Hero's Stand

by Charles G. West

  “I kinda doubt that,” Nate Wysong replied. “Why should they? We can’t stand up to those gunmen. They’ll just stay right here till they bleed us dry. Some of you may not have been hit as hard as I have. I came back after being gone for two months and found a stack of vouchers signed by Captain Fry. He told Mary that the territorial governor would send me the money for them in the spring.” He turned to glance at his wife in the back of the room. “I ain’t blaming you, honey. I don’t know that I could have refused him the supplies. They’d have probably just took ’em, anyway.”

  “Fry seems like a reasonable man,” Reverend Lindstrom said. “I think we should try to negotiate with him for the peaceful departure of him and his men.”

  Horace Spratte made a point then that had somehow been overlooked. “He ain’t going nowhere in this weather. We’ve got that bunch till the weather breaks, and that’s all there is to it.”

  At that point, everybody tried to talk at once, causing Lindstrom to raise his voice, calling for order. It was becoming quite clear that the people of Canyon Creek were helpless to do anything against Fry and his men even though they had been reduced to four in number. The reverend’s little flock was about to receive confirmation of that truth. For, at that moment, one of Nate Wysong’s sons ran in from outside and announced excitedly, “Pa, the soldiers are coming!”

  A stony silence fell over the small congregation as Simon Fry strode in, followed by his three men. Fry proceeded straight to the front platform that served as a pulpit, while Pitt stationed himself and the other two at the back corners of the building. Fry carried no weapon except for the pistol strapped on his hip, but the other three held rifles conspicuously cradled in their arms. Affecting a wide smile for Lindstrom, Fry directed the dumbstruck reverend to take a seat with the other men in his group. At a loss for words, Lindstrom did as he was told. Fry turned to address the gathering, all of whom were seated and wide-eyed with apprehension.

  As soon as Fry turned to face them, Lettie suddenly gripped Mary Wysong’s arm and gasped. “Steadman Finch!”

  Startled, Mary looked at the girl, alarmed by the force of the fingers gripping her arm. “What is it?” she whispered, confused by the young girl’s outburst.

  Lettie didn’t answer. She didn’t even hear Mary’s question. Her eyes were locked on the man standing at the pulpit. Her heart racing, she could scarcely believe what her eyes were telling her. “Steadman Finch,” she repeated, this time above a whisper.

  Simon Fry cocked his head toward her immediately upon hearing his name. His eyes narrowed beneath heavy black brows as he tried to identify the young lady staring so accusingly at him from the back bench. The room was sunk in confused silence for a few moments as Fry glared at Lettie. Other than these two, only Jack Pitt knew Fry’s real name. An amused smirk on his face, Pitt took a step closer to get a better look at Lettie.

  After a prolonged pause, during which Fry could not recall ever having seen the girl before, he started to address the gathering. “There are going to be some new rules around here for a while.” That was as far as he got before being interrupted again.

  “Steadman Finch,” Lettie blurted, getting to her feet. “You’re a low-down, murdering coward, Steadman Finch.”

  Fry’s eyes flashed with anger for only a brief second before he relaxed his expression to the point where a wry smile appeared. “I do believe you’ve mistaken me for someone else, young lady,” he replied with exaggerated politeness. “My name is Simon Fry. And what, may I ask, is your name?”

  “I’m Lettie Henderson, Mr. Finch,” she retorted accusingly. “And you murdered my father!” She stood there, defiantly staring him down, thinking that if only she had brought her pistol, he would now be a dead man.

  Stunned for a moment, Fry quickly recovered, smiling in the face of the accusation. “As I said, you’ve obviously confused me with someone else. I’ve never even been to St. Louis.”

  “Ha!” She shouted triumphantly, pointing her finger at him. “I never said I was from St. Louis! You tripped on your own lying tongue, you murderer.”

  Fry smiled almost sheepishly for making such a stupid blunder. “So I did, didn’t I?” The smile froze on his face, replaced by an annoyed scowl. “Pitt,” he directed, “set her down.”

  Pitt took no more than three steps toward Lettie before he was stopped by the distinctive sound of a rifle cocking. “I wouldn’t, Pitt.” In the tension that filled the small church building, no one had noticed when Jim Culver silently moved inside the door. Now, when all heads turned at the sound of his warning, Pitt discovered a Winchester leveled at his belly. It served to give him pause before making another move. For a few frozen moments, there was not a sound in the room beyond that of an occasional popping of the fire in the fireplace. The faint laughter of the children playing outside seemed miles away.

