Mr. Bullock, and asked him to be sure and share it with all who participated. Rest assured if the tide ever swings the other way somehow, me and the men from our . . . well, from the north part of town . . . will come runnin’ to help in kind.”

  “Duly noted,” said Bullock, raising his coffee cup in a salute.

  From a row of hooks above the stove, Bob took a cup for himself. “Who made the coffee?” he asked, reaching for the pot after picking up a cloth holder to guard his hand against the hot handle.

  “I did,” said Bullock.

  “How is it?”

  “Terrible.”

  Bob twisted his mouth wryly. “Good. Sounds right in line with what we’re used to.” After pouring himself a cup, he motioned with the pot to Fred and then McTeague.

  Fred shook his head.

  McTeague arched a shaggy brow and said, “After the glowing testimonial from you two, I think I’ll pass.”

  “After sucking that nasty-smelling cigar smoke in and out of your mouth,” observed Bullock, “I’m surprised to hear you find anything distasteful.”

  “We each suffer our own poisons,” McTeague replied as he stood up, making a gesture to Bob. “I imagine you’ll be wanting your chair back. You’ll pardon me the impertinence, but after a buckboard ride back down the mountain this morning my back was killing me. This chair of yours looked and was very soothing.”

  “You ought to get yourself one.”

  “I already have one. Two, in fact. But I wasn’t near them. As soon as I leave here, I fully intend to seek out the nearest and sink back into it.”

  Taking the vacated chair, Bob said, “Well, I appreciate you stopping by. And certainly you, too, Mike, for keeping an eye on the prisoner and all. I imagine both of you have other matters to attend to, so if you need to take your leave, me and Fred can take it from here.”

  “We’ll be doing just that,” said McTeague, “but, before we go, Mike and I have been discussing a matter that concerns you and Fred and therefore something we’d like to pursue a bit further with the both of you present.”

  “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “Takin’ nothing away from the damn near heroic job you and Fred did this mornin’,” Bullock said, “McTeague brought up something a little bit ago that me and the fellas on the Old Town council have touched on a time or two but never really followed up on. After today, I think maybe it’s time we did.”

  “And after today,” McTeague added, “I think it’s time that me and the New Town miners’ council started workin’ more closely, at least on certain matters, with Mike and his group.”

  “I sure see the value in that,” Bob said. “I’ll be the first to concede that miners and prospectors are a stubborn, special breed unto themselves and yet you and the miners’ council have been doing a pretty good job of keeping the lid on things, McTeague. But, like I said before, Gold Avenue and New Town are by any reasonable reckoning a part of Rattlesnake Wells. That means it’s only sensible for a joint set of rules and laws to apply to both parts.”

  “Agreed,” said McTeague. “That’s what brings up the question of how effective just you and Fred can be—no matter how dedicated and competent you are—if you’re spread too doggone thin. You were perfectly adequate for Rattlesnake Wells the way it used to be, but with all the growth due to the gold strike and the way New Town has sprung up . . . well, realistically, how can you possibly cover it all? Especially, when almost as many of the newcomers arriving—fleecers and scam artists and downright crooks—equal the number of honest miners and prospectors.”

  “In other words,” said Bullock, boiling it down, “we’re wondering if it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to add on another deputy or maybe two. If Angus and the miners’ council are willing to pitch in, the cost shouldn’t be a problem. We’d even include a raise for you two veterans. What do you think?”

  Bob exchanged glances with Fred then cut his eyes back to Bullock and McTeague. “To be honest with you, I’ve thought about the same thing. Fred and I have even discussed it some. We sure wouldn’t have any argument with the raise part. And another deputy or two . . . I can’t come up with an argument against that, either. All I ask is that I have final say on anybody we end up pinning a badge on.”

