Sidewinders#2 Massacre At Whiskey Flats

by William W. Johnstone

  Bo and Scratch exchanged a quick grin at the idea of a former rascal like Jake Reilly lecturing somebody else on how a lawman should behave. Reilly had come a long way in a relatively short time.

  “Well, I’m gonna try not to lose my temper so easy from now on, like Deputy Creel said,” Pike declared. “To tell y’ the truth, I’m a mite tired o’ folks lookin’ at me like I’m some sort o’ monster ever’ time I come to town. I can’t even walk down the street without women grabbin’ their kids and almost runnin’ to get ’em away from me. Fellas on the boardwalk head for the other side o’ the street when they see me comin’. I may not look like it, but I got feelin’s, too, you know.”

  For a second Bo thought Reilly was going to laugh at Pike’s plaintive statement, and he hoped that the young man wouldn’t do that. He was glad when Reilly managed to keep a straight face and said, “You keep it up, Pike, and maybe someday you could be a deputy. Right now, though, you just think about getting us to the Rocking B as fast as you can.”

  “We’re pert’ near there,” Pike said, lifting a hamlike hand to point. “Bascomb’s spread is right over that rise in front of us.”

  They were close, all right…close enough to hear the sudden burst of gunshots that rang out in the afternoon air.

  CHAPTER 21

  Reilly managed to look angry and nervous at the same time as the guns continued blasting. “Some idiot had to start shooting!” he exclaimed. “Let’s get over there!”

  “We’re with you, Marshal!” Bo told him as he heeled the borrowed horse into a run again. Scratch was right beside him, and Chesterfield Pike brought up the rear—but not by much—as he banged his big feet against the mule’s flanks.

  The four men charged up the hill, topped it, and thundered down the far slope. A valley spread out before them. A few hundred yards away lay the headquarters of Chet Bascomb’s Rocking B spread: the ranch house, a long, slab-sided bunkhouse, a cookshack, smokehouse, blacksmith shop, a couple of big barns, and numerous corrals. The place gave every appearance of being a fine, prosperous outfit, a far cry from the unfortunate Thompson family’s hardscrabble layout on the other side of Whiskey Flats.

  At the moment, though, the Rocking B was a battlefield. A gray haze of powder smoke hung over the large open space between the main house and the barns. More smoke spurted from the windows of the house and the bunkhouse, as well as from the barns and around the corners of the other outbuildings.

  As veterans of countless such battles, Bo and Scratch needed only a glance to know what was going on. Bascomb and his men were holed up in the main house and the bunkhouse, defending the Rocking B from the gun-hung crew of Steve North’s Star Ranch. Bascomb and North might have had a parley before the shooting started, with North accusing Bascomb of being behind the rustling. Almost certainly, Bascomb would have fired back with the same accusation, laying all the blame for the widelooping at North’s feet.

  After that, it would have been only a matter of moments until the shooting started.

  There was no sign of Rawhide Abbott, which was good news as far as it went. At least the redhead wasn’t lying dead on the ground between the house and the barns. She might still be in danger, though, if she’d been here when the fracas started, as seemed highly likely given what Chesterfield Pike had told Bo, Scratch, and Reilly.

  Bo held up a hand to signal a halt. As the others reined in, he said, “If we go charging in down there, we won’t accomplish anything except to get ourselves shot full of holes.”

  “What should we do?” Reilly asked, forgetting for the moment that he was supposed to be in charge here. Pike didn’t seem to notice, though.

  “This is the same sort o’ thing we ran into on our first day in Whiskey Flats,” Scratch reminded him. “Remember, Marshal?”

  Bo added, “This fight is just on a lot larger scale.”

  “Yeah, of course,” Reilly said. “We’ll split up, find Bascomb and North, and force them to call off their men. Then we can figure out where to go from there.”

  The boy really was catching on, Bo thought. It was a solid plan, except for one problem.

  “We’ve never met Bascomb or North. The only one of us who knows them by sight is Chesterfield here.”

  Pike grinned and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Bet you wish now you’d made me a deputy.”

