by Brett Waring
The brawling, jostling, fighting men yelled in consternation and pain as the debris hurtled through their midst. The iron tire jarred off the wagon wheel and sprang with a dull twang into half a dozen men who were desperately trying to get out of the way. They went down in a flailing, swearing heap, some with blood streaming from flesh wounds.
Marshal Lew Tanner picked himself up and threw his body into the dispersing men, flattening some more, kicking out and flailing with his gun right and left. Men were felled in all directions and he picked himself up out of the tangle, sweating, breathing hard now, still using knees and elbows and that deadly gun barrel.
In a few moments, he stood knee-deep in writhing, moaning, bloody-faced men, panting as he lifted his gun one more time and fired a single shot into the bullet-pocked ceiling.
“Shut up!” he roared and there was immediate silence in the shambles of the big room. Drinkers who had not been involved slowly got to their feet and edged forward to see what the tough marshal was going to do. Right now, Tanner glared around at the battered men. “All right,” he said, “who’s in charge of you rannies?” He glared at the cowpokes as they squinted back at him through swollen eyes. Some sniffed through bloody nostrils, others worked at loose teeth. But no one spoke.
Tanner sighed. “Okay, on your feet all of you and start marchin’ down to the jail.”
There were moans and protests and finally, Matt Hansen, swaying, his face cut and bruised, staggered forward a pace out of the bunch of whisky-reeking men.
“Hey, hold on, Marshal,” he said, slurring a little and sucking a split knuckle. “Listen, I’m Matt Hansen, and most of these men work for me, ’cept the townsmen. There was a kinda difference of opinion with—”
“Over what?” snapped the lawman, interrupting.
Hansen frowned and swayed and looked around at his men. Hank Nolan, sporting a black eye and a deep cut on one cheek, dabbed a blood-spotted kerchief against split lips. His voice was muffled when he spoke.
“We was just celebratin’,” he growled.
“Celebratin’ what?” Tanner demanded. “End of the war? If you were, you’re about twelve years too late. Or were you aimin’ to start another war of your own?”
Hansen stepped forward, grabbed at the counter edge to steady himself. He tried to smile, winced as the movement hurt his swelling face. “Look, Marshal, we brought in the first herd of beef this town’s seen in a couple of months. We got top dollar and we were whoopin’ ’er up a mite. That’s all. Ought to count for somethin’, us bringin’ the town fresh beef.”
“Why? You been paid. Like you said, top dollar. It don’t count for nothin’ far as I’m concerned. You’re entitled to have some fun, but not when it endangers folk under my protection, or when property’s damaged.”
“And a hell of a lot of my property’s been damaged,” whined the barkeep, showing his face from under the counter. “Just look at the place, Lew!”
“They’ll pay,” Tanner said, glaring at Hansen and the others. “Won’t you?”
“Hell, maybe you didn’t notice, but half the men fightin’ were from this here lousy town!” snapped Hank Nolan angrily.
Tanner glared coldly. “You’ll pay, before you quit town!”
Nolan stiffened and he mouthed a curse. Hansen, sobering fast now, put out a restraining hand as Nolan started to reach for his gun. “Easy, Hank!” He looked at the marshal whose eyes were pinched down, his right hand hovering over the butt of his own six-gun now. “All right, Marshal. Maybe we did kind of step out of line some. We’re sorry we wrecked the place.” He turned to look at the barkeep. “How much do you estimate the damages? Two hundred cover it?”
The way the man’s eyes sparked, Hansen knew he had offered too much, but it didn’t bother him; the sooner they got it settled the better. They had overstayed their welcome, and he knew who Lew Tanner was now, knew the man’s reputation and didn’t want to tangle with him. He knew if they stayed, Nolan would find some excuse to brace the lawman, just to see how fast the man really was and he didn’t want Nolan notching up a lawman just now. They had too many deals in the fire to have the U.S. Marshals coming after them.
“Yeah, I reckon maybe two hundred’ll do it,” the barkeep replied. “Say two-fifty to be on the safe side.”
“Say two hundred,” growled Hansen, starting to count out the money from a hefty roll of bills. “You fellers realize this comes out of your bonuses, and you, Taco and Wes, you lose a little of your profit, too.”