  “Of course. Goes without saying,” agreed Bullock. He turned to McTeague. “You talk to your men, I’ll talk to mine. We need to get together and settle this as soon as possible, before it fades from importance again. Right?”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said McTeague. “And speaking of importance, Bob, do you think there’s any chance we may get a return visit from Sanders’s gang?”

  “Been wondering about that myself. By my count, six of ’em got away. No telling if any of ’em are wounded or otherwise chewed up some. If not, that still leaves a fairly sizable force. Not impossible to think they might work up the notion to try and bust their leader out of jail. Or hit the bank again. Or possibly both.”

  “But wouldn’t they be a little gun-shy about hitting us all over again?” asked Bullock. “I mean, considerin’ how they failed at their robbery and got sent packin’ the way they did?”

  “Be nice to think that. It could be exactly how they’d figure it. On the other hand, they might be pissed off enough to want another crack at us for revenge as much as anything else. Or they might think it would be a good idea to hit us again right away while we’re still licking our wounds and softened up some from the first time.”

  Bullock frowned. “Well, those are some unsettling thoughts to have.”

  Bob spread his hands. “I’m just saying. I don’t want folks to go around jumping at shadows, living in fear. By the same token, we need to stay alert.”

  “How about a posse to go after the gang? Chase ’em down and remove any threat they could pose?” said McTeague.

  “The time for a posse would have been right away this morning, when we could have ridden out hot on their trail,” Bob said. “But things were too chaotic. We had people wounded and wreckage all over and we were still putting together the pieces of what exactly had happened. I decided it best to keep all able-bodied men right here.”

  “What about now? What about leading some men out to track them now?”

  Bob shook his head. “No good. We could track them for a while, no doubt. But there’s also little doubt they’ve headed up into the mountains by now, probably the Shirleys, where there’s nothing but stands of thick timber, dozens of narrow canyons, and hard ground. You can’t track men on rocks. Be a waste of time or, worse yet, an invitation into an ambush.”

  “So what does that leave?”

  “We stay sharp, stay prepared. Be ready if the Sanders gang—or anybody else, for that matter—tries anything. Not too different from the way we’ve been getting along up to now.” Bob’s tone hardened. “We can’t live scared, can’t let the fear of something rattle us. That’s not the way this town was forged and built, and this is no time to start living that way.”

  “By God, I like the sound of that,” said McTeague. “I guess that kind of attitude is what makes you Sundown Bob and, once again, why we’re damned lucky to have you.”

  Bob winced a little at the “Sundown Bob” remark. It’s what a few of the townsfolk had taken to calling him, based on his fiery red hair and the skill he’d shown a time or two in the past when forced into a gunfight. He’d never cottoned to it much, but since it was usually used in a favorable way, like McTeague was doing, he tended to put up with it.

  Rising to his feet
, Bullock said, “I guess the only question left is the matter of how long you figure to keep Sanders here in your jail. I think we’re all agreed that’s asking for trouble, any way you cut it.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Bob said. “As far as keeping him here, I’d just as soon it was as brief as possible. The trouble with that is, he’s wanted in so dang many different jurisdictions I don’t rightly know who’s got priority for laying claim to him. My aim is to send out some telegrams this afternoon and see what I can find out. In the meantime, the circuit judge ain’t due to pass through here for another two weeks. I hope to be rid of Sanders by then, but if not, I reckon we’ll see what the judge has to say. Hell, we might end up hanging the cuss right here.”

  Bullock and McTeague exchanged glances.

  “All the more reason for us to get authorization for the marshal to have more deputies,” said Bullock.

  “Absolutely,” agreed McTeague. “Let’s get on it right away.”

  The two council leaders were still making plans as they went out the door.

  Chapter 8

  Appearance-wise, there was nothing special about Arlo Sanders. He was of average height and build, less than a year short of forty. He had dark, suspicious eyes over a bulbous-tipped nose, under which a pencil mustache extended unevenly above a thin-lipped mouth that frequently curled into a sneer he probably imagined was more menacing than it really was.

