Winchester 1886

by William W. Johnstone

  A sudden silence settled over the farm, but only briefly, followed by a sound that the wind carried through the trees, maybe all across the Cherokee Nation.

  “Boys . . . they’ve . . . kilt me.”

  Jimmy fetched his hat, and moved away from the woods, following the trail to the Conley-Dunegan cabin. When he reached the corral, he squatted behind a post, and fingered a bullet from his shell belt. He slid it into the carbine’s loading gate, repeating the process until the Winchester’s tube was full. “I’m a federal officer!” he yelled. “You boys are wanted for the robbery of the Katy and the murder of an express agent!”

  “Yeah,” came a frightened answer. “Well . . . I got a Cherokee squaw in here. And if you and your posse don’t skedaddle, she’s a dead injun.”

  Jimmy wet his lips. “Makes no never mind to me.”

  “I ain’t bluffin’.”

  “I ain’t either. I hate Indians. Especially Cherokees.” He grinned, wishing he could see the look on Sixpersons’ face right then. “And squaws . . . Kill her.”

  These boys weren’t of Danny Waco’s caliber. They wouldn’t hurt a woman. Few men in the West would. Jimmy tried to tell himself that a few times, but he did look up at the sky and whisper, “Lord, you know what I’m doing. Don’t let me down.”

  “I don’t know.... I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no robbery.” The voice inside the cabin started cracking.

  It hit Jimmy. I. The voice said, “I.” Not we. He frowned. Four men should be there if they were the new recruits Waco had used for the train robbery. Mal was in the barn, likely dead. Sixpersons had killed another one running for the barn and the horses. Jimmy doubted if he could have missed that figure standing in the lighted doorway with his first shot. That left one.

  “Who are you?”

  No answer.

  “Who are you?”

  Still nothing.

  Jimmy frowned. “Where’s Danny Waco?”

  “He . . . who?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I don’t know no Danny Waco.”

  “That figures. Seeing how you botched that robbery. Left forty thousand dollars in greenbacks hidden in a flour sack in the express car. Yeah, no way a smart man like Danny Waco led that robbery.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “Wait until your trial.”

  A barrage of profanity followed. Then silence.

  Jimmy glanced at the barn. In the light of dawn, he could see it clearly, could see Sixpersons moving toward the man he’d blown apart with his lever-action shotgun. The Cherokee knelt by the dead man. A short moment later, Sixpersons looked up, shaking his head. He moved slowly, carefully, to the corner of the cabin, disappearing around the side.

  The sun was coming up. Jimmy knew he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. Still, he moved to another spot just a few yards away. In his line of work, he didn’t want to stay put.

  “Ted Dunegan!” Jimmy yelled. “You don’t stand a chance. We got twenty deputies and Indian policemen out here.”

  “I ain’t Ted Dunegan!” the voice called back. “And I got a Cherokee squaw in here.”

  “Where’s Ted?”

  “You gut-shot him, lawman! He’s dyin’.” A pause. “Mal! Mal! Mal, are you all right?”

  “Mal’s dead.” Taking a guess, Jimmy added, “So is Joey.”

  “I’m Joey!”

  Jimmy smiled. “Then Vern’s dead.” He let that sink in, before trying another tack. “Listen, Joey, two of your partners are dead. Another will be before long. You’re wanted for robbery and murder—”

  “I didn’t blow that dude’s head off. I didn’t even know he was dead till—”

  Jimmy’s Winchester roared. He jacked the lever, shot again. “That dude,” he screamed, “was my brother!”

  He almost fired again, till his reason returned, and he remembered that Adsila Conley remained inside that cabin. Those shutters and doors seemed too thin to stop a .44-40 bullet. He waited until his heart had stopped pounding, until he pushed back that rage and then he tried again. “Joey, all I really want is Danny Waco.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “I know that. What I want—”

  “Here’s what I want, lawman!”

  Jimmy listened, but nothing else came, at least not for two minutes.

  “I want two horses saddled out front. Right now. I’m comin’ out. And I got this Cherokee gal with me. You don’t do like I say, she’s a dead squaw.”