The cowboys muttered agreement but Nolan was still glaring belligerently at the marshal. It wouldn’t take much to set him on the prod.
“You sure did get top dollar,” Tanner opined, nodding to the thick wad of bills in Hansen’s hand.
“We worked for it,” Hansen said, folding the rest of the money away. “You really throwin’ us out of town, Marshal?”
“I am.”
“Not me, you ain’t,” Nolan growled, “not till I’m good and ready to go!”
“Which is right now,” Tanner told him bleakly, seeing the man was itching for a gunfight.
Matt Hansen stepped between the two men hurriedly and grabbed Nolan’s arm, resisting the man as he tried to yank loose. He spoke between his teeth:
“Come on, Hank, damn you! Cut it out! We don’t want trouble with the law. Let it ride!”
Hansen was trying to give Nolan a message with his eyes and finally the gunfighter got it and reluctantly eased the tension out of his shoulders. His breath hissed out slowly between clenched teeth. He nodded jerkily to his boss, looked past Hansen to the hard-faced marshal.
“You’ll keep, Tanner.”
Tanner nodded curtly. “Any time you say, mister. Meanwhile, tuck your tail between your legs along with your pards and clear Tucson within an hour.”
Nolan swallowed the curse that rose to his lips.
“You’ve got no objections, I guess, to us takin’ some booze along with us when we go, Marshal?” Hansen asked. “It’s a long, thirsty ride back to where we came from.”
Tanner flicked his gaze towards the barkeep. “Long as he wants to sell it to you, you can take what you damn well want. Just be out of town in one hour.” He pulled a silver watch from his vest pocket, checked the time, nodded, and slipped the timepiece back. He raked his eyes around the bloody group again, letting his gaze linger for a while on Nolan, then nodded jerkily, turned and walked down the long room and out through the batwings into the street.
Hansen turned to the barkeep. “Break out half a dozen jugs, feller. And it better not be watered or taste of turpentine, or we’ll be back to pull this dump down around your ears.”
“Right down around your ears!” snarled Nolan, having to vent his anger on someone. He picked up the remains of the wagon wheel chandelier, a portion of rim and three or four spokes still in position. He slammed it down over the barkeep’s head, almost driving the man to his knees as the spokes scraped down over his ears and slammed onto his shoulders. He shook the woodwork, rattling the man’s head back and forth. “Savvy?”
Hansen put a hand on Nolan’s forearm. “Easy, damn it, Hank! We’ll have Tanner back in here!”
“Which would suit me!”
“But not me, damn it!” Hansen used force this time and sent Nolan staggering along the bar, his face angry. “Now leave it be, Hank! We been lucky so far; don’t push it!” Without waiting for the man to answer, he turned to the frightened barkeep. “You hurry up, mister!”
The man nodded, swallowed and jerked the remains of the wheel from his shoulders, tossing it aside as he hurried towards the doorway at the end of the bar. Hansen turned to his crew.
“Rest of you get your things and mount up. We’ll leave this dump like the marshal says, but we’ll ride high, wide and handsome all the way back to Triangle H!”
And, exactly one hour after Marshal Lew Tanner had put the clock on them, Hansen’s bunch rode out of Tucson, swigging from the stone jugs of raw whisky and singing raucously. Hansen t
hrew Tanner a brief, sardonic salute as they passed the law office and the marshal, watch in hand, nodded soberly in return. He watched them clear the edge of town and then turned back towards his office doorway, pausing to roll a cigarette and watch the Wells Fargo stage loading up at the depot next door. He snapped a vesta into flame on his thumbnail and touched it to his cigarette, waving out the match and flicking it over the rails before going back inside.
An hour later, the stage, with a full complement of passengers and Link Somers sitting sourly beside the driver, nursing his shotgun, pulled out of Tucson and rolled out along the trail taken by the drunken Triangle H crew.
Old Hernandes clung to the strap beside the window and looked out at the passing scenery, but saw nothing. He was thinking of his daughter, Merida, in Flatrock. His chest felt strange and he could feel his heart throbbing irregularly in his ears as it pumped the blood through hardened arteries. The old Mexican was afraid he would not live long enough to see his daughter again. His free hand reached inside his homespun shirt and fingered the time-worn silver crucifix that dangled there on a sweat-stained leather thong. The purple lips moved slowly as he silently prayed to Madre Maria that he would live to see and touch Merida one more time before he died.