  Stepping into the back to check on the prisoner, Marshal Hatfield found him seated on the edge of his cell bunk, shirtless, with a blanket over his shoulders. Bob could see part of the bandage Doc Tibbs had applied to Sanders’s left shoulder after digging out the bullet Bob put there.

  Sanders looked up and right away a sneer formed on his mouth. “Well, well. If it ain’t Sundown Bob.”

  The marshal was caught off guard for a moment then remembered the propped-open door would have allowed the prisoner to hear all or most of what was said out in the office area. “You’re just lucky,” he told Sanders, “that I didn’t set your sun instead of only putting a bullet in you. For everybody else, it would’ve simplified things if I had.”

  “You want to simplify things?” Sanders echoed. “Come dark, just slip the lock on this cracker box and leave me on my way. Just a matter of time before I make it out anyway. Either I’ll manage it on my own or my gang will come back and bust me loose. Comes to that, they’ll set the sun on this whole stinkin’ town while they’re at it.”

  “They didn’t have such good luck the first time they tried that,” Bob pointed out. “If they were so dead set on keeping you from behind bars, why did they all hightail it and leave you laying in that bank alley in the first place?”

  “They were runnin’ for their lives,” was the quick protest. “For all they knew, I was dead. When word spreads—and it will—that I’m in here alive, you can bet they’ll start makin’ plans to free me.”

  “Making plans and getting it done are two different things,” Bob said tersely. “If they don’t come up with no better idea than riding in and shooting up the place all over again, it could be that a stray bullet might find you in the process. Permanentlike . . . Think on that.”

  Bob left the cell block, making a point to kick away the wedge of wood holding the door open, and entered the office area.

  Fred was holding his heads in his hands as he sat in the chair formerly occupied by Mike Bullock. He looked up. He was pale and it was plain to see he was feeling pretty miserable. As the doctor had warned, the skin under and around his eyes was taking on a greenish-purple tint.

  “If you feel as bad as you look,” said Bob, “I think you’d better get out of here for a while and do some healing up.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Fred insisted. “You got banged up, too. If you can gut it out, I ought to be able to.”

  “But I didn’t get it as rough as you,” Bob argued. “I mean it, get out of here for a while. Go home, take some of that medicine the doc gave you, and take it easy. Try not to go to sleep, like he told you. Just rest. If you can, come back by this evening. I want to make our standard rounds, and I want to look in on the men who got wounded chasing off those raiders.”

  Fred continued to look reluctant. “Are you sure?”

  “I said so, didn’t I? Now beat it.”

  Fred stood up.

  “One thing you can do for me on the way, though,” said Bob. “Stop by the telegraph and ask Feeney to come see me the first chance he gets. I want to get some telegrams off to check on Sanders’s wanted status in different places, but I don’t want to leave the jail unattended. I can dictate a general message to Feeney, and he can send it off where I tell him.”

  “See, right there,” Fred tried to argue. “I can stick around long enough to—”

  “We already covered that. Get out of here and send Feeney. Now beat it, like I told you.”

  Fred shuffled to the door. “Okay. I’ll be sure to make it back before evening.”

  After Fred had gone, Bob leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and sat very still for several minutes. Many things churned through his mind. The events of the morning, naturally. But other events as well. Events from a past that was distant and yet not all that far . . .

  Texas, six years earlier

  Rafe Hammond had just finished saying grace at the head of the family table when they heard the horses riding up out front. The windows and front door were open to the warm summer night, so the sound easily reached in to them.

  Alberto Diaz, seated at the opposite end of the large oval table, frowned at the noise. He was the Hammond ranch foreman, a widower who took his meals at the Hammond table, along with his son and daughter. “I suspect that is Ramos, coming back from town. I’m surprised he is in such a hurry, considering the scolding he is due for arriving late for supper.”