  Muttering an oath, Jimmy again moved to another position, picking up the hat he had left, and, in a crouch, darted to the well. It would offer better cover than the corral fence, and give him a better shot, too. He dropped the hat in the dust beside the well, his left hand slid down the carbine to the front sight, and his thumb flipped up the sight. His right thumb pulled back the hammer, and he rested the gun on the side of the well’s rock walls. He waited.

  The sun had risen, but the usual sounds of birds chirping did not come with the dawn. The chickens had stopped their panicky squawks, and the roosters did not crow. The door flew open. Jimmy could see the boots, toes pointed toward the ceiling, and he knew that would be Ted Dunegan. A moment later, two figures blocked his view of the dying, would-be outlaw.

  Joey stepped onto the porch, his right arm squeezing Adsila’s stomach. His left hand was holding what looked to be a short-barreled Colt against her temple. “Where are those horses?” he yelled.

  Jimmy shot a glance at Sixpersons, who had ducked away from the corner and was leaning against the log cabin, holding his shotgun. Quickly, Jimmy’s right eye found the sight. He squeezed his left one shut but did not answer.

  “Where are those horses?” Joey called, speaking in the general direction of the corral.

  Jimmy kept quiet.

  Joey’s head kept jerking around, looking everywhere for that posse of twenty lawmen.

  Once he let out his breath, Jimmy Mann squeezed the trigger.

  “Nice shot,” Adsila Conley said. “Wado.”

  “You’re welcome.” Jimmy leaned the carbine against the wall and knelt down, prying the Colt out of Joey’s dead hand.

  Sixpersons stared down at the dead killer. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

  Jimmy could tell by the look on the old man’s face that he disapproved, but Jimmy decided he was just an old Cherokee, protective of a young girl like Adsila.

  They followed the Cherokee girl inside the cabin, picked up Ted Dunegan, and carried him, screaming in agony, to the bed in the corner. Unceremoniously they dropped him on the quilt.

  “For mercy’s sake,” Dunegan moaned, “take off my boots.”

  Jimmy sat on the bed beside the dying fool’s head. He let Sixpersons remove the boots.

  “Oh, for the love of God, might I have some whiskey?”

  “Whiskey’ll kill you.” Sixpersons dropped the last boot on the floor, the spurs chiming.

  “You want some coffee?” Adsila was already heading to the stove.

  “Thank you,” Jimmy said. The place smelled of fried eggs and bacon. And blood, and urine, for Ted Dunegan had wet his britches. And gunpowder.

  And death.

  “Water,” Ted Dunegan moaned. “Water. Please, I’m so thirsty.”

  “Ted,” Jimmy said softly. “I need to know about Danny Waco.”

  “Adsila,” the dying husband called out. “Honey, I’ll take even some Choctaw beer.” He blinked, sniffed, coughed. Blood seeped from his mouth, and he tried to swallow. His eyes finally focused on Jimmy. “I swear . . . I didn’t know he was gonna kill that agent.”

  “I know that.” The words were tight. Jimmy pressed his lips together. “Where did Waco go?”

  “Didn’t even . . .” Another savage coughing spell. By the time Dunegan was finished, blood drenched the pillow.

  Adsila handed Jimmy a cup of steaming black coffee. Sixpersons stood at the foot of the bed rolling a smoke. He stuck the cigarette into his mouth and accepted the cup Adsila offered him.
/>
  “Adsila,” Dunegan said softly, pleadingly. “Honey, could you . . . just bring me some whiskey. Please!”

  She looked down at him, spit in his face, and walked back to the stove.

  Dunegan began crying. Saying how he didn’t want to die, that this shouldn’t have happened to him.

  “Waco,” Jimmy said. “What about Danny Waco?”

  The outlaw sniffed. “Cheated us . . . didn’t give us all our share.”

  A match flared. Sixpersons lighted his cigarette.

  “Just ten dollars.” Dunegan coughed again. “Each.” He smiled, though, and his fingers slid into his vest pocket, withdrawing a piece of paper. “But I fooled him. I got . . .” The paper slipped. “This.”

  Jimmy reached over, unfolded the check, saw it was made out to one Elizabeth Vestal for $17.32. He handed it to Jackson Sixpersons.

  Ted Dunegan would die for $17.32.

  “Where did Waco, The Tonk, and Gil Millican go?” Jimmy asked.

  Nothing. Ted Dunegan seemed to be staring at something on the ceiling.