  “All right, damn it!” Reilly burst out. “Consider yourself a temporary deputy! All right?”

  Still grinning, Pike nodded his shaggy head. “Sure. I’ll be glad to give you a hand, Marshal.”

  “That doesn’t solve all the problems,” Bo said. “There’s only one of Chesterfield.”

  “Damn right,” Pike said. “When they made me, they busted the dang mold.”

  “How about me and Pike find Steve North?” Scratch suggested. “If you and the marshal can get in the house, Bo, you ought to be able to find Bascomb without much trouble.”

  Bo nodded. “That’s true. I’ve got a hunch that Rawhide is in there, too, and she’ll know Bascomb.” He tightened his grip on the reins and lifted his other hand in farewell. “Good luck, boys.”

  The group parted, Bo and Reilly riding to the left so they could circle behind the ranch house, Scratch and Chesterfield Pike heading right so they could close in on the barns from the rear. Down below, the shots continued to roar.

  Scratch and Pike followed a line of trees, staying behind the cover of the trunks for the most part. With the battle going on, Scratch didn’t figure anybody around the Rocking B headquarters would be paying too much attention to what was going on elsewhere, but it wouldn’t hurt anything to be careful about their approach. When he judged that they had gone far enough, he waved for Pike to follow him and turned his horse down the slope.

  This really was like the shoot-out between the hardcases at the Top-Notch and Lariat saloons, Scratch mused, only instead of a feisty redheaded gal siding him, he had the man-monster called Chesterfield Pike. Scratch realized that Pike wasn’t armed, so before they reached the barns, he asked, “You want to borrow my Winchester or one of my Remingtons?” He didn’t like the idea of handing over one of the fancy ivory-handled revolvers, but he wouldn’t send a man into battle without any way to protect himself.

  But Pike shook his head and said, “Naw, I ain’t much of a hand with guns. A revolver like that is plumb puny, and I’m too clumsy to handle it. A rifle’s almost as bad.”

  “Well, I don’t have a damn cannon to offer you,” Scratch snapped. “That might be the only thing big enough for you.”

  “A cannon, eh?” Pike sounded intrigued by the idea. “Too bad we don’t have one. I bet it’d make them fellas stop shootin’ if I opened up on ’em with a cannon.”

  “Well, what are you gonna use if you have to fight?” Scratch asked.

  Pike held up a huge fist. “Same thing I gen’rally use.”

  Scratch sighed. It was too late to do anything about the situation now. Pike would just have to take his chances. Scratch said, “Stay behind me anyway. I’ll do my best to cover you.”

  “Much obliged, but I won’t need your help, Deputy. I can take care o’ myself.”

  Scratch didn’t doubt that. Pike was big enough to handle most anything.

  They reined in and dismounted at the edge of the trees, about fifty yards behind the barns. Scratch spotted several men in range clothes crouched behind some wagons parked next to one of the barns. They had rifles and handguns and were firing toward the house.

  Scratch nodded toward the men and told Pike, “Let’s see if we can cut down the odds a mite first.” He didn’t bother lowering his voice when he spoke. Nobody but Pike could hear him over the nearly continual gunfire.

  Pike nodded his agreement, grinned, doubled his fists, and tapped them together in anticipation.

  Scratch drew his guns, crouched slightly, and headed toward the wagons at a run. Pike loped along beside him, barely doing more than walking since his long legs covered so much ground with each stride. The S
tar cowboys didn’t notice them coming until it was too late. Then one of the men must have caught a glimpse of them from the corner of his eye, because he suddenly twisted around and yelled, “Look out, boys!”

  Before any of the rest of them could even react, Pike was on them. His fists lashed out with surprising speed, and two men went flying through the air as the blows connected with bone-crunching power. That left three men, and Pike grabbed two of them, lifting them off their feet and driving their heads together. The resounding thud that resulted as the men’s skulls met would have made Scratch wince if there had been time. Instead, he was busy walloping the fifth and final man with one of his Remingtons. The hombre folded up, out cold.

  In a matter of a couple of heartbeats, Scratch and Pike had laid out five men, all of whom sprawled around in a senseless state. Of course, Pike had done most of the work, Scratch reflected. The big fella was a fightin’ fool.

