Crooked M Killings

by Frank Ellis Evans

  ‘Get down, you bitch!’ he spat, and as the other man began to dismount, Sal saw her chance.

  ‘Sure, Mr Johnny.’ She tried to smile and look deferential. Inside she was sick with fear. She sat down and he walked towards her, smiling arrogantly. Such was his confidence that he hardly noticed her hand move towards the rock and when he did begin to understand, his realization was too late and she twisted like a snake and suddenly a gun was in her hand and he saw an orange flash then felt a searing pain just below his ribcage. He was flung back by the impact and groaned in pain. The other man was still dismounting and had one foot in the stirrup as he swung himself over his mount. The horse, frightened by the gunfire, reared on its hind legs then shot forward, causing Rab Davies to fall backwards and land heavily on his back on the rocky ground. His pistol flew out of his grasp and clattered along the stony surface. Sal aimed her Colt with slow deliberation and shot him. She had aimed for the chest but his sudden movement resulted in her bullet tearing into his shoulder, causing him to scream out. She turned to the other man, who was lying on his back jerking occasionally and, she guessed, close to death. With total coolness born of anger, she stepped over to where the other man lay. She levelled the Colt, and then pointed it at his crotch.

  ‘So I’m guessing that if him over there is Johnny, and you’re Rab, then you’re the Davies Brothers.’

  He nodded, uncomprehending.

  ‘. . . and you rode with Shep Cassidy?’

  He nodded again. This time there was fear and slyness mingled with the lack of comprehension. He tried to return her unblinking stare but his hand began to move towards his gun.

  ‘Don’t even try, you bastard. If you do, I’ll shoot your knees and hands and leave you here to die.’

  ‘Who the hell—’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ she snapped and stood over him, her feet either side of his shoulders. ‘Y’know, you sure are scum, Rab Davies. I can smell you from here. Or is that just fear?’

  Rab started to wriggle with the pain from his shoulder. She wished that she could finish him off and the advice of Reuben and John Miles echoed in her mind but she knew that she couldn’t kill a helpless human being in cold blood, even one as loathsome as Rab Davies.

  ‘Stay still!’ she barked. ‘You move, breathe and speak when I tell you . . . and only then. Do you understand?’

  He looked up at her uncomprehendingly. How did this woman know his name? What did she want with him?

  ‘Quite a coincidence. Meeting you of all people out here in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Where. . . ?’ he gasped through the pain.

  ‘You don’t recognize me, do you? But I guess murder and rape are pretty unimportant to scum like you. Let me help you remember. Do you recall a ranch where you killed the rancher? The Crooked M? Then you took his wife. You an’ Cassidy and the others. Are you beginning to remember now?’

  Behind her, Johnny Davies made a low gurgling sound and she turned momentarily. Rab saw his chance and grabbed her leg with his good arm and pulled. He grinned as she fell forward and such was his belief that she was helpless that he didn’t see her bring the gun down in a savage arc. He heard his own nose splinter and then she was up, gun in hand and standing over him again.

  ‘Bad move, Davies. Bad, bad move.’ Involuntarily he grabbed again at her leg and earned himself a savage kick in the mouth.

  ‘So now you’ve got what you wanted, Davies. We’re close and personal.’ She laughed a hollow laugh. ‘But I guess you didn’t quite picture it like this, huh?’ She traced her gun lightly around his face. In the back of her mind a voice told her that she had gone beyond any boundary of decency and that she should stop, but the ache caused by her lust for revenge overcame every other emotion. What she intended to do next she didn’t know but whatever her plans might have been they were changed in an instant as she saw Rab turn his eyes in the direction of his brother.

  Johnny Davies, with a superhuman effort, had dragged himself to where his gun lay and as she turned he was raising it to aim at her back. She spun round and her gun barked twice and he jerked backwards, clearly dead before his head hit the ground.

  Finding strength born of fear, Rab grabbed for Sal’s gun. He crushed her fingers and the gun exploded, the bullet flying harmlessly into the air. Even with, or possibly because of his wounds, Rab found strength enough to throw Sal from him and as she fell he twisted the gun from her grasp and suddenly she found herself lying on her side, looking down the barrel of her own Colt .45.