Two – Hold-Up!
There were nine in the Triangle H bunch, including Hansen himself and the two hard rock ranchers, Dodd and Coogan. The cowhands under Hank Nolan were a ragged, dirty lot, about the same as would be found on almost any ranch of that period; indeterminate ages, long and lean, unshaven, skins the mahogany color that comes from a lot of exposure to weather and too little exposure to soap and water. They were Red Pepper, Kid Regan, Chip Wolsten and Tom Danby and a ’breed called Laramie.
And every last one of them was as drunk as a skunk.
They had stopped by a creek down from the Tombstone trail, appetites sparked by the liquor. Somehow, Nolan managed to shoot two jackrabbits and they skinned and roasted them on spits over a fire amongst some rocks above the creek. While they ate, the stone jugs of whisky were passed around and there was more drinking than eating done.
Climbing to the top of the rocks, Nolan had called for the others to come and take a look across the creek and he had pointed to the neatly tilled rows of small crops running across fertile flats towards a distant sod-roof cabin.
“A goddamn sodbuster!” Nolan slurred. “And if there’s one thing I can’t abide more’n a lousy sheepherder, it’s a sodbuster.”
Like all cattlemen of that period, they were suspicious of the homesteaders who were slowly encroaching on what had always been considered free range. They saw the wide open spaces disappearing under the plow, the cattle range shrinking and civilization moving right up to their doorsteps. Feeling ran high enough for violence in many cases; beatings, burnings, shootings, lynchings.
“Aw, come on,” Hansen growled, near as drunk as his men. “We ain’t got no time to be messin’ with sodbusters ... Let’s get back onto the trail.”
“Ain’t no hurry,” Nolan said. He looked thoughtfully at the pile of big boulders where they stood, his eyes resting on an egg-shaped rock on the very top. “Hey, now! Look at this!” Nolan shoved his shoulder hard against the rock and thrust with his legs. The rock moved very slightly. He looked at the others with a crooked grin.
“Just a little shove, fellers, one good heave-ho and that rock’ll fall smack down across the creek! Right at this narrow part below where the water’s runnin’ fast!”
They looked at him blankly. “So?” asked Hansen, a little irritably.
Nolan’s grin broadened. “So it not only jams across the creek, it’ll almost dam it! The water backs up and floods across the sodbuster’s nice neat pastures and drowns his crops! How about that, huh?”
It seemed to appeal to most of the drunken cowpokes and Nolan looked at Hansen expectantly. “Okay with you, Matt?”
Hansen hesitated, then took a long swig from the stone whisky jug he was holding. “What the hell? Why not?”
He set down the jug and jumped up onto the higher rock beside his foreman, yelling to the others to come up too. They gathered around the base of the egg-shaped boulder, staggering, slipping and cursing. Regan almost fell off into the creek but Pepper grabbed his shirt just in time and hauled him back onto a more solid footing. Then they gave a concerted heave and the rock moved, but not past the point of balance. It settled back creakingly.
They tried three more times and by then the sweat was streaming from their bodies and it didn’t seem like such a good idea after all. A few of the men sat down and opened another jug of whisky, swigging deeply. Nolan seemed intent on getting that boulder down off its precarious perch and shouted at them to start looking around for strong branches that could be used as levers. Hansen wiped sweat out of his eyes, reached down and took the new jug from Chip Wolsten. He drank deeply and wiped the back of a hand across his mouth.
“Hell with this, Hank,” he growled. “Gettin’ too much like hard work. Let’s get movin’.”
A few of the others growled agreement, but Coogan and Danby were already off somewhere in the timber looking for poles to use as levers. Nolan took a long pull at the stone jug.
“Lousy sodbusters!” He swayed and moved his boots hurriedly to firmer footing. “We can’t pass up this op—op—this chance to louse ’em up, Matt! Be criminal to pass it up!”
His words were slurred but his tone still came through ugly and cold. Matt Hansen waved his arguments aside and stood up, shaking his head. “Ain’t worth it, Hank. We’ll mosey, I reckon.”