  From their positions in opposite corners at the back of the room, Trask and Caldwell brought their rifles to bear on Jim but, unsure of themselves, did not fire. Jim breathed a silent sigh of relief, thankful that they had hesitated to think about it. If they hadn’t, he’d be dead now. He gazed steadily into Pitt’s snarling face. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if you can get your rifle up and cock it before I cut you down. Or maybe you’re wondering if your captain there can pull that pistol in time. I can guarantee you that I’ll get you and your captain even if one of those jokers in the corner puts a bullet in me. I’m the only one who knows how fast I am, and I’m willing to bet on it. You can decide if it’s worth the gamble. No matter what happens, I’m taking you two with me. You two behind me—you’ll be outnumbered after your friends are dead. You’ll be next.” Jim knew he was bluffing when he intimated the men in the congregation would fight. He didn’t know if they would or not, but neither did Trask and Caldwell.

  Simon Fry rapidly evaluated the situation. The young stranger looked very capable of backing up his threat to take him and Pitt out. Never one to risk his neck in any situation, he decided it best to back down now and call it a stalemate. “Folks,” he pleaded. “Let’s just calm down here. You’ve got the wrong idea, young fellow. It was never our intention to harm the young lady or anyone else here. You’ve got no call to pull a gun on us. We’re just trying to do right by you folks and protect you. Why, one of my men was killed just today, murdered while he was watching out for Indians. I just came to your meeting tonight to see if I could ask for your help in finding the guilty party.”

  Since no one else appeared willing to speak up, Jim took it upon himself to deliver the message. “The folks here figure they can’t afford your protection anymore, so I reckon it’s time for you boys to move on.”

  Fry struggled to hold his anger in check. “Well, now, I don’t think that’s up to you to decide.”

  Reverend Lindstrom found his voice at last. “He’s right, Captain Fry. We all decided at this meeting that it would be best if you and your men left us in peace.”

  “Oh, you did, did you?” Fry’s eyes flashed angrily for a second. He glanced at Pitt, who had not moved but was still glaring menacingly at Jim. Then he glanced at Trask and Caldwell. The two men wore confused expressions and were looking to him for instructions. Stupid jackasses, he thought. If they had just cut down on him at first, he’d have been dead before he could even think about pulling the trigger. Now it was too great a risk. “All right, then,” he said at last. “We certainly don’t want any trouble with you folks. We’ll just leave you, and we’ll discontinue our patrols. There won’t be anybody protecting you from any more Indian raids, but if you’re all sure that’s what you want . . .” He paused, waiting for a response.

  At first there was none. Then Reverend Lindstrom spoke for his neighbors. “We’ve made a final decision. We were getting along just fine with the Injuns before you came. I reckon we’ll get along just fine after you leave.”

  “All right, then.” Fry stepped down from the pulpit and signaled Pitt with a nod of his head. Pitt moved toward th
e door, his eyes still smoldering as he continued to stare at Jim. As he neared the door, he turned to look at Caldwell, still stationed in the back corner of the room. With a slight nod and a shifting of his eyes, he signaled, and Caldwell understood his meaning.

  Trask followed Pitt out the door while Fry walked up the aisle. He paused at the last row of benches, where Lettie was still standing, staring at him. “So you’re Jonah Henderson’s little girl.” He favored her with a crooked smile. “Last time I saw you, you weren’t much more than a pup.” The smile abruptly faded. “Too bad about Jonah, but if you go getting any crazy ideas, the same might happen to you.”

  “Just drag your sorry ass on outta here,” Jim said, his rifle now aimed at Fry.

  Fry turned to faced Jim. Deliberately looking him up and down, he grinned contemptuously. “I guess you’ve got the high hand right now, but this game ain’t over yet. You’d better watch your step from now on.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Jim said, matching the grin with one of his own. When Fry turned and headed for the door, Jim said softly but firmly, “Sit down, Lettie.” Pitt’s slight nod to Caldwell had not escaped his notice. Recognizing his tone to be that of a command, Lettie did as she was told.