  Martha Hammond, the matriarch of the gathering, smiled tolerantly. “Oh, don’t be too hard on the boy. You know how handsome he is and how the gals flock around him when he goes to town. Are you so old and cranky, Alberto, that you’ve forgotten how easy it is to lose track of time when you’re lingering with a pretty girl?”

  Alberto tried to look stern, but a grudging trace of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Humph. When I used to linger with the mother of Ramos and Consuela—who was the prettiest girl in all of Sonora—I was never late for supper. But sometimes I forgot about supper completely.” He laughed gruffly. “I truly knew how to linger.”

  “Then keep that in mind and don’t make a scene when Ramos comes in,” said his daughter Consuela.

  Before Alberto could reply, a voice called from outside where the arriving riders had reined up. “Mr. Diaz! Mr. Hammond! You need to come out here right away!”

  “Ramos has been hurt!” another voice added.

  Bob Hammond, Rafe’s oldest son and Ramos’s best friend, shot to his feet and was out the door ahead of both Rafe and Alberto.

  Three men on horseback were at the hitch rail in front of the house. The one in the middle was slumped weakly in his saddle and, even in the gloom of evening, Bob could tell by his fancy shirt and concha-studded vest that it was Ramos. The other two riders were wranglers who worked for the Hammond Slash-H brand.

  “What happened?” Bob wanted to know. A moment after he spoke, he saw the dark stains smearing the front of Ramos’s shirt.

  “He’s been shot,” said Curley Danielson, the rider to the right of Ramos. “It’s pretty bad.”

  “We wanted to take him to the doctor in town, but he insisted on comin’ here,” added Smoky Jessup, the other wrangler.

  “Shot?” echoed Alberto. “How did such a thing happen?”

  “By who?” Bob demanded coldly.

  Before anyone could answer, Rafe barged forward. “Somebody give me a hand before he falls out of that saddle.”

  Bob and Alberto rushed to help him, and the three of them eased Ramos down to the ground as gently as possible. The wounded man groaned from the handling, and w
hen Bob straightened he could feel warm, sticky blood covering his hand.

  Remaining on his knees beside the bleeding boy, Rafe called loudly over his shoulder, “Martha, bring a lantern and some clean cloth for bandaging. Hurry!”

  Ramos groaned some more and said, his voice very faint, “Oh, Papa . . . It hurts real bad.”

  Alberto leaned close over his son.

  In the faint light, Bob could see the shine of tears rimming his eyes.

  “Be still, my son. Try not to move,” Alberto said in a hoarse whisper as he squeezed one of Ramos’s hands.

  Curley climbed down from his saddle and stepped over to stand beside Bob. Keeping his voice low, he said, “It was Willis Breen. He goaded Ramos into a gunfight. In town they’re all sayin’ it was a fair fight, that Ramos even drew first. But there was no way he stood a chance against Breen. It was murder plain and simple, Bob. Ain’t no other word for it.”

  Bob’s face flushed with anger, turning near as red as his hair. At the same time, he could feel a cold fist balling low in his gut. As he let Curley’s words sink in, trying to come to grips with his feelings, his mother and Consuela came rushing out from inside the house. Consuela carried a large lantern, and Martha had a bundle of clean linen.

  As Martha also sank to her knees beside Ramos and Consuela hovered close to hold the light, Bob turned and looked back toward the house. His wife Priscilla stood in the open doorway, holding their young son in her arms. She looked pale and wan, the way she did most days lately. Always a bit frail and sickly, she hailed from back east. She’d moved to Texas with her family, but had never really adjusted to the more rugged conditions of the West. It hadn’t stopped her from falling in love and marrying Bob, but most of her frailties and delicate ways remained.

  “Lord,” said Martha. “By the look of that shirt, he’s lost a lot of blood, and he’s still bleeding. We have to find a way to stop that and do it quick.”

  “What’s worse,” said Rafe, “is that I can’t find no exit wound. That means the bullet is still in there.”