  Davies lay on his side, pointing the gun at Sal’s head. Then he laughed mirthlessly.

  He nodded at his brother’s body, shook his head and muttered under his breath. Then he threw back his head, stared at Sal and laughed again.

  Chapter Six

  The Turning

  Rab Davies grinned savagely, displaying broken teeth and blood. This woman was going to pay and pay dearly for what she had done to him and Johnny.

  ‘Now, you murdering little witch. Now you are going to feel scared in a way you never felt scared before.’ He motioned for her to come closer. Confident now, he snapped out an order, causing himself some pain from his mouth wounds which only increased his desire to make her suffer. ‘Move! I want to see you beg for mercy.’

  Sal stared up at him.

  Rab couldn’t understand why there was no trace of fear in her eyes as she raised herself almost casually and walked towards her horse.

  ‘Stand still or I’ll blast you to hell, you murdering bitch!’

  She stopped and turned, then to his amazement she smiled sweetly.

  ‘You’re going to blast me to hell, Rab? I don’t think so. Not with that gun.’ She paused, watching his puzzled expression and savouring the moment. She hissed rather than spoke.

  ‘Not with that empty gun.’

  She smiled again and nodded towards the pistol. His expression changed from cruel arrogance, first to doubt then to defeat.

  ‘Six bullets. Six shots, Rab,’ Sal continued in a relaxed, mellow voice. ‘And you sure ain’t fit enough to reload it afore I get my Winchester from my saddle-bag.’

  The truth was that Sal wasn’t at all sure what to do next. She knew deep down that she couldn’t gun Rab down in cold blood but no alternative plan of action came to mind. As things turned out it was Rab who made the decision for her.

  He pulled the trigger, hoping against hope that Sal had not counted the number of shots correctly. He almost wept when he heard the click as the hammer fell harmlessly on the empty chamber. Frantically, stupidly, he reached for the bullets in his belt, slowed by the pain from his shoulder. He overcame the pain and reloaded one shell and raised the gun but even as he did, his eyes filled with terror and he knew he was too late.

  Three explosions. Three shells from Sal’s Winchester thudded into Rab. He landed heavily on his back then looked down and saw the neat, tight pattern on his chest which was rapidly becoming one large red stain. He stared at her as if surprised by her accuracy, then he sat up, vision blurred and body wavering. Rab fired one haywire shot from where he fell. It should have been harmless but it ricocheted off the hard rocky ground and a splinter of stone flashed at Sal, causing a flesh wound in her left thigh. Another shot from Sal’s Winchester and he was hit again in the chest. Any normal man would have been dead after the first volley, but with a superhuman effort driven by pure hatred, Rab Davies tried to haul himself to his feet. He almost reached a standing position but his legs buckled and he fell backwards into the river. Briefly he raised his head and stared at his killer, then he slid further into the water and his body was carried away by the current.

  There followed a long silence, then Sal picked up her Colt and reloaded both it and the Winchester before picking up the weapons of the two brothers and stuffing them into her saddle bags along with their ammunition.

  She felt totally calm and she mounted her horse slowly before looking at the body of Johnny. She never even felt the pain of her wound and she heard her own vo
ice.

  ‘Two more down. Job done. Time to go, Sal.’

  She had ground to cover and she wanted to reach town before dark.

  Sal arrived at Redwood as dusk began to fall. The large sinking sun turned the distant mountains a bright orange as she rode slowly down the main street.

  She reflected just how life had changed in a few violent days. From being the contented wife of a rancher, she had become a vengeful killer. She had seen Reuben gunned down and witnessed the deaths of several men. She shuddered and stared skywards, perhaps at God. What was she becoming? What had she already become?

  It was as if she was emerging from a trance. She became vaguely aware of a pain from her left leg and she looked down and saw a patch of blood which was still sticky.

  John Miles had given her clear instructions that on her arrival in the town she should go to the end of the street to the red house with the big garden, where his old friends Margy and Frank took in occasional guests. Sal dismounted outside the house and realized that she was totally exhausted. She leaned against the porch and knocked on the door. Frank, a small, nervous looking man answered. Sal was swaying slightly.