  Caldwell waited for Fry to pass him. Then, using Fry’s body to shield his movements, he raised his rifle. As soon as Fry passed, Caldwell opened fire. Anticipating the obvious move, Jim dropped to one knee, using the end of the pine bench as cover. His reactions were so quick that the two shots sounded as one. Caldwell’s .45 slug cut a chunk of pine from the bench beside Jim’s head. The young outlaw crumpled to the floor, Jim’s bullet buried deep in his chest. Oblivious to the sudden commotion behind him of women screaming amid the confusion of overturning benches as everyone sought cover, Jim moved quickly to the church door. Lying flat on his belly, he took a position to shoot, using the doorjamb as cover.

  Outside in the churchyard, the children stood stunned by the sudden outburst of gunfire from inside the church. The three outlaws, their weapons ready, paused for a few moments to wait for Caldwell. When their companion failed to emerge, they wasted little time thinking about it. Pitt knew Caldwell had lost the gunfight. “Grab a young’un!” Pitt roared and swept up one of the children. Fry and Trask were not quick enough, and the rest of the children scattered. Pitt had sized Jim Culver up, and he figured the tall young stranger knew how to use his rifle.

  Using the terrified youngster as a shield, Pitt backed toward the horses. “Get behind me, unless you wanna get your ass shot off,” he ordered the others and handed his rifle to Fry in order to free his gun hand. Eagerly taking cover behind the huge man, Fry and Trask backed up until reaching the horses. Pitt, meanwhile, emptied his six-shooter, blasting away at the church door, pistol in one hand and the child in the other.

  Lying on his stomach, Jim watched as the three outlaws moved to a safe position behind a low mound, their backs to the river. He was forced to helplessly watch the retreat as Pitt’s bullets ripped chunks from the heavy church door, unable to risk a shot himself for fear of hitting the child. He figured there was little chance they would simply ride away, leaving them in peace. He had anticipated Caldwell’s move. So now the odds were even better in favor of the men of Canyon Creek. He had been right about Caldwell, but he soon found he had misjudged the people of Canyon Creek.

  “Looks like they’re gonna spread out behind that mound and try to smoke us outta here,” he called back over his shoulder while keeping a constant eye on the outlaws. “If a couple of you set up on either side of that window, we might be able to get an angle on them.”

  “The children!” Mary Wysong wailed. “We’ve got to save the children.” Her cries were echoed by the other women.

  Once Pitt reached the safety of the mound, he flung the child from his arm. The child, a boy of ten, wasted no time in hightailing it down the riverbank to catch up with his playmates. Seeing this, Jim reported, “The young’uns are all safe. They’ve run off down the river a piece. Now, a couple of you men set up on that window.”

  “We didn’t bring no guns to church,” Horace Spratte answered from his position behind an overturned bench. “The reverend don’t think it’s fittin’.”

  “Damn,” Jim uttered. He hadn’t counted on that. “Not one of you brought a gun? Hell, with the trouble you folks got here, you shouldn’t go to the outhouse without a gun.”

  “The house of the Lord is no place for weapons,” Reverend Lindstrom inserted weakly from his place behind another bench.

  “I’ve got a pistol.” This reluctant confession came from Nate Wysong.

  More than a little perplexed, Jim said, “Well, get up to that window and get ready to use it.”

  Nate had barely time to position himself beside the window before the shooting started. Their rifles placed several yards apart, the outlaws laid a steady volley across the front of the log building. Chips and splinters flew as their slugs tore into the timbers, making loud smacks on the partially opened door. Jim returned the fire as rapidly as he could shoot, peppering the sandy mound with lead. As soon as the first volley of bullets plastered the front of the church, Nate lost his nerve and scurried back to seek cover behind the benches again. “Gimme that,” Jim heard Lettie demand. Taking the pistol from Nate, she ran to the window and emptied it in the general direction of the mound.

  Jim glanced over and nodded approvingly. Lettie smiled at him, then shrugged helplessly, showing him the empty pistol. Nate hadn’t brought any additional bullets.

  Soon after the siege began, there was a lull in the shooting as both sides paused to reload and evaluate the situation. Jim motioned for her to pick up Caldwell’s rifle.

  “We ain’t doing nothing but wasting lead,” Fry said as he crawled over closer to Pitt. “It don’t do no good to keep filling up those logs with bullets. And we can’t get a clean shot at that son of a bitch with the rifle without rising up to shoot—and he’s too good a shot to risk that.”