“Well, I don’t reckon!” Nolan snarled and Hansen looked at him sharply, started to speak but stopped as Tom Danby came staggering and skidding back down the slope, yelling and waving wildly, his face alight with drunken excitement.
“What in hell’s gotten into you!” Hansen demanded.
Danby pointed back up the slope in the general direction of the trail. “Got me an idea! For some—fun!” he panted. “Stage is comin’. Laborin’ up the grade. Them hosses’ll be plumb tuckered by the time they get to the top.” He grinned, gave a short laugh, unable to keep it in. “We done it down in Socorro once, six of us.”
“Done what, damn it?” demanded Nolan irritably.
“Held up the stage!” Danby answered. “Just for the hell of it. Never hurt no one and we dumped all the stuff we stole where it could be found, but we sure threw a scare into them stuffed-shirts of passengers! We’d been whoopin’ it up in town, just like we done, Matt, and the sheriff run us out. All the townsfolk were kinda snooty about it, but we sure scared the pants off ’em when we pulled that hold-up! I mean, that’s what we done, really! We scared the pants right off ’em!”
Hansen frowned and Nolan’s face straightened slowly as Danby’s words sank in.
All at once, the balancing rock was forgotten as the drunken men gathered around Danby, passing the whisky jug from hand to hand.
~*~
The stagecoach moved slowly up the grade through the hills and the easier pace seemed to induce the passengers to doze. Most of them had either travelled this route plenty of times or lived in the general area so there was little interest in the scenery. It was impossible to read with the jolting of the stage and only the widow woman had bothered to bring any tatting to keep herself occupied. The other women dozed, leaning against each other, and the men either slept or closed their eyes and pretended to.
But it was all new to old Hernandes. It was the first time he had been out of Mexico except for a few miserable border towns. This was entirely different country to what he was used to and he liked the darker, healthier green of the leaves and the bigger stature of the trees. There were brightly colored birds in the branches and his old eyes sought them out as the stage rolled on.
Up top, the driver held the reins loosely, letting the team make its own pace. Experience had taught him that there was no need to drive the horses hard once they had started up the trail. They knew there was no other way but up for them to g
o and they lunged against the harness and pulled without any need of a cracking blacksnake whip. Consequently, he tended to dream away the time, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. Beside him, Link Somers lay back across the stage roof, on top of some soft luggage under the tarp. His shotgun was propped in its place by his seat where his boots now rested. His hat was jammed over his eyes and his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t see why he shouldn’t take the opportunity to take it easy on this run.
It was while old Hernandes was looking at a bright blue wren amongst the lower branches of the timber by the trail, that he saw the horsemen in the brush. Three of them, pulling bandannas up over the lower halves of their faces. Startled, having to think of what he wanted to say and then laboriously translate the thoughts into English, Hernandes turned to the cowboy next to him and shook him. The man grunted and moved irritably on the seat, finally lifted his hat from over his eyes and looked angrily at the Mexican.
“What in tarnation you doin’?” the cowboy demanded.
Hernandes pointed with a trembling finger. “Señor. The men … I see men!”
“Judas priest! Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. Listen, you old greaser, we all seen men before. What’s so special about these hombres, eh?”
The widow tittered and the cowboy, encouraged, smiled, turning away from the old man. But Hernandes grabbed his arm and the cowboy swung back, really angry now. “Look, you old goat, I told you—!”
“They come!” Hernandes cried and pointed out the window.
The cowboy’s face paled this time as he saw the masked men riding in from the side towards the coach, guns in hands. “Hell almighty! It’s a hold-up!”
He yelled the words and the others started out of their dozes. The drummer blinked his eyes and couldn’t believe what he saw as one of the masked bandits rode alongside the window and brandished his six-gun. “But—but ...” the drummer stammered. “How? I mean—why? We—we aren’t carrying anything valuable.”
“Mebbe no one told ’em that,” growled the cowboy. “Well, I ain’t got anythin’ worth riskin’ my neck for and if the rest of you are smart you’ll just let ’em get it over with quick as possible and let ’em be on their way. No sense in stickin’ our necks out.”