  Seeing the patch of blood on Sal’s leg, Frank immediately took her horse to the stable and his wife Margy set up a hot bath for Sal to bathe herself and clean her wound. Margy was the opposite of her husband. A large, smiling woman whose personality matched the size of her body.

  Sal luxuriated in the hot bath. The bruises from her attack were fading but still visible and she cleaned the wound on her leg. It was only a minor flesh wound but it was quite painful and she winced as she dabbed at it with a clean damp cloth. She looked at the bruises on her legs and thighs and suddenly, without warning, tears started to cascade down her cheeks, mingling with the steaming bathwater. It was a cathartic release and she wept for a full ten minutes, after which she felt her muscles unwind as she sank deeper into the tub. The heat of the water began to eradicate the pain and for the first time since the murder of her husband, her body relaxed.

  Chapter Seven

  Cassidy

  Shep Cassidy and Pete Robinson sat at an elderly table in the Crazy Lady Saloon in Redwood. They had enjoyed a night with the saloon girls and consumed a fair amount of whiskey. Now they were relaxing with the remaining contents of the bottle.

  ‘Strange thing,’ Pete mused, staring at the bottle and wondering why it was nearly empty.

  ‘Strange? What’s strange?’ enquired Shep, trying to focus through a whiskey induced haze.

  ‘No Rab. No Johnny. They ain’t turned up and we was supposed to meet up here. Unusual fer them, especially when there’s money to be had.’

  Shep shrugged his massive shoulders.

  ‘Could be lotsa reasons. Horse gone lame, or mebbe they got lucky with a woman. Could be drunk. Could be shot.’ He pointed two fingers in an imitation of a gun at Pete and laughed.

  ‘I guess so. Still strange though. They’s usually on time.’

  At the same time as Shep and Crazy Pete were having their slurred conversation, Sal, a few hundred yards away and unaware of their proximity, was getting dressed, her face pink from the heat of the bath. She donned her shirt and pants but instead of the usual single Colt, she crossed two gun belts, the second being that which she had removed from Rab. She looked at the reflection of herself in the mirror with Colts on either hip. She had the Colts facing backwards – the trigger facing front. It was an unusual look and demanded a cross draw, left hand going for the gun on the right hip and right to the left. She smiled to herself. In the old days of the shows she had practised for hour upon hour and finally she had been able to cross draw and hit a moving target with as near as damn it a hundred per cent accuracy. She drew the guns on her reflection, flicked them backwards and replaced them in her holsters. She felt confident that she could still draw rapidly and hit her target. A knock on the door interrupted her.

  ‘Come in!’ she shouted and Frank entered. The little man bobbed nervously in the doorway and smiled.

  ‘We’ll be having supper in half an hour, Mrs McIntyre. Is that OK for you?’

  ‘That’s fine, Frank. But I’ve got a bit of business in town first. Shouldn’t take long. Oh, and please call me Sal. Mrs McIntyre makes me feel old.’

  ‘Why, you don’t look old, Sal. You look mighty pretty and. . . .’ His voice faded and he blushed like a schoolboy. ‘Heck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean.’

  ‘Don’t apologize.’ Sal laughed. ‘It’s good to have a compliment, especially after the last few days.’

  He laughed too – a relieved chuckle, and then he looked thoughtful and remained standing silently in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Sal was aware of his presence.

  ‘Is there anything else, Frank?’

  ‘We-ll. I sort of don’t like to mention it, Mrs M— Sal, but walking the streets alone after dark ain’t the sort of thing a lady does in Redwood. Hell! It’s not the sort of thing any person with any sense would do in Redwood. We get some kinda rough characters passing through. Definitely not the place fer a lady.’

  Sal smiled a dazzling smile and tightened her gun belt.

  ‘Good job I ain’t no lady then, Frank.’ Then she was gone.

  The street was still quiet as she walked to a building which bore a gold sign with ornate black lettering proclaiming it to be the Dawson Provisions Emporium – in reality a small shop opposite the saloon which didn’t live up to the grandiose sign.

  Inside, the shop was illuminated by two oil lamps. A tall, cadaverous looking man stood behind the counter, slightly stooped and peering myopically though a pair of thick-lensed spectacles.