  “All right,” Scratch told him. “Let’s head for the back o’ the barn. If you see Steve North, let me know. If we can get our hands on him, chances are we can get the rest o’ his crew to hold their fire.”

  Pike nodded. He followed as Scratch made his way along the side of the barn to the back corner. They turned it and headed for the rear doors, which were closed.

  When they got there, Scratch tried to swing the doors open and bit back a curse as they refused to budge. “They must be barred inside,” he said.

  “That ain’t a problem,” Pike said. He wedged his fingers between the doors and heaved. They didn’t give at first, and Pike let out a grunt of effort as he threw more strength into it. The doors began to inch outward, creating a bigger gap between them and allowing Pike to get an even better grip on them. He growled, as if angered that the doors would dare to resist him.

  They didn’t resist for long. With a sharp crack, the bar that held the doors closed inside broke in two. The doors flew outward with such speed that Scratch was glad he had decided to step back; otherwise he would have gotten hit by one of them. He wished there had been a quieter way in. The breaking bar had to have alerted some of the men inside the barn that they faced a new threat.

  As Scratch and Pike charged inside, the dimness made it hard for them to see at first. Scratch saw muzzle fire spurt toward them and snapped a shot in return. He didn’t want to kill any of Steve North’s men, or the rancher himself, but he wasn’t the sort of gent who could get shot at without shooting back.

  “Dadgum it!” Pike howled. “I’m hit! Feels like a damn bee sting.”

  Scratch looked over at the giant and saw Pike pawing at his upper left arm. There was a small bloodstain on the sleeve of his homespun shirt, but it didn’t seem to be spreading very fast. He’d probably just been nicked by one of the bullets flying around.

  “Those bastards must be some o’ Bascomb’s wad-dies!” a harsh voice yelled. “Get ’em, but don’t kill ’em! We’ll use ’em as hostages to make Bascomb give up, the rustlin’ son of a bitch!”

  The guns fell silent and booted feet pounded on the ground as several men rushed at Scratch and Pike.

  North didn’t know it, but he had just played right into their hands. Scratch didn’t care what the odds were. Based on what he had seen so far, in a rough-and-tumble brawl, his money was on Chesterfield Pike.

  Six men charged out of the shadows. A couple of them looked surprised and started to slow down as they caught sight of Pike and realized who they were facing. They might have turned to run, in spite of North’s orders, but by then it was too late. Pike was among them, flailing right and left with his tree-trunk arms and keglike fists.

  One man turned a backflip, Pike hit him so hard. Another doubled over, stumbled backward, and collapsed. A third man clutched his chest and gasped for air after one of Pike’s fists landed on his sternum. Yet another flew through the air, crashed into one of the thick posts that held up the hayloft, and bounced off it to land on his face.

  Scratch holstered his guns as the remaining two men leaped on Pike. One of them landed on Pike’s back and looped both arms around the giant’s thick neck in an attempt to strangle him. The other grabbed him around the knees and heaved, trying to upset him. Neither man got very far with those efforts. Pike reached up, got hold of the man on his back, and heaved him up and over his head. The man had time for a yell before he crashed down to the ground.

  The last man gave up on trying to yank Pike’s legs out from under him. He might as well have been struggling with a pair of redwoods. He let go and turned to run before Pike could swing around.

  Unfortunately for that hombre, he ran right into the hard right fist that Scratch had launched in a perfectly timed uppercut. The blow landed solidly on the man’s jaw, lifted him off his feet, and deposited him on the hard-packed dirt floor of the barn, just as senseless as the others in the bunch.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  The exclamation came from the man who had ordered that Scratch and Pike be captured, not killed. He found himself alone in the barn now, with all his men either stunned and moaning or knocked out cold. He stood about ten feet away, staring at the carnage, a sharp-faced man in range clothes that didn’t look like he actually worked in them and a Stetson with a tightly curled brim. A white mustache bristled under his hawklike nose.

  “By God!” he suddenly yelled. “Nobody treats my men like that!”