  “We gotta get them outta that cabin,” Pitt said. “We need to smoke ’em out. We’ve just gotta get that one man. The rest of ’em ain’t got no fight in ’em.” He motioned for Trask to come closer. “Trask, go on back down the riverbank a ways. Then work your way around behind ’em. If that back window ain’t shuttered, you might be able to get a shot at him.”

  Trask was not enthusiastic about the plan. “I don’t know, Pitt. That feller was too quick for Caldwell.”

  “He can’t watch both sides at the same time,” Fry said. “Do like Pitt says.”

  “Get your slicker off your horse and take it with you,” Pitt instructed. “If they’ve got that window closed, maybe you can climb up on the roof and cover the chimney. Smoke ’em out, and we’ll nail ’em when they come out the door.”

  It didn’t sound like much of a plan to Trask, but he reluctantly went along with it—primarily because he hesitated to argue with Pitt. Crawling on all fours until he reached the riverbank, he scrambled to his feet and, crouching for fear of attracting a bullet, started out along the water’s edge. Abruptly halting, he returned to his horse and untied his slicker. “Stupid idea,” he mumbled to himself before resuming his flight down the river.

  * * *

  With the lull in the shooting, Jim looked around behind him at the huddled bodies. Mary Wysong was crying. He glanced from her to Effie Spratte, who was seated on the floor, rocking back and forth behind her husband and wailing, “They’re gonna kill us all.” His gaze darted back to the front window and found Lettie gazing expectantly at him. He smiled and shook his head. She understood and smiled back at him.

  “Maybe they’ve gone,” Lindstrom ventured hopefully.

  “They’re still there,” Jim replied. “More than likely they’re trying to figure how to smoke us out of here.”

  “Well, what are we gonna do?” Lindstrom asked in anguish. “We can’t just sit here while they decide how to kill us.”

  “Nothing we can do but sit here,” Jim replied, impatient with
the preacher’s questions, “unless you want to walk out there and ask them to leave again.” His reply brought a new intensity to the crying of Mary Wysong, so he tried to assuage their fears. “Maybe they’ll get tired of waiting us out by morning.”

  * * *

  Slipping and sliding as he made his way up the snowy riverbank, cursing every time he lost his balance, Trask finally decided he was out of range of Jim’s rifle. His rifle in one hand and his slicker in the other, he crossed over the clearing where he and the others had first met the preacher. There had been eight of them on that day—and him with an arrow in his shoulder. It was bad luck the day we found this damn valley. Three of us left—if I had any sense, I’d jump on my horse and leave this place behind me. He would have given the notion serious consideration had it not been for his great fear of Pitt.

  Working his way through the pines that covered the ridge behind the church, Trask struggled through the brush in the darkness, cursing each branch that surprised him with a sudden slap across the face. Back toward the river, he heard rifle shots ring out as Fry and Pitt let those inside the church know they were still under siege. When he reached a point directly behind the building, he came out to the edge of the trees and knelt on one knee to take a long look at his objective. The back window was shuttered and latched. Stupid idea! Pitt thinks he’s so smart. Of course the damn window is shut. The man ain’t gonna lay in there with a window open behind his back. Glancing down at his slicker, he then looked back at the cabin to consider the second option. The roof was low in the back, the eaves no more than six feet off the ground. He figured that if he could find something to stand on, he should be able to climb it.

  Moving with great caution, half-expecting the back window to fly open suddenly and present him with the business end of a Winchester 73, he inched his way up to the cabin wall. Spying a chopping block over by the woodpile, he thought, That’s just about the right height. He pushed it over on its side, rolled it over to the edge of the roof, and stood it up again. Stupid idea. What if they hear me and start shooting through the roof? Thoughts of Fry and Pitt sitting safely behind a dirt mound while he risked his neck on a rooftop served to irritate him further as he prepared to mount the roof. With his rifle slung on his back, he grabbed the underside of the eave and started to throw one leg up. Suddenly he was in midair, his arms and legs flailing to find purchase. In another second, he realized that he had not simply slipped, for something had him by the back of his collar. In the next instant, he was slammed down in the snow, flat on his back. The impact made his head spin. When it was clear again, he found himself staring up at a towering figure dressed in animal skins. Trask had made bad decisions all his life. This would be his last. He reached for his pistol. The big man in buckskins buried his war ax in Trask’s skull before he had a chance to aim and pull the trigger.