  ‘Evening, ma’am. Welcome to Redwood. John Dawson at your service.’

  ‘Sally McIntyre. But call me Sal.’

  He smiled a mournful smile at her and she reflected that he would be an excellent professional mourner. Then she purchased some ammunition and some candy and placed the money on the counter.

  ‘Nice town you have here, Mr Dawson.’

  ‘Was a nice town, Mrs McIntyre. Was.’

  He peered over her shoulder through the window at the saloon.

  ‘We used to have a mighty fine community till Shep Cassidy and Pete Robinson rode into town last year.’ He appeared not to notice Sal’s expression of interest at the mention of the names. ‘But now a lot of the decent folk have upped sticks and left. Since Cassidy and his boys arrived the town’s started to die. Aw, we used to have the occasional fracas when drunken cowboys came off the trail but the sheriff would always sort it out and they’d cool down after a night in the cell.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Shep Cassidy and Pete Robinson happened. Everyone’s scared of them and they run the town.’

  ‘Don’t you have any law here?’

  Dawson laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘We did. We had a sheriff but he was jest a local man who kept the peace when we had a quiet town. Shep threatened him one night in the Crazy Lady an’ he handed in his star before dawn and hightailed it out of town. Never bin seen since.’ He licked his lips and stared at Sal. ‘Guess I cain’t blame him.’

  ‘Will you elect another sheriff?’

  ‘We already have. And, on the face of it all above board and that. Trouble was that Shep Cassidy put forward his own man and . . . and he persuaded people to vote fer him.’

  ‘Who did he appoint?’

  ‘Jack Tucker. Rode with Cassidy some time back then went into hiding after an incident up country.’

  ‘So there’s no law in town?’

  ‘Well, strictly speaking there is law of sorts. Basically, any person fool enough to rile any of Shep’s boys is either beaten within an inch of their lives or. . . .’ He looked around to ensure that no one was within earshot ‘. . . or they’re shot at a time when Shep and all his boys have twenty witnesses who’ll swear on the Bible that neither of them were in the neighbourhood.’

  Sal leaned on the counter, trying to look in pa
rt shocked and in part disinterested. She knew for certain now that Cassidy and his clan were in town to stay. She also knew what Shep didn’t know, namely that some key members of his gang were dead.

  ‘I think I know some of the boys Cassidy rides with.’ She named the dead men and looked up at Mr Dawson. ‘Have I missed anyone out?’ she asked artfully.

  If John Dawson considered this a strange question he displayed nothing in his expression. Had it been a man asking the question he would have assumed that it was a gunman or a bounty hunter, but why this attractive young woman wanted to know was beyond him. He had noticed that she was wearing guns and he hesitated slightly before answering.

  ‘We-ell.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘There’s Sheriff Jack Tucker of course. Then there’s Pete Robinson and Abe Coulson. There’s a couple more, but they jest kinda make up the numbers and I need to think to remember any names.’

  Abe Coulson! The mention of the name shocked Sal. She vividly remembered the day, all those years ago at her sharpshooter show when he had outdrawn her in a best of three competition. She turned away from Dawson and feigned interest in some cloth, giving herself time to regain her composure. After a few seconds she spoke as casually as she could, still looking down at the cloth.

  ‘So do you plan to stay in town, Mr Dawson?’

  ‘I’m too long in the tooth to start up again now. My wife’s buried here and I’ve gotten my roots deep down. Anyways, who’d buy a store here with Cassidy running the town? I guess I’ll jest keep my head down and carry on.’

  ‘Don’t you think the town could fight back?’

  ‘Oh, we tried that, ma’am. We stood up agin them when they was electing the sheriff.’

  ‘And. . . ?’

  ‘John Mason, Sean Baverstock and Pete Mogg. All good men. All got nice markers on the slope.’

  ‘The slope?’

  ‘The graveyard, ma’am. Cassidy’s boys gunned them down. Said they was resisting arrest. No witnesses.’ He looked out of the window with expressionless eyes. ‘Yes, ma’am, the Cassidy boys are good at killing. It’ll take a special man to—’