  His hand clawed at the revolver holstered on his hip.

  Before the gun could clear leather, the man found himself staring down the barrels of both of Scratch’s Remingtons, which the silver-haired Texan had drawn in a swift, smooth motion. “Let it slide back into the holster, amigo,” Scratch ordered, “and then unbuckle that gunbelt and drop it.”

  The man hesitated, fury darkening his face. Clearly, he wasn’t used to anybody telling him what to do. That attitude was confirmed by the words he choked out.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Don’t really give a damn,” Scratch said, “but I’ve got a hunch you’re Steve North.”

  “He’s North, all right,” Pike rumbled before the man could say anything. “I seen him around town a time or two.”

  North squinted at him. “You’re that fella Pike everybody is so scared of. Well, I’m not scared of you, mister.” He glared at Scratch. “Nor of you, whoever the hell you are.”

  “Deputy Marshal Scratch Morton, that’s who the hell I am.”

  North snorted in contempt and said, “That don’t mean nothin’ to me. I heard there were some new lawmen in Whiskey Flats, but your jurisdiction ends at the edge of town, Mr. Deputy.”

  Scratch hefted the left-hand Remington while keeping the one in his right hand trained squarely on North. “I got all the jurisdiction I need right here.” He used the left-hand gun to motion toward the front of the barn. “Now, you’re gonna go out there and call a cease-fire. Tell your boys to stop shootin’, and be quick about it.”

  “What if I don’t?” North asked with a sneer. “You plan to shoot me?”

  Scratch shook his head. “Nope. I’ll just let Pike here reason with you.”

  North tried to maintain his arrogant attitude, but he couldn’t do it in the face of that threat, especially when Pike gave him a toothy grin of anticipation. Scratch didn’t know if the big galoot was just playing along with him, or if he really thought Scratch might let him rip the rancher limb from limb. It didn’t really matter, because North turned pale under his permanent tan and started backing away. He held up his hands and said, “Hold on, now. Just hold on, Deputy. I’ve always been a law-abidin’ man. I’ll do what I can to help you, whether you got any real jurisdiction out here or not.”

  Scratch nodded and gestured with the Remington again. “That’s more like it. Now move.”

  As North turned and started toward the barn’s entrance, he said over his shoulder, “If you really want to do somethin’ to bring law and order to these parts, you’ll arrest that thievin’ bastard Chet Bascomb. Son of a gun’s been rustlin’ my stock for months now.
”

  “We’ll talk about that once the shootin’ stops. Keep movin’.”

  Shots still blasted from the house and from the Star Ranch cowboys who were scattered around the place, defenders and attackers each trying to take a toll on the other. The damage that Scratch and Pike had done to North’s men had decreased the amount of gunfire from that side, but the battle still raged.

  Maybe not for much longer, though, Scratch thought…depending on how much luck Bo and Reilly were having.

  CHAPTER 22

  A narrow creek ran close to the Rocking B ranch house, and Bo and Reilly used the cover of the trees that grew along its banks to shield their approach to Chet Bascomb’s headquarters. The attackers from the Star Ranch were concentrated on the far side of the big house, so Bo didn’t figure there would be too many defenders watching in this direction.

  If Bascomb was smart, though, he would have posted at least few men on this side of the house, knowing that it was always possible North’s men might try some sort of circling maneuver. Bo knew that he and Reilly couldn’t just waltz in.

  They dismounted while still in the cover of the trees and started toward the house on foot. The cookshack and smokehouse were on this side of the spread’s headquarters, so those buildings furnished some cover, too. Bo stopped at one of the rear corners of the cookshack and edged an eye past it to study the ground between there and the house.

  The Rocking B ranch house was a two-story, whitewashed frame structure with a sprawling look to it that told Bo it had probably been built in stages, with new additions being tacked on around a much smaller, central part of the house that was likely Bascomb’s original dwelling.

  “Couple of riflemen in second-story windows,” Bo said to Reilly. “If we make a run for the house, they’ll spot us and probably gun us down, thinking that we’re some of North’s men. That means we have to distract them somehow.”