  “They double-crossed you, Ted,” Jimmy said softly. “Took off with most of the money and left you here to die.”

  “Mal said we shouldn’t stop,” Ted whimpered. “Said we should just keep ridin’, that the law would catch us. Where’s Mal?”

  Sixpersons blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “In Hell.” He sipped his coffee.

  “Ted,” Jimmy tried again, knowing he was about out of time. “Danny Waco. Where did he go? Did he say anything? Give you any idea?”

  Dunegan laughed. “Waco? He wouldn’t tell us nothin’.” He cursed Waco, and shook his head. Suddenly, his right hand shot up, gripped Jimmy’s vest, and pulled him down. “But”—Dunegan groaned—“I heard . . . Gil. . . . He . . . said . . . Cald . . . well. . . .” Death rattled in the outlaw’s breath.

  Jimmy pried the man’s fingers from his vest, letting the arm drop to the dead man’s chest.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Caldwell, Kansas

  Once upon a time, Caldwell had been a rip-roaring cow town. You could get drunk, find a hurdy-gurdy girl, gamble sun-up to sun-up for weeks on end, race up and down Main Street, even kill a gent you figured was cheating you. Basically, you could do anything and everything, and the law left you alone.

  Of course, ten years ago, the town marshal, a hard-rock named Henry Brown, had ridden over with some pals of his to rob the bank in Medicine Lodge. They didn’t come back, having gotten caught by the law, and killed by the populace.

  Those days, Danny Waco lamented, were but a fond memory.

  Oh, you could still get drunk in Caldwell, gamble, and maybe even find a petticoat that didn’t charge too much, but the wildness had departed. So had the cowboys. Just last year, the town had served as the jumping-off point for homesteaders, boomers, and sooners, after the Cherokees sold the Outlet, and the Strip had been opened for settlement. About the only people racing down Main Street were farmers, and they didn’t move fast at all. But since the Rock Island had laid tracks into Caldwell, and railroaders loved to drink and gamble, a man like Danny Waco could find something to occupy his time.

  He reined in the buckskin, let two farm wagons pass, turned in front of the opera house, and crossed the street to the hitching rail in front of Dick’s Saloon & Gambling Emporium.

  “You sure this is a good idea, Danny?” Gil Millican stopped his bay, leaned to the right, and spit out a river of tobacco juice.

  “We’re out of Indian Territory, ain’t we?” The leather squeaked as Waco slid from the saddle. He pulled the .50-caliber rifle from the scabbard on the left side of the saddle. The one on the right held the London-made shotgun, which he left.

  “Yeah, but by, what? A mile? Two?”

  “You’re thirsty, ain’t you?”

  Near the Osage Agency in the Nations, Waco had traded his old Winchester and one of the pocket watches from the Katy robbery for three fresh horses. He looked hard at the buckskin, blind in its right eye, almost asleep. Before long, they would need more horses, but he wasn’t about to spend money on horses.

  He ducked underneath the hitching rail and stepped onto the boardwalk, out of the sun. Another farmer in bib-and-brace overalls and his brood rode out of town, heading south, toward the Strip and his hundred and sixty acres.

  “Let’s cut the dust. Find a card game. Get some real money.”

  In a tight town like Caldwell, it would take ten years to win the $40,000 they had thought that they would have already.

  Reluctantly, Millican dismounted.

  The Tonk remained on his sorrel.

  “Get us a pack mule,” Waco told the Indian. “And supplies that can get us to Ogallala.” He bowed as a woman in a calico dress walked past him, basket in her hand.

  The lady didn’t even give him or Millican the time of day.

  Waco stared at Millican. “Is Nebraska far enough from the law for you?”

  “I reckon.” Millican hooked the tobacco from his mouth and tossed it onto the dirty street.

  “Careful,” The Tonk said. “Constable might fine you for that.”

  Cursing and shaking his head, Millican pushed his way through the batwing doors and into Dick’s.

  Waco told The Tonk, “See if they’ve got some shells for this baby.” With a grin, he hefted the Winchester 1886.

  The Tonk frowned. “I doubt if you’ll find anything larger than a pitchfork in this town these days.”

  Well, Waco had what was left of that one box of shells. He’d put one into the express agent’s face. Five more were in the Winchester’s tubular magazine. That would have to last him. Besides, if Caldwell didn’t carry his caliber at any of the mercantiles, he’d probably have better luck up north in Wichita. It was bigger than Caldwell. Although Wichita was once just as wild, it was just as boring as Caldwell these days.

  “Just do it,” Waco snapped. He pointed north. “There used to be a wagon yard up the street, right before you get out of town. We’ll meet you there tonight.”

  With a quick nod, The Tonk left, and Waco went inside Dick’s.

  Dehner McIntyre leaned back in his chair, leaving the paste cards on the green felt. He smoothed his thin mustache as he watched the thin gent who needed a new set of clothes, a bath, and a shave join that other saddle tramp at the bar. Most people would have dismissed both men as just a couple of thirty-a-month waddies riding the grub line. McIntyre, however, lowered the legs of his chair onto the wooden floor and played the black ace on the queen. “Danny Waco,” he whispered to himself and gathered up the cards.

  Waco wasn’t all the gambler noticed. He saw the Winchester the man-killer held in his right hand. It was something else the sodbusters that came to Caldwell would mistakenly dismiss as just another repeating rifle. McIntyre knew a thing or two about guns, and that was one of John Browning’s 1886 models—the most powerful repeating rifle in the country.

  On his last birthday, McIntyre had turned forty-five. He was getting a little long in the tooth to be playing cards in towns like Caldwell, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what else to do. Go back to Georgia? Twenty-seven years later, he would likely find some people who would still like to lynch him in Savannah.

  He wore fancy black boots, the tops inlaid with the aces of spades, for which he had paid a fortune down in Spanish Fort, Texas. His trousers were striped in gold, tan, olive, and red—so people noticed him when he walked into a dining room or just down the boardwalk. A pair of fine leather suspenders kept them up. He wondered if that clerk at that store in Carthage, Missouri, had ever figured out that the suspenders were missing. His shirt was bright white cotton, with a bib front and stand-up collar, covered by a double-breasted vest with a shawl collar in crimson canvas and a gold paisley ascot with an emerald stickpin. That Chinaman over in Hunnewell was probably still waiting to be paid for the starching. The four-button frock coat was tan, trimmed along the lapels and placket with brown, and if one didn’t look too carefully, he mig
ht not notice how frayed the cuffs were or the small bullet holes in the right tails. Topping his head was a fine top hat of brown with a matching bound edge and grosgrain ribbon. He had stolen it from an undertaker in Coffeyville.

  McIntyre reached for the beer, which he had been nursing for the past two hours. He sipped some, then again smoothed his mustache, once darker but now light with gray hairs, and began dealing another round of solitaire.

  For the past six months, he had been riding a losing streak, bad cards following bad cards, and bad luck compounding lousy luck. Suddenly, he figured things might be looking up.

  “You just playin’ with yourself. Or you let anybody sit in?”

  McIntyre lifted his eyes. That hadn’t taken long at all. Danny Waco and a slightly taller fellow with a black hat stood in front of him.

  “I’m just waiting for the next train to Dodge City,” McIntyre said, sounding just like the Southern gentleman his daddy had hoped he would grow up to be. He gathered the cards, motioning at the empty chairs opposite him. “But sit down. The train doesn’t pull out until seven-fifteen.”

  They sat down, and McIntyre’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the sight of the bottle of rye that Waco slammed on the table. The gambler wet his lips and cleared his throat. “Do you mind?” He slid the mug of beer toward Waco.

  “Liquor on beer?” Waco lifted the bottle.

  McIntyre smiled warmly. “The nectar of the gods.”

  Waco topped the beer with two fingers of rye, then filled his partner’s glass, and withdrew a large amount of greenbacks from his vest pocket.

  McIntyre opened the fancy case next to him and brought out some chips. “How much do you wish to buy in for?”

  Waco grunted. “How ’bout three hundred? Or is that too rich for your belly?”

  With a grin, McIntyre slid stacks of blue, red, and white chips across the table, before looking at the other man. “And you, sir?”

  The man dropped five golden eagles on the table. “Just a hundred.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Four hundred bucks. That was more money than Dehner McIntyre had seen in three months, and $397.42 more than he had in his pockets. Still, he took $500 in chips for himself, and began shuffling